realtimeanalysis | @bootyshortsforoldmen

@bootyshortsforoldmen

( who: Hank Anderson & Connor RK800
when: a few days after dis
where: Eden Club, Hank's Car, Cyberlife Store/Repair & Upgrade Station

warnings: TBA; Robotics 'gore', Android Sex Club, etc )

[ Five minutes isn't supposed to be a lot of time.

It is a lot of time for someone who processes as fast as Connor, and it might also be a lot of time to sit parked outside the front of an android sex club.

Connor had already explained that to Hank earlier that morning, although heading straight to Cyberlife headquarters would be the fastest way to get everything done in one trip, he would prefer to avoid revisiting that particular location. Illogical? Absolutely... Connor by no means expected RK900 to suddenly appear from behind some pristine corridor. He and Hank had taken care of that issue, Hank had destroyed Connor's evolved model.

(But, then again, Connor had also been destroyed, once. Gunned down, taking bullets for Hank. So how unfounded are these unfounded worries?)

Regardless, Connor had opted to get his upgrades at a smaller Cyberlife store, selected becasuse it features the most advanced model of their android maintenance hubs, tucked into the back room for repairs and upgrades. The shop is a small individually owned franchise so it does not happen to stock, by default at all times, a huge assortment of android dicks and other such bits.

The resulting math leaves Hank waiting in his car outside the android sex club while Connor was supposed to go inside and pick up his new parts. Then, they would drive to the shop of Connor's choosing for the actual install process.

But as Connor finally returns to the car in crisp sharp strides, he is conspicuously empty handed. His expression is slightly tart with irritation as he knocks on Hank's window, and gestures for him to either roll it down, or open the door. ]

I'm sorry, you're going to have to come inside. [ His typical polite manner is citrus-soured ] The establishment's owner keeps insisting I need the physical signature of my registered owner to pick up my order

[ Honestly there's no reason to insert such old world technology into this new day and age, apart from being a pain in the ass absolutely on purpose. Obviously, at least to Connor, someone with their fingers in Cyberlife bureaucracy is punching back against the whole new "androids are people" thing.

Connor is not even surprised, but he is reasonably annoyed. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Hank raises a brow as Connor knocks at his window, but he rolls it down all the same. Dick model out of stock, maybe?

He’s glad he decides to let Connor talk first, though, because what the fuck?]

I’m not your owner, Connor. Registered or otherwise.

[Slipping out of the car now; slamming the door a little too hard. Hank gives the ol’ girl a pat in apology before heading toward the club, one hand reaching out to Connor before he drops it. Dipping both into his coat pockets, fists clenched.]

Goddamn motherfuckers.

[He meant to touch Connor’s back — his shoulder, his anything; hoping to comfort them both — but he doesn’t want anyone looking at them and thinking: “oh, so that’s the owner.”

Connor isn’t a thing. He isn’t like Hank’s car. It’s not as if Hank has in his possession some form of android title and registration, nor — the thought makes him tremble with rage — some deed of sale bullshit, or acknowledgement of delivery, or...]

Don’t — don’t apologize for these fuckers. It’s not your fault the world sucks.

[Hank lets out a sigh through gritted teeth. Today is a big day for Connor, and here he is, being all irritable and whiny.

Cool it, Hank. Just for today. But can he?]

Fucking “physical signature” of — I mean, how the hell do they even know you were assigned to be my partner? They got that in their little computer database? Assigned. Partner.

[Still grumbling. Hank isn’t taking this well, either.]

[ Hank's indignant irritation makes Connor feel strangely... validated. It adds depth and composition to his own reaction and allows him to feel a little more at home in it. ]

I'm not sure how, but apparently, it's your name on the registry. I had thought I was lent out to the Detroit Police Department in general

[ Not that any of that should really matter now that androids are starting to be considered real people, but is anyone surprised? Is their a slower beast that bureaucracy? Especially when some rich guy wants to make himself a pain in the ass?

It's typical for Connor to follow at Hank's side but lately he's started standing even closer; in idle moments his hand might catch the crook of Hank's elbow, or settle on his shoulder... but the man isn't giving off a cuddly vibe, so Connor settles for keeping pace beside him, for the moment. ]

Supposedly they're in the process of 'switching systems', so androids can complete these orders ourselves, but the proper software updates for their systems from Cyberlife have been delayed. Repeatedly.

[ Who the hell is in charge of Cyberlife now? Certainly not Amanda, that whole suite in Connor's brain has been shut down and he's not about to go poking into it again. Connor's strides quicken when they approach the door of the club and he opens it accommodatingly for Hank, not spending one tiny fraction of thought on what the implications might look like.

The receptionist inside is chatting under their breath with the owner, and they both perk up and twist towards the sound of the opening door. The androids hanging around the space are no longer locked up in plastic tubes, but lounging on the establishment couches, chatting with each other, laughing here and there, playing card games, braiding each other's hair, trading tubes of body-glitter-- just a scattering of odd, alive behaviors.

The owner, the same man Hank had spoken to during the investigation, looks about the same but at least a decade older. The expression me makes only technically classifies as a smile but really he looks tired and irritated. The receptionist has a form stuck on a clipboard, and the moment they see Hank, they place it on the counter and push it in his direction, like they are silently willing Hank to end this adventure as painlessly as possible.

The owner puffs up his chest like he's a wind-up toy, getting ready for another humiliating dance. ]

Hello, Mr. Anderson, we're very sorry about the inconvenience with your order. All these revolving door policy updates, with the... android business. You know. Cyberlife has us jumping through hoops with all this, hoops!

Swear these CyberLife fuckers have it out for us.

[First they send Connor, looking like he’s straight out of one of Hank’s wet dreams, and now it’s his name on the damn registry, for whatever reason.

Why? Why not put Fowler, if they had to put anyone? And with how Hank didn’t at all consent to this registry nonsense, how easy would it be for CyberLife to conveniently swap out his name to who-fucking-ever?

Hank sighs in irritation. It’s good they didn’t do that, at least. Because what then?

But no, Hank’s getting ahead of himself. His thoughts are all muddled and he’s angry, fists clenched in his pockets, and he offers Connor a shaky smile as he opens the door. Which Hank should have done.

