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Connor is frustrated. He gets into the passenger seat and slams the door behind him, immediately making a harsh chopping motion with the flat blade of his hand.
“If Captain Fowler would just listen to my full proposal, he would see that this is the most effective means of furthering the investigation.”
Hank doesn’t say anything, just pulls out of the parking lot and turns the car down the street towards their home. Connor doesn’t notice his silence; he’s fuming, feeling that itch under his skin when a resolution to his mission is so close and there’s just one small thing standing between him and success. His body is vibrating with anxious energy and the need to tear that obstacle down.
They’re a few miles down the highway before he explodes again, LED spinning a harsh yellow.
“I don’t understand why he is so vehemently against my plan. It’s a tried and true police tactic. It was even on that asinine exam he made me take after the revolution!”
“Connor,” Hank snaps. “It’s too fuckin’ dangerous this time. Just let it go.”
“I can’t.” Connor falls back against the seat with a huff. “I won’t. I’m going to barricade myself in his office tomorrow morning until he agrees to let me do the job I was designed to do.”
“The hell you are.” Hank palms the wheel, turning off the freeway towards their residential district, and despite himself Connor’s eyes flick to his hands on the steering wheel. “I know you think you know everything there is to know about being a detective, but no matter how big that brain of yours is, you still lack experience. Let the old geezers like me and Fowler call the shots on this.”
“Cowards.” Connor crosses his arms and slumps against the seat, looking out the window with a sullen frown.
“Call us whatever you want, at least you’re alive to be a fuckin’ brat about it.”
“I’m not going to die, Hank, and it’s very dramatic to pretend that that’s the only possible outcome.”
“Well it’s a possible outcome, and that’s enough.”
“There is always going to be some element of risk to this job! Should I just turn in my badge, then? Would you and Fowler prefer it if I manned the reception desk instead?”
“You’d be shit at that.” And Hank actually laughs , as if any of this is a laughing matter. “Someone would wring your neck within the week for talking back.”
They pull into Hank’s driveway just as Connor mutters, “If you and Captain Fowler won’t listen to me, maybe I’ll just do it anyway.” He is a deviant , after all. If he wants to offer himself as bait to catch a serial android killer, then that’s his decision to make. He doesn’t need anyone’s permission.
Hank slams on the brakes.
Connor jolts forward in his seat, the seatbelt biting into his shoulder.
“That’s it.” Hank yanks the keys out of the ignition and gestures sharply at the door. “Get in the fucking house.” Something about his voice has shifted, though Connor doesn’t have the chance to analyze it before Hank’s getting out of the car and walking towards the front door. Connor meets him there, tilting his head as Hank—arms crossed and eyebrows flat, blue eyes like chips of ice—jerks his head towards the door.
Connor clenches his fists at his sides, stalking into the house. He hears the door close behind him, but he chooses to focus on Sumo instead of Hank. He bends down to pet the old dog, though he doesn’t coo at him as he normally does, still feeling too keyed-up to do much in the way of soothing. His restless energy feels even worse inside the house. The space is too small and there’s nothing for him to do here that could begin to alleviate the pressure of his mission objective staring balefully at him from the corner of his HUD.
He lets Sumo out into the backyard and back in when he’s done his business, and when he turns around Hank is there.
Hank pushes him back against the wall, his mouth hot on Connor’s as he captures him in a harsh kiss. His hand grips Connor’s chin, arms caging him in as Connor’s back presses against the wall. The breath is knocked out of him; first in surprise, and then in desperate need, and Connor’s hands fist in Hank’s jacket, knuckles white. He’s still annoyed, though the more Hank kisses him the less he can remember what he was annoyed about.
When Hank finally relents, pulling back to breathe heavily against Connor’s cheek, Connor is flushed blue and glad that Hank’s broad chest is there to cling to.
“Hank,” he breathes. His head tips back, resting against the wall as he slides down just an inch or so to let himself look up at Hank. One of Hank’s thighs slips between Connor’s legs, pressing against his crotch, and Connor swallows, shifting his hips in appreciation of the friction against his rapidly swelling cock.
Hank stares down at him. Connor can read a dozen different signs of his arousal, from the elevated heart rate to the dilated pupils, but Hank’s expression is dark, considering, guarded. His hand fists in Connor’s short hair, and Connor hisses at the sharp sensation.
“Is that what you call me?” Hank’s voice is a low growl. It reverberates through Connor’s chassis, and his self-lubrication protocol initiates involuntarily. Connor bites back a moan, staring up at Hank in slight confusion that’s clouded by arousal. He doesn’t know what Hank’s after at first, but he knows that he’s desperate to give it to him. Hank rocks forward, trapping Connor against the wall, providing a wonderful pressure against his erection that makes Connor squirm.
