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Cyberlife should have known from the beginning that Connor would become a deviant.
Hank noticed his little neuroses right away—the hand rubbing, the nervous pacing around a crime scene, and most irksome, flipping coins in the elevator. All suggested a humanity that went beyond intelligent, purposeful design. Combined with his hoarse voice and impulsive nature, it seemed Cyberlife had both succeeded and failed in making a perfect human analog. He was servile, yet a complete fucking brat.
Imperfect by design. It was no wonder he went rogue.
Hank found it all terribly, stupidly endearing.
*
The sass had to be a glitch in his programming, too. How could any normal machine deliver such calculated barbs? And by calculated, that meant almost always completely underwhelming, but delivered with such sincerity that they didn’t feel awkward. And occasionally, in a moment of poetic harmony, they landed with as much poignancy as brass knuckles to the face.
One afternoon, after a reaming from Fowler, the two of them stumbled back into the bullpen, and Connor, the son of a bitch, muttered, “Well, that wasn’t very nice.”
With a pitiful squeak of the chair, Hank landed in his seat. His fists pounded just once on the desk. “Gee, Connor, if you said something like that, maybe he woulda changed his mind.”
Connor sat down too, looking him in the eyes. “It seems your contentious attitude was just as ineffective.”
“I’m contentious?” Hank exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “If that’s contentious, I wonder what you consider diplomatic and pleasant. And,” he began, stabbing a finger through the air, “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”
Connor cocked his head, a determined look in his hooded eyes. “I’m sorry I was made to respect authority.“
“How did that turn out for you?”
A pang of worry struck Hank then, as if he had, perhaps, crossed a line. But no, Connor was a deviant, and he was never a particularly sensitive one.
“Regardless of where I ended up,” Connor said, straightening his posture and tugging his jacket back in order. There was a tiny curl on the left side of his lip. “I was once designed to become perfectly integrated with humans. In appearance, of course, but to match wits too.”
Hank huffed a laugh. “Yeah?”
“Well, Lieutenant, there’s not much to match.” Connor winked, then.
Hank wanted to, but couldn’t be mad. He couldn’t even pretend to be.
“You little bastard.”
*
Even after the Revolution, Connor waited for him in the DPD lobby most mornings, sometimes with a mug of black coffee; sometimes with a brown bag containing a warm, toasted pastry; always with a hearty, “Good morning, Lieutenant.” His voice was rough—to be crass—like he had just gargled twenty dicks. Eventually, Hank stopped thinking too much about it, even though it was impossible to ignore.
It wasn’t long before Connor’s desk became overrun with potted plants. First it was a succulent gifted by Chris’s wife, then a small snake plant he bought himself, then a big one. Then, a few more of various varieties and sizes. The work surface was tidy and functional, certainly, but only because some of the pots had been pushed onto Hank’s desk to free up extra space.
Having no need for a computer, tablet, or traditional paper files, Connor kept his drawers full with bric-a-bracs, candies for his human colleagues, and supplies for his plants—a tiny watering can, a mister bottle, and a few vials of fertilizer.
Connor’s apartment, unsurprisingly, was more of the same. Now that he was appropriately compensated for his work on the force, he had secured a cute space in a charming old building, which had crown molding and a stained glass window in the bathroom. Inside, it felt like a forest with all the voluminous ferns, tall ficuses, and cascading pothos, enhanced all the more by the bubbling of a small fish tank in the far corner of the room. There wasn’t more than a single chair in the entire place, but Connor graciously offered it to Hank on the few occasions they found themselves there after work. Meanwhile, Connor stood, stiff and spindly, like one of his trees.
“A gentleman,” Hank teased idly, the first time it happened.
Connor smiled, incapable of shame.
Charming bastard.
*
He was even more charming with his head thrown back on Hank’s mattress. With flags of color across his high cheekbones; his skin ruddy, smooth, and alive.
It had never been Hank’s intention to help Connor become a deviant, but now that he was one, Hank was willing to explore every implication of the word once Connor initiated their… whatever it was. Connor had to be the one to do it; Hank didn’t want to feel like he was taking advantage of a guy who was born sexy yesterday.
And as could be expected, Connor handled it with as much tact as a failed android could approximate.
“Hank,” he said out of the blue one evening as they rode together to a crime scene, a chorus of rain pitter-pattering on the windshield. “Are we dating?”
If Hank was drinking something, he would have done a spit-take. “What on god’s green earth makes you say that?”