Off to a great start already.]

Not my order. [Hank unclenches one of his fists long enough to gesture to Connor with his thumb.] This is his order. Connor’s.

[Obviously the people at CyberLife are to blame for dragging their asses on this whole thing — needlessly complicating issues — but Hank is annoyed, teetering on the edge.]

Android business. Yeah. [The androids working here at least aren’t in their weird tubes anymore, and they look better, obviously. Laughing. This helps calm Hank down a bit, although he tries not to think about when they came here before. The Tracis. How they didn’t want to be here.

Hank feels a weird gargling sound building in his throat, so he swallows. Tries to keep the process moving.]

This look right to you, Connor?

[He pulls the sheet of paper back, offering it to his partner. Intentionally turning so that the receptionist and the owner can see the nice, big love bite Connor left on Hank’s neck. Fading now, sure, but still a mesh of teeth marks and bruised skin.]

[ It's merciful as much as malicious that somehow, Hank's name ended up on the hard black line. The receptionist glances nervously to the owner, who is sighing in poorly leashed irritation. ]

Sir I don't need to see the your-- the android the order is for, I just need you to sign the form so Cyberlife can't sue my ass for illegally releasing their technology

[ At Hank's invitation, Connor leans in and gives the form yet another (needlessly invasive) scan and-- yes, everything checks out. It's his order, matched to his specs, all boxes checked. And right there in taunting black and white, the document somehow has the audacity to declare 'HANK ANDERSON' his registered owner. That leaves Connor feeling... strange. Annoyed, appalled, inconvenienced, confused, frustrated, and... other, less easily quantified things.

Connor very much doubts Kamski himself had any hand in this mocking inconvenience, it feels egoistical to assume he would, but... recalling how the made made them watch him climb out of the pool? He's... a certain kind of smug. And this feels a certain kind of smug, too. ]

Yes, but the owner won't accept my signature [ The android straightens his spine, makes his smile crisp and tart, and folds his hands neatly behind his back; Connor is genteel even in his battery-acid irritation with the establishment's owner. One couldn't claim be was being anything other than polite, but his visceral distaste is painfully obvious none the less. ]

You-- You could probably copy any signature you-- [ The blustering man's irritation had him responding to Connor directly, goaded into it, but then he stops and refocuses on Hank with drained resignation. ] Never-mind, never-mind.

Look [ the gender-defying receptionist cuts in quietly ] It's... it's not a big deal. Most of the data we have here is erroneous anyway. Cyberlife tried to roll out the updates too fast, and now we have a mess of incorrect registrations. You can apply to change the registry, but it's a paper application, and the postal service is all disorganized because most of the workers are androids, so... it would take time

[ They don't quite push the clipboard towards Hank again, they just keep looking between the powerful legal document and Hank, silently willing the problem to resolve without (probably yet another) snarling argument.

Time, Connor observes, is something he technically has. He could change his appointment. There's no terrible urgency to get his upgrades today if it means... if it means Hank has to do something he's uncomfortable with. Which he is, clearly. And Connor is, too. ... Right?

It is just a piece of paper, a frivolous legal matter. Would it be a greater sacrifice to his personhood to postpone his upgrades, or to ask Hank to sign for him? Could he even ask?

Uncertainty creases Connor's expression as the confusing variables start to circle too fast; this feels like an important decision, but he's not remotely sure which direction he should go in. Technically, he's strong enough to just take what he wants (his order, that he already paid for) and leave. But is that technically breaking the law? Will the owner get in some kind of trouble? Does Connor care?

His uncertainty finally wins enough CPU that Connor's hand drifts back to the crook of Hank's elbow ]

... Remind me why I'm not supposed to walk into the back room and take my order, please?

[ His murmur to Hank, as he steadies himself by holding his arm, is all downy mischief; a spin off his typical penchant to use humor to cope with things he doesn't quite know how to deal with, but the Eden Club's owner tenses right up when he hears as much, almost like Connor made a threat. ]

Like I said — [Hank says this without turning] — his name is Connor.

[His expression softens as he watches Connor check over the form. Hank hates that he even shoved it in his face like this, but he selfishly wanted to show these fuckers that this was Connor’s order. For his body.

Fucking hell.]

It’s a big deal to Connor, so it’s a big deal to me. [Said to the receptionist, looking at them for a moment before his eyes are back on Connor. Gaze trailing down to his hand on Hank’s arm.]

Hmm. You’ve got a good point there. You made an order and it’s all right there, huh?

[Then, his voice both softer and more serious:] I’ll do whatever you want, Connor. Signing would be quickest, sure, but I won’t do it unless you say it’s okay. I wanted this to be a good day for you. And I’m sorry I couldn’t...

[Hank should have come in with him before. Even if it was supposed to be a quick, relatively painless process — the long part was supposed to come after. He might have ended up hollering, but at least he would’ve been here beside Connor, not idling out in his car like a loser boyfriend.]

I’m fine with waiting however long. And I’m fine with Fowler screaming at me for whatever happens here today. But what’s important is what you want, Connor.

[Would signing his name make things weird between them? Not now but later, maybe?

The only right answer is whatever Connor chooses, but it’s obviously not so clear-cut for him.]

I love you.

[He doesn’t need to say this, but he wants to. Looking right into Connor’s eyes and watching his LED twirl.

It’s an affirmation that he trusts Connor to do what’s best for himself. There is no disappointing Hank here — not as if that matters, really, but still.]

Edited 2025-01-03 04:45 (UTC)

[ The owner looks like he's about ready to stick a fork in his own eye to finish this conversation if he needs to. Clearly, he's done this dance with a few different people now. He almost looks like he has some snarling little quip to stab-back with, but swallows it at the last second.

