Archive of Our Own

Machinery whirs. Soft buzzing fills the