@bootyshortsforoldmen

[realtimeanalysis]

( 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. ]

Comments

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

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.]

[realtimeanalysis]

[ 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

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

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.

[realtimeanalysis]

[ 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. ]