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[ The idea occurs to Connor early one evening when he's out jogging with Sumo. The sofa-sized dog still keeps refusing a full run, but even a lazy canter with his sized stride means Connor can't just walk to keep up with him. The sun is finally taking its time to set, the brisk spring night fresh with stubborn spurts of flurries for accenting the cold.

At a languid jog, Connor had been idly carding through a thousand thoughts, and in part, reflecting upon recent enjoyable sexual endeavors; as well as watching Sumo, the surrounding traffic, keeping his attention on thier tracked route, and a number of other sub-tasks.

When all of the sudden, a completely stray thought hits him out of left field.

Is this what inspiration is like for humans? Possession by a wild, feral idea that attacks you out of nowhere?

The notion feels... drastic? Dramatic? Outlandish? Fun? Connor connects his thought-to-text feed to Hank's phone, but for once his stream-of-consciousness communication appears only as a floating '...' for a long lingering moment. For once, he finds himself uncertain of how much to say. Certainly he needs to say something-- give Hank some small clue as to the suggested game afoot. But how much does he want to reveal? Connor's got zero problem with being frank and direct, he could simply ask: do you think it would be enjoyable to, for the sake of kinky fun, expand our shared daddy-kink and role play that you're my father?

He could, really and truly. But instead, those flickering marks of silence eventually give way to:

When I get home, would you like to play a game? ;)

The emoji is extremely important Connor decides, for tone. They're both very good detectives; Connor wonders how many breadcrumbs it will take before Hank understands what he's playing at? Conveniently, Hank can also ignore the android's shenanigans if he decides he doesn't quite enjoy this flavor of their games. There's an easy out, if Hank wants one. ]

I'm home! [ Through the front door, Connor calls out into the house, broadcasting a casual energy into his claim; another, tiny clue, not worth anything on its own, because Connor's still in the stage of waffling between calling this place home, and calling it Hank's.

Connor is quick to spot Hank on the couch and, after un-leashing the exhausted dog, strolls over at a measuredly relaxed pace; he all too easily deposits himself on the sofa next to its single occupant; typically he might take his partner's hand, or fold himself against the taller man's ribs, but today Connor props himself against Hank's side with playful awkwardness, as though trying to pester him with the dead-weight of his body. ]

Please tell me you've thought about food already?

[ He can't exactly ask what's for dinner; he doesn't eat. ]

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[Hank’s stomach grumbles at the thought of food, but no. There are better things to worry about. More pressing matters.]

Don’t tell me your game’s about making sure I get all my food groups in, Connor.

[Yeah, he picked right up on that little winking emoji. And knowing Connor, that emoji promises good news.

Hank curls one arm around Connor, smoothing up his back. Rubbing soft circles. Somehow, perhaps miraculously, Hank manages to keep himself from pulling Connor closer.]

I know you wouldn’t do me dirty like that. You’re a good boy, hmm?

[He’s already more than a little riled up, and having Connor here doesn’t help that.

Or it helps a lot, really. Because Hank already wants to turn to him, already wants to kiss him. Pull Connor into his lap.

Hank’s thoughts are swimming, but first: Connor needs to tell him about his game.]

[ He avoids commenting directly on his mentioning of a game, because that's somewhat breaking character-- and its easy enough to let the comment slip, with how Hank slides an arm around his shoulders. Connor makes his eyes wide and looks at the snaking arm like it's never been there before. Subtle, synthetic flashes of confusion and confliction cross his expression as he idly wonders if the people who designed his behavioral imitations ever imagined he would design to use them in quite this way. He knows how to act because he was programmed to be able to manipulate.

That isn't the goal he has in mind here; this is entirely an experimentation in self indulgence. ]

Uhm... [ His gaze sinks from Hank's eyes to his mouth, as though helplessly magnetized. ] I. You. Haven't called me that. In a while.

[ Actually, it's been just over forty two hours and odd change-- but something in Connor's tone implies it's been longer. Another small clue, mixed with the uncharacteristic way he seems to repress the instinct to fidget. ]

Feeling nostalgic, are you? Going to offer me an allowance for walking the dog, next?

[ It's a perfect picture of a failing poker face; like he's losing grip on his bravado because his eyes keep sinking to Hank's mouth. Connor swallows like his mouth is dry (it isn't) and then pops the ball of his tongue piercing out between his lips. It's little tell that he needs to cool off-- but suddenly he pulls the jewelry back between his teeth, seals his mouth in a stiff-awkward smile and turns his head away. It's almost like, for some unknown reason, he's hiding his tongue piercing from Hank. Or rather, the tick of over-heating has ruined his attempt to keep the piercing hidden.

