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

I figured as much, especially with your whole... browser history thing. But nah, I’m good. Maybe next time.

[The kitchen drawer gets stuck a bit, crammed full of junk, so Hank has to really slam it shut.

He heads back to the couch, giving Sumo a nice scratch behind the ears — although he looks, decidedly, bored by Hank’s attention. Drooling in Connor’s lap is much more riveting, apparently, although he does offer Hank a loud yawn.

Reaching for one of Connor’s hands now, Hank unfurls his fingers before pressing a kiss to his palm.

Then: two keys. Sumo raises his head, expecting some manner of treat, but after a few sniffs he lays back in Connor’s lap.]

One with the fob’s for the car. Figured since I was giving you the other key, anyway. In case of emergencies and all that — don’t need you breaking my car window, or whatever. Just let me know if you’re actually gonna take her for a spin, so I can get one of those weird self-driving cars.

[Those very cabs that are suddenly enjoyable if they have Connor in them, and if Connor is kissing him and tugging Hank’s hair.

Funny how that works.]

Then, yeah: house key. Since that keeps coming up. Where you’re gonna stay and keep all your things. And obviously you don’t gotta stay here — [please stay] — but don’t go cleaning up after me if you do. That’s my burden. Don’t know where we’re gonna put your fish, but we’ll figure it out.

[We.

A glance around the living room: it’s not exactly small, but that was just with him and Sumo. It’d be nice to have more space for Connor.]

[ The kiss to his palm brings on a more humid rendition of his typical dreamy stare, like spring dusk just becoming summer with a burst of blinking golden fireflies. The keys he observes with clinical candor, giving them each a detailed scan so he'll be able to reproduce the cuts, even without the keys themselves. Not that he intends on losing them.

They are just keys, but they seem so very pretty and special, the kinds of things humans fashion jewelry out of, the kinds of things they hang from their walls and windows to catch the light. He allows the ring on which the keys are set to slide down his finger, resting the little metal carvings against his palm. He touches them carefully with his thumb, noting the coolness of the metal at ends with the heat from Hank's hand.

Connor can still manage some rather robotic behavior and views, but he doesn't miss the significance here, he understands that these gifts represent the freedom to come and go (to leave, and what's more, stay) at his own behest. It's a huge amount of trust to give someone, and Connor isn't exactly surprised, but somehow, he feels the pump in his chest skitter, double-quick, for two pulsations. Not fear but thrill, not apprehension but jubilation. Connor almost forgets entirely about how starchy and uncomfortable his shirt is. ]

Thank you Hank, truly. I believe I properly understand the gravity of this gesture. And I really would love to stay here with you [ 'Borf!' ] -and Sumo, and perhaps an angel fish, of some kind. I promise not to break anymore of our windows unless it is extremely necessary

[ He sways forward, still a little punch-drunk on his new senses, and rests his forehead against Hank's stomach while wrapping a loose arm around his waist. ]

Are we... what's the proper slang of your era? Going Steady? Paramours? Boyfriends? Are we... 'Officially' a couple? Am a reading this re-classification correctly? My head still feels sort of... fuzzy, but not in a bad way

And I trust you not to break any more windows unless it’s “extremely necessary,” so I guess we’re on the same page here.

[Then Connor has to go and shove his face against Hank’s stomach, and it’s not as if he’s keeping score, but this... this is endearing as fuck.]

Who the hell says “paramours”? You think that’s a term of my era? Oh, that’s rich. [Hank touches Connor’s head, fingers sifting through his hair, patting him in soft strokes.] But yeah, Connor. We can make it all official, if you want. Figured we were already there, but — okay.

[It feels oddly juvenile, especially with Hank being fifty-three, but:] Will you... be my boyfriend, Connor?

[Is that how he’s supposed to ask? It’s been so damn long since Hank has wanted to date anyone.]

My very sexy boyfriend who can come and go as he pleases, and...

[Hank sighs, craning his neck to see as much of Connor as he can. Sumo is sitting up now, looking up at them, head cocked. Perhaps confused why Connor would choose to hug Hank over being the optimal pillow.]

It’s nice. Getting to make you feel like this. I hope I can keep doing this for a long time, Connor.

[Which is Hank’s way of saying: Hope I don’t fuck this up. Hope you keep wanting to be with me.]

D’you... need to change your shirt, though? [Don’t mention Connor’s nipples, Hank. Don’t even think about nipples.

But of course he does.]

One of mine might be better, or...

[Hopefully...?]

I had thought the consent was explicit in my taking your keys, but, yes. I think I would very much enjoy being your boyfriend, if that's the term you'd prefer to apply. Though... I did already specify I enjoy when you're explicit, didn't I? Maybe I shouldn't fault you for that

[ Hank is being terribly sweet with his proposition and Connor starts to catch the persistent urge to kiss him again, but--

At the mention of his shirt Connor makes an irritated little huff (his perception of the discomfort returning twice as loud) and sinks back into the couch, promptly and ruthlessly removing his tie like it offended him and tossing heedlessly over the arm-rest. A second later he's plucking open the buttons and pulling loose the fabric of his dress-shirt, and sighing in mostly appeased comfort as the weird prickling sensation ebbs off his new hardware. With his re-worked skin layer online, the grey silicone sculpts are colored exactly life-like, flushed in obvious irritated over-sensitivity. ]

I don't own anything that isn't made of starch, apparently. No wonder the Tracis all wear such minimal, tight-fitted clothing

[ The android releases the tension from his posture, melts a little into the couch, while more languidly plucking open the petals of his shirt. ]

I'm sorry, it was my understanding that shirts are not a strict requirement of this establishment [ His expression is overly prim, too much starch on purpose, like his damn shirt. His lips have just a little more color than usual as he slides his new boyfriend a sweet, imploring, faintly impish smile. ] Was I incorrect?