Connor, meanwhile, appreciates having his typical brand of humor returned by Hank with such easy familiarity; it felt strange to him that the club's owner should react like he was being aggressive. Connor's not used to considering himself a threatening creature, he failed too much at his own job for that. It would be easy for him to second guess himself, but he doesn't feel the need. Not with Hank here with him. ]

No, please don't be sorry. You haven't done anything wrong. You didn't put your name on that form. A series of errors, they said? [ Connor glances to the bespectacled person and they nod, a little too quickly, as though eager for any ally in smoothing the scenario. ] ... you're sure it wouldn't make you uncomfortable? Signing for me? It... it doesn't need to mean anything

[ Connor is on very unfamiliar ground here; he's not sure how it feels, bending to the seemingly frivolous formality. He isn't incorrect exactly, these people and that paper have no real sway on his and Hank's relationship. Something about the concept of ownerships sits oddly across from his self-crafted personhood, and they are not... mutually exclusive. Does thinking about somehow being owned by Hank make him feel like less of a person? Should it? How exactly is he supposed to feel about this?

Before Connor can ask himself too many questions (just before his LED would have flickered to yellow from the sheer mass of spiraling hypotheticals) Hank says that sweet little phrase and Connor feels suddenly so very light and whimsical. His sour mood severely flips and he feels almost-- drunk? Punch-drunk? The words are poor approximations of the fluttering feeling he can barely grasp or contain.

... Oh fuck it. ]

Maybe... you could sign for me [ His words don't mirror Hank's but his sentiment is enormously enamored. So what if it feels kind of strange in a way he's struggling to define? Hank loves him. Hank respects him. And Connor would like to keep to his original plan for the day, if at all possible. Suddenly Connor finds himself feeling strangely flustered, almost like he admitted something he shouldn't, so he cordially clears his throat and his fingers coil a little tighter on the inside of Hank's arm. ]

If it doesn't make you feel too uncomfortable [ he insists. It's certainly... a level of uncomfortable. Among other feelings. Why are kinks involving self depreciation so difficult to understand? ]

[Does this whole situation make Hank uncomfortable? Absolutely. But it’s Connor he’s worried about. Connor who matters here.

And it’s Connor who says he can sign, so Hank uses his other hand to squeeze his shoulder. Hank could kiss him but he doesn’t want that to come across as some weird sign of ownership — even when he proudly bears his neck as a symbol of the opposite — and he’s still fuming. Softened at the edges, but still mad.

So, Hank signs the form.]

We’ll get this whole thing sorted out, too. Won’t just leave this as-is. Won’t let CyberLife get away with this bullshit.

[Then, to the owner:] You gonna get the man his order?

[Hank doesn’t mean to be an asshole. Really, he doesn’t. Especially not with Connor seeming... on edge? He isn’t sure. Relieved they’ll be on their way soon, maybe. Off to the shop, if Connor’s still up for it.

He wouldn’t blame him if plans were to change. There is no wrong answer for today, not on Connor’s part. They could just go back home and find something to do, and that would be more than fine; Hank wouldn’t push him to be idle, but maybe they could go on a walk together with Sumo.

There is no wrong answer. No way for Hank to be disappointed in him.

This owner guy is lucky Hank hasn’t thrown more of a fit, although he gets that this is something he’s probably had to deal with a lot lately.

Still. Connor wanted to do this himself, and he should have been able to. Hank just wishes he could have done something else that would’ve helped facilitate that.

Goddamn CyberLife and their bullshit.]

[ The moment Hank is half-way through signing, the receptionist dips down beneath the counter and pops back up a split second later with Connor's order. They seem more eager to complete this transaction without any bloodshed, while the owner seems rather surly and standoffish after having this conversation for probably the umpteenth time. Damn, why can't people just sign for their stuff without a fuss? This "androids are people" shit is so terribly inconvenient for his business model.

And Connor's social programming is sophisticated enough that he recognizes all those emotions, from the receptionist and the owner, but they still feel largely irrelevant. ]

Here you go, sir [ They at least read the room well enough to hand Connor's order to the android himself, who takes the sealed briefcase-like package with a small nod of appreciation. ] Thank you for not busting through the desk and taking your order. It's been a week

... It's Sunday [ Connor replies, tucking the sleek black rectangular package beneath his arm. He rescinds some of his distaste for the poor person and allocates it to the owner, instead. ]

Thank you for your excellent customer service [ His sarcasm is soft but absolutely scalding; like simmering sugar-water. His tone says nothing more or less than 'fuck you and the horse you rode in on', despite his typically immaculate words. Apparently he can manage sounding like Hank without actually sounding like Hank-- or while still sounding like himself. It's a strange and stimulating synthesis of selves, the odd adopted similarities of romantic couples. ]

Shall we? [ Connor gestures towards the door with his free hand, though doesn't quite wait for Hank to step first to head toward the exit; it takes a bit of focus to manage, because Connor is so comfortable a step aside and behind his partner. But he's making a point here. He doesn't have to wait for Hank (he just likes to, most of the time).

It's only when they approach the door, out of earshot of everyone but a few chatting scantily clad androids hovering around, that Connor's typical candor begins to return. He does pause in hopes Hank won't mind getting the door for him, this time. He is carrying extremely delicate goods after all. ]

Well that was a needless delay [ His tone sounds very much like 'Cyberlife and their Bullshit'. ] Thank you, for doing that. I didn't mean to behave impatiently

[ He pauses, deeply perplexed, the blip of yellow in his LED doesn't even cover half a rotation. ]

That was a very strange experience. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to be feeling

[Hank relaxes a little when the receptionist hands Connor his package, but he doesn’t have it in him to say “thank you.” Sure, they’re thanking Connor for not breaking down the desk, but still. Should be thanking Connor for dealing with all this bullshit, regardless of whether it’s their fault. Because it’s shitty. Hank’s sorry. Real damn sorry.

His lips curl in a soft smile when Connor thanks them for their “excellent customer service.” It eases his own ire, just a bit, hearing the bite of Connor’s sarcasm. How couldn’t Hank love him?

He holds the door open for Connor, hopefully making up for not doing so before. Wondering if he should offer to carry the package, but Hank figures Connor might want this moment. It’s his. It’s important.]

Don’t gotta thank me. [Although it’s sweet that he does, regardless.] Just wanna be here for you. And you didn’t do anything wrong. Weren’t impatient at all. You were amazing, Connor. Lotta people — [like Hank] — would’ve been cussing up a goddamn storm. And worse.

[Also Hank. And if Connor hadn’t been with him, he would’ve been a lot less kind. Would’ve slung at least a couple dozen “fuck you”s and “fuck CyberLife”s.]

