"So, I don't want to just do this without asking," Hank says over a bite of pizza. He follows it up with a swig of milk, which is objectively repulsive-seeming. "Pizza has cheese, milk can be cheese," Hank said dismissively when Connor brought this up. "It's all good."
It is still objectively repulsive, but you really can't fight with that kind of non-logic. "What would you not like to do without asking?" Connor asks, squinting at the drops of milk left in Hank's mustache until Hank rolls his eyes and swipes at the caddy Connor has helpfully placed in the middle of the table, the one that holds napkins and the salt shaker.
Hank, wiping at his mouth with the procured napkin, fishes his phone from his sweatshirt pocket with the other. He hands it to Connor, who they both know has memorized his access code long ago, and who doesn't really need it anyway. "Here. Tell me what you think."
The phone's web browser is open to a page detailing a device. It looks of dubious manufacture, like an off-brand tablet, and the language within is far from professional. Which, really, is probably partly the point.
"Fuck better, fuck smarter," Connor reads in a monotone. "With...SmartFuck's SyncFuck. Wow. How do I request the services of their brand manager?"
"Keep reading," Hank says through another mouthful of pizza. "I don't think sex toys have brand managers."
Connor taps his finger on the table as he reads. Or rereads, really. He read it the first time, he's just...processing.
It's a device that claims it can safely sync to an android and manipulate their pleasure systems remotely. It has a number of features, too—orgasm denial, boosting sensors past manufacturer settings, multiplying sensation. Connor keeps tapping his finger as he uses his internal lookup to find the company's registration details. One owner of the company used to work at CyberLife before it was dissolved, it appears, and the co-owner is an android themselves. Means it's less likely to be some kind of targeted attempt at android sabotage, at least...and more likely to work.
"Okay," Connor finally says.
"So what do you think?"
Connor can see the signs of nervousness in the tic of Hank's lips, in his averted eyes. They've come a long way from where they started, but Hank still has a degree of trouble casting himself as sexual aggressor, at least when it comes to trying new things. He idly checks Hank's browser history. The page was first visited three weeks ago.
"No, I mean, okay."
Hank blinks at him. "Huh?"
"As in, let's try it." Connor attempts to suppress a smile at Hank's gobsmacked look and fails, possibly partly on purpose. "Can't hurt. And who wouldn't want to fuck better and smarter?"
The tension leaves Hank's shoulders. He sighs. "Shoulda figured. You're kinkier than me."
"Only marginally," Connor says modestly, sticking his finger into Hank's cup of milk, ignoring his noise of protest. He spreads it over his upper lip. "Do I look sexy, Hank?"
"What the f—not fucking really, Con."
"Is that so?" Connor pointedly hands him another napkin, smiling angelically. "Then you know how I feel. You missed a spot or several."
"Wow. You little shit." Hank wipes his mustache again. "Don't complain when it's got your jizz."
"I could start, if you'd prefer."
Hank's withering look only lasts until he starts laughing and presses a long, whiskery kiss to Connor, mumbling an affectionate, "Such a little shit," and then that carries on for a while longer until both the pizza and the milk are forgotten on the table.
The device, however, is not forgotten—Connor had placed an order the moment he'd agreed—and it arrives several weeks later in a beat-up little white box that tries and fails to emulate CyberLife's minimalist aesthetic and succeeds instead in just looking sad. "Are you sure this thing isn't going to give you," Hank scratches his beard thoughtfully. "I dunno. Android rabies, or something?"
"Android rabies?" Connor asks, unimpressed.
"All I'm saying is, if I turn this thing on and you go all frothy and bite me in some non-sexy way—"
"It was your idea!"
"It's your rabies!"
"I don't have rabies, Hank."
"Not yet," Hank mutters, opening the box. The contents include the device they'd seen, plus a charging mechanism, instructions... "I'm gonna plug it in. If you start feeling like a raccoon, tell me."
"My eyes are darkening around the edges as we speak," Connor intones, "And I want to eat the trash you haven't taken out yet."
"Mm, subtle," Hank says, dropping a kiss on Connor's cheek as he passes him by out the room. "Taking it out now. You wanna pick the movie for tonight?"