But Hank already knows about the salacious heat-sink. Why would that be a thing? ]

Because I wouldn't turn it down... I may even request a raise

[ He wraps himself in this strange coiled tension, even though this much proximity to Hank has become so very familiar and comfortable. He keeps glancing at Hank's lips like he wants to kiss him, but can't... or maybe, shouldn't? ]

Hmmm. Haven’t called you my good boy in a while, huh? [Hank purses his lips. He might not be able to recall exactly how long it’s been the way Connor can, but it’s been a couple days at most.

And while he isn’t entirely sure what Connor is after here, Hank is more than happy to play along. Maybe Connor wants to pretend to be all innocent? There’s something arousing, too, about the spontaneity of it. Of Connor teasing him with a game and then giving him all of this: those big eyes, those uncertain words. Connor saying “uhm” and glancing down at Hank’s mouth is just about the hottest thing.

Everything about Connor is the hottest, really. But still.]

Could offer you an allowance. That’s what good boys get, right?

[Hank cups Connor’s face, thumb brushing along his cheek. Eyes half-lidded as he stares at Connor’s teasing mouth.]

Already asking for a raise, too. A little spoiled, huh? You gonna tell me what sort of raise you want, or am I gonna have to guess?

[He presses his thumb to the corner of Connor’s mouth, sliding along his lower lip. God, what is this guy getting him into now? Hank doesn’t know if it’s part of the game to rile him up into action, but it’s working.]

[ Hank is being an excellent sport in playing along, but Connor's got an eye out for the slightest micro-expression that could spell a shock of comprehension; it's not quite clicked for him yet, exactly what Connor is doing, so the android endeavors to apply a clearer signal; if he plays his cards right, Hank will look back through this oddly toned interaction and the meaning behind it will just click, like a puzzle, into place. ]

Hmm, it has to be years, at least? [ It certainly hasn't been years. ] I think you might be past the age limit on calling me a good boy, too [ He forms the confession uncertainly-- an odd dash of shame pulling his gaze away because he likes it too much, or perhaps, in the wrong way. ]

Hmph. If I am a brat, then who's fault is that? Hmm... [ Connor taps a single finger against his own chin, overly thoughtful, and slackens his posture against Hank. The effect has him slide like a rag-doll down Hank's chest, splaying the android's shoulders over his partner's lap. ]

Wouldn't that be... entirely your fault, old man?

[ He peers up at Hank with a mask of dull petulance and teasing twinkling eyes. He tries for deviant and aloof but his eyes keep catching on Hank's mouth, and that repressed longing keeps flickering across his face. Connor bites his own bottom lip, and purposefully looks away. ]

... Indulgent fathers, spoiled sons, etc?

[ He crosses one leg over the other and folds his arms behind his head, lounging over Hank's lap like he's born entitled to the space. Of course he's aware he just dropped the bomb, and he almost skates the ball of his tongue-piercing across his smirk again, before 'remembering' to keep his mouth shut. ]

[Hank starts nodding along once Connor calls him “old man.” Is this going where he thinks? He’s a little in disbelief until...

Fathers. Sons. All that.

There are small tells of realization: the way Hank’s heart speeds up. His eyes widening for just a moment, lips pressed together.]

Guess I did go and spoil you, didn’t I? Explains the brattiness.

[Hank tries to keep his hands to himself, sliding them across the back of the couch, but he can’t help himself. Brushing through Connor’s hair with one hand. It helps keep Hank focused on somewhere other than Connor’s chest: so much space to touch, but... patience. Hank can muster at least a little.]

Open your mouth, baby. [He shifts his hips beneath Connor. Not trying to hide his arousal, but... maybe to remind Connor how he makes him feel. Not so father-like — and very glad he took his pants off before Connor got home.] Show daddy what you’re hiding.

[ Connor watches the micro-expressions of realization ricochet across Hank's face and through his body, and the satisfaction the android feels is not slight. He could have just asked about this kind of play, but that wouldn't have been so... so fun? So deeply satiating? Connor's pleased smirk is just short his usual cool composure, because he also feels... maybe flustered is too strong a word. Excited? Gratified? Engaged? This mighty thesaurus and multi-linguistic understanding is utterly failing him here. He can barely stick words to why this is so good and how much he likes it.

At least it seems like Hank and he are on the same page about that much. ]

Agreed. You really have no right to complain at this point.

[ The fact that Connor's hands are both tucked neatly beneath his own head (and in turn, against Hank's leg) is no small part of how Connor is keeping himself well behaved. That request hits him, startlingly similar to a punch in the gut, but in all the best ways possible; instead of his typical slightly smug smile Connor allows his breath to catch (a software tick, all for show) and his eyes to widen a fraction, a perfect pantomime of shock and a peek at his real pulse-pounding enjoyment.