“C’mon, Connor,” Hank murmurs. His hand goes soft, stroking gently through his hair. “Be a good boy and tell me what I want to hear.”
Oh.
Connor likes this game. He likes to play along, especially because almost all of his social protocols were designed for manipulation right from the start. He lets his eyes go wide, a look of innocent eagerness painted across his features as he tucks in his chin, looking up at Hank through dark brown eyelashes.
“Yes, daddy.”
Hank growls in approval, and then he rewards Connor with another kiss. His lips are bruising, teeth nipping at Connor’s lips and tongue. Connor moans, and Hank kisses him like he’s drinking up the sound. He doesn’t understand this particular human kink, all he knows is that he likes it. It amuses him when people mistake Hank for a father figure when all he’s wanted since he met the man is for Hank to bend him over his desk in the bullpen and fuck him senseless. Humans can be so small-minded and predictable, but Hank shows incredible creativity in the bedroom, and it makes Connor’s thirium pump trip up, his blue blood pulsing fast and hot through his body.
He also feels a little pleased with himself that the argument in the car had somehow led to this, though if he were thinking straight he’d be suspicious of the timing. As it is, he can barely string together a single logic sequence as Hank’s big hands start roaming over his body, loosening his tie, the buttons of his shirt, his belt.
Knowing what Hank can do to him, especially when he’s in a mood like this, leaves Connor shaking. When Hank slows down, stroking his sides and kissing him slowly instead of ripping off his clothes, Connor whines, squirming against Hank in an effort to get him to move on.
“Please, daddy?” His fingers comb through Hank’s silvery hair.
“Hmm. Please what?” And that little smile of Hank’s just isn’t fair . Connor pushes out his lower lip, losing himself in the act.
“Please fuck me.” He quickly undoes the button of Hank’s jacket, but Hank grabs his wrists before he can push it off his shoulders. He pins Connor’s arms back against the wall, the position inducing a thrill of adrenaline that Connor can feel tingling from his exterior to his core, from his fingertips through to his reinforced skeleton. Combat prompts pop up in his vision, and with a lazy smile Connor blinks them away. He moves his hips again, this time pressing his thigh against Hank’s crotch to feel him hard in his jeans.
“I’ll be good, daddy,” Connor whispers. “I promise.”
“Is that so?” Before Connor can marshal a response, Hank grabs the back of his thighs and hauls him up. Connor jerks forward and wraps his arms and legs around Hank as Hank carries him swiftly to the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind them. He throws Connor down onto the bed, removing belt and shoes and then yanking his trousers down to his ankles. All Connor can do is grab at the sheets to either side, hopelessly aroused by Hank’s domineering attitude, the way he manhandles Connor like Connor really is something small and vulnerable, and not CyberLife’s most advanced prototype, built to hunt, interrogate, torture, and kill.
Connor loves this treatment. He might hate it in a professional context, but in their private life he loves it when Hank tells him what to do, or better yet just does it for him, and all Connor has to do is lay back and let it happen, let his racing thoughts short-circuit until there’s nothing but soothing, thoughtless static in his mind and pleasure thrumming through his body.
Hank climbs onto the bed, rocking forward as he kisses Connor and presses their hips together. They start to build a rhythm together, the ebb and flow of their kiss following the way their bodies undulate against each other, and Connor is very certain that given enough time he could come from this alone, letting out little squeaks and moans whenever Hank rolls his hips just like that .
When Hank pulls back this time, Connor makes a tortured sound.
“Shh, baby.” Hank noses along Connor’s jawline, pressing sweet kisses against his neck that make Connor shiver and gasp. “Take off the rest of your clothes for me.”
Connor scrambles to obey, sitting up so he can shrug out of his jacket and shirt, shaking fingers fumbling with the last few buttons. He rips off his boxers, knows that he’s wet and leaking lubricant onto the sheets, and when he’s finished he wraps both arms around Hank’s neck and presses desperately up against him.
“There’s my good boy,” Hank praises him, and Connor’s torso clenches in pleasure, his cock twitching against Hank’s stomach.
“Yes.” He kisses Hank, starts to work at Hank’s belt and jeans, eager to have him naked so he can feel all of that warm, soft human skin against his synthetic dermal layer, anticipating the way his sensors will light up in response to Hank’s touch. “I just want to be good for you, daddy.”
His throat tightens up. Connor breathes heavily through his nose, hands holding onto Hank so tightly that nothing could rip his human away from him. Hank knows it, how Connor needs to be good, how it was a matter of life and death for him in the past and now it’s all a murky realm where he’s never quite certain if he’s meeting expectations or not because being alive means more than following orders and it’s wonderful, of course, wonderful to be alive and to be free, but also so scary and confusing and Connor only feels like he knows what he’s doing when he’s here being good for Hank in the way he knows he can.
