Archive of Our Own

“So what’s it like? Having a test lab in your mouth?”

They’re sitting in Hank’s car, watching as the forensics team walk back and forth across their most recent crime scene. It’s early in the morning and the air is crisp and cool, a yellowy spring sun hanging on the horizon.

Connor has already given his own analysis of the scene, various samples acquired and tested ten times more quickly than any kit or laboratory would have been able to. Hank’s reactions to Connor’s unique methods have changed drastically over their months working together - from disgust, to indifference, to frank, unbridled curiosity.

Connor considers Hank’s question.

“Cyberlife designed my mouth purely to analyse samples in real time,” Connor replies. “I don’t know any differently.”

Hank scoffs. “That’s not what I asked. What’s it like? Putting blood and crime scene dirt in your mouth all day?”

“Since I don’t need to eat or drink, my mouth doesn’t solve a dual purpose.” Connor turns to Hank and finds that he is watching him - that steady blue gaze. Connor feels something within him flutter unsteadily at the attention. “It’s not the same as you putting evidence into your mouth. I wouldn’t suggest that you start doing that.”

Hank laughs, and takes a drink of coffee from the flask in his hand. It makes the whole car smell warm and sharp. “Always with the smart advice.”

There’s a moment of silence, in which Hank is clearly pondering his next question. “Could you taste though? If you put some of this in your mouth...” He gestures to the flask. “Would you know what it tasted like?”

“It’s not taste, exactly. I could provide a chemical breakdown.” Connor pulls up his past profiles of the beverage. “Although I couldn’t taste it, as such, I could tell you that your coffee is going to have a bitter taste due to the presence of chlorogenic acid.”

Hank nods and makes a slightly sour face. “Doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“It’s alright.” Connor shrugs and looks back out of the windshield, where a uniformed officer is approaching the car. “It’s just part of my job.”

But deviancy breeds curiosity, and Connor’s words are not completely truthful. Since deviating, he has not reserved his oral sensors purely for crime scene dirt, as Hank had so eloquently put it. After all, there is a world out there to explore. And he is better equipped than most to explore it.

Connor thinks a lot about Hank. Just in general. They have woven themselves into each other’s lives, overlapped and intertwined until there’s a steady, constant awareness of each other that beats low, just below Connor’s thirium pump. Connor moves into Hank’s house, walks his dog. Cooks him dinner. Thinks and thinks about him.

He thinks about Hank’s hands, those old calluses across his palms, the tight knots of veins around his knuckles. His forearms, the broadness of his body beneath his bright shirts. He becomes very aware of how much bigger Hank is than him, and the information sets itself apart more distinctly than just the perfunctory height to weight scans that he is able to perform. As if it’s particularly important.

Mostly, he thinks about his mouth. God. He thinks about both of their mouths, moving together, learning things about Hank from the inside out.

He thinks about kissing Hank.

And Hank - he admits this one evening, face shining shy and golden in low light of their living room, his hand resting on Connor’s thigh - Hank thinks about kissing Connor.

That evening is their first time. Hank draws close to Connor, one hand moving to cup the curve of Connor’s jaw, his thumb running along the delicate skin beneath his left eye.

“Is this okay?” Hank asks, his voice rising to barely more than a whisper. Connor nods.

“Are you going to kiss me?”

Hank laughs, and it is a low, kind sound; perhaps he laughs at Connor’s frankness, how he still struggles sometimes with the delicacy of human conversation. “If you’d like me to.”

Connor nods his head again. “Very much.”

“Well. That’s good.”

Hank presses their mouths together, slow and careful to start, and the action makes every one of Connor’s most intimate and private preconstructions snap suddenly to the forefront of his mind. Hank’s mouth, his hands, all over him. A small, staticky moan escapes from the back of his throat.

Hank kisses his bottom lip, his top lip, the sides of his mouth. Each touch layers data upon data until Connor can feel himself practically trembling beneath the weight of it all. Hank must be able to tell, because he puts one arm around Connor’s waist and pulls him in close.

