@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]

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. ]