He still manages to slide into some synthetic hesitation, biting back his terribly taboo instinct to yield with eagerness and unfurl his tongue. ]

... Okay, okay, I'll show you. Just... don't be upset, alright? It's not like I had to fake your signature, I am old enough for piercings

[ He does a fantastic job shining clumsy, uncertain desire through an instinctive hesitance and an inclination to play aloof. His perfectly composed failing poker-face is further fumbled when Hank shifts his hips beneath his head, and Connor becomes very still and very tense like he doesn't trust himself to move.

But there's a task, right? He said he'd do the thing? For Hank-his-partner, Connor is typically unashamed of letting him get close and cozy with any of the new installs the man was actually witness to. Daddy-Hank gets a different treatment; the android can't seem to meet those curious blue eyes, and he parts his lips just enough to show a glimpse of the metal jewelry through his teeth.

A quick flustered glance to Hank's face and Connor loosens his jaw half-a-fraction, and lets another half-inch of his tongue from between his lips. ]

There, happy now? [ Oh no, surely he couldn't have meant to let so much unsightly desire into his voice, that must have been a mistake. He keeps speaking, as though grasping for something safe to keep doing with his mouth. ] It doesn't even hurt

[Hank touches those soft little stray tufts of Connor’s hair as he talks. Tries to sass him.

With every tense moment, every little pause, Hank thinks Connor might not show him. Might keep being a brat...

But no, Connor’s a good boy. Hank hums in appreciation, bringing his hand down to cup Connor’s cheek again.]

Now, why’d you go and get a thing like that? [Thumb brushing against Connor’s lips, now. Going along with the game; pretending that he had no idea about the piercing. What a shock.] And you thought you were just gonna go and hide it from me, hmm?

[He slips the tip of his finger into Connor’s mouth. Keeps himself from pushing further inside, somehow.]

You sure you weren’t just trying to tease me? Punish ol’ dad?

Think you should’ve asked for my permission anyway. Feeling a little left out, y’know?

[Hank lets his hand trail down to Connor’s chest. Thumb sweeping across his nipple though the shirt, a feigned look of surprise on Hank’s face as if he absolutely did not mean to do that. Not at all.]

You know what I do when you’re bad. Know how I bend you over my lap.

[ The persona Connor has created for their impromptu game has him running extra checks on every new sensation-- weighing each new line crossed against the discomfort of verbally contesting it, against the risk of any complaint actually stopping this from happening. He shouldn't be allowing this kind of behavior from-- he shouldn't be wanting this kind of behavior from--

--he can't even answer properly with the tip of Hank's finger pushing through his lips. Typically it takes more of an effort to win any pleasured vocals from the well composed android but something about this game is shifting variables, and Connor finds himself swallowing something that feels too much like a whimper. New software and new habits alike both whisper salacious suggestions in his thoughts; Connor wants to seal his lips and suck but he shouldn't, he shouldn't want that, he stubbornly reminds himself. It takes a great amount of self control for him to turn his head, enough to free his lips but not press too much friction into Hank's barely clothed lap. ]

Why. [ Flatly. ] For oral sex, obviously. And to ruin my job credibility. And because I was thinking of dealing drugs. Are those good enough reasons?

[ His smart ass demeanor goes up in smoke when Hank 'accidentally' sweeps a teasing touch over one of his most sensitive spots and good god damn the sweet shock runs through him like delicious voltage. He doesn't mean to let the quiet, breathy little groan slip, he doesn't mean for his spine to start to arch. He's doing a terrible job acting 'normal', but at least he can grasp for some sass to cover his overly wanton reactions. ]

I'm sorry [ Said very much like 'I'm Not Sorry' ] You can get a piercing, too. I'm not stopping you.

[ That daring threat definitely demonstrates Connor's new capacity for blushing rouge. After a moment of flustered starring, Connor decides to bluff with a pair of twos; he shifts his arms so he can prop his elbows against Hank's lap, sitting up and looming into the man's space with a stare both aloof and faintly challenging. ]

Did you actually just threaten to spank me? What am I, five? [ Actually spanking is a terrible disciplinary method for children but, Connor feels like stating as much would ruin the mood. Besides, technically, he's much younger than five years old anyway. It's a moot point all around. ]

You wouldn't. You're bluffing. I can tell.

[ He's really hoping Hank isn't bluffing. ]

[Hank hmms when Connor turns away from his finger. It’s these little things that really build up the mood; convince Hank that Connor really wants this.

