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. ]

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Well, my hands might be a little rough, but not itchy. I hope.

[Hank’s grin is lopsided — right up until Connor’s shirt slips over his shoulder and he stares.]

Mhm. Were supposed to sit in my lap and let me get all handsy with you. And this — [running his hands along Connor’s thighs, thumbs sliding across] — doesn’t count. And neither does this.

[Leaning forward to brush his lips against bared skin, because God, how could he not? Everything with Connor seems to turn into a kink, and this is no different. There’s something about seeing Connor’s usual pristine attire oh-so slightly disheveled that makes Hank long for him. To touch. Mark. Inspire the sweetest sounds out of his mouth.

So Hank kisses along Connor’s collarbone. Up to the junction between neck and shoulder. He lets himself linger here for a while — a little treat for himself — as he thinks about how he is the first to ever touch Connor like this, with all these new sensations coursing through him. The first to kiss him like this. The first to bury his face against Connor’s neck, lips sliding along his skin. Beard scratching.

Regardless of whatever might have come before, Hank was there when Connor got his upgrades. He held his hand. It doesn’t even make Hank sad to think that he won’t be Connor’s only, because this, right now, is theirs. With Connor’s legs wrapped so tight around him; with Hank leaning into his embrace.

This is theirs.]

Want to feel me closer to you, huh? [Punctuating his words with a trail of kisses down the slope of Connor’s shoulder.] Wanna relocate, yeah?

[Another line of kisses back across his shoulder, this time with the slightest scrape of teeth. Little nips dotted across Connor’s skin.]

You look pretty fuckin’ cozy right here. [Hank slips one hand under Connor’s shirt, palm flat against his back. Touching Connor like this feels like a secret: tasting that forbidden spanse of skin that he usually keeps hidden.] Got your legs wrapped around me and everything. With that cute little fucking stutter, too.

[When Connor sighs his name, Hank wants everything all at once: to abandon the bathroom. Spread Connor out on the bed. Kiss up his thighs and taste every part of him, longing for more of those sweet sighs.

But Hank is trying to be patient. And a little devious.]

I can't argue your logic; I'm not categorically in your lap

[ Connor grapples down the newfound tick to fumble his words by sheer concentration and force of will; his typical eloquence requires the majority of his CPU to function at optimal levels, and the majority of his CPU is being quite selfishly devoured by new mechanisms they were never quite designed to maintain. It's definitely a worthy trade-off, but feeling himself stutter (and having Hank so headily complement the glitch in his design) is something novel and strangely delightful.

The mellow graze of Hank's mouth ringed in the pleasant roughness of his beard does absolutely nothing at all to convince Connor he needs to stand with any true haste; it does inspire the slightest arch in his spine while he moves, reaching. His arms glide around Hank's ribs and suddenly his dexterous digits are fixed on that small silver ponytail again. The grip he takes is far more encouraging to Hank's wandering mouth than restrictive; Connor turns his cheek to the mirror both to express his eager enjoyment and to soak in the coolness of the glass. ]

Cozy is not inaccurate... but I would still like to uphold my end of the bargain. You are owed my presence in your lap, there was nothing in the fine print about my 'cute little stutter' or newly active hardware reneging that arrangement

[ The palm sliding up his back elicits new instincts, new programming that accompanies his recent installs; his spine bends like a bow fingered at the cord, pressing himself further against Hank were there isn't a scrap of an inch more to invade. ]

Admittedly, I'm struggling to think about anything other than-- [ The hand still twined into Hank's little brush-tail tightens, and in the same moment Connor's free hand flits up and he half covers his own mouth with his knuckles to muffle the tremulant sound that overflows his throat. ] h-how this feels. [ His eyes seal shut and his head tips back with another poorly swallowed groan. ]

Hank... [ And suddenly he's surging forward, tucking his face into the crook of Hank's neck as he grips him around the ribs, rolls his hips and murmurs in star-dazzled dismay ] I'm so fucking hard

[As Connor arches against him, Hank’s hand moves up. Following the curve of his back, wanting him — like Connor said — closer. Impossibly closer. Until there is nothing in the world left but them.]

Like the sound of that. [His voice is a deep rumble as he just barely pulls away from kissing Connor’s shoulder.] Being owed your presence in my lap.

[Not that it’s true — Connor doesn’t owe him anything — but the thought makes Hank groan. Still pressing those scratchy kisses to Connor’s skin, more hurried now.