Was explicit, sure. Just wanted to make doubly sure so neither of us gets jumpscared when the other says “boyfriend,” or something. Jumpscared in a good way, I’d hope, but still.

[Hank watches Connor toss his tie away like it’s his very own personal striptease. He tries not to widen his eyes, but he stares. Unblinking. Heart racing faster with each button unfastened.]

Connor, what did I tell you about the whole nipple thing? [It was about talking, yes, but is this not a million times “worse,” albeit in a deeply erotic way? Connor just baring himself for Hank to see, all smooth, freckled skin — especially sensitive too, now, isn’t he?] You’re lucky Sumo’s here to get us to behave.

[Not that Sumo’s presence stopped them before, but now he’s on the couch. Being all cute and slobbering.

Hank leans down to tilt Connor’s head up. Thumb pressed against his chin as he just stares into those deep eyes for a moment, at that face he adores, before he kisses him. A chaste kiss: lips brushing. Trying to keep his beard from digging into Connor’s skin for too long; he imagines that might be uncomfortable right now. Or maybe it feels amazing, with all that new sensitivity. Hank doesn’t know.

Still, he pulls back before long. Grabbing his food from the coffee table — magic! — before squeezing onto the other end of the couch. Sumo whines between them, turning to nose at Hank’s bag. Tail thwapping Connor’s lap.]

No, shirts not required. In fact, I’d suggest you never wear one. Ever. Would be better for your — [don’t say nipples, don’t say nipples] — skin, huh? No friction. All that good stuff.

[Hank bites into a fry. Sitting up to be able to see Connor over Sumo. Giving Connor a look. Expression blank and yet anything but, really: he knows Connor can figure out his heart’s still racing, and all that.]

Personally I'm still fond of calling you my partner, which isn't technically incorrect.

[ Connor is never unaware of Hank's heartbeat, let's be real. Detectives and Stalkers sure have similar specs. He relaxes back into the couch with a very gratified, slow-burning smile, one hand languidly petting Sumo's head while the other continues to peel away his shirt, tantalizing quarter-inches at a time. ]

I'm sure he wouldn't mind giving us some space if need be. Though, he's probably hoping for burger crumbs.

[ Connor's smile goes slightly crooked as Hank tips up his chin; be looks utterly bewitched, familiar enamored expression enhanced with subtle new details. But he doesn't just look different, he feels different, and his perception has amazing new levels to explore. Maybe it shouldn't keep surprising him, the way kissing Hank feels now, the way he can shiver down to his toes. But it's like a brand new discovery every time.

Look either Hank or Connor carried in that food, the kiss was just so good they forgot about it until just now; dead pool ~~or Kuzco~~ the replay, it's all there.

It takes Connor a few seconds to blink the enchanted glitter out of his eyes and catch up with what Hank is saying to him; those kisses now create so much sensory data they overflow his ability to compute them; a buzz very worth chasing but also mildly inconvenient. He feels... silly? Embarrassed? But not in an unpleasant way? ]

You say that, but you were just complaining about what a distraction I am. How are you going to cope if I'm completely shirtless? You're not exactly a paragon of self control [ The last bit reads like a playful insult but sounds much more like a purring complement as Connor say it, because he actually quite adores being a subject of such eager desire. Teasing Hank is just... fun? Definitely Fun and... other feelings. Comfortable. Familiar. Risky? That last one is... new and enticing.

But obviously, removing his jacket shouldn't be considered a tease, right? Ignoring, of course, that he never actually does it. But he's got a key, ergo he's allowed to keep his stuff here, and his jacket is his stuff. The math checks out.

So Connor sits up and shrugs off his grey Cyberlife blazer, slow more for caution than teasing, and lays it neatly across the armrest next to his tie. Some stray behavioral coding has him roll up his sleeves and it's hard to say if he's trying to get comfortable, or testing what turns Hank's crank.

Just because he's not looking directly at his new boyfriend does not mean he's not listening to his heart race. ]

Guess we’re partners in a few senses of the word now, then.

[And hopefully will continue to be, especially after Fowler finds out about this. That whole mistletoe thing hadn’t been exactly subtle... and then they’d run out and started making out in a cab.

It’s not like Hank would want to hide this, either. Their relationship. Not putting it on blast, sure — but if someone asks? Hank doesn’t want to have to lie, not about Connor. But whatever might be best for Connor: a conversation for another time, perhaps.]

Think we can allow a few distractions. Considering the circumstances. It’s a big day for you. And — [eyeing the way Connor slips out of his blazer as if that alone isn’t a distraction] — don’t think I could stop you even if I wanted to. And I don’t, to be explicitly clear.

[And then Connor rolls up his sleeves... hmm. Baring all that skin.]

Looks like you’re gettin’ ready for something. [Hank takes a bite of his burger, sauce dripping on his fingers. He has enough manners to finish chewing before he continues, even as Sumo pants beside him.] Or is it too hot in here for you, Connor?

What d’you think, Sumo? [‘Borf!’ — perhaps hoping Hank will be a pal and share his burger.] Should we turn the heat down for our friend here?

[ Connor has not even fathomed that anything he's doing with Hank should be a reason to dissolve their work partnership. Of course there are some rules, but... well those were made for relationships between humans? Surely they would be nonapplicable to androids. His feelings for Hank have always been part of how Connor operates, why should that change just because his feelings are stronger? ]

Technically, Sumo is mostly nude at all the times. Is that the official house dress code? Are we terribly overdressed?

