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Hank was in a mood. Connor knew he was. He always knew. Because Connor knew Hank, maybe better than anything else by this point, and had spent hours upon hours categorizing every minute detail of his behavior. Hank told him to cut it out, but he didn’t mean it. He never does.

Connor knew Hank was in a mood from the way he was looking at him. It was a long, sideways kind of look that made Connor shiver, that sent his synapses firing all over the place with the promise it represented. Whenever Connor caught him, Hank would chuckle to himself, shake his head, and turn away.

Connor knew.

It was in the way Hank touched him; they avoided any untoward signs of affection at work, willing to separate their relationship from their jobs. It was only sensible, after all. But sometimes hands would wander, and when Hank was in a mood his touch turned firm and close, so close, gripping Connor in all the places he liked it the most – in all the places people would least expect. The back of the neck, the inside of the elbow, his knee under the table. Touches that made Connor’s subroutines lag, even if only for a millisecond. And his voice – oh, his voice. It would grow dusky and low, short and just as firm as his grip was. Because Connor liked that, being told what to do. It was hardwired into him.

So when Hank rapped on his desk, wrenching Connor from his daze of preconstructions (Hank called them daydreams, which Connor found rather romantic), and curtly told him to meet him in the archives, how could he say no?

The archives were usually empty this time of day. Connor wasn’t stupid. He knew why they were there, why Hank had asked him to come. The filaments just beneath his chassis fizzed with the anticipation of it, spreading like a flush all over his body, deep and warm. He watched Hank, carefully, as he pretended to busy himself at one of the terminals. Connor stood idly and tried to gain control over his cooling regulators.

Hank glanced up at him from the terminal, his eyes a bright, cutting blue. “You just gonna stand there?”

Connor, puzzled, tilted his head in that puppy-dog way he always did. “You did not issue a command, Lieutenant.” Maybe, just maybe, the cadence of his voice suggested he was merely curious, and that he didn’t know what he was doing. Which, of course, wasn’t even remotely true. Connor knew exactly what he was doing. Hank straightened up. His eyes twinkled.

“You lock the door?”

Connor shook his head. Hank grinned in response, and suddenly he was right there, standing over Connor like he wasn’t only a few inches taller.

“Good boy.”

A hand fisted in his hair and Connor preened. Hank pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Connor’s mouth before urging him onto his knees. Connor goes willingly.

When Hank was in a mood, Connor was usually quick to follow. Ever since he’d discovered sex – and, by extension, the desire it entailed – it’s all he wanted to do. Hank complained about it, saying he was an old man and so on, but he was half as bad. After all, how long had it been since he’d had something this pretty practically begging for his dick all hours of the day? Hell, it almost made him feel good about himself again.

Now, gazing down at Connor on his knees like this, Hank felt arousal wrench up through his gut. He licked his lips, breath rasping between his lips, as Connor works open his pants and takes his dick in hand. Hank had been practically half-hard all day, his mind inundated with memories of Connor at his most pliant, his most willing, fucked open and begging. He didn’t know why, but he sure wasn’t complaining, especially when Connor took his cock into his soft, warm mouth. Connor met his eye, then, and had the nerve to wink at him.

Hank cuffed him over the ear and was rewarded by a low laugh around his dick that he felt all the way to his scalp. Cheeky.

Connor was never designed for sucking cocks, though Hank didn’t doubt the thought had crossed the design tech’s mind at some point, and it was exactly what made him so perfect. No gag reflex, no obstructions, just a tight, smooth chute for Hank to slide his cock into. And it was wet, Christ, slick with whatever the fuck androids used for saliva (Connor had explained it to him, once, but Hank had difficulty listening given he was buried balls-deep in Connor at the time). Hank could just fuck.

And fuck he did.

Connor was perfect like this. Hank held his perfect face in his own very not perfect hands and slid it up and down his dick. Connor gazed up at him with those perfect eyes, beneath heavy eyelids, his perfect lips slick and reddened. Perfect, perfect, perfect, and Hank had never been more in love.

Beyond the door to the archives came the tinny echo of voices; a laugh, then footsteps. They drew dangerously close before evidently taking another course, but Connor didn’t miss the way Hank’s dick twitched on his tongue. His own preconstruction software flooded him with warnings that buzzed hot along each wire. Hank let out a low, needy growl – it was a sound, Connor had learned, that Hank only ever made when very angry or very horny, and t titillated Connor whenever he heard it – and wrenched him off his cock with an obscene, wet pop. Connor licked his lips, his teeth, just for the show of it.