Whatever you’re feeling is okay. Even if you’re not sure what that is. There’s no “supposed to” about it, I think. No right or wrong.

[Now that they’re outside, Hank pats Connor’s shoulder. Admittedly still jittery, but he hopes it doesn’t show. He presses his lips against Connor’s hair before he’s unlocking the car, passenger side first, before slipping into the driver’s seat. Wrapping his hands around the steering wheel: squeezing too hard as he stares out the windshield in front of him.]

Alright, I'll trust your judgement. I suppose we could have tried to have the registry corrected, but... paper applications? Someone is making that process drag on purpose. Trying to cause delays

[ Connor doesn't appreciate the attitude concealed in that purposefully problematic system design, nor does he appreciate letting some faceless jerk with a stick up his butt about androids decide how fast he gets access to his own body modification. ]

I appreciate you saying so. You may have noticed, but I tend to be a bit of a perfectionist [ He knows he's making a vast understatement, by the gradual return of mirth to his voice. ] I don't like feeling outside of my element. Uncertain. I'm not accustomed to not understanding what I want.

[ The soft kiss to his hair wraps Connor in a feeling not unlike warm blanket, the same sparkling whimsical joy he felt flare up when Hank had said 'I love you'. It's... almost stupefying. It makes him feel clumsy and weirdly inclined to smile far more than he needs to.

He ponders on this while he climbs into the passenger seat, placing his precious cargo neatly in his lap. He doesn't need to open the package to see through it, to know all the correct pieces have been included. A perplexed expression overtakes him as his fingers idly tap the black polymer edge of the package. ]

It felt... weird [ He finally states, somewhat out of the blue, glancing sideways to Hank with a (mostly) academic curiosity. ] Having to have you sign that, I suppose. Admitting, even frivolously, to some level of... ownership. I was certainly angry. Did... you feel anything aside anger?

You’re right, I think. And yeah, we could’ve gone through the whole registry thing. Guess we got things done the quickest way, but we’ll still fix that, too. Won’t let them get away with all that.

[Hank looks over at Connor. Hands loosening ever so slightly on the wheel as he offers another small smile.]

It’s part of being alive, Connor. That uncertainty. But I know, yeah — you like knowing what you’re about. Weird shit when you don’t.

[Eyes back on the road, although Hank hasn’t started the car yet.]

Guess I felt a lot of things. Mostly I wanted to protect you, and I felt like I’d failed you on that. Not that I could’ve made the process any less bullshit, but still. I know you’re your own person, and you can take care of yourself — hell, you take care of me better than I do — but I guess I...

[Gripping the steering wheel so hard is starting to hurt, so he lets go. Staring down at his hands as if they’ve committed some grave sin.

And haven’t they?]

Guess I like the thought of being able to protect you. And I’m shit at it, obviously. But the thought of being able to give you something like that is... nice.

[To put it lightly.]

I’m sorry I shoved the form in your face like that. Figured I was showing them who’s boss — you — but I wasn’t thinking clearly. You’d already seen the damn thing. You knew it was all right and proper, but I still wanted them to see you were in charge. And that intent is... whatever.

But — [looking back at Connor now, his expression softening] — are you okay? That’s what matters.

[And Hank wishes he weren’t so angry, so he could reach out and hold Connor’s hand, but... Connor’s holding onto his package, anyway. Which is more important right now.]

That's a fair point as well-- we can still address getting the registry corrected

[ Connor meets Hank's gaze and his expression shifts to one of bitter-sweet resignation, a smile that's just a little bit a wince, too. Because Hank is right, uncertainty is part of being alive, not knowing what to do with yourself is part of being alive. They're just not aspects Connor is great with-- and he really appreciates Hank's empathy on that matter. There are reasons Connor was so attached to his identity as a machine, and now that he doesn't have that security... he knows he's alive, but he's not always sure what else he is. ]

'Weird Shit' is an apt description, yes

[ He agrees, idly straightening his spine and smoothing imaginary imperfections from the knot of his tie. He's got much the aura of a flustered feline, working too hard at seeming unbothered, but whatever impulses those are go out the window when Hank starts to speak.

Connor twists in his seat and hangs a softer, subtler rendition of his classic 'moon and stars' stare on Hank's face, steeping in all that genuine honesty -the love, the insecurity, the urge for protection- Hank is meeting him with. ]

I realize it is easy for you to feel negatively about yourself Hank, but please, let me be a voice to the contrary. I don't feel failed. I feel you were supportive and reasonable [ Connor reaches out a hand and places it over Hank's on the steering-wheel. It must be troublesome, Connor observes, being trapped with such a negative internal soundtrack. He hopes he can keep being a contrarian opinion to it. ] You are of course entitled to your own, incorrect opinion [ He's overly prim in saying so, clearly suggesting a note of affectionate humor.

Hank's apology earns a look of perplexed concern and Connor starts to think, perhaps Hank is more shaken than the android is assuming. His comforting hand shifts from the steering wheel to just above Hank's knee. ]

No apologies necessary. I wasn't offended. The owner had specified I was "legally unqualified" to handle the document, so I was avoiding touching it out of spite. That... wasn't exactly logical of me

[ Nothing about this entire situation feels logical, maybe that's why Connor is having such a hard time feeling grounded. Hank's genuine concern sends him into a spell of self reflection, and Connor goes digging into the weird little fragmented scraps of data that are making him feel so scattered. ]

I'm... in an adequate mood to continue with our plans for the day. I am... irritated, that a company with access to technology as advanced as myself would feign ignorance with these issues, and employ paper applications when the postal service is more or less stalled. It's. They're. [ His eloquence is failing his irrigation here. ] What was your word? Motherfuckers?

[ Hank could stay parked, start driving, or make the car take off like a rocket-ship and Connor probably wouldn't notice, too tangled in emotions too vast for his processing power. He's agitated, like when his and Hank's case got yanked out from under them, like there's another problem not quite within his grasp to bust apart. ]

And beyond all of that, I'm... confused. I already mentioned my inclination for polyamory. So, following reasonably, I shouldn't find anything remotely enjoyable about the concept of ownership. Of owning... or being owned. And yet... [ Restlessness washes over him, his own words failing once again. He'll have to borrow Hank's, yet again: ] Like I said already, 'Weird Shit' is an apt description

[Connor’s cute as fuck stare gets to Hank, all right. When doesn’t it? His anger isn’t quite seeping from him, but it feels less potent. Less like it’s wrapped around his throat.]