"Ooh, yes. I'll set it up," Connor says, leaping up to head to the living room.
The device remains inside the bedroom charging, and indeed stays inside the bedroom charging for another two weeks. It's not until they have a day off scheduled that Connor brings it up again. "So," Connor says, looking over at the outlet.
"So," Hank responds, looking at Connor, like he already knows what he wants to say. Probably he does.
"So would you like to fuck be—"
Hank kisses the words from his mouth, whispers against them, "I'll show you better fucking."
"Cheesy," Connor whispers back, and, "I'd like you to prove it," and Hank smiles and pulls back and—and, well, then they have to figure out how to sync the device, which says it's Intuitive but isn't really, and Hank spends a while looking over the manual to learn the system. It's not sexy, but they're both laughing about it, and when everything is set up and ready to go they both at least have worked up a healthy sense of anticipation.
"So this goes both ways," Hank says. "If you don't like anything, if anything gets too much, you can turn it off. It's tuned to you, you just have to think the safeword and, uh. Bam. Or say it, and I'm done too, obviously."
"I read the manual too," Connor reminds him gently. "But yes, thank you. I'll keep it in mind."
"Okay. So. Any of these settings you, uh. Really don't want?"
He's looking down at them, eyes darkening. Connor smiles slowly. "Did you work up a plan?"
Hank fidgets, looking to the side again. Nervous. "Maybe. An adjustable one."
"Mm. Maybe I don't want you to have to adjust anything." Connor winks. "Or just one thing."
He's looking at Hank's dick. Obviously. It's the obvious joke.
"Sometimes I wish you coulda learned your sense of humor from somebody else," Hank says, but his eyes are crinkling at the corners, lips twitching to fight off a grin. "All right, Dick Jokes McGee, clothes off."
"Sure thing, Lieutenant," Connor says coquettishly, and does as he's been asked. Hank is licking his lips again, a lot, and his breathing is getting heavier, and Connor will never ever be tired of knowing that just seeing his naked body can do this to Hank.
"All right, baby," Hank says, and Connor supposes like with so many things in their relationship, their attraction to one another is reciprocal, because with just three words in that low, rumbling voice, Connor is gasping. "You're gonna get on the bed."
"And you?" Connor asks, already a bit breathy.
"I'm gonna be on this chair," Hank says, sitting down purposefully, gaze heavy. "And I'm gonna be watching."
"Oh," Connor exhales, and he lies down, trying not to writhe against their sheets. Nothing happens, for a few moments. "So when does the fucking me better happen," he starts to ask, and then it starts.
He knows, of course, that he is not being touched right now. Hank is over there on the chair. But suddenly, everything in him says that he is being caressed all over by familiar calloused hands. Everywhere at once. Even though the touch is gentle, it's still a lot to deal with from nowhere. Connor arches every which way into phantom hands, but nothing happens. Of course. Of course, because nobody's actually touching him, but—
"Oh, baby, look at you already."
No matter how many times they do this, Hank's voice always keeps a hint of reverence, of awe, when they get started. Connor knows that Hank is still amazed he has him in his life and in his bed, and he also knows that Hank knows it riles Connor up to be desired so blatantly. "The hands feel just like yours," Connor says, biting his lip, squirming against another phantom of a touch.
"Mm. Yeah. You know, I might not have been completely honest with you, Con."
"I set this up weeks ago, added in a bunch of...personal details. Scanned my hands, for one."
"And what other details did you add?" Connor asks, shivering as the touch suddenly stops.
"I guess we'll just see, huh," Hank says musingly.
Connor doesn't know exactly what happens next. Or, he does, but not how, or—one second he's just laying there waiting, and the next, intense pleasure is building in his belly, cresting and consolidating into a single sharp point, and he's moaning and coming all over his chest. "Wh—Hank?" Connor gasps out through panting breath, feeling boneless and very confused.
"Sorry, hand slipped," he says insincerely, eyes molten, hand drifting to his cock to slowly start to press at it with the heel of his palm. "Now. Let's keep going."
"Shhh, shh. The day's just gotten started, baby."
Connor gapes at him helplessly, covered in come after one of the best orgasms he's had in a while. Hank grins back with a shark's smile and looks back down at the device. "All right. So, what next?"