“Get up,” Hank ordered gruffly. Connor scrambled to obey. Hank caged him against one of the desks, huge hand anchored just below Connor’s navel, and he pressed a whiskery kiss to the side of Connor’s throat. “Pants down, pretty boy,” he rumbled. “I’m gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t see straight.”

Connor paused, then, going completely still just long enough for Hank to notice. “I – you can’t.”

Hank pulled back with a puzzled frown knotted between his eyes. “You don’t wanna – ?”

But Connor cut him off, his face creasing in a somewhat unfamiliar way, and it took Hank longer than it should have to register it as regret. “I didn’t – I didn’t attach a genital component this morning.”

Hank stared blankly. He didn’t – ? Shifting back, Hank looked down past his now-flagging erection to Connor’s crotch. He shoved his hand against it, feeling, and Connor leaned against his shoulder. Shit, he wasn’t lying. There was nothing. Fuck.

But Hank was old, and he had experience, and he’d been watching porn for the last 40-odd years of his life.

“You can feel down here, right?” he asked, his voice raspy in Connor’s ear. Connor nodded against his shoulder and pressed kisses against his neck, needy in his own way, hands itching along Hanks’s sleeves. He pushed his hips forward against Hank’s hand, and when those thick fingers pressed in a little harder, he drew a sharp breath against Hank’s throat.

Gritting out a fuck under his breath, Hank took firm hold of Connor’s hips and flipped him around. Connor braced his hands on the desk, feeling Hank grind his cock against the seam of his pants once, twice. “Pants down.”

Connor, as curious as he is puzzled, complied. Hank slid his hands appreciatively over Connor’s belly, his waist, up under his shirt. True to his word, Hank’s cock slides against nothing but unbroken flesh.

“Typical,” he grouses in Connor’s ear. “The one day you’re not fuckin’ horny.” He tugged Connor’s nipple harshly, making the bot’s spine curve and eliciting the sweetest noises. “I’m gonna fuck you anyway.”

Something inside Connor jumped. Fear, uncertainty. One of Hank’s hands disappeared from beneath his shirt, dropping between their bodies to give his cock a few long strokes.

“Squeeze your legs together, baby.”

Connor did. The wiry hair dusting Hank’s knuckles brushed against his skin as he guided his cock to the junction of Connor’s thighs, pressing forward, inwards. Connor’s fans began to kick up a bit, and he had to focus on breathing. Hank fucked into the tight, warm space with a sigh.

“What are you –,” Connor began, but then it all fell into place. Hank didn’t need a hole. He just needed something to fuck. His cock dragged slick and impossibly hot between Connor’s legs, and Connor – well, Connor hadn’t anticipated the sensations he received in response. “Oh.”

Hank chuckled breathlessly. “Hold on, sweetheart.”

Connor knew from experience that it would be his only warning.

Hank fucked him long and hard, just as he would any other time – except this time Connor couldn’t come, couldn’t release any of the pressure mounting low in his pelvis. His weight sagged against Hank’s barreled chest as he fucked him, sighing out moans at the explosion of feedback between his legs. It was – good. So good. Better than Connor could ever imagine this sort of thing being.

“Good?” Hank rasped against his ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth, and Connor almost melted.

Eventually Connor managed to get something of a handle on himself – just when he began to fuck himself back on Hank’s cock, however, one of Hank’s hands came to rest between the jut of his hipbones.

He pressed down. Connor didn’t know what happened in that moment, but the next moment his vision shivered, and he was flooded with warnings. His hips jerked erratically and he would have come – he would have come violently.

But he couldn’t. Not like this.

Hank could, though, and he did. He fucked the slick heat of Connor’s thighs, pale and freckled and hairless, like they were made for it. When he came he kept going, fucking the wet mess in and out, until Connor was flushed and incoherent. And then he laughed, stroking his hands over Connor’s hips, kissing his ear.

“You can’t come like this, can you?” he asked, and if Connor was any less fucked out he might have commended Hank for remembering that. “Pity. You’re gonna have to wait ‘til we get home.” He pressed his fingers between Connor’s legs, up against the unbroken flesh there, messing around the slickness. “Don’t clean up. I want you like this ‘til then. You’re gonna put on whatever junk you want, and I’m gonna fuck you ‘til you squirt all over my cock. Got it?”

Connor gasped long and deep. Hank really was in a mood. “Yes, Lieutenant,” he rasped, accepting Hank’s kiss eagerly.

Connor’s internal monitor told him it was only 11:34am. It was going to be a long day.