[ He's teasing again, carefully designing the conversation to steer Hank (and himself) into thinking about long expanses of bare skin. It feels like some kind of magic to discover that a mere thought can send flutters of heat through his new perception. Just kissing Hank has so many new layers of sensation... what is everything else going to feel like? This must be what eagerness feels like... but Hank should eat, right? Organics need to do that? And Connor insisted? ]

Getting ready? What could I possibly be getting ready for? [ The slight smugness and mischief of his expression certainly makes suggestions. ] I'm simply experimenting with what I find comfortable. Temperature perception sure is something else.

[ Thoughtfully, he catches the top metallic bead of his barbell heatsink between his teeth, adding a little blip of silver between his lips. ]

If you turn down heat, it may end up being uncomfortable when we do remove our clothing, though [ Whoa dude do you need a light for that BLUNT? Just in case you forgot you're dating a ~~nuero-spicy~~ robot, Hank. Obviously, he has certain plans for when his partner is finished eating. ]

Hmm. What d’you think, Sumo? Are we terribly overdressed?

[The dog says nothing, only thwapping Connor with his tail. Turning a bit to look at Connor, his eyes big, jowls drooping. A look that is perhaps meant to express: “You’re the good dad. I can has burger?”]

Uh-huh. Right. Nothin’ at all to look forward to, I suppose. [Hank grabs a fry, one he’d usually only need a single bite for, but now he draws it out. Savors the salt and grease as he slowly nibbles.] Guess I can just go on eating real slow, then.

[Not that he’d expected sex the second they got home. Want, sure. Hank wants Connor at every opportunity, really, whether or not it’s realistic or feasible. That box has been unlocked. But there’s so much newness here for Connor to get used to, and Hank wouldn’t push him.]

Pretty cute there. Your little... piercing. [A sly glance at Connor’s lips. Not that Hank is necessarily trying to hide his desire, either. He’s just being cheeky.

Had he been into piercings before? Hmm. Not specifically. Now, though? Probably.]

Weren’t you the one talking about all that temperature play before? [A mumble, right before Hank grabs his burger again:] Maybe I like being uncomfortable sometimes.

[ If Sumo is going to look at him with such heartfelt hope, Connor's going to eventually have to return him something other than smiles and head-pats. Sumo seems very interested in the smell of the burger, and while mayo and ketchup and melted cheese (and grease) are not great for him (Hank either, but Hank has a longer life-span over all) beef, on the other hand, or tomato, or lettuce? Not terrible. He supposes Sumo might enjoy those things, made specifically for him... in the back of his mind, Connor opens up another browser-tab and starts searching (starts 'thinking about') different kinds of food Sumo might like.

Because come on. Look at this fluffy tail. Look at the droopy slobber face. That longing expression.

Connor notes how unnecessarily slow Hank eats that fry. Is this a game of chicken, suddenly? He can't say he doesn't like games... And honestly Connor wouldn't fault Hank for not wanting to jump into bed with him, too. There are other enjoyable activities, and humans notably have other required needs. Expectations can be tricky so he tries not to pin them on Hank at all, but... the context of a romantic relationship kind of shuffles all the subtext of these things. Some things should be safe to expect. Not sex, certainly, but... other, difficult to quantify things. ]

Please, take your time

[ He insists a bit too sweetly, meeting Hank's playful taunt with a perfectly composed charming little smile; is he now capable of greater eagerness? Absolutely-- but it hasn't quite been activated yet, so he's still defaulting to his typical, faintly feline-false-aloofness. ]

I'm glad you don't dislike it; a higher heat threshold for my mouth does sound promising... though I hope the additional friction isn't too disruptive to our endeavors

[ Connor shifts his tongue so the silver sphere slips from between his teeth and smooths, experimental-slow, across his own top lip. His eyebrows knit down in concentration and then up, in faintly befuddled surprise as the sensation registers. ] ... Oh. Actually, belay that concern. I don't think it's going to be an issue.

[ Connor realizes they are bantering but there's some real wisdom in Hank's statement regardless; being alive, he thinks, seems to involve some level of deciding your own discomfort. In the spirit of that he 'relaxes' (unnecessarily, what muscles do you have sir) against the couch and his shirt shifts; the cleft of peaches-and-cream skin beneath the pale fabric widening. There's just the faintest whisper of cinnamon fuzz dusted beneath his navel, the start of a faint 'treasure trail' disappearing beneath his belt. ]

Really? I'd like an example, please. And 'An excuse to complain' is insufficient. You can do better than that.

[ This guy... ]

[When Connor tells him to “take his time,” Hank stares: eyes droopy, mouth partially open in disbelief.

Not entirely unlike Sumo’s pout, really.]

Your mouth — [he waves a fry at Connor, which diverts Sumo’s attention back to Hank] — doesn’t have any business being that sexy. Could be explicitly telling me how to do my tax returns and it would still be the sexiest goddamn thing. Fuckin’ W-2s and tax brackets and exemptions....swear to god.

[Admittedly, Hank forgets what he had said mere moments before. Something about being uncomfortable. Liking it? Maybe. Sure, he enjoys being uncomfortable sometimes — like how his pants are getting too damn tight all over again, with how Connor’s wriggling around and showing all that tantalizing skin.]

Well since you asked. [Which example to pick though, honestly? Because a dozen flit through Hank’s mind: from getting his hair pulled, his nipples pinched... to Connor’s fingers inside him, tormenting. Pushing him against the wall of the shower, with his ancient knees threatening to collapse and his cock so damn spent and yet...]

Maybe I like being tied up sometimes. [He doesn’t, in the sense that he’s never done it in an erotic context before, but he would.] Y’know? Rope all tight around my wrists. You ever think about that?

[Hank grabs his drink and gives Connor a long look as he obnoxiously sips through the straw.]