"Next," Connor parrots, a slowly dawning horror in his chest, perhaps mixed in with the ejaculate. It's not like he didn't realize from a detached standpoint that this device would have control over a number of his functions. He had even noticed the ability to force an orgasm. But it is one thing to read about features in a user manual and another entirely to experience it. Like how it is difficult to explain a color, or like how it is difficult to envision experiencing an orgasm more intense than one's normal orgasms.
He must look concerned. He knows this, because Hank's voice goes back to its normal register, and he says soothingly, "Connor, you can stop this any time, remember."
"I know," Connor says, takes a deep breath to center himself. "I'm not stopping it now."
"All right," Hank says, a bit careful still. "And you don't want me to—uh, I don't know, warn you, or—"
"I'll let you know if I do." He gives a tired smile at Hank. "And I love you for asking."
Another thing Connor will never tire of is Hank's smile when he says he loves him. "Love you too, babe."
He clears his throat, mumbles, "Well, uh...here goes, again..."
Connor almost feels bad for throwing him off his groove, for a moment, but then he doesn't feel bad, because there's the sensation of a mouth around his dick and three fingers up his ass and he's too busy moaning. It's the same as with the phantom touch: he can't move into it, he can't move away from it. All he can do is take what Hank is giving him at the pace it's being given, no matter how he squirms around, no matter how he whimpers. It's terrible and exquisite in equal measure.
"Hank," he whines, "Hank, please—"
He's not quite certain what it is he's asking for. More? Less? But not to stop, and he catches a hint of another toothy grin before Hank rumbles, "God, you're gorgeous like this, sweetheart."
Taking advantage of the praise kink is cheating. At least in Connor's humble opinion, which is one of the two that matters here, anyway.
"I never get to see you like this when I'm fucking you. Still gorgeous, then, but—" Hank makes a wispy little sigh as he trails a finger across his clothed erection. "Not like this."
"Hank," Connor whimpers, hiding his face in the sheets, grasping at them like that'll grant him some kind of release from this, bucking his hips into the air like it'll echo the movement into the ghost of a hot mouth sliding over his dick. It doesn't. "I want..."
"Mm? What is it you want, baby?"
"I—you—I want—" Connor might find it embarrassing how incoherent he is already if it weren't for the fact that he is aware that this is due to external means, and also if he didn't have better things to think about and feel.
"You want me on top of all this?" Hank chuckles, low and dark. "Greedy."
Connor muffles a whine into the mattress. "Hank—"
Hank's hands return, caressing Connor's body lovingly, tweaking at his nipples and sliding down his hips, squeezing at his ass and thumbing his lips. Everywhere at once, everything at once. It's overwhelming, his processors struggling to deal with the influx of data beyond normal parameters, and he can feel himself starting to get lightheaded, can feel electricity pooling in his abdomen again, warm and inescapable. "You close to coming again, honey?" Hank asks, voice fond, if strained. Connor can see from his peripheral vision that he's humping slow and erratic up against his hand, can hear him breathing through his nose like he does when he doesn't trust his breath to be even. "You know, this is all only on the weakest setting."
Connor's eyes widen, but when he thinks to voice protest, all that comes out is another moan.
"I wonder, if we just...hike it up one..."
Instantly, every sensation, every feeling inside and out, multiplies. Almost as instantly, he's coming again, back arching up into the air in a position that would be painful to hold if he were human and still feels unnatural as an android, come shooting into the air and splattering down over his thighs, mouth open in a silent scream. He doesn't really have any way to explain it, even to conceptualize it, just that everything in him feels on fire and electric and sparking, feels better than he has words to describe.
"God, fuck," he hears when he comes down—both from the high and from his pose. Hank is groaning, hunched over himself, which Connor thinks is very unfair because it means he can't see his dick, and he is very clearly jerking himself off. "Fuck, baby, Connor, that looked—" He hisses air through his teeth, running a thumb over the head of his cock. "You're so—"
"Hank," Connor gasps weakly, "I think the power settings are exponential."
That garners a low, long moan from Hank as his hips buck up into his hands. "Jesus Christ, really?"
"Yes," Connor says, still shaking a bit. "In fact, I may have seen him."