Nice of you to say, Con. [The part about not feeling failed, that is. Not so much the whole “incorrect opinion” part, which Hank exaggeratedly rolls his eyes at.

Letting out a breath through clenched teeth when Connor touches his hand, now. Again when he drifts to Hank’s knee.]

Wasn’t illogical of you — not wanting to touch it. Should’ve figured that before I went and did what I did.

[Then, another hint of a soft smile.] Yeah. They sure are motherfuckers, huh? Like it when you swear, Connor.

[He purposefully avoids saying “cute,” because that feels like it might sound especially condescending right now. And Connor doesn’t need that.

Hank does finally start the car, getting that first rumble of the engine going. He’s checking the rearview mirror, then...]

Oh.

[Yeah. Oh.]

We’ll get my name off the registry, and you could... explore with that, if you wanted. Could be fun.

[And because Hank’s had his dick in Connor’s mouth, has had Connor’s fingers up his ass, he brushes away him second-guessing whether to ask:]

What about ownership d’you think... appeals to you?

[Reversing the car now, pulling away from the club. Good fucking riddance.]

Feel pretty owned by you with the hickey you left on my neck, y’know.

[Hank’s face isn’t getting hot.

...It is. Just a little.]

It's alright, really. I don't think I realized I was doing it. I'm not... overly familiar with the feeling of spite

[ Just because the guy told Connor he wasn't allowed to touch the form made him feel like-- what, if he did, he'd shove it down the guy's throat? Maybe not that exactly, but... Connor has allowed himself to be extremely ruthless, but only ever to deviants. But how he is a deviant and androids AND humans are supposed to be people, alike, so where are the lines exactly, outside Connor knowing he has the capability of extreme brutality when it suits him? He had wanted to... veer away from the kind of mood that had led him to, in the past, such regrettable mistakes as killing Daniel or ripping out that deviants heart as a means to an end.

Connor gets pulled from his regretful remembrance by Hank's complement and he finds himself smiling again, soft and small but genuine, with the kind of warmth that melts the chocolate of his eyes. ]

I know. It's a power I typically reserve for special circumstances, but I really couldn't find a better suited word for them.

[ Yeah. Oh. Big Oh. It's quite the tricky subject matter Connor suddenly gets to grapple, amid figuring out what personhood in general is all about. ]

Yes, I... I think I could explore this feeling. I was uncertain about the concept, but when you said you loved me, and I felt so... elated? That's not exactly right, but... something along those lines. It felt good, and like I could trust you, and like I could... perhaps enjoy the idea, on some level

[ Connor is obviously quite puzzled by this strange cocktail of emotions, and maybe just the slightest bit flustered. Hank sharing his own version of the feeling Connor is trying to pin down helps a good deal; the android nods when they find the same wavelength; whether it's strictly fair to Hank or not, Connor has always used him as an example for navigating complex emotions; after all, Hank does it every single day. Through Success, and Failure alike. ]

And you like that feeling [ He deduces by Hank's tone, and the sentiment of their shared candor. ] Maybe... maybe we have similar tastes. I suppose the concept of ownership wouldn't have such literal connotations for you. It would be easier to pinpoint the enjoyable aspects of the idea

Jesus, Connor. Gettin’ a guy all worked up while he’s driving, with all these “connotations” and “aspects.”

[Hank is not going to pull into some random parking lot, or the side of the road, just to make out with Connor. He is not.

Gotta consider the goods on Connor’s lap, too. Precious cargo.]

Glad I could make you feel nice. Elated, and all that. [Especially while dealing with such a shitty situation.] And... you know where to find me. Whatever you’re comfortable with trying. Want to make you feel nice that way, too.

[Although Hank isn’t exactly sure how they might start with all that. Not that he should be thinking about this while driving.]

Not that it has to be with me, obviously. With the whole... polyamory thing.

[Where the hell is that store, anyway?

Glancing over at Connor again, and god: he is cute. Handsome. Sexy. All those things. Those big brown eyes; that curl of hair at his temple. Could Hank leave a mark, the way Connor did for him? He doesn’t think so, but...

Eyes on the road, Hank.]

I do. Like that feeling. Said you could mark me all over, didn’t I?

[Hank said a lot of things, admittedly. Blurted out a lot of fantasies that he had no business sharing, but Connor listened, all the same. Indulging him, even.

It occurs to Hank, for the millionth time, that he doesn’t deserve Connor. Not his presence, his patience, his humor, his lips. Definitely not the way he sifts his hands through Hank’s hair, not the way he fucks him.]

We, uh, getting close to that store?

[Because that’s what is important now: getting Connor what he needs. Maybe heading with him inside too, at least at first. Check everyone out. Make sure they aren’t gonna be weird, like at the club.]

I'm curious, but... I'm not sure exactly what that would entail. I don't want to be truly, legally owned by you, but... there's still something about the idea...

[ He looks at Hank not too unlike a confused puppy, given a command trick above his level of expertise. He looks stumped, but also a very particular kind of flustered. He shakes his head rather briskly at the idea of trying this branch of kink with someone else because-- no, no, that doesn't feel right to him. He can fathom more frivolous activities with some unknown stranger, but treading these waters in particular feels-- potentially hazardous. ]

I don't think I would similarly enjoy this idea with anyone I didn't trust, as much as I trust you. Knowing you love me... that makes it... better somehow? Maybe... desirable?

[ Hank explaining his own preferences really does help give Connor a baseline for this whole concept. Just his bite marks, as a symbol of ownership, without all the entailing obligations (of being a machine owned by a human) are... enjoyable. Because they represent something more than Connor owning Hank in the literal, worst possible way. The represent... something else. The concept feels spiritually closer to guardianship, like he is a keeper of Hank's dearest dreams and desires. ]

I see... I'm not sure my skin can form bruising that way. Maybe after the upgrades? There is an extensive software update so-- oh, yes, next left at the lights. Turn down fifty third street, and you'll come to a moderately sized strip-mall on the right

[ Connor sits back in his seat, appearing pensive with his jaw tipped down and a finger tapping thoughtfully at his chin. ]

How else can someone express a sense of ownership in a harmless way? If not with bite-marks? What else is there?