[ Don't worry Hank, Connor will very soon learn learn to be impatient. For now, his new tech is all running at baseline levels; he can feel every new addition, but they're not doing anything terribly distracting-- aside from making him want to buy fabric softener, yet.

Without missing a beat, Connor reaches forward and plucks that wagging fry from Hank's hand. Of course he can't eat it, but he regards it for a second (scanning, no doubt) and then presents the stolen goods to Sumo on a flat offering palm. He wouldn't want to give the big fluffer anything harmful, but potatoes (and a minor touch of grease) are not awful for dogs and also, he wanted to promptly dispose the fry. Sumo eagerly twists, assisting happily, swaying tail now facing Hank, and inhales the single fry like an amuse-bouche. ]

I'm sorry [ he's not sorry at all ] I thought you enjoyed when I facilitate your discovery of new kinks. Though I can't quite imagine pinning you to the desk if we're trying to get any kind of tax related paperwork accomplished. That seems counter-productive

[ He did ask, didn't he, like quietly daring Hank to up the ante with their new, higher betting limits in place. Connor waits with faintly pining curiosity and isn't at all disappointed with the shiny new idea. His head cants and his eyes unfocus; Connor does not just imagine, he can pre-construct.

Has Connor thought about it? Well, he is now. ]

I think, if it's your wrists in particular you want bound, that handcuffs would suit you better. I enjoy how the metal looks on your skin

[ No no dog-butt in his lap there is nothing at all stopping Connor from idly shifting, not too unlike a loafing feline, to cross one knee over the other and lounge like he's exactly at home.

Connor gives Hank a look right back as the runs the metal bead at the center of his tongue a little too casually across his top lip. Experimenting with salacious posture typically outside his realm of habit, Connor drapes his arms over the back of the couch, and the action draws his shirt up his gently defined abdomen. ]

Come to think of it Hank, maybe you need a new piercing, too

[ He gets way too much joy out of teasing Hank, he probably should have started questioning that proclivity sooner. That's what people with crushes do. ]

And before you say so, there's no age-limit, so you can't dodge the suggestion just because of your age, old man

[ ~~ACCIDENTAL CRITICAL HIT.~~ Seriously if his pupils could be shaped like hearts, they would be; bedroom eyes of wicked whims over a smile that has no business being so demure. ]

[Hank isn’t even surprised when Connor snatches his fry and feeds it to Sumo, who snaps it up in an instant. If Hank isn’t going to inhale his fries like usual, then Sumo here sure will.]

You spoil the hell outta him, you know. [He says this as if it isn’t the most endearing thing that Connor somehow manages to get along with two ornery beasts. But it is; of course it’s endearing. Not many people can handle both old dogs of the house, and understandably, most people prefer the one who doesn’t talk. Even if he does drool.]

Fuck taxes. [Hank has another fry in hand now, although perhaps wisely, he doesn’t tease Connor with it.] Can pay someone to do them for me if it’ll get you to pin me against the damn desk.

[Which isn’t the best place to make out — or, dare Hank assume, fuck — because he’s old and he’s big. His body would probably start whining before long, hips angry as they’re pressed against hard wood, and...

Now Hank is just imagining shoving everything off his desk and bending over — porn logic — legs all spread, nails scratching against wood. Pressed against the desk as his chest heaves. And then — more porn logic — he imagines the seamless switch of it being Connor beneath him now, all panting and tossing Hank a look over his shoulder. All doe-eyed and pleading.

Huh. That sure is a thought. One of those mildly uncomfortable thoughts, because again: god, must Hank’s pants be so tight?]

I do. Do like it. When you “facilitate my discovery of new kinks.”

[Shifting his hips awkwardly now, not as if it really helps. And Sumo might hide the worst of it from view, but Hank knows how clever Connor is. Facilitating such reactions from him, even.]

Handcuffs, huh. Can’t say I’m opposed. [The texture would be different than rope, but there’d be that added thrill of knowing there was no way to loosen his restraints, really. No way of getting his thick hands through those cuffs.]

So. Hypothetical. Entirely hypothetical, mind. [Not hypothetical at all.] Let’s say you’ve got me all handcuffed. What are you doing, Connor?

[He knows it’s a dangerous question to ask. And Connor wants him to eat, so he will. Mostly. He’d like to wash his hands and brush his teeth, even maybe take a quick shower, before they press forward. If they do.

Because, really: Hank would like to set his food down and make a beeline for the bedroom.]

What are you doing to me, specifically? Because we both know I wouldn’t want you uncuffing me.

[Now he’s haunted with that arousing imagery — good job, Hank — and if Sumo weren’t between them, he could at least touch his lover. Trailing fingers along his chest. Squeezing his thigh.

But Sumo’s a big, stubborn boy, and if he wants to sit on the couch with Connor, he will. Nothing Hank and all his yapping could do about that — but he could at least try. Or lure him off with food. Hmm...]

Maybe I wasn’t gonna mention age at all. [He was.] Sounds kinda nice, though — comin’ from you.

[Hank doesn’t elaborate on this. He already promised Connor his little secret. Time will reveal all.]

Where d’you think I should get a piercing, then? Hmm?

[It’s difficult for Hank to wrap his head around a piercing for himself. Sure, he could get one — but where? He’s not exactly creative in this sense. Ears, eyebrows... where? Hank is more the type to appreciate piercings on others.]

I have not reasonably begun to spoil you yet, Sumo. Just wait, I have plans.