Hank gasps out a laugh that peters out into a sharp inhale. "Don't make me think about the Son of God being in our bedroom right now, fuck." He chews on his lip, then takes his hand from his dick and places it decisively on the arm of the chair. "I'll come too fast like this."
"Do you not want to?" Connor asks, wrinkling his eyebrows. "Or—do you want to come in my mouth?"
Hank's hips buck up in the air again. "Fuck, Connor! You can't just—no, baby, I said I had a plan for today."
"For...today." Connor thinks he might be starting to get it. "By today, do you mean. All of today?"
His lopsided grin shows off his tooth gap, which is cute. It is less cute, the intention behind it. "S'what I was thinking, yeah."
"Hank, it's—it's 10:30 in the morning!"
"That late already?"
"Hank, I'm not sure I can even...manage..."
"And if you can't, that's fine, but. Connor, you do so much for me all the time. I just wanna spend a day making you feel good. Let me try?"
"Oh my God," Connor mumbles, throwing a wrist over his eyes. "Do not be that sweet while you're talking about fucking me all day."
It's cheating. All of this is cheating, Connor's quite sure, in some cosmic rulebook somewhere. It is cheating that he's sweet and cheating that he's sexy as all hell with his cheeks a blotchy, aroused red, and it is cheating that he is Connor's boyfriend who he loves very much. Hank doesn't say anything, doesn't try to convince him, just waits for him to decide.
"Well, when you put it like that," he finally snaps, without any irritation to it. He spreads himself out on the bed. "Lay it on me, Lieutenant."
This time, Hank's smile is pressed in an actual, physical kiss to his lips, and lest Hank get any clever ideas about pulling back after just one, Connor winds his hand in Hank's hair to keep him there. When Hank finally has to catch his breath, he lets him, of course. But as payment, he also pulls Hank down onto him with a surprised-sounding 'oomph', and wraps his legs around his back, and goes back to kissing him.
"Was this just," Hank mumbles, but the rest of his words are lost to kissing Connor some more. He tries again a few minutes later. "Was this just a dirty plan to get your come on my shirt?"
"Maybe," Connor says, batting his eyelashes. "Or maybe a plan to get you to take it off. Or maybe I just wanted you to fuck me."
Hank chuckles against kisses down Connor's neck. "Stop tempting me."
"Why? If this is going to be all day, I'm sure you can get it back up again by dinner." Connor laughs at Hank's expression. "Fine. Late afternoon."
Hank nips at Connor's neck, sighing. "Don't be a brat. Like I've kept saying, I have a plan."
"No room in your plan to stick a dick in your loving partner?" It's already a losing battle, and he knows it—Hank can be very stubborn, when he wants to be—but at least he might get Hank to laugh again. He mentally cheers when Hank snorts against his collarbone.
"We can get to dick-sticking later, you old romantic. For now..." He extricates himself from Connor, panting, lips slick with Connor's spit. One of the most beautiful sights in the world, Connor thinks. "For now I need to calm down a bit. Got me too worked up."
"Sorry," Connor says insincerely.
"Like shit," Hank huffs, getting off the bed and looking ruefully down at his shirt before shrugging and stripping it off. Connor's mouth waters looking at his chest, his belly. His fingers twitch. "Anyway, I'm gonna go...do that."
"Go?" Connor asks suspiciously.
"Go." He winks. "Don't worry, I'll leave you occupied."
By occupied, he apparently means 'turning on whatever setting feels like getting reamed by Hank's dick," and also "turning on the setting that denies him orgasm". He's not sure whether this one was intentional, but occupied apparently also meant "keeping it at the second setting", and Connor is already crying and thrashing around by the time he hears the shower turn on.
The love of his life is an asshole, he thinks as he wails his name.
Connor runs numbers almost constantly. It's not really even a conscious thing, just a function of his original programming he's never quite been able to shake. He knows precisely how long it's been, down to the millisecond, since Hank first said he loved him, for example. He knows how many times they've gone out on dates, had sex. He just counts, is always counting, and it's not something he turns off.
The point being, he knows how long Hank's showers are, on average, when he's alone.