When Hank puts his tongue in Connor’s mouth - finally, finally, after many slow burning minutes - the flood of data, the slick heat, is almost too much for him to bear. It comes in sharp and piercing, striking Connor right in his chest, and building so rapidly that Connor is frightened something inside him might snap.

An error warning flashes before his eyes, shutdown imminent, lined red and wild around the edges.

At the appearance of the error, he can’t help but pull away, a sudden, short flick of his head. It doesn’t stop the surge of information entirely, but the error dulls a little, diminishing in urgency.

Connor’s lungs crack a sudden, shuddering breath. Unnecessary, but it seems to still him somewhat.

“Shit. Connor, was that-?” There’s an evident worry in Hank’s voice, and his blue eyes burn very intense beneath the furrow of his brow. As if he might have done something wrong. “Are you okay?”

Connor isn’t sure how to explain that what Hank did was so very, very right that his body didn’t know exactly what to do with it.

“I’m okay,” he replies. “You. Kissing me like that. It was a lot.”

His vocal output seems to be malfunctioning, his words coming in short, sporadic bursts.

“We can stop, if you want,” Hank says, his hand coming to rest over the place where Connor’s thirium pump beats. A brief diagnosis tells him that the regulator is working overtime, trying to control the flow of blue blood around his body.

“I don’t want you to stop,” Connor gasps. “I want you to do that again. Please.”

And Hank does.

He does it again that evening, and the next, and the next. Before, Connor had imagined that kissing would be just like touching, only with information coming from the sensors in his mouth rather than from those in his hands. But it is so much more than that.

Connor does not just register the sensation in his mouth. He feels the scratch of Hank’s beard against his cheeks, his chin, the soft crease where his lips meet. He registers the slick heat of Hank’s tongue as if it is flooding from inside him and down through his whole body, bright white and crackling.

Pressure begins to build on the inside of his chassis. Anywhere that Hank is touching him, anywhere that Hank has touched him. And even places where he is just imagining Hank’s hands - images that spring unbidden to the forefront of his mind, unprompted preconstructions. The softness below the small of his back, the long column of his neck. Between his legs.

Between his legs. There the pressure weighs most heavily. He wonders if Hank would put his hand there, right on top of that sparking, searing beneath his plating. The thought makes him curious.

In that same place, he imagines Hank’s mouth replacing his hand. That thought makes him damn near overheat.

“You’re something else, aren’t you?” Hank tells him this with the brightest sincerity. “No one like you.”

“Well, I’m an advanced prototype, Hank. I’m unique.” Connor knows that this is not what Hank means, that he was not referring in any way to his methods of manufacture, but Connor has become better at making jokes in the past months. Hank likes this. Connor knows that.

“Yeah,” Hank mutters, emotion simmering low in his voice. He presses his forehead against Connor’s for the briefest of moments. “Unique is right.”

Pulling back slightly, he runs his thumb along Connor’s bottom lip. Connor can feel every dent and whorl of his fingerprint against the sensitive sensors that line his mouth. He pictures the make up of Hank’s skin, knows what an intimate analysis he would be able to perform if Hank’s thumb would just slide a little further - to move in between his lips.

He needs to know more. Desperation presses itself like a flat palm against his sternum.

“Put it in my mouth.” The demand in Connor’s words turns them thick and slow, the illusion of breath below his voice becoming laboured, raspy. Hank’s eyes widen at the sudden shift in his tone.

“What?”

“I’d like you to put your fingers in my mouth.”

Connor swallows, hard. He senses a spike in Hank’s heart rate.

Hank gives a shaky exhale. “Fuck.” That single word, that trembling expletive, is weighted down with desire. “Okay.”

Hank shifts in his seat, angling his weight slightly towards Connor. His index and middle finger slide slowly between Connor’s parted lips.