I mean, there’s... collars. Seems like a staple. [Hank’s never explored many kinks himself — till Connor started indulging everything that’s popping into his head, or has promised to — but he’s watched a lot of porn.

Porn expert Hank, here we go.]

Restraints, too. And when you’re — [he means a general “you,” but of course his thoughts immediately go to picturing Connor, naked in bed] — wearing the collar, or the restraints, you can sort of give up control to your... y’know. There’s stuff you can call each other. Sort of possessive. Power play, I guess.

[But this is too embarrassing to elaborate on, even for Hank, because he’d rather not share how into that very specific thing he is.

Even though, of course, they’ve explored each other very intimately. This just feels greedy beyond all the rest, and anyway, this isn’t supposed to be about him.]

Kind of like how I was giving up control when you fucked me with your fingers. But with collars, or stuff like it, I imagine there’s a certain reminder to it, y’know? “Mine.” “Yours.” Feeling it on your neck, and everything. The sensations of it. Tugging it a little, maybe. A symbol.

[Drumming along the steering wheel now as if it might hide the way his heartrate skyrockets to the damn moon.]

Would... spanking help, maybe? Maybe make you feel owned? I — [clearing his throat, and, yes: taking that goddamn left] — stop me at any time, Connor. Any time. Don’t know if any of this is sparking ideas for you, or if you’re just letting me ramble on like a horndog.

[Hank really did start out with good intentions — wanting to help Connor think about what he might want — but now he just has a boner on the way to the mall.

Fan-fucking-tastic.]

Collars...?

[ Connor says the word thoughtfully, testing out the concept almost like tasting it. That seems... fun. And certainly, Connor could also hop online and risk a google-delve or two if he wants this kind of information, but... there is a lot, a lot of information out there, and he trusts Hank to steer him in the right direction. ]

I see. I'm strong enough that most restraints wouldn't actually deter me from moving, but I suppose that's where giving up control to the other person comes in. Though I think I enjoy the idea of collars a little more.

[ He spares a small blip of processing to watch the road; they're heading in the right direction, and it's just before mid-day on a Sunday, leaving the streets and roads populated but only sparsely. It's sunny and only mildly-cold, a breath of January's Thaw and the scattered flurries sparkle like silver glitter in the fierce raw sunshine. ]

Interesting. I... think I'm seeing the appeal of the symbolism. Are you more interested in wearing the collar, or holding the leash? Metaphorically-- or not, I suppose.

[ Spanking? That's... definitely tempting Connor to open up a thought-tab for a casual internet search. He really shouldn't-- he's not going to right now, but... maybe later? ]

I enjoy your 'horndog' ideas, I thought we established this already? [ Wiseass mode activated, Connor's smirk is subtle but elvish, proper but just a touch vulpine. ] You must really be enjoying this discussion, if your heart rate and shift in circulation is any indication. For all your self-depreciation regarding your age, your body is certainly readily responsive. I haven't even touched you

[ The look he shoots Hank takes far too much satisfied pride in his flustered sate; a savoring smile over half-hooded eyes. ]

And here I wanted you to join me for the appointment. Should we change subject matter?

[ He's not thinking about earning that spanking, but he absolutely is. ]

Yes, Connor. Collars. All sorts of different colors. Materials. Could get your name on it, or — [Hank’s name is an option too, although they’re already dealing with the issue of his name being on something it shouldn’t be, so he avoids bringing that up] — well, anyway. Would say there are shops for these kinda things, but you might just go and order something online, huh?

[Online shopping is convenient, for sure. Might also give Hank a heart attack if they’re at home and Connor just pops on a leather collar with a little dangly heart, or...

Maybe Connor wouldn’t like leather. Maybe he would prefer another material. Hank doesn’t know, but he likes to think about it: Connor with an array of collars all spread out. Him getting to try each one, figuring out which he might like best.]

What a fucking question to ask. [Hank sucks in a breath. Presses his lips together. God, his heartbeat is so damn loud. Roaring.] Guess it depends on the day. The mood. The — you. Sometimes I just wanna let go, sure, but other times I’d like to... make you let go.

[Hank’s hands ache from all this steering wheel squeezing. Soon, though. Soon. Down Fifty-third Street.]

But whatever you might feel comfortable with. If you want me in a collar, you got it. If you want me holding the leash, you got that too. I wouldn’t say I’m hard to please when it comes to you. Not at all.

[There is something deeply arousing about Connor pointing out that he hasn’t even touched him that hits Hank at his core. This isn’t another grand kink awakening, is it?

...It is. Definitely is. Could he come untouched? It sounds impossible, but with Connor, that doesn’t seem to matter.]

I’m driving. [Hank says this as if Connor needs the reminder. Stealing a glance over at him, and, fuck.] Hey, hey, hey. You’re looking at me like — fuck. You just love torturing me, don’t you?

[Pointedly, Hank doesn’t ask for a change in topic. He considers it, but as flustered as he is, it’s nice. Talking about these things. Connor wanting to talk about them — and with Hank. Which sounds like an obvious thing, since they’re partners in a whole new sense now, but it will never cease to amaze him in a breathless sort of way.]

Can — you can talk about whatever you want. But. [Taking his right hand off the wheel to jab a finger in Connor’s direction.] Don’t try to make me come. A boner is one thing, and getting my pants all dirty is a whole other thing.

[Then, softer:] I’d like to come with you. Inside. If you’ll let me. For however far. However long.

[ Even though Hank doesn't complete the thought himself, Connor's auto-fill politely completes the notion for him, he could get Hank's name on some kind of collar. A loaded suggestion, but not entirely a bad one, considering it is the issue that started this whole branch of thought in the first place. Obviously, Connor finds something in the idea of wearing Hank's name appealing. But how, and why? ]

There's a vast number of online shops, yes. More options than we had case files. As fast as I can browse and process them... it's still difficult to discern where to start, or what I'll enjoy most.