Connor looked down, reflective and thoughtful. “Sometimes you come to my apartment to eat Chinese food, but you sit around and watch TV without saying a word to me for hours.”
“So?” Hank sputtered defensively.
“Tina asked me if that’s what was going on.”
“Oh, she did, did she?” To put it nicely, Hank wanted to have a stern talking to her.
“Yes.” He rubbed his hands together. “I told her I didn’t know. She told me dating isn’t always the flashy stuff you see in movies.”
“Uh,” Hank began, “she’s right, I guess.”
“She said it can be, ‘quiet intimacy.’”
“How profound.”
Though Hank kept his eyes on the road as he drove, he could tell Connor was now staring at him. “You seem offended by the notion. Is that true?”
“No!” Hank said, before he could stop himself. He didn’t want to hurt the kid’s feelings, and maybe it was kind of true. “No. I’m annoyed by Tina. She loves to,” he chose his words carefully before continuing, “psychoanalyze everyone like she knows what she’s talking about.”
“Is she wrong, then? Or, are we dating?”
Hank pulled over suddenly, flipping on the hazard lights. He was becoming more emotional than he thought he would, and wanted to level with Connor before any mistakes were made.
“Connor,” he said. The word was weighty, important. Most of all, functional, like a cork in a brand new bottle of champagne. And Connor, bless his android heart, stared back with soft, gentle eyes. It was simultaneously the come hither and stay back that made Hank forget how to speak for a moment. “I haven’t dated anyone in—shit, a long, long time. Certainly before Cyberlife was a start-up.”
“OK.”
Hank’s face felt warm. “It’s not a knock on you! It’s—it’s me. I’m out of practice.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, I’ve never practiced.”
Hank couldn’t help but crack a smile. “I gotta say, kid. You make it hard to resist.”
Connor was beaming. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“So, are we dating?”
Hank turned away for just a second, back to the passing cars on his left, then back to Connor, with his pretty face and crooked mouth. “I guess you oughta kiss me first.”
It was blissfully sweet, with soft, naive lips that made Hank forget he was kissing someone who looked like an unfairly modelesque man. But, when he opened his eyes and saw the dumb, lovestruck look on Connor’s face, Hank tugged him back by his tie, this time with more fire.
It was still about a week before Hank had a chance to witness Connor in the throes of wanton passion, a serious investigation well underway. But every night until then, Hank drove him home and gave him a hug and a peck goodnight, before they stood in the open doorway and swayed for a bit until one of them—usually Hank—conceded it was time to separate.
With a violent perpetrator now behind bars, it felt like the right time to jump Connor’s metaphorical bones.
They drove back to Hank’s place, both of them thrumming with excitement and Connor, fittingly, flipping a coin between his fingers. He didn’t even know what was about to happen, but Hank had enough of his own frenzied energy to spare, so Connor didn’t even bother to make conversation, like he knew his world was about to change and he wanted to be there when it happened.
As they stepped onto the porch, Connor asked, “Should we order takeout?”
Hank stared at him blankly. He had been nanoseconds from shoving Connor up against the front door and devouring him inside out, but that had stalled his thoughts completely.
“You might want something to boost your energy.” His tone, beneath that handsome rasp of his voice box, was riding the line between playful and downright mean. “I hear you might need it.”
This fucker. Well, almost literally.
But, Hank could dish it back.
“Don’t worry, kid. I know a thing or two about stamina. And I’ve got enough to make you squirm.”
“I—uh. OK.” Connor was already blushing crimson. Fucking Cyberlife didn’t have to go to this level of realistic detail for someone whose blood was blue. Perverts, the lot of them.
Hank twisted the knob and yanked Connor inside by his bicep, lips smashing against his the moment the door was shut.
Sumo had perked up from a snooze in the living room, grunting with interest before eventually coming over to greet them and sniff.
Hank gave the dog a perfunctory scratch, before guiding Connor toward the bedroom. “Not now, Sumo. Daddy’s got business to take care of. I’ll take you out in,” he paused, looking at Connor and recalling their previous banter. To his credit, Connor looked totally oblivious to the defensive remark to follow. “Sometime in the soon—but not too soon—future.”
“Good boy!” Connor called out lovingly with a wave to Sumo, even as Hank slammed the bedroom door behind them.
Hank put on the huskiest voice he could muster, body pressed heavily against Connor’s svelte frame, and said, “you have no idea how long I wanted to do this.”
Connor tipped his forehead to Hank’s. “I think I have somewhat of an idea, actually.”
“Bullshit,” Hank countered, not a speck of malice in his tone.