At the press of Hank’s fingers against his tongue, new information crashes through him, high and bright as the shifting crest of a wave. It moves through him, blazing hotter with every second, pulse after pulse of it: how thick Hank’s fingers are, the roughness of his skin. Connor moves his tongue against the texture, collects every single piece of data as something vital, something never to be forgotten. He can feel Hank’s heart beating through his fingertips, as if the rhythm is right there, inside of him.

Reaching out, Connor takes Hank’s wrist in his hand, and sucks down harder around his fingers; that burning flood of sensation spiking in his chest.

Hank moans, a half-wordless sound in the back of his throat. Heat pulses, Connor’s head spins, and those familiar warnings start to appear at the edge of his vision. He’s going to shut down if he keeps doing this - but god, why would he stop?

“Connor,” Hank’s voice cracks on the second syllable. “Connor - you look good, baby.”

Why had he not thought about this before?

He had been so fixated on the idea of finally kissing Hank - having that hot mouth against his own - that he hadn’t really considered that he could put other parts of Hank in his mouth.

And what a discovery it is.

Hank bites down on his lower lip, watches Connor with heavy-lidded eyes.

It would be untrue if Connor were to say that he had not noticed Hank’s arousal in their previous evenings together. And he can feel it now, the hard line of Hank’s cock pressing through his jeans, as he leans forward to suck the full length of Hank’s fingers into his mouth. Hank is several inches taller than the average American male and he’s built broad, wide shoulders and big hands. Connor has completed enough scans of Hank’s body - for other, more professional purposes, of course - to know that his dick more than matches up to his stature.

He’s thought about it before, but here, now? Wrapped up so tightly in Hank that he feels like he could break?

He wants nothing more than to put Hank’s cock in his mouth.

Connor opens his mouth a little, and Hank retracts his fingers with a wet, slick sound.

“Hank.” Their faces are very close. Connor is still holding tight to Hank’s wrist, and his pulse beats like a metronome beneath his skin.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Those pet names, that voice that is alight with desire. Connor’s chest aches for him.

“Now, I’d like to put your penis in my mouth.”

Hank laughs. Not properly, more of a short, rough exhalation. He gives a low shake of his head. It’s not exactly the reaction Connor was expecting. He can feel his processors shift, his LED spiralling one clear, yellow cycle.

“Oh, Con,” Hank looks back up at him, eyes creased in a smile. “We really have to work on your sexy talk.”

“My research has told me that humans enjoy engaging in oral sex,” Connor says, and Hank watches him with his head tilted slightly to one side. “If you don’t want me to, then-”

“No.” Hank cradles Connor’s face in his hand. “Hey, Con. I want you to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Connor. Sweetheart.” Hank shifts, and Connor can sense a rise in his heartbeat, in his arousal levels. Anticipation, perhaps. “I’d very much like for you to suck my cock.”

“Well.” No official mission objectives appear - nothing quite so specific exists in his programming - but Connor slides between Hank’s legs with a certain level of determination. He predicts that this is something that will make Hank feel good. He wants Hank to feel good. “Okay then.”

On the floor between Hank’s spread thighs, Connor undoes the button and zipper on his jeans, pulling them down to his knees. Hank is wearing black boxers, and Connor can already see how hard he is, how his dick is tenting the thin fabric, leaving a dark spot where the tip is.

He wonders briefly how Hank would react if he were to press his tongue against him through the cotton, how the heat of his mouth and friction of the material would feel on his skin, here, where it is most sensitive. Another time, perhaps.

He pulls his boxers down too.

Hank’s cock is flushed already, heavy as Connor comes to weigh it in his hand. He can’t help but imagine the heat and weight of it against his tongue, and as he does, his sensors click an extra measure of lubricant into his mouth. He’s salivating.

Hank cards one hand roughly through Connor’s hair. “You been thinking about this, huh?” he asks.

Connor considers the question, giving Hank’s shaft a few slow strokes. Hank exhales sharply through his nose.