[ Connor was designed to be sociable, he just also happens to be good at it sometimes. Recognizing social lubricant is a thing he can do; sometimes it's free drinks, sometimes its French fries. He feels accomplished when he feels liked, and Sumo's eternal adoration only cost him one stolen potato stick. ]

Hmmm [ known to be a dangerous sound. Hank is asking for colorful ideas, and that is something Connor can certainly provide: Pre-construction initializing... ] Certainly not taxes

[ The subject matter is already so rich, and he's built for taking individual pieces and looking for how they fit together, so his thoughts (a rough draft fantasy) compose accordingly. ]

You mentioned enjoying being pinned to the desk. Perhaps you would enjoy it more with your hands cuffed behind your back. Hypothetically, as you said, it would also make choosing an appropriate placement for a new piercing especially... enticing.

[ The android's head tips and his eyes become hazy copper shards as his imagination sprawls; it's not organic-wild, but follows sensible fractals, like a spider knitting a web. ]

I could even give you the piercing of my choosing, myself. I'd only have to download the appropriate skill packet. You wouldn't exactly been in a position to stop me... aside, of course, for calling for vegetables.

[ And where exactly would he choose? It would be a pity to sacrifice any sensitivity from Hank's nipples, as much as the jewelry (a claim-staking flash of silver) would be appealing. A belly button rings seems silly but salacious, somehow appealing with the strange irony of it, and (sub-task opened) it seems like there are what one would consider "manly" belly button rings. Bullets and Guns (not for Hank), scorpions, dragons, fanged and jewel-eyed skulls that vibe Heavy Metal, and many more options create a plethora of possibilities.

Either of those options would mean, in the fantasy, plucking open (or off) Hank's loud shirt of the day while he is spread on the desk. Maybe Connor would do just that, pretend to fret over picking this nipple or that, and sweep curious fingers around Hank's navel, just for the pleasure of teasing.

Maybe his choice in the end would be a sensible, dashing single ear piercing. A crisp clean diamond with mathematically pleasing angles on pristine pure white-gold. There's poetry to that, Connor thinks, for the rarity of diamonds and gold in the universe at large rival the sheer unlikeliness that someone like Hank should exist, and yet does as though to say beautifully "fuck the odds."

It's this potent cocktail of sexual fantasy, poetic romanticism, and observing the telling tightening of Hank's pants that make Connor quite aware of the shifting flow his liquid cooling; the pump in his chest starts to tap-tap-tap like he's jogging and he perceives that pulsation not only at its origin but in the tips of his fingers and toes, and of course, dead-center between his legs. The discomfort is mild but wholly new, and it has the android shifting somewhat restlessly in his seat.

Why... why would anyone design pants this way if they so easily become this terribly uncomfortable to anyone with a dick? That anatomically correct blush is certainly glowing on places other than his cheeks. ]

[Where one fry is delivered, so might another! Or so Sumo thinks, probably. Big-eyed, dopey stare gazing up at Connor as if to say: “Another, Father? Another potato stick for your poor, starving son?”

Hank’s focus is far from said fries, despite the fact that if he ate faster, he could tug Connor into the bedroom sooner. The thought of being pinned to the desk has Hank nodding, though. Hands cuffed behind him. A very slow, solemn nod — which may or may not adequately hide how Hank is cataloguing this imagery in his head under “Connor’s Sexiest Hits.”

As if Connor doesn’t have an infinite amount of Sexiest Hits for him to browse through by now.]

Sounds kinky. You piercing me yourself, and all. I’m sure you’d take care of me real nice, too. [Hank is spending much more time staring over at Connor than he is eating. Eyes half-lidded.] You think I’d just go and let you pick wherever, though? What if you haven’t been a good boy, hmm?

[Not that Hank would deny him. Or would he? Not with the accursed “cauliflower,” anyway.]

Lookin’ a little uncomfortable there, Con. Too hot? Or — [giving his lover a sad frown, lips pursed exaggeratedly] — should I eat a little faster, maybe?

[Hank is honestly amazed that Connor is even playing such a game with him, this back and forth. Connor has all the winning cards here, really, while Hank’s just along for the ride.

Right now, the worst of his insecurities are quieted, softened by the hum of safety he feels. Rather than focusing in his own inadequacies, Hank’s attention is on Connor’s eyes; his lips; that damn piercing. On his chest; on the way he shifts on the couch.

Hank is so lucky. So goddamn lucky.]

[ Poor Sumo, perpetually wasting away. Connor wonders if it's possible to make the dog's food so well that the mountainous fluffer's simply not interested in begging for scraps. Is that even possible? He'll have to science it out. Inquiring minds must know! ]

Of course. If I'm going to do something, I endeavor to do it as perfectly as possible.

[ His purposeful amused aloofness is almost like a cat's, who would turn defiant if they were invested enough to contest, but instead remain elegantly engaged. The slight sharpness to his smirk and tip of his head, the subtle narrowing of his eyes and straightening of his shoulders seems to say with comfortable arrogance 'of course I would be a good boy' as though no other possibility would dare coalesce.

Like he isn't, for a robot, a damn menace and a brat.

Really though, it's fascinating (and distracting) how certain words and certain looks resonate with a stronger frequency than touch. The pulse of interest between his legs is completely impossible to ignore, demanding his full attention and rudely incinirating a few background tasks. Hey, wait-- what were those--? Nope, all he can do is feel this thirium flow southward and wonder how anyone (Hank) with a dick larger than his (7"") could possibly stand to wear pants and briefs (which were included with his order, thank you Andy and Andy!) at all. ]

I believe we were just discussing the more enjoyable aspects of discomfort, but... admittedly, I'll likely be ordering clothing that is both softer, and looser, if lounging at home and having a conversation is going to... produce these kinds of feelings

[ He's mildly annoyed, but in a way that's enjoyable, like a challenging game that he's still picking up the advanced rules for; there's something ceding in his smile too, with this new dawning personal understanding of the discomforts of flared arousal. He's just barely stiff, and yet... pressure. ]

And that isn't a complaint. Erm, it's not exactly a complaint. It's a good complaint? I am capable of patience, of course... but if I could help you finish that food a little faster, I would

[ a sheepish admittance while he touches the back of his neck and smiles, warm and trusting, like he just flashed Hank his poker hand. ]

[“Borf!” says Sumo before he hops off the couch in a whirlwind of fur, sniffing around their feet. Seeking fallen potato sticks and, tragically, finding not a single fry.]