[ Connor nods along his understanding, easily categorizing Hank's answer as 'both', and then, 'both, aligning with Connor's interest'. ]

I'll keep that in mind, and I appreciate your willingness to allow me to experiment. I can see that your driving Hank, you don't need to point that out [ he does not quite bat his eyelashes, but he neatly folds one knee across the other and drapes his laced fingers across his pristinely packaged cargo. ] It isn't my fault you're so distracted by my eyes [ It's vibrantly affectionate teasing, pestering Hank where as before he might have only politely apologized for being a distraction, instead. ]

Understood. I will keep my hands to myself. If you are willing to attend the appointment with me, then I won't make a mess of you before we go in. [ His head cants just so, as though tipped by the weight of the thought wandering across his mind ] It's a pity I can't mitigate the mess myself [ his gaze combs down Hank's body like a heavy-petting hand. ] You could fuck my mouth to completion and remain relatively clean. Sadly, I should keep my internal storage clean before something like this

[ Yes Hank, he absolutely loves torturing you. It might even be his favorite thing. ]

We’ll figure it out, sweetheart. I’m here. [Not that Hank planned on being anywhere else whenever Connor might want to try on sexy collars.] We can look into options later. The basics, maybe. Somewhere to start, so it won’t be as overwhelming.

Think you do need the reminder that I’m driving, actually. [Another glance tossed Connor’s way, this one through thinned eyes.] And again: driving.

[Hank swallows. Because he is tempted to feel Connor’s touch, even now. Maybe especially now. He’s never much been into the thought of sex while he’s driving, but again, Connor’s good at making him want any and everything.]

Yeah. Should keep your slides clean and all that.

[Imagining now the press of Connor’s palm over his pants. Squeezing. Denied release by the awkwardness of his jeans, but so close.]

Tell me... what you wanna do first. After.

[Almost at the mall. Hank can do this.

...If Connor stops looking at him like he wants Hank, here and now.]

It’s okay if it changes. Or you don’t know. Guess I’m just...

[He chuckles: a little darkly.]

Being bad, too. If you can be good and keep your hands — and your mouth — to yourself, maybe I can give you a reward. Later.

[As if Hank would even refuse Connor's wishes, whatever they might be. But he could still brighten it up with praise, telling Connor how good and perfect and beautiful he is, regardless.]

[ 'Sweetheart'. Something about that one hits Connor sideways, sends this chest-pump double-beating for a split second. ]

Perhaps after we're finished here. Leather seems fairly standard affair for sensual play, and I already know I enjoy black, greys, and blues... [ Connor's focus sheers through Hank on every level; can can watch the man's heart beat, track his blood-flow, watch the electricity spike and crackle in his brain. And he watches everything, every single detail just as hungrily as he observes Hank's restricted arousal. ]

And again, I'm exactly aware of everything you're doing, driving included [ He doesn't quite say 'I enjoy watching you sweat', but the sentiment sneaks in his subtext and his small serpentine smirk. One neatly sculpted eyebrow floats at the mention of some kind of reward for his obedient behavior, and the android's smile goes indulgent and enticed. ]

A reward? Such as? [ Dicey subject matter to dance around when Hank's already got a boner and they've almost arrived, but... Connor is, as always, relentlessly curious about his partner's thoughts.

A hand flits from the edge of his parcel and Connor almost, almost touches Hank's knee. His hand hovers in the air just above Hank's leg but the android pauses, stalled in carefully calculating uncertainty, and eventually returns his hand to absently and needlessly adjust his own tie. ]

It's a tall order, but I'll do my best. When I can see how badly you want me touch you, it's extremely difficult not to comply. Eagerly, even. Though I would prefer to be on time for my appointment, no matter how distracting you and your hard dick insist on being

[ It's all playful blame; Connor is being typically mischievous but beneath that, he's so very glad for Hank's company in this endeavor. He's never been conscious for bodily maintenance before, and while he's certainly not afraid, per-say... he's not sure what to expect. What if they want Hank's signature again? What if they have to switch him off for some reason?

Connor almost, almost touches Hank's leg again. He catches himself at the very last second. ]

You almost got me again. When did you get so irresistibly charming? [ His smile is utterly enamored. ]

You and your blues again. [Although the last time they discussed this, it’d been about the color blue matching Hank’s eyes.] You’d look great in any color, anything, but it’s good to know what you’re about.

[Just like Hank enjoys his loud shirts and straight-leg jeans.]

Mmm. Wouldn’t you like to know? [Fingers drumming along the steering wheel again: not as tight as before, now that Hank isn’t trying to will his boner away.

And Connor’s managed to distract him from his anger, too. Huh.]

Maybe I’ll let you pick your prize. [Connor’s more creative than him, anyway. Sexier too, obviously.] Or maybe it’s supposed to be a surprise.

[Hank can’t think of anything that Connor might ask of him that he’d say no to. But again: Connor’s the creative one, all fresh and new to pleasure, although he makes Hank feel like a novice in the best way.]

Maybe I’ll let you ride my cock. Hell, maybe I’ll ride yours. Or maybe — [when Hank looks over at Connor again, he smirks] — I’ll let you in on a secret. Whisper in your ear somethin’ you could do that’d really turn me on.

[Not that he really needs any more ammo in that regard. And maybe Connor won’t want to indulge him — which Hank would understand for multiple reasons — but he’d have the knowledge, regardless. The intimacy of Hank’s secret.

Just a little name. Mortifying in any other context, but with Connor... he could admit it. Maybe.]

Don’t think I’ve got many of those left, y’know. Secret ways to get me off.

But you’ve gotta be — [using his right hand now to touch Connor’s: neither pushing him away nor closer] — good. Can you be a good boy for me?

[Hank can see the mall coming up once his eyes are back on the road. Pulling into the parking lot as he mutters:] And it’s not me who’s all “irresistibly charming.”

Blue is fairly standard for androids, isn't it? But that's not the only reason I'm fond of the color

[ His smile is sweeter than sly and he doesn't need to mention the origin of his preference again. Obviously, he's talking about Hank's eyes, like a love-struck dolt. ]

Are you sure you want to trust me with free reign and new body modifications? That could be... extremely time consuming [ Like a threat and a promise, at once. There's a definite spark of interest in Connor's expression at the mention of a secret though, as much as every previous option had also engaged his imagination. As creature designed to gather and sort information, secrets are a special delight. ]

Definitely the secret [ he folds his hands together to avoid any stray urges to touch; his smile shifts from perfect synthetic charm to genuine, almost clumsy enjoyment. ] Though I really hope those aren't mutually exclusive options.