It’s especially difficult once Connor says he’s hard, so fucking hard. Hank imagines this is the closest he’ll ever get to understanding the way androids reboot: his head goes blank for a few seconds. He can feel the heat in his cheeks, his hands, but for a while, he can’t move. Can’t properly wrap his head around Connor’s magic.

Until, finally, he does: attention snapping back to Connor in his arms. He smooths his hand up Connor’s back, holding him. Turning to kiss his hair. Feeling his heart thumping against Connor’s chest: a mere taste of that lure of impossibly closer, closer.]

Tell me what you need, baby.

[Because Hank wants everything. He wants to use his hands, his mouth, every part of himself at the same time, somehow. All to keep Connor stammering, all hot and needy.]

Not tryna be a tease. Just wanna do right by you. Fuck, Connor.

[Whispering into his ear:] I want to make you feel so good. Even half as good as you always make me. Because you make me feel so fucking amazing, Connor.

[Kissing beneath his ear now. Holding Connor so tight against him; free hand slipping back to his thigh to squeeze. Anchoring himself so he can rock back, feeling Connor’s arousal pressing against him.

Hank groans. Thinking about how hard Connor is, how those words sounded coming out of his mouth. His hand on Connor’s outer thigh itches for more, to reach between them and palm his cock, but no. It’s a mix of being so dazed with arousal along with wanting to give Connor what he needs. Whatever that might be. Because what Hank needs right now is to hear more of his stammering; more of that sweet way Connor moans his name.]

[ Connor understands perfectly that there's no real debt to Hank here but the notion is certainly delightful to toy with, and he agrees with less eloquence than usual; at first only a tight nod admitting that he enjoys the 'restriction' of the agreement, too; that he 'must' crawl into Hank's lap and the bondage of pretense is a desirable new color to paint with.

And then Hank is asking him what he needs and Connor feels like the answer is a drop of water in a bottle of wine that he's got to fish through the popped cork with his fingers-- a task he's destined to handle clumsy. There's so much feeling that there's no space left for fumbling the words, so much impenetrable density to the drumbeat that's usually only in his chest, that he can't part the threads with even the finest needle. He can't think and he can't force himself to think; he can only ride the sensation through its rise and crescendo, and nothing has ever been like that before. Incontrollable. Incorrigible. Requiring of his patience and splintering concentration, while his knees ache to shake. ]

I... I'm not sure-- too many things, all at the same time

[ The confession has him smiling crooked and sheepishly squeezing shut his eyes; admitting anything less than perfect expertise to the wrong person could have once been fatal to an android in Connor's position, but Hank is a safe person and they are in a safe space. Concepts like "youth" and "virginity" don't quite apply to a sentient being such as him, except when they vaguely, peripherally do.

Like now. Connor has book knowledge but he still has to discover what he likes, and how he likes things done. Slow, or fast undressing? If he's going to let Hank free from between his knees, where would they go? Would Connor be expected to coordinate his limbs like normal? Could Hank carry him? Would the world end entirely if they only made it to the bathroom floor? ]

Undressed. I think I'd like us to be undressed. Now. Give me a hand

[ His penchant for playful bossiness gets kicked on by the novel, but still notable discomfort of being rudely restricted by his briefs and pants. Really why do people with dicks subject themselves to this? Removing his shirt would be easy at this point but it's not half as bothersome as the rest of his clothing-- but there is a catch.

He can only shift an inch off the counter and have Hank peel off so much before being returned to the initial dilemma: he does not want to let Hank out from between his legs. ]

Can you lift me? I don't want to let you go yet, but... you can take me wherever you want

[ He means in terms of location, but the accidental double entendre stands. Because as amazing as this feels, they have suddenly so many more options than basic friction. The scratching of Hank's beard has peppered light crinkles of pale raspberry rouge along Connor's throat, and the blush has stained even the shells of his ears as Hank kisses just beneath them. The hand on his thigh makes his knees bite, further daring and demanding, at Hank's hips. ]

[Hank buries a soft chuckle in Connor’s hair.]

Mmm, I get that. Everything all at once. Wish I had a dozen hands sometimes. Like now.

[When Connor says he’d like to undress — both of them — Hank registers the plural there. Us. We. And yet he can’t help but fixate on the more important part of the equation: Connor. Slipping his hands over Connor’s shoulders, pushing back the fabric of his shirt like he’s wanted to do since they were back on the couch. Before, even.]