Suppose I shouldn’t torture you too much. [Again, as if Hank has the upperhand here when he doesn’t. What he does have is a burger, half gone now. Taking bites in between their banter. Because Hank wants it gone, as good as it tastes. Connor was right: he needs to eat. Needs the energy for other things.]

What kind of soft, loose clothes are you thinking, hmm? [Hank’s thoughts immediately go to Connor wearing his shirts — and nothing else. Sloping over one shoulder; sleeves too long.

Not that this is Connor getting new clothes, exactly, but still: more of those Sexiest Hits.

With Sumo nosing around the floor, Hank can see more of Connor clearly. Without the obstruction that is Sumo’s mountain of fur.

Breathtaking, is Hank’s first thought. Connor is always breathtaking, but there’s something special about him right now. Maybe it’s his upgrades, maybe it’s Hank falling a little more in love with him: his mannerisms, the way he shifts, tilts his head. Makes Hank want to press him against the couch and kiss him until he has to come up for air.]

If you could eat... I’d appreciate the help.

[In his mercy, inspired by Connor’s cuteness, Hank slips Sumo two fries. Two! Sumo once more inhales the fries, slurping them up before turning his dopey-eyed stare to Hank.]

But I’d rather eat all my food — [ignore the whole feeding Sumo thing; it was only two fries!] — and get a reward. How’s that sound?

Of course not, what could I possibly have done to deserve such treatment?

[ He does not quite splay his fingers across his chest in an over-play of his playfully sarcastic sheepishness, but the mood is closely composed. Maybe Hank has more of an advantage than he thinks-- experience, context, heart-throb blue eyes, or some combination thereof, Connor is as equally enamored as his human partner, in this entanglement they share. His sarcasm subtly makes the point, perhaps Hank does deserve to tease him, a tiny little bit. ]

Admittedly, your clothing is very comfortable. I shouldn't rely entirely on your wardrobe when I'm here though, then what are you going to w-- oh, I see.

[ He looks briefly scandalized before his smile breaks the jest for him, all fondness and affectionate-mischief. Connor is curious about consuming food, but as much as it seems enjoyable, it also seems like a largely inefficient way to gather energy. Because of his his design, he's grateful his new basic level taste perception can be switched on and off too. ]

Unfortunately, I can't amalgamate humanity that well. You can give a few more fries or a piece of beef to Sumo on my behalf, if you like. I'm sure he would appreciate it

[ A reward, he says? Connor can absolutely get behind creatively motivating Hank into self-care. That is a very interesting branch of thought, actually. ]

It sounds like I'm already wondering what teir of reward would convince you to swap the lettuce on your burgers for spinach-- so interesting, at the very least

[ For the most part, the android is still managing his typical charm and composure, even though his pants are feeling just a little tight as well as starchy. Seriously Cyberlife, are you trying to sell fabric softener? ... Kamski probably has stocks in that somewhere. ]

Is there something in particular you had in mind? I didn't expect you to enjoy my piercing idea enough to go for it so quickly [ clawless teasing again, soft like mitten-paws. ]

Y’know, if I wasn’t trying to eat — [and Hank is trying] — I’d kiss that smirk right off your face.

[Another fry waggled in Connor’s direction, this time safe from Sumo’s immediate consumption.]

Hell, why not go and swap days around? Mondays I get to be naked, Tuesdays you... see? [Hank meets Connor’s smile with his own, although Hank’s is lopsided. Gap-toothed.] Am I not merciful?

[If it’ll get Connor naked, he’d do it. Getting used to it might be weird, but would. Hank’s insecurities still hit even when he’s with Connor, but they’re more quieted. A dull hum compared to the steady roar of “I’m not good enough for him” whenever Hank is alone.

There is something especially tantalizing about the thought of Connor wearing his clothes, though. Again: long shirt, no pants. Nothing underneath. That unending tease of “almost naked, but not quite.”

God.

Nutrition is one of the last things Hank wants to talk about right now, but:]

Spinach instead of lettuce? Really? [He feigns a look of disgust.] I mean, is that really even much better?

[But again: nutrition. Blah. What’s more interesting to Hank is that reward.]

Oh, you bet I’ve got somethin’ in mind. [He pats his thigh.] Can sit in my lap if I finish all my food, yeah?

[As if it’s a reward for Connor if Hank finishes his food. Hmm.]

Just kinda imagined you liking whatever piercing. That made it an easy choice. [Or mostly easy, as long as it’s a more private sort of piercing. Hank would rather not walk in to work and have Gavin on his ass about yet another old man crisis, or whatever.

But still: if Connor likes it, Hank probably will too. Or he’ll come around to it once Connor gets to play around with it.]

Plus, I’d get to have you take care of me. Nurse me back to health, and all that. [Which will be Hank’s excuse to ask his very sexy nurse for kisses and cuddles and all manner of delights.]

I'd probably honor a rain check

[ Hank's 'threat' to smother Connor's smirk has the expression blooming closer to a grin; obviously, the android is pleased with the effects he's having on Hank, and the effects he's experiencing simultaneously. A familiar song, a new unheard of baseline throbbing. New instruments scrambling to follow the tune. Connor feels the odd inclination to swallow (about the time Hank mentions properly scheduled shifts in nudity) and he can't quite nail it down-- is that a motion capture instinct? A tick of excited nervousness? Or is it a new function to clear the additional moisture inside his mouth?