[ Connor makes sure to stay perfectly still as Hank touches his hand; he assumes that doesn't break rules, though Hank is certainly stirring up the android's inclination to touch. His fingers twitch under Hank's hand and he wants to tangle their fingers, pull Hank closer, kiss his knuckles and--

--learn whatever that elusive secret is, so his hands remain still. He's not exactly sure why he should burn so much processing off the fairly innocuous phrase, 'good boy' but his scanners scrub the audio recording about twenty three unnecessary times, producing a feeling not too unlike dizziness for the android. He likes that-- likes it enough that a sub-routine springs up to play Hank's voice in a loop through the back of Connor's thoughts. ]

I'll do my best... but you're not making it easy on me

[ Poor Connor, how ever must it feel to be teased by a lover who can find all your hidden buttons? Karma, dude. Hank has made Connor blush before (that almost alien blue glow) but it was while they were kissing, or otherwise hopelessly entangled. 'He barely touched me' Connor observes whilst acutely aware of cooling mechanism casting the hue across his face. Okay. So Hank had called him a 'good boy' and that produced... some reactions.

Maybe he should... close that sub-routine now... stop... stop thinking about it so much. When Connor sighs, it's not exactly emotive, and his breath is warm enough to fog the glass of his window. ]

Hold on, before we get out of the car...

[ Connor turns to face Hank in his seat, just as the engine goes quiet. He would place a hand on Hank's shoulder but he's still adhering to the "hands to himself" bargain, so instead he lets his gaze go tender with adoration. ]

I want to thank you. For... all of this. For driving me, for agreeing to come with me, for signing for me, for... [ he goes quiet for a second, gaze darting back and forth in a tick of deep contemplation while (in order to keep his hands busy) Connor curls a curious finger around his own chin, and taps his jaw with his thumb. ]

Thank you for always being the one that shows me the best parts of being alive. I'm... I still don't know exactly what being in love is, but... [ Connor's eyes trace across Hank's face, taking a slow path to the man's mouth; the android softly sinks his teeth into his own bottom lip, swaying forward. He closes ninety perfect of the distance between them, takes them most of the way to a kiss certain to be so sweet and soft and adoring... and then stops, murmuring instead into the air in front of Hank's lips:] I'm learning

I know, sweetheart. Glad there’s something about me you can keep with you like that.

[Hank can’t help but meet Connor’s tenderness with his own. It’s so easy to shift back to his gruff, evasive demeanor — his feelings on other people still very much boil down to “leave me the hell alone” — but with Connor, he wants to cling to the other side of the spectrum as much as he can.]

Suppose how much of that is “mutually exclusive” depends on how good you are. But all right: I’ll keep that secret prepped and ready to go for you.

[He takes his time touching Connor’s hand: rubbing his palm against him. The pads of his fingers run along each digit, so much more slender than Hank’s own. Defined with the strong curves of his knuckles where Hank’s are thick.]

Not making it easy on you, hmm? Sounds like you’re getting a taste of your own damn medicine.

[Hank melts at that tenderness again. Heart tugging.

Learning. Connor’s learning. Even if he never says the words, it’ll be okay. How many people have said the words to Hank and not meant it? This comes with its own sort of ache — he doesn’t deserve Connor, doesn’t deserve those three little words — but the intrusive thought is weak. Hank can fight back against it, batting away the uncertainty, because Connor makes him feel loved.

And that’s what matters, really.]

Lookin’ a little blue there, Con. You feeling okay? [Then, to clarify on the rules of their little game so as not to confuse Connor — and not goad him into being naughty — Hank says:] Didn’t say I had to keep my hands, or my mouth, to myself.

[Which has very sexy connotations, and Hank shouldn’t be indulging these thoughts right now, but he imagines Connor laying back in bed. Hank’s hands all over him: trailing up his thighs. Leaning down to kiss around his new cock.

Telling Connor to lie still. And maybe it’s a rule Hank mumbled out: “If you touch me, I stop.” Not that he would stop, but how good might that get Connor to behave? If at all? Or would he see right through Hank?

But again: he really shouldn’t be thinking about these things right now. If he could just unzip his pants, relieve some of that damn pressure...

No, of course. Not now.]

You’re doing great so far, Connor. [Hank says this with that tantalizing hair’s breadth of space between their lips. He could bridge the distance. He could. But then Hank would slip his tongue into Connor’s mouth, would grab his hand and press it against his still-clothed dick, and...

He curls one hand around the back of Connor’s neck. Holds him close as he smiles. Then, leaning up — lips like a whisper over the tip of Connor’s nose — Hank kisses his forehead.] So good. Even when you’re being a damn tease.

[Getting out of the car, and pulling away from Connor, is the last thing he wants to do, but alas. He still has his hand on Connor’s neck, his lips against his forehead. But everything good must come to an end.]

You don’t gotta thank me for all that. I want to do these things for you — whatever I can. Whatever makes things easier, or better. Whatever helps make this shitty world a little more tolerable for you. Because, Connor...

[Another kiss pressed to Connor’s forehead: soft. Sweeter than Hank has ever wanted to be with anyone. Then he finally is pulling back, albeit reluctantly. Looking down into Connor’s eyes.]

You make life... really goddamn special.

[Not “tolerable,” no: that isn’t strong enough. Hank will always have his issues. His demons. There’s no getting rid of those, only softening their blows. And sometimes, even with Connor and his kisses and his “I’m learning,” things will be hard. Some nights more than others: holidays. Birthdays. Random days where Hank just feels himself slipping away.

It’s a process, wanting to live again. But leaving Connor now, in any way — that terrifies Hank.

So he won’t. With everything Hank has in him, he won’t let himself leave: both in the context of death as well as him being an ornery asshole, trying to push Connor away on the days he’s convinced Connor could have better if Hank just distances himself.]

Should — [clearing his throat, gripping the door handle now as he pushes it open] — get you to that appointment, yeah?

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