“Putting your fingers in my mouth certainly made me curious about what it would be like to have... other parts of you in my mouth.”

Hank groans, his head falling back slightly. His reaction elicits a surge of that pleasurable pressure between Connor’s legs, and he squirms where he’s kneeling.

“C’mon then, let’s see what you think.”

Connor presses his tongue, flat, against the head of Hank’s cock. The surge of data is instantaneous, edging alarmingly close to something overwhelming. The sensation causes a rough, crackling moan to swell in the back of Connor’s throat, spilling out into the quiet of their living room.

He lets Hank’s cock slide a little further between his lips, enjoying the sounds that Hank is making above him. It feels good, being stretched around Hank like this, although that familiar error begins to flicker around the edges of his vision - shutdown imminent, red and severe. He steadies himself, his tongue lathing the tip of Hank’s dick, continuing to analyse and catalogue and moan around him.

“You okay?” Hank says, his voice low.

Connor isn’t used to hearing Hank speak in these situations. All of the other times, their mouths had been far too occupied for more than just a few words gasped desperately between them. But Connor finds he likes the roughness in Hank’s voice, how it shakes around the edges, how he sounds wrecked by Connor’s ministrations.

Connor nods, pulling away for a brief moment. His mouth feels awfully empty.

“I’m good. This is good,” he says, giving Hank a few firm strokes. Hank bites down on his own hand, balled into a fist against his mouth. Precome beads at the head of his cock.

“Well - Christ - don’t be shy.” The hand in Connor’s hair twitches. “Think you can take more than that?”

Connor’s preconstructions are running slow - most of his processing power is being used to store all the new information on Hank. He focuses what little is left over on shutting down the persistent errors, which seem to be appearing with ever increasing frequency. “I would imagine so.”

Hank’s hand twitches again, tugging a little at the curls at the back of Connor’s head, as if to say - well. What are you waiting for?

Connor wets his lips, braces one hand on the sofa and one on the soft swell of Hank’s belly, and swallows Hank down in one slick movement. He’s solid and hot on his tongue, and although Connor can’t be quite sure - pleasure floods within him too quickly and too suddenly - he thinks that the tip of Hank’s cock touches the back of his throat.

“Fuck!” Both of Hank’s hands fly down to grip tightly to the sofa beside him, his hips twisting tightly against Connor’s face. “Con, you coulda warned a guy. Jesus Christ.”

Connor doesn’t say anything. He looks up at Hank through his eyelashes, and Hank watches him with a dark, steady gaze. The look makes him feel weak, suddenly glad that he’s kneeling on the floor and not standing. Hank has never looked at him like that before. He stores the image inside him like a bright jewel.

“Okay. You’re good, baby.” Hank runs one hand through Connor’s hair. His thumb catches at the edge of his jawline, drawing a soft, curved line to the point of his chin. Connor wonders whether Hank would be able to feel his own dick pressed against the inside of his cheek, if he moved his thumb a few inches further up. “You’re good to go.”

Hank seems to enjoy the friction of Connor’s movement rather than him staying still and simply analysing the tension building in Hank’s body - which is not surprising, really. Connor begins to move his head, slow at first and then a little faster, listening to Hank’s responses as they fall around him. The twitching of his thighs, the rolling of his hips. The moans and swears that come from around a clenched fist.

Here, Hank’s skin is soft and velvet-smooth, nothing at all like the roughness of his fingers. Slick with precome, the chemical composition of which Connor files away in a manner that Hank would no doubt find wildly unsexy. Thankfully, there is not much space for him to make any comment.

Pulling back from the base again, Connor’s tongue rubs along the thick vein at the base of Hank’s cock - heady heat, the beat of his heart - and a moan catches in that back of his throat. That same error is threatening, looming bright in the corners of his vision, and Connor is getting dangerously close to the point where he knows he will no longer be able to shut it down. The sensation of Hank inside him, around him, leaking hot on his tongue, is quickly becoming the only thing that he is able to concentrate on.