And why is there suddenly more of that? Scanning... 'heatsink, something, something, heat-to-fluid transfer...' ah. That tracks. Excess heat now transfers safely to a fluid medium. Clever use of temperature transference, is what Connor observes, rather missing the lurid math of 'more heat equals more wetness'. ]

Merciful... is not the word that came to mind, but I suppose I'll allow it

[ Connor resists the urge to answer Hank's question about spinach as literally as possible, but the temptation is real. That can't be a serious question, how is iron healthier than water leafage? The impending essay might all be a moot point right now anyway-- and worse, maybe a mood killer. Though Hank did already say Connor could make even taxes needlessly saucy.

And that does indeed sound like a reward for Connor, but he's ready to roll with it regardless, who is he to judge if Hank's desire is to have his dashing new boyfriend straddling his lap? Somehow Connor will just have to accept the trade off, as though in Hank's lap is not in fact his favorite place to be. ]

Reasonable terms. You're not actually a bad negotiator [ Fondly teasing, he says it like he's mildly surprised. Connor finds his new discomforts dispersed enough to shift in his seat, as though acclimatizing to the idea of climbing into Hank's lap without actually moving-- because, of course, he isn't done his food quite yet. ]

Hmmm [ Godamn that is a dangerous noise. Connor holds up his empty hand between them, and a split second later there's a flicker of white and a transparent pane of square light shows across his palm. It's very much like he's showing Hank a picture on his cellphone, without the actual cellphone on-hand. The image he shows is a single curved barbell set with a dangling letter C. ]

I wonder where this look best?

I’m about to have a dozen rainchecks to cash in, so — [Hank shrugs, feigning upset with a frown] — hope you can manage.

[But then Connor goes and pulls up a picture of a bejeweled little “C,” because of course he does. The attempt to make Hank’s heart rate skyrocket is working, as per usual: the thump-thump in his chest feels less steady now, rising to something wild. Untamed.]

Oh, Jesus. [Shifting his hips again, not that it helps, but god.] Yeah, where would that look best, huh?

[That little “C” that hits just right. Their little secret for Hank to hide under his shirt and ponder while he’s supposed to be working.

Connor’s “C.”

Hank’s burger is gone now. Fries conquered — one remains, which Hank flicks for Sumo to go nosing around for. Then he grabs his drink and slurps like his life depends on it, leaving him with a cup of ice and greasy fingers.

He should wash his hands. He meant to, after he finished eating. But now Hank is patting his thigh, looking up at Connor almost sheepishly. Hair falling across his face. One of those little hair ties Connor ordered would be helpful now, but alas.]

Ate all my food. [He says this as if it isn’t painfully obvious, especially with the way he inhaled that last bit of his drink. Hank can be almost as bad as Sumo, really.

Drumming along his thigh now.]

The way I figure things... I owe you at least, what? [Raising one hand to arbitrarily count on his fingers. As if Hank isn’t restraining himself not to pull Connor into his lap.] Half a dozen kisses? More?

Oh? I hope you're keeping track of all those receipts

[ He catches the telltale signs that Hank is rather enjoying his playful idea; the hitched heart-rate, downward blood-flow, the up-tick in body heat-- and now Connor has approximations of all the same reactions, running just barely below the eager purr of Hank's engine. The androids fingers flex, the image in his hand flutters, and the light projected become the approximate shape and volume of the jewelry that had been on screen. Some concentration on Connor's part etches out the shape, carves the pixels into just the right sculpt until it's just right: a tiny realistic hologram. 'Pinching' the projection tweaks the size and Connor turns, flicking his fingers not too unlike a composer to set the projection in place.

The image can't 'float' too far off his own micro-projectors, meaning Connor more or less has to cup the air around the subject of his focus. First, Hank's eyebrow. Then, his ear.

Lower, and placed perfectly through Hank's shirt (because of course Connor can see through it anyway) he projects the barbell neatly through Hank's nipple. And finally, lower still, Connor places the lurid little hologram where it would sit pierced through the bottom of Hank's bellybutton, placing that dangling 'C' deliciously downwards. ]

So you did [ His tone is a dangerous combination of congratulatory and sly as he shifts all too fluidly. At first the way he half-stands as he slides sideways just seems to facilitate his movement into Hank's lap, but the android pauses as though belayed by a thought, half perched above his finally fed human boyfriend. He definitely wants to sit on Hank's lap, with a ferocity that is patiently sharpening its claws, but... a stray thought has Connor by the (metaphorical) tie.

So he takes Hank by the literal beard, and draws himself onto both feet. ]

I would very much appreciate if you accompany me to the bathroom to wash your hands and brush your teeth. I don't mean to be presumptuous, but I would enjoy if the first thing I ever taste is purely you, and not your most recent meal

[ It's exactly the kind of Switch-To-Dom coded bullshit he'd pull without a dick but damn Christ in Wisconsin does it feel like something else with all this new hardware. Connor's pulse registers in nonsense areas like his navel, and perfectly logical areas like his shiny new cock. And he was just appreciating that ebbing discomfort, too. No, he's not going to commit to pants all the time with this new piece of anatomy installed, that seems needlessly masochistic. ]

Half a dozen? I'll double check your math while you wash. This way, please.

[ Who needs a collar and a leash when Hank's got just enough beard to twist his fingers into? ]

[No, Hank has not been keeping track of receipts. But he can make up a hundred on the fly, if need be. Like the whole car ride to and from the shop earned Connor about a million rainchecked kisses.