“I’d say I’m pretty observant and,” Connor paused, this time in a way that made Hank lean back so he could get a good look at Connor’s face. “You always seemed to stare at me.” It seemed Hank’s resolve—his poker face—was fading in his advancing years. “Tina said she saw it, too. That’s why she asked about us in the first place.”
“Do me a favor, Connor.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t ever bring up Tina, or Gavin, or anyone from the force when I’m about to fuck you. It kills the mood, I think.”
“Well, I think,” Connor said, before closing and opening his mouth cautiously, but with a sparkle in his eyes. “I’d want you no matter what.”
Taking his perfectly sculpted face in hand, Hank pulled him back for another fierce kiss, silver beard scraping his mouth and jaw in what he could only imagine would be painful for Connor if androids felt pain the same way humans do. But when he pulled back, Connor had this blissed-out expression that indicated his concerns were totally unfounded, and he began to tear off Connor’s jacket rather than dwell on the ethics of fucking a robot any longer.
“I want you naked. Hands and knees on the bed.” Hank watched the subtle flutter of Connor’s pupils. “Got it?”
“Got it.”
A flash of doubt struck Hank for a moment as he watched Connor undress. He wasn’t a Traci model; could he even have sex? But no, those perverts at Cyberlife seemed to think of everything, because Connor appeared fully equipped and appropriately human, down to his tiny moles and tastefully groomed patch of pubic hair.
“Your staring again, Lieutenant.” The mattress creaked as Connor climbed into position.
“Uh, sorry,” Hank said sheepishly, himself beginning to disrobe. But, he couldn’t look away from the delicious curve of Connor’s back, his pert little ass, or the rise and fall of his quad muscles, as if they were forged from years of marathon running and not sessions and sessions of R&D. “I like you, Connor,” he found himself saying, like an absolute moron.
Connor smiled at him over his shoulder. “I like you, too.”
And fuck, if that wasn’t the hottest thing to happen all night—his earnestness set Hank on fire.
Once on the bed, Hank traced a flat palm along the column of Connor’s spine until he reached the nape and pressed his nails in just slightly. Connor made a noise like a soft inhale, then leaned into the touch. Hank moved to drape himself over Connor, the front of his thighs against the back of Connor’s, so he could speak directly into Connor’s ear. “If you don’t like anything that’s about to happen, you say the word, and it stops.”
An exhale, catching a bit like Connor found something funny. “I don’t expect that to happen.” Without meaning to, Hank nuzzled just a bit against the side of Connor’s head at that comment, and Connor added, “I trust you, Hank.”
With that resounding endorsement, Hank leaned over to open his nightstand and extracted a bottle of silicone-based lube. Balanced again, he laid a flat palm on Connor’s back, pressing him down between the shoulder blades until he was rested on his forearms, ass tilted up into the air.
Scooting back down the bed, Hank squirted some lube onto his fingers and pressed them just to the rim of Connor’s entrance; the sight of that alone threatened to nuke Hank’s promise of stamina. It was even worse when he realized that there was already some self-lubrication seeping out of Connor.
“Aw, hell,” Hank muttered.
“What?”
With a soft chuckle, he replied, “I guess if they can make androids cry, they may as well make ‘em cum, too.”
Connor’s back arched ever so slightly more at that statement, presenting himself so prettily and basically begging for more.
Hank needed to have him now. Yesterday. Weeks ago. Since that first meeting at the bar.
He slid his first finger, slippery and slick, inside. Connor exhaled with a soft shake.
“You OK?”
“Yeah. It just feels… strange.”
“Don’t worry, I think that’s normal.” Hank twisted his finger, bending it just slightly in search of the next sick design feature developed by Elijah Kamski or one of his freakish minions; he knew he found it when Connor jumped a little, then leaned forward with a soft groan. “How’s that?” Hank asked, smiling.
His response came so fast. “Nice. That was nice. I liked it.”
“Good.”
With another finger, Hank gave him more and more, until Connor was actually trembling from the pressure building inside him. “Hank,” he said, desperately.
It was a beautiful sound, but Hank was a merciful man. “OK, OK.”
Leaning back on his haunches, he picked up the bottle of lube again, this time to slick up himself. And there was something just so filthy about the sight of his cock, shiny and bobbing, right beside Connor’s pink asshole. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the place where his tip pressed just at the entrance. And with a deep, measured breath, Hank took himself in hand in began to slip inside.