A trickle of lubricant seeps from the corner of his mouth and runs down his chin. Hank groans at the sight, wiping it away with his thumb.

“I’m not gonna last much longer like this, baby,” Hank murmurs, his fingers tight in Connor’s hair.

Connor keens, high and throaty, in response. The slight tug of Hank’s hand makes his systems spark and crackle, errors running in full effect now, with no clear way of resolving them. Except to stop what he’s doing. And that’s not even close to an option.

“Ha- Hank-”

He pulls off Hank’s cock just enough to moan around his name and, to his surprise, his voice is run through with static.

Hank’s eyes widen. Neither of them have ever heard Connor sound like this.

“Are you going to come from this, baby?” Hank asks, his voice low, awestruck. “You gonna come from sucking my cock?”

Connor realises then, with a searing flash of recognition, that that is what is about to happen. The searing errors that flood his vision, that sudden overflow of data, that sparking, burning pressure that crackles just beneath the surface of his chassis...

He’s going to orgasm. With no genital components of his own for external stimulation, he hadn’t thought that it would be possible. But as he hollows his cheeks and Hank’s groan of pleasure shudders through him, the errors almost blind him.

He nods. Hank’s head tilts back, exposing his neck, the sheen of sweat beneath his collarbones.

“Jesus, Connor.” Hank’s breaths are coming quick and shallow, his fingers twitching in Connor’s hair. “You want me to pull out now, or-”

Connor shakes his head - as much as he can with Hank’s dick still stretching his mouth wide. He’s done enough research to know what is going to happen next, and he wants to keep every part of it for himself. Store it neatly alongside his most vital processes.

“Fuck, okay. Connor-” And Hank’s voice shakes apart around Connor’s name, as he spills, warm and thick, into Connor’s mouth. A brief analysis appears before Connor’s eyes - fructose, citrate, amino acids - but the information is so intimate, the flood of it so piercing and precise, that Connor has no choice but to let it overwhelm him.

An error like a power surge. The image of Hank’s face, eyes squeezed shut, mouth slack.

It rolls through him, pleasure so intense that it’s almost painful, rocking him in its riptide.

Blackness, for the briefest of moments. A sensation like floating, suspended from a high wire.

When he comes to, his head is resting against Hank’s thigh, and one of Hank’s big hands is stroking along his cheek. The roughness of his skin feels grounding.

“You okay, baby?” Hank asks. He sounds concerned, and there is a tight knot between his brows.

“Yes.” Connor replies. His voice is quiet, still a little reedy with static. “I- I didn’t know I could do that.”

Connor rights himself, crawls up onto the sofa so that he is resting against Hank’s chest. Hank’s dick is soft against his thigh. It takes very little concentration for Connor to recall the taste of him on his tongue.

“You wanna clean up a little bit?” Hank asks, his arm coming to wrap around Connor’s shoulders.

Connor can only imagine what he must look like, hair awry, lips swollen. It feels like it would cost him a great effort to do very much at the moment. “Can we just stay here for a minute?”

“Sure thing,” Hank replies, pulling Connor in a little closer. A quiet beat passes between them, and Connor listens to Hank’s breathing as it slows to a comforting, even pull.

There are a million things that he would like to say to Hank in this moment. A hundred questions, a thousand monumental statements. From the melee, the confused press of words, he choose something simple.

“Was that okay?”

He feels Hank’s lips press to the top of his head. “Baby, it was wonderful.”

Connor holds the words against his chest for a long moment; they shine brightly between his fingers.

“So what’s it like now, huh?” Hank asks. “Having a test lab in your mouth?”

Connor thinks about how different his answer must be since Hank asked him the same question several weeks ago. Alongside mundane professional information, he has stored data so very intimate that it makes his heart ache.

“It’s different, now,” he replies, shifting closer to Hank. “It’s good.”