And then, of course, there’s Connor arching up off his lap. Goddamn.]

One of those reasons does have a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?

[Hank circles Connor’s nipple, real slow. Is it too much? He both wants it to be and yet worries. Doesn’t want to push Connor too fast. So he lets his hand slip lower, over that regulator of Connor’s.

And, god, Hank’s cock twitches in his pants at that needy whimper.]

I could get a piercing, sure. It’s more yours I’m interested in, though.

Wasn’t threatening you with a spanking, no. Was a promise. [And Connor’s leaning into the game, yes, but would he let him here...?

Hank clears his throat. Swallows thickly.]

Have you been kissing other boys with that mouth?

I could definitely make a lot of money selling drugs

[ It's a valiant effort to save face, to keep playing at petulance, but the slow circling the buds his nipple beneath Hank's shirt is steadily shredding his composure. He fumbles his challenging bravado, failing to keep Hank's stare, lips parted around a silent groan. ]

Y-you really... really shouldn't do that

[ His voice is caught up between too many different feelings; it's a warning, a threat, a promise, a plead. He should stop this, right? They should stop this? Before they cross a line they can't ignore in the morning?

The pump in his chest is kicking hard and when he runs his tongue across his own top lip it's not because his mouth is dry; for an android with Connor's expansions, extra heat means extra moisture, and it glistens on his skin beneath the sweep of his studded tongue. He almost looks like he has something snarky to say about dear dad's keen interest in his oral jewelry, or maybe he's going to tell the man he'd have one hell of a time getting Connor over his knee-- but that question knocks Connor's senses sideways.

He's not at all sure what to say, where to take his bluff. So, very much aligned with his usual candor, despite the game they're playing, Connor answers Hank's question with another question:]

Would that be an issue for you, Dad?

[ There's emphasis on the last word like a rapier stab, demonstrating that (for this imaginary context) Hank should have absolutely nothing to say about his adult son kissing other men. Because of course he shouldn't, just like Connor shouldn't keep letting his gaze stray down to Hank's mouth; like he shouldn't be so salaciously half-splayed in Hank's lap, half-daring his partner to keep pushing the boundaries of what they'll both allow. ]

[Hank grunts at the mention of selling drugs. Of course Connor’s gotta play all coy like that — while Hank nudges him toward the so-called forbidden.]

Shouldn’t do what, sweetheart?

[Said with a smirk on his lips. That little nickname slipping through, too, but Hank hope it works midst their game.]

Of course it’d be an issue. [Hank lowers his voice for this; pushes pretend-anger into his words.] Nobody deserves you, Connor. Nobody is good enough for you.

[He reaches up to cup Connor’s face again. There’s a little frown on Hank’s lips, his brow drawn; the glimmer of sadness isn’t entirely feigned.

But for the purposes of their game, at least: no one should be able to touch Connor — no one but dad.]

You have been kissing, haven’t you? And more?

[Hank hmms, tilting Connor’s face up ever so slightly just to prove he can. As if he has any power on who his unruly son might be making out with.]

You ever lay in any of their laps like this?

You shouldn't... [ His false certainly seems to evaporate around him when he actually has to summon up the right words; he thinks they should stop, that doesn't necessarily mean he wants to, does it? His steely gaze goes glassy with uncertainty, the familiar pet-name spun in this new context making him acutely aware of the excess heat on his face. Blushing like a fawning coquette must ruin his play at 'genuine' defiance, but he clings to the attempt regardless. ] You just shouldn't.

You--I-- that isn't up to you

[ More tremulant uncertainty, a complaint barely half-hearted, like a leash with which to lead him into the forbidden. He's doing a very poor job hiding his outlandish, misplaced desires; he's not moving, practically puddy in Hank's hands. ]

That's-- that none of your business

[ Glassy, craven gaze on Hank's lips again, like Connor is haunted by the severity of all his disastrous desires. He moves with synthetic-shame-ridden willingness, swallowing a quiet whimper as his head is tipped like his fantasy-father is weighing exactly how many rules he's willing to break here. ]

I-- it's-- there's no competition

[ Connor's hand lifts with a very convincing quiver as it cups the side of Hank's face. His fingers trace, contrarian and coy, down his partner's face and his thumb sweeps, feather light, across Hank's lower lip. ]

We can't. Please. Don't ... don't stop

[ His twisted desire is making a trainwreck of his (false) bid for the brakes; not only has Connor failed to mention any unappetizing vegetables, he sounds far closer to begging Hank to keep going, than actually honestly bidding him stop. The way he wets his lips with a swift swipe of his pierced tongue betrays his pining anticipation for a contraband kiss. ]

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