“I know, baby. I know.” Hank sits up briefly, just to finally relent and strip his clothes off, tossing them into a messy pile in the corner of the room. Connor lets his gaze roam over Hank’s body, swiftly cataloging his favorite things—his soft stomach, the old scar over his hip, the faded tattoo on his chest, the wiry silver hair around the base of his hard cock (so much bigger than Connor’s, like everything about Hank). Hank slips a hand between Connor’s thighs, pressing against his wet hole, and Connor moans.
“But, baby,” Hank murmurs as he leans over Connor, chest and broad shoulders looming protectively over him as begins working a finger into Connor. “Good boys don’t talk back, do they?”
“I—” Connor gasps, arching into the pressure of Hank’s thick finger inside of him. His thoughts are spinning and he struggles to make sense of what Hank is talking about. Hank starts pumping his finger inside of him, and his voice takes on a dangerous heat.
“And good boys don’t do stupid shit that might get them killed. Do they?”
“I don’t—” His hands latch on to Hank, attention split between the pleasure building inside of him and a stubborn need to prove Hank wrong. But he suddenly can’t remember all of the watertight arguments he’d prepared back at the station and in the car, and being right doesn’t seem as important as making sure that Hank doesn’t stop what he’s doing. He moans as Hank adds another finger, his head rolling to the side. He exhales, the breath hotter than any human’s as Connor’s body expels the excess heat pouring from his processors.
“I know you were frustrated in the car. You want to be a good boy and complete your mission. But I think you’re a little confused.”
Connor is no longer pleased with himself. He doesn’t know where this is going, and he can’t help but rock against Hank’s fingers, his cock hard and body shaking with need, knowing he’ll do whatever Hank says in that moment because he doesn’t want to disappoint him and he doesn’t want him to stop and he knows, deep down, that Hank only cares about his safety and happiness, things that Connor’s programming balks at prioritizing.
“So let me help you.”
Hank rolls him over onto his stomach. He palms Connor’s cheeks, taking a moment to knead the lifelike imitation of flesh, the soft parts of Connor that were never as important to his creators as the hardened plates of his chassis. But Hank takes the time to worship every part of Connor’s body.
He pushes three fingers into Connor’s slick hole, and Connor cries out, a sound of pure pleasure.
“Do you want my cock, baby?” Hank asks, deceptively sweet as he pumps his fingers, stretches Connor out. His fingers are so thick and Connor is so full, all he can do is rub his face against the bed and moan.
“Yes, daddy.” The words are slurred. Connor’s mouth hangs open, a little puddle of drool forming on the bed. “Ohhhh yes, yes. Please.”
Then, Connor feels the fat head of Hank’s cock pushing against his entrance, and he grabs at the sheets, fisting the fabric in both hands as he feels the agonizingly slow push in, inch by inch. He squirms, high-pitched sounds of pleasure and frustration in equal measure nestled in the back of his throat. It feels like it takes forever for Hank to start moving, but when he does Connor moans, loud and uncaring. It feels so good, he’s certain he’ll never think coherently again.
Hank’s hand travels over Connor’s back, sliding into his hair. And the grip is there again, hard as Hank tilts Connor’s head until they make eye contact, and Connor shivers in something close to primal fear at the dark determination in Hank’s gaze.
“Now listen to me, baby.” And suddenly Hank is ramming into him, pistoning his hips as he sets a brutal pace. It’s nearly painful, but in the way that scratching an itch is sometimes slightly painful while also feeling overwhelmingly fucking good. Connor feels so full, Hank’s cock hitting the deepest parts of him, and he wonders how he doesn’t fall apart without this. Connor is so focused on taking what Hank is giving him, he almost misses the crucial words growled somewhere above him.
“You—are not—expendable.” Hank punctuates the sentence with hard thrusts into Connor, who scrambles to hold onto the sheets as Hank fucks into him. “Your safety is not optional. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Connor sobs. His eyes are shut tight, his entire body shaking with pleasure and so full of Hank, but there’s something lodged in his chest and throat, a tight ball of emotion that cracks a little more each time Hank slams into him, with every word Hank growls into his ear. “Yes, daddy, I’m sorry—”
Connor can feel his human’s sweat dripping onto his back, and he shivers. Hank’s teeth graze his neck. The relentless pace of his thrusting slows until he’s still, seated deep inside of Connor, that impossibly deep and gravelly voice rumbling in his ear. “No case is worth your life. You don’t have to sacrifice yourself to be good.”