He even feigns a deadpan look of surprise as if to say: “You really think I’d go and keep track of all that?” But then Connor has to go and be all Connor and have Hank play dress-up with that piercing. Every near touch feels charged, but it’s the one over his chest that has Hank swallowing thickly. The near touch that follows isn’t any better in that regard; it is decidedly worse as Hank imagines that damn “C” dangling from wherever. Anywhere as long as it would get Connor to touch him.

Then Connor is almost giving him what he wants, so close it’s like a whisper against his ear. Hank’s hands itch to wrap around Connor’s waist, to pull him close and keep him there. To kiss him till Hank is breathless.]

Jesus Christ. [Rising up. Following Connor’s pull. Letting himself be led.] You are the only person in the world who could make all that sound sexy.

[Washing up and all that. Because Connor wants to taste him.

Hank’s rebuttal, something about telling Connor he could just lick him clean, falters. Never passes his lips. Because this isn’t even really about being dirty, and the usual guilt that comes along with it.

This is about Connor wanting to taste him.]

I’m coming, I’m coming. Jeeze. All “this way, that way” — like I don’t know how to get around my own damn house.

[Hank’s tone is whiny, albeit not at all barbed. It’s odd to hear out of his own mouth, even now; he is a mesh of barbed wire, somehow made smooth by Connor’s everything.

By his incessant reminders that Hank is worth something. He is, somehow, worth tugging into the bathroom; worth entertaining at all. And when they do get to the bathroom, Hank can’t help but love the sting as Connor pulls at his beard. Can’t help the sheer want and awe that makes his eyes glimmer.]

Really wanna kiss you right now. [Hank mumbles this even as Connor still has his grip on him.

God, the things he would do for this man. This android who is somehow still in his house. With Hank. A flurry of images pass through his thoughts: that fish tank he needs to make room for. That dangly little “C.”

But, mostly, Hank thinks about kissing Connor. So he will be good. Very good. Reaching to turn on the faucet. He’s organizing everything into little sub-tasks: get water warm. Imagine kissing Connor. Wet hands. Imagine touching Connor. Pump soap. Imagine Connor in lap.]

[ Honestly Connor would probably accept some forgeries at this point, it's a slippery slope. ]

I'm starting to think you're just biased in my favor, Hank. I'll endeavor not to take full and complete advantage of that fact

[ His tone says the exact opposite of his words, his smile deliberately prim and polite to imply lurid levels of debauchery. He does let Hank go once they're in the bathroom proper, after holding him in place for a few heart-beats longer than necessary. ]

If I can be patient for another minute or so, so can you

[ He stands close, even as Hank dutifully walks through each request step by step; the android is not quite prowling behind Hank, watching him in the bathroom mirror with a calculating look. Apparently those hair-ties made in into the bathroom somehow because Connor snatches the bound ring of them off the counter, and frees one from the horde.

As Hank washes his hands, Connor carefully gathers up the tarnished silver tresses of most of the man's bangs. He leaves enough hair loose so Hank's eyes are lightly framed but otherwise naked to the light, and he has a small grey tuft like an unused silk paintbrush at the top and back of his head. The android examines his own work in the mirror and judges it acceptable.

Watching Hank's pupils is a good tell of how effective his flirtation is; beyond that, it's nice to have a visual reminder how much his partner loves having his hair pulled. With that task complete, and as a cede to his own impending restlessness, Connor paces around Hank's front and effortlessly seats himself upon the counter next to the sink.

His fingers strum the lip of the counter like he misses fiddling with his coin... or needs something else to do with his hands. ]

I do enjoy the visual appeal of piercing one of your nipples, but it would be a shame to sacrifice that appealing sensitivity of yours. So I think, for the barbell with a C, your navel would be my preference.

Maybe I’d like it if you took “full and complete advantage” of all that. [Muttering this as he soaps up his hands. He figures he should be thorough, too, so Connor won’t have an excuse to pull him back in here, or...

Oh. Hank would like that, wouldn’t he? But another day, perhaps.

He’s washing in between his fingers. Soaping up to his wrists. The thought occurs to him to maybe take longer than necessary with all this washing up.

But does he have it in him to prolong all this? God, no. Especially not when Connor is tying his hair back. It shouldn't be this sexy, but Connor’s fingers in his hair make him shiver. Of all the things that make Hank hard, this is one that he doesn’t really feel the need to justify to himself. It’s intimacy. It’s arousing because it’s Connor, and because it’s theirs.]

You’re so fucking...

[Eyes darting up to meet Connor’s in the mirror. And Hank stares, because he really doesn’t have the words. Other than “I love you,” of course, and he doesn’t want to purposefully withhold such a phrase, but every time he says it, he’d like it to really hit home. Even if Connor never says it back, Hank wants him to feel it.]

Feel like I gotta start making up words for you, ‘cause “cute” doesn’t really cut it. But god, you are fucking cute.

[Hank is supposed to do something else after he washes his hands. He’s sure of it. Connor is just a damn distraction, and, oh. Right. He needs to brush his teeth.

First, Hank rinses his hands. Reaching around Connor for the towel to dry off his hands. He is both so close and yet so far, and they are both being patient. It takes Hank’s breath away, really: these quiet moments. Full of promise and necessary things. Luring Hank into tending to his hygiene with the distant whisper of kisses and secrets and all manner of delights.

Like cuddling. Hank has to bite his lip to stifle the awkward groan in his throat.]

Guess you got that all figured out, huh? [He’s really gotta squeeze the damn tube to get enough paste on his toothbrush.] Navel. Heh. Think I like that. Too bad about the nipples, though.

[Toothbrush raised. Hank’s getting there. One step at a time.]

That a thing? Losing sensitivity if you get your nipples pierced? Like, all sensitivity?

@bootyshortsforoldmen

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