Further point being, he knows this one is much longer. If he were being generous, he might think perhaps Hank was taking the extra time to thoroughly calm himself down so he doesn't come ahead of when he wants to. But Connor is not known for his generosity, and is not feeling very inclined towards it right now, and he knows Hank. Hank is torturing him on purpose, because he is an asshole, and—well, because he likes seeing Connor experiencing the heights of pleasure, it makes him feel secure, but—MOSTLY because he's an asshole. If he weren't, Connor thinks churlishly, his dick would be actually in his. In his asshole, that is.
But despite the lack of Hank's physical dick in Connor's physical asshole, his incorporeal one is doing its damndest to drive Connor insane, or maybe just to death. It nails his prostate on every thrust, or at least makes Connor's brain think it does. It's rapid and unerring and forceful and everything Connor appreciates about a good dicking-down, minus the second party at least, at about...times...a lot.
(Connor is always counting, except for now, when he thinks he can be forgiven for his processing power being diverted.)
"Hank," he weeps, curled up against their pillow and frantically thrusting into it, not that it's doing him any good, "Hank, you fucking bastard, if you don't get out of that shower soon I swear I'll—"
He doesn't have a suitable threat planned. He can't do this to Hank, and even if he could somehow, he thinks it would probably kill him. The threat seems appropriate regardless.
He can hear the shower shut off, Hank step out onto the tiles—God damn it this is why Connor keeps saying they need a bath mat. Connor can clearly envision the next few moments despite the relative silence—Hank drying off, slinging the towel around his waist, brushing out his hair like Connor insists he does now for maximum softness.
The door opens, Hank enters.
"Oh, hey, Con," he says. In fairness, he says it all throaty and horny, like he's barely keeping it together, but Connor isn't much interested in fairness right now, either.
"Fuck you," he says through his tears. "And fuck me."
Hank pauses. "You can always—"
"I know I can safeword! I don't want to safeword, I want your dick!"
Hank's dick doesn't seem disinterested in the idea either, frankly. Despite the shower, it's poking out through the gap in the towel, just as proud as it was before. Connor takes limited comfort in knowing Hank's had to listen. But Hank, the man, the true dick, just relaxes and grins. "You have my dick."
"It's not the sa—ahhh," Connor's complaint is replaced easily by a moan as Hank, now that he can use the device again, uses it to change the steady rhythm 'his' dick's been pounding at. Hank sits back down on the chair to watch. He hasn't bothered putting any clothes back on—and Connor should hope not—which means Connor can see the drops of water that still track their way down his chest, down the round of his belly, pausing to pool at his thighs. Connor's had his mouth open and panting for the majority of the time since Hank went into his shower, but his mouth still reflexively fills with saliva at the sight, longing to lick the path the water's taken, to lap at Hank everywhere, make him have to take a second shower. He swallows, says "Hank", voice pleading. "Hank, please. Please."
Hank doesn't ask him what he needs. They both know precisely what he needs, and know that Hank is the one withholding it. Instead, he leans forward, eyes laser-focused on Connor and hot enough to burn. "You know what I was thinking of in the shower, baby?"
Connor swallows again, unable to do anything but look back even as his body continues to jerk back and forth, searching for something it won't find. "Whether you might be a sadist after all?"
Hank chuckles. But not amused, not exactly, something darker and richer that sends a shiver down Connor's spine, sends him arching towards Hank. "Nah. I was listenin' to all those pretty sounds you were making, fingering myself open thinking of how you must look out here on our bed."
Despite everything, it's 'our bed' that makes Connor cry out, curl up on himself and straighten out again fast enough it makes his artificial muscles feel like they're locking up. Hank muffles a groan behind his fist at that. "Oh, fuck. Fuck, Con, honey, I was thinkin' the whole time of how you'd look, and you still look a million times better, you always do—"
Connor whimpers, shudders rolling through him like waves at a chaotic sea, leaving electricity in their wake. "Hank—"
"But there was one thing I couldn't stop thinking about. Couldn't stop imagining." Hank inhales, a heavy, deep breath. "I couldn't stop thinking about how you'd look if I did this."
And he presses a button on the screen.
It's a button he pressed before, at the very start. The button intended to force an immediate orgasm.
But he hadn't turned off the other setting that kept Connor from being able to acquiesce.
It all happens in nanoseconds: the signal is sent, the signal is received. The signal attempts to brute force its way through his system. The signal is rebuffed, and redoubles its efforts, and fails, and doubles again, in a cascade of utterly agonizing pleasure. The sound that leaves his mouth isn't human and barely even android, either. It's an animal noise, loud and wounded. In the next moment, Connor's body convulses so hard his toes rip the sheets, his processors reach their limit, and he soft reboots for the first time in years.
When he comes to, he's gasping and his cheeks are still wet with the tracks of his tears, and Hank is shaking him. "Baby—Con—oh, fuck, oh fuck, I'm so sorry—"
It takes a few moments for him to remember how to speak. He's still achingly hard, energy simmering in the base of his abdomen and all up his spine and down his legs, but he pats Hank ineffectually. "I'm okay."
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart, shit, I didn't—that was dumb, that was so fucking—"
"Felt good though," Connor offers through a tongue that feels made of lead, and Hank laughs despite a few tears of his own.
"Jesus. You really are kinkier than me."
"I'm fine," Connor says, and kisses the wrinkles under Hank's eyes where tears have collected. "Really. I mean, don't do it again, but I'm fine."
Hank exhales, shaky, and presses his forehead against Connor's. "That hasn't happened in a while."
"You haven't fucked me that good or smart in a while," Connor says with a tired wink, hoping Hank will recognize the callback for what it is and not a genuine comment on their sex life. He must, because he laughs again, a small thing, but there.
"Don't scare me like that again," Hank mumbles against something that can barely be called a kiss, just their mouths in proximity, but still as beautiful as all their kisses are.
Connor could say 'don't send conflicting signals from an off-brand sex toy again'.
He doesn't. He just murmurs, "I'll try," and smooths a hand still part-numb down Hank's back, and revels in how it feels to have him actually physically there.
After a few minutes, Hank says, "You're still hard. Why are you still hard?"
Connor raises an eyebrow. "I never actually came."
"Oh. Shit. Shit, I'm s—"
"You don't have to be sorry," Connor says. "Though do I recall you mentioning some fingers, potentially in the vicinity of your ass?"
Hank doesn't react immediately, but when he does, he sags against Connor, the last of the tension leaving his body. He's chuckling into Connor's collarbone, shaking his head. "I can't fucking believe you."
"Believe it," Connor says in an artificial monotone.
"Is there any time you don't want to jump my bones?"
"Mm. Well. Might have to get me warmed up again, hotshot."
"I think I can manage that," Connor says, and everything that comes after that—Connor licking at Hank like he'd wanted to earlier, sucking at his cock until Hank's arm is thrown over his eyes, Hank riding Connor until they both come—happens without the help of technology. Well. Apart from the obvious. Of course.
After they're both cleaned up again—Hank had had to take another shower, as Connor had predicted-slash-hoped for, which he grumbled about until Connor offered a massage during—and lying back down on the bed, Hank looks at Connor. As much as Connor loves the heated looks Hank sent his way earlier, and he does, he thinks he almost might prefer this one—soft, and warm, and full entirely of love.
"So, what do you think," Hank says. "I return it and threaten to sue for dangerous manufacturing?"
Connor tilts his head, thinking. "No, I don't think so."
"I mean, you did promise me a full day," Connor says, and relishes in the sound of Hank choking on air. "It might just have to come in installments. But I'll admit, I'm curious about setting three..."
"Jesus, Connor! Are you fucking with me or do you genuinely have a death wish?"
"Maybe partly fucking with you. But I think it could benefit from further experimentation."
Hank runs a hand over his face. "Ugh. I guess I brought this on myself."
"Yes," Connor says cheerfully. "But don't worry. I think I might prefer the worse dumb fucking if you're the one doing it."
"Backhanded fucking compliment," Hank grumbles, but he mostly looks relieved.
"Also, I think I will send them a strongly worded email recommending a disclaimer about those functions."
"Atta boy," Hank says, "There's my little shit," and Connor kisses the snark from his lips, and the rest of the day might not be spent testing out technology, but it is spent together. Which is, in Connor's objective opinion, much more important anyway.