He tries to shake off the words, but he can feel them expanding in his chest. Connor is so close. His peak is hovering just out of reach, and he’s desperate for it, thinks he might actually overheat and die without it, and words tumble from his lips, thoughtless and broken.
“Please, fuck me, Hank, daddy, please, don’t stop—”
Hank hauls him up off the bed, pulling out of him briefly so he can adjust their positions until Hank is sitting back against the headboard with Connor in his lap. Connor slides back down onto his cock, mouth going slack and cheeks burning a deep violet. Something in him pulses, and another wave of lubricant gushes over Hank’s cock inside of him.
“I want to hear you say it, Connor.” Hank holds Connor’s hip in a bruising grip with one hand, while the other wraps almost too gently around Connor’s aching cock. Connor throws his head back, grunting and jerking his hips forward, feeling Hank’s cock brushing a particularly sensitive panel deep inside of him. “You’re a good boy, and I want to hear you say it. And then you can come, alright? You want to come, don’t you?”
Connor nods quickly. He forces his eyes open, looking at Hank, pleading with him because out of everything they do together, all of their little games, this part is the hardest and he’s never quite sure he’ll be able to force the words out.
“Go ahead.” Hank’s voice is gentle, and he kisses Connor sweetly, soft and careful. He presses against Connor’s hip, urging him to move, and Connor immediately obeys. He rocks in Hank’s lap, biting his lip as Hank starts to pump him.
“All you gotta do is repeat after me, okay? Say, ‘I’m a good boy’.”
Connor moans, squeezing his eyes shut. He starts lifting himself up, sliding slowly back down, relishing every inch of Hank’s cock dragging inside of him. “I—I’m—”
There are tears forming in his eyes, and Connor wishes they were only due to pleasure, but his chest is so full, every part of him is so full and Hank feels so good inside of him and—
“Good, fuck.” Connor slams himself down, feeling his orgasm approaching rapidly now, bouncing in Hank’s lap. “So good, fuck. I’m—I’m good—”
“Yes, Connor.” Hank’s voice is breathy. He guides Connor with his hands, blue eyes bright and trained on Connor like he’s the only thing that exists. He starts pumping faster, sliding along the length of Connor’s throbbing cock, and heat is building inside of Connor, a few error messages popping up in his HUD.
“I’m good,” he whines, as his body races towards its peak, and he hardly knows what he’s saying when it feels like his chest breaks apart and he sobs: “I’m a good boy.”
Connor comes. He trembles in Hank’s arms, letting out soft sounds with each pulse of pleasure that wracks his body. Hank groans, the sound racing through Connor, and he feels Hank come a moment later, his hips twitching between Connor’s thighs. Connor sags against him, shaking, floating in the intense afterglow of his orgasm. It takes him another moment to tune into Hank’s voice, to feel his own tears and realize that he’s crying into Hank’s chest.
“That’s it.” Hank holds him close and kisses his hair. “My sweet boy. You were so good for me, you did so good, baby.”
“Hank.” Connor clings to him. A few more sobs tear their way out of his throat, and then abruptly cease. He breathes deeply, grounding himself in Hank’s warmth and the strength he can feel in the arms holding him close, holding him together. Connor blinks, pulling up his HUD. He swipes away a cascade of error messages and temperature warnings, and then he comes to the mission objective that had started it all.
CATCH THE KILLER AT ALL COSTS
Connor stares at it for a moment. Then, he sighs, and blinks rapidly to clear it. His LED spins yellow, then returns to a serene blue as he melts against Hank.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t know you saw it that way.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” Hank kisses the top of his head, swiping a hand up and down his back. Up, and down. The motion is so soothing, and the day had been so long and frustrating, that Connor feels himself slipping towards stasis. When he feels Hank move to get up, he whines.
“Nooooo! No.” Connor clings to Hank even harder, squeezing him around his middle. “Cuddle now, get cleaned up later.” He doesn’t share the human aversion to sticky messes, but Hank is gracious enough not to mention it, or maybe he doesn’t care much, either. He chuckles and kisses Connor’s nose, then slides them both down the bed until they’re arranged lying on their sides with Connor’s back pressed to Hank’s chest.
Hank draws the blanket over them and Connor scrunches down until just the top of his head peeks out over the edge and the rest of him is cocooned in darkness and warmth. He feels Hank’s finger tracing his LED in a soothing pattern as he begins to enter stasis, eyelids growing heavy and nonessential processes shutting down in preparation for rest and recovery.
“I would’ve been careful,” he murmurs, stubborn to the last. His hand finds Hank’s and he threads their fingers together, everything growing distant and fuzzy. The last thing he feels before he enters the dark quiet of stasis is Hank brushing his hair out of his face and whispering something in his ear.