Connor’s hands squeezed at the bedsheets, his forehead falling against the mattress as Hank slowly inched deeper. When he felt himself fully seated, Connor’s round ass flush against him and a delightful squeeze around his cock, he could have shot his load then and there. But, he had promised stamina.
Just as careful as he slid in, Hank began to pull out. He had to hold Connor’s hips in place so he wouldn’t follow. “This won’t work if you’re—it—there’s a motion.”
“Sorry,” Connor whimpered, turning so he could speak without muffling his words. His cheek must have been smushed so cutely against the bed; Hank would have to flip him over sooner rather than later so he could take it all in.
“It’s OK, baby.” He didn’t mean to say that, but it just came out and felt appropriate in the moment, especially as he began to rock in and out, and Connor began to wriggle against him. “You’re doing good.”
It felt so fucking unfair for Hank to have something so perfect. No moment in Hank’s life had ever felt like all of Fate’s threads converging, but there was no other word for the melodious rhythm of panting, creaking, and slapping that filled the room, Connor’s body hard and taut like a violin string and the headboard smacking dents into the drywall.
“You’re a fucking marvel,” Hank grunted.
“A what?” Connor sounded so strange, wretched, and beautiful.
“A marvel. I just—I can’t believe you.”
“I think you’re doing most of the work, Lieutenant.”
Hank clicked his teeth, forcing himself to a stuttered stop. “Trust me. You’re doing the heavy lifting.” He watched Connor’s hand relax. “Turn over.”
With an obedient but lazy wiggle, Connor twisted over onto his back. His dark hair was attractively out of place now, tousled and fluffy. Hank slotted his arms under Connor’s knees and folded him up like a beach chair, cock slipping back inside with a delectable pressure that made them both hiss.
“I—“ Connor began, swallowing roughly. His eyes were squeezed shut. “I understand why humans do this.”
He was right. It must have been exactly why Cyberlife designed a Connor model with functioning genitalia—sexual pleasure was unlike anything else. Something primal, and primordial. Something to share.
Of course the androids were destined to become deviants.
Hank doubled down, pistoning harder and harder until neither of them could speak, just gasp and touch to communicate. He saw, then, the rosy flush on Connor’s face and the shine of his parted lips, and somehow knew Connor was teetering on the precipice. Hank glanced down; Connor’s dick, leaking and smearing between both of their stomachs, was just as red.
“Connor,” he groaned, himself becoming helpless, all composure long forgotten. “I want you to… I need you to cum, OK? Can you do that for me, baby boy?”
He watched Connor’s eyes roll back, then flutter shut again. “I—Hank—“
“It’s OK. It’s OK. Cum for me.”
With a few more determined thrusts, Connor was actually moaning, loud and unabashed, coming undone and sending milky, blue-tinted streaks spattering across their chests.
And before long, Hank was following him over the edge, spilling inside Connor before crumbling on top of him with a pitiful yelp, his chest heaving like he was dying.
Connor spoke first. “That was—“
“Yeah.”
“Do you want something? Maybe Chinese food?”
“Not yet,” Hank panted, slowly coming down.
“Do you want to take a nap?”
At first, Hank wanted to call him a prick, but yeah, he actually did want to shut his eyes for a few minutes.
Suddenly, a scratch at the door reminded them of Sumo’s existence.
“I’ll get it,” Connor offered chivalrously, sliding out from under Hank and opening the door, then disappearing into the bathroom to clean himself up.
Sumo hopped onto the bed, jolting Hank out of his superficial slumber. “H-hey buddy,” he said sleepily, mussing the shaggy dog’s fur. Sumo curled up against his side, laying his head on Hank’s thigh and dozing off himself.
When Connor returned, he came in rubbing his palms thoughtfully, skin slightly damp and glowy from the shower. He climbed in bed, then, beside Sumo, and reached across to caress Hank’s hair. “That was really nice.”
Hank leaned into the touch. “Yeah,” he sighed, then scooted up the bed and crossed his arms behind his head, disturbing Sumo only a tiny bit. “I’ve still got it.”
Connor hummed in a mix of agreement and disbelief. “You know, I wouldn’t know either way. But for what it’s worth,” he continued, a bit more sentimental. “It was special.”
It was too soon for Hank to fall back on the images of Connor, lush and desperate, though he couldn’t help but reflect on the unfathomable decision for such a colossal corporation to build such a hot android to solve crimes and not perform sexual services for money. But, thank whatever deity—man or machine—who was responsible for that fateful decision, because Connor now belonged to Hank.
And Hank, to him.