Bossy. I like that, too.

[Now Hank is distracted by the bareness of Connor’s shoulders; by the little marks his kisses have left behind. Flushes of red that declare he was here. How long might they stay? Hank wonders. He wants to keep kissing, too, but again: there’s so much to do.]

Can take you wherever I want, huh? [Hank knows what Connor means, but fuck. There’s a scratchy growl in his throat that he tries to hold back, ending up pressed against Connor’s neck, teeth dragging ever so slightly beneath his ear because he wants so much. So damn much.] And what if I wanted to take you right here, Connor? Fuck you right up against the mirror?

[He hadn’t though much about mirrors before, really. Not in a sexual sense. But now Hank is imagining pushing Connor against one, tilting his head and making him watch his face as Hank fucks him, and...

It’s so easy to get distracted with Connor. So very easy.

One hand back on Connor’s thigh now, the other sliding across his back. Connor’s doing most of the legwork here, really, but Hank gets him lifted up off the counter. He feels so right in Hank’s arms that another of those little breathless, mind-blanking episodes threaten to overtake him, but he manages to ground himself. Squeezing Connor’s thigh. Fingers trailing up his back.

Keeping Connor safe in his arms. And it’s not something only he can do, of course, but it feels right. As if the accumulation of all his anger and confusion that evolved into pining and something more have all built up to this. Connor trusting him.

Hank makes it to the bedroom. He tries to be patient; he really does. A little wobbly through the hall as he eyes the walls and imagines pressing Connor up against them, but he doesn’t. Not until he’s managed to push open the bedroom door, trying to toe it closed now; groaning when he can’t get the damn thing to shut. He could set Connor down and deal with it, but no.

When Hank turns, pushing Connor against the door, it does finally, mercifully, click shut. But now he has a very sexy Connor in his arms, pressed against the door, with his legs wrapped around him.

Hank doesn’t know if he moans, growls, or groans. It’s some awful sounding mix of the three, wrenched from deep in his throat. He can feel the bulge of Connor’s arousal against him; can feel the heat. And, Hank swears, the whole undressing task is still his goal. It is.

But for a brief, perhaps unexpected sub-task: Hank kisses him. He tilts his head, both hands gripping Connor’s thighs now. Feeling his own arousal try to twitch, but damn the restrictive nature of clothes. He can feel his cock press against the waistband of his boxers and there is no relief.

The only thing that soothes him is Connor. His lips; his heat; his legs, all wrapped around Hank’s hips like a lifeline.]

I've never been so challenged to prioritize

[ He sounds as delighted as dismayed, panting lightly through his sheepish crinkled smile. His arms untwine their grip in turn so one hand is always holding onto Hank, even as the android shrugs off his shirt. The open air still feels nicer on his new hardware than his scratchy clothing, and a glance downward shows his nipples have realistically flushed and tightened to reflect his flustered state of arousal.

The fabric of Hank's shirt, it turns out, is not nearly so irritating to his synthetic skin. The warmth of Hank's body through the material is especially pronounced on the small sensor-dense buds, enough that there is some gruff and gratifying pleasure to being pressed chest-to-chest with his partner. ]

I haven't failed to notice... you enjoy when I take control

[ The statement is made with some measured savoring as Connor grasps for his typical dominating candor, but promptly fumbles it again feeling the near-electric shock that trapeses down his spine and up his dick (another eager twitch cruelly constricted by his suit pants) as Hank talks about fucking him against the mirror. ]

I think... I'm beginning to understand exactly why that is

[ He tacks the dizzy sentiment onto his previous statement regarding Hank's tastes in intimacy, because damn if Connor isn't appreciating the shoe being on the other foot here, too. He wants to say something clever about how they'd have to investigate the murder of Hank's knees, if he fucks him right here on the counter, but the way his pulse taps below his navel also almost makes him want to groan and he can't manage both while also swallowing all the moisture his mouth makes in trade for cooling all this incessant heat.

And then Hank lifts him and he drops several more sub-thoughts than he means too, and apparently, the moment's capacity for witty commentary.

He feels bizarrely, wonderfully stupefied; cognition speed cut but details over-sketched, over-blown. It's so difficult to resist the powerful draw to writhe just enough to grind himself against Hank's stomach as they shamble down the short hallway. The craving for friction is ruthless. He doesn't (he doesn't want to make himself too difficult to carry) but the temptation is far more persuasive than he'd ever expected.

He's wondering how much warmer it's going to feel between Hank and the comforter on his reworked skin when the door comes up behind his back, knocking a small startled groan into their clashing kiss. This isn't exactly undressing-- Connor isn't exactly complaining-- he can't, can't convince himself to stop kissing Hank long enough to try.

And he won't run out of strength in his legs, to keep them locked around Hank's waist, or his arms, latched around the man's shoulders and ribs. His back won't ache from the bite of the door no matter how hard Hank rams him into it. He can take far more punishment than Hank would ever care to deal him, and somehow the math of all that makes even being pressed to the door feel oddly gentle with compassion. Like their time together is, without question, worth the dignity of privacy. ]

S-still not undressed [ Connor murmurs against Hank's mouth; a half-hearted complaint because the moment it's passed his lips Connor is resuming their kiss, chasing Hank's mouth with a newfound appreciation for the heat and (now slightly cinnamon) moisture composing each craven compression. His tongue snakes through his lips and it's an influx of new sensation; fluid a little too smooth to be saliva, and a small metallic ball nestled in the centered cleft of the dexterous bio-mechanical muscle.

The composition of the alloy and the delicate micro-mechanics make the heatsink barbell just a little hotter than the rest of Connor's mouth, and while the rest of him feels so very close to real, that one small piece feels very much like slickened metal, creating a vast contrast while Connor hungrily laps the space between Hank's lips. ]

Yeah, I like it when you take control. [Not that Hank feels the need to affirm this, but he enjoys the honesty of it. Telling Connor what he likes, and this, at least, is easy.] The way you talk to me, use your voice... Well. You did tell me to come in the shower, and that worked like a damn charm.

[Woe to Hank’s knees, but he could fuck Connor just like this: Hank standing, Connor against the door. He imagines pulling Connor back onto his cock, all that tight heat, and Hank groans into his mouth. His kiss is sloppy, needy, as his tongue traces along Connor’s lips. Never enough. Always wanting more.

Alas, such a position would require some manner of undress, which would mean putting Connor down. Some manner of disentangling required.]

Now I get to be the one to tell you how good you look, all pushed up against the door. With your legs wrapped around me like you need me.

[When Hank’s tongue brushes against that little barbell, he should’ve expected the warmth. Heat sink and all that, or whatever. But it’s like a jolt in contrast to the rest of Connor’s mouth, and he is... a little fixated on it, admittedly. This new sensation. He’s never kissed anyone with a piercing like this, and more importantly, hadn’t kissed Connor with a piercing like this till now.

Hank doesn’t want to stop — and he doesn’t have to, exactly — but he pulls away enough to say:]

Mmm, nope. Not undressed. [Squeezing Connor’s thighs with both hands, fingers sliding closer to his ass. Just a teasing touch because Hank doesn’t want to drop him. Needs to stay focused to some extent.] But I dunno, Connor. That’s a lotta work. What’s stopping me from pulling down your pants just enough to get my mouth on you, huh?

[He kisses Connor one last time, deep and slow, before he turns them toward the bed. His steps are slow, ungainly; Connor feels so right in his arms and he doesn’t want to let go, but the bed is right there. Once Hank’s knees hit the mattress, he leans down. Lowering Connor to the bed where, not too long ago, their roles were reversed. It was Hank lying beneath him, legs spread and needy for whatever Connor was willing to give.

Which, as it turned out, felt overwhelmingly like everything. So Hank will do what he can to return that favor, despite his human limitations.

Now that the bed is supporting Connor, Hank can move his hands: one trailing up to the curve of his waist. The other bracing himself against the mattress as he stares down at Connor’s beautiful face, his beautiful eyes. Those tiny moles and those damn lips that Hank wants to kiss forever.]

So. Think you can relax your legs long enough for me to get your pants off? They can go right back, if you want. [The hand on Connor’s waist drifts higher, thumb just barely brushing his nipple.] I like it when you cling to me. Pulling and tugging, and I just... Jesus.

[Hank tries not to rock his hips against Connor’s too hard, since he knows how uncomfortable their clothes are for both of them, but the attempted restraint leaves him shuddery. It courses down his back, his legs — telling him to move. Telling him he needs more.]

[ Despite the strain in his CPU Connor makes sure to devote a sub-task to scribbling down Hank's confessions in especially thick lettering; it's gratifying to know which tools at his disposal are the most effective in dismantling Hank's dignity in exactly this way; if Hank enjoys Connor's voice, he'll have to find more reason to use it. ]

Hn, I had assumed that was a skill of yours, coming on command. Should I be flattered?

[ He can still sneak some smart-assery into slivered moments amid their kiss, also allowing Hank the sheered seconds to breathe. Connor is always careful to allow Hank enough reprieve for air, leashing his curious hunger for kissing his partner and forcing it to his heel. It would be too easy, Connor thinks, to lock Hank in a craven kiss until his lungs burned. ]

I do need you

[ The full capacity of his statement alludes him-- it's easy enough to say when he needs Hank to walk with him through this new realm of pleasures, but the sentiment sprawls across more than sex, overflowing and outgrowing physical gratification. Hank's terribly tempting teasing knocks a breathy burst of sound from Connor's throat, something like a laugh, a gasp, a groan too tangled to sound separately. ]

I-I don't know, mercy?

[ He answers the rhetorical question through a crooked smile, grasping his typical charm but no where near his usual crisp pristine composure. He falls back into another kiss with quiet eager devotion that defies the need to breathe. He doesn't expect to be so oddly elated to feel the gravity flip and the bed beneath his bare back. And it's difficult to define the thrill he feels watching Hank loom above him, because he doesn't just look good there (and he does) but he feels good, haunting the air Connor would breathe if he could. It feels like the kind of mighty celestial gravity that makes the moon circle the earth. Irresistible magnetism. ]

Yes, so long as I can put them right back

[ Connor jests, as though he might have argued under different terms. The measured slide his knees take in peeling down Hank's hips gets interrupted with the lightest touch to his nipple; one knee locks tight in place and the second slides off completely and sinks into the comforter. Not exactly a helpful posture for removing his pants but it still fits with the satisfaction of matching puzzle pieces, so Connor loses a moment steeping in appreciation before allowing his locked knee to loosen, and slide salacious-slow down Hank's thigh. ]

You can finish stripping me, now

[ His typical aloof bravado is ruined by the breathlessness manufactured by too much heat, by the blush on his face, by the way his dick strains so eagerly beneath the constraint of his clothing; even his tone veers closer to needy request than playful demand. And, just in case Hank is at all tempted to keep teasing him...]

...Please. I-I'm so hard for you, I can barely think

Wasn’t a skill of mine, no. That was all you. [Hank presses a scratchy kiss against Connor’s neck.] Making me come with your mouth.

[Trailing his lips down, down; kissing just beside each nipple. Thumbs circling.]

God, your hands. Then in the shower. You really got me wrapped around your finger, huh?

[Which is, Hank realizes, exactly how he likes it: weak to Connor’s everything. His voice, his eyes, the way he wraps his legs around Hank’s waist.]

Mercy? [He runs his hands along Connor’s tragically still-clothed thighs. Pulling back just enough so that he can start tugging off the rest of Connor’s clothes, but goddamn is the sight of him distracting. Hank drinks him in: how needy he looks.] Can finish stripping you, can I?

[Which Hank has every intention of doing, but he can’t help the way his hand sneaks between them. Palm over Connor’s clothed arousal.]

Fuck, Connor.

[His words work as intended — Connor telling him how hard he is — and Hank tears off the rest of his clothes. Pressing back against him to inflict more of those scratchy kisses to his lips, his chin.]

Welcome to the world of being so hard you can’t think. It’s a real good one.

[Now when he touches Connor’s thigh, there’s just tantilizingly bare skin beneath his rough hands.]

I wanna — [what doesn’t he want?] — make a goddamn mess out of you. You want me to make a mess of you, Connor?

[Hank says this — voice deep, strained — as his hand follows the curve of Connor’s hip. Brushing dangerously close to his arousal, willing himself to tease but he just can’t. Not now. He wraps his hand around Connor’s cock, and he feels so good, so right. His fingers are loose, languid; brushing the tip of him with his thumb.]

You’re perfect, y’know. And not ‘cause you were made that way. [Gripping Connor’s arousal, fist tighter around him. Not moving quite as fast as Hank would if he were touching himself, but he’s not trying to tease, either. Just doesn’t want to overwhelm him.] The way you tell me how hard you are for me — think that’s all you. How good you are, letting me take off your clothes. Letting me touch you.

[ The gratification he feels at Hank's explanation is almost too vast to properly quantify; it overwhelms the buffers of his calculations, it dominates his processing. Perhaps this is pride, an odd concept for a machine to grapple with, but he's not sure what else it could be, this swell of savoring from simply knowing that he had alone authored this new page in Hank's memoir of bliss.

Hank's never come on command before. It's a skill only Connor commands. A special, singular experience. Connor feels the thought like it's running through his thirium, making his bio-mechanical heart throb harder inside his chest, a closer and closer imitation of a hot blooded human. ]

I'll endeavor not abuse this newfound power over you, of course

[ He still manages to sneak in one cheeky smirk and sly comment that absolutely defies the dictionary definition of his words; the subtle foxy flecks in his voice say quite clearly Connor is very much enjoying having Hank wrapped around his finger; he's eager to play with this fire. His simmering promise for trouble gets fumbled with his whole smooth operator demeanor when Hank's hand passes across his constrained new install. His sensor-grid lights up in brand new, previously incomprehensible ways-- being touched, deliberately (and by Hank in particular) is so vastly different than the impersonal data of texture ala clothing. Connor's eyes widen and his pupils blow out; words utterly fail him, not a scrap of smart-assery to him while Hank touches him.

Maybe a human would moan to whatever deity, but knowing RA-9 personally makes calling any iteration of his name feel especially awkward; maybe something in Connor's new software could pry an 'Oh god' out of him, but for now, it's only Hank's name that flows off his lips with such dizzy, wanton reverence.

A moment later his remaining clothing is finally, finally off and Connor has never been so relieved to be nude; in fact he's always been mostly indifferent to the idea of clothing in general. Now he's caught between very much liking how he looks in a suit and wanting to buy comfy sweaters and kilts. Having whole new senses his weird and wonderful. It's almost like a love song, writing itself.

The android supposes he can allot himself some romantic idealization, current circumstances considered. He pulls towards those scratchy kisses like he wants to taste the affection more than a human needs to breathe-- his typical grace is dotted with weeds of clumsiness, his CPU utterly occupied by hardware and software he was never built to run. It feels-- ]

Fuck, yes [ is all he can articulate to agree; it is in fact a real good world to be in. He even has to borrow Hank's language yet again to push his point; several languages at his disposal and all he can grab for is his partner's lingo, with partner's hands on him. What feeling is that bordering obsessive focus characteristic of, exactly?

Connor will think philosophically about this whole thing later; the moment is far to demanding to be deluded. ]

I want--

[ He tries to answer, but suddenly Hank's hand slides from Connor's thigh to his dick and the android's toes grip the bedspread. Language processing absolutely fucks off and the almost needy, craven groan that spills out of Connor barely resembles Hank's name. Coming back from the blissful sucker-punch of a feeling, Connor's smile is hazy and faintly sheepish, a small scrap of a chuckle escaping his throat. ]

It's difficult to articulate... with you touching me like this.

[ It is not a complaint, more a bashful admission; it's not many people who have ever managed to render the smart ass (failed) android hunter speechless. His own quiet becomes more comfortable still as Hank purrs and pours all that sweet affection over him. Calling Connor perfect, when he knows he isn't. ]

I'm not... [ He catches himself just shy of correcting Hank, deferring instead to a more affectionate humor. ] ... Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I am perfect for you

[ He wonders how he managed that much verbal grace with Hank stroking him with such devoted adoration; in a split second his processing catches up with the feeling and his flesh-firm dick gives a rigid twitch against Hank's fingers. The android's arms lurch up and wrap around Hank's ribs; one hand finds itself back in the familiar home of Hank's hair while the other descends, bites briefly at Hank's hip and traces lower along his stomach. A curious recent memory hails his attention and Connor's hand stalls, finger and thumb catching the lower edge of Hank's bellybutton with a testing (though gentle) touch, not quite an actual pinch. ]

I can accept that you have questionable taste

[ He's teasing again, both playfully jabbing at Hank liking the idea of a bellybutton ring and, liking an 'imperfect' being like Connor in the first place; an expert little jest that actually insults everyone present, but moreso expresses Connor's overflowing affection for his partner, friend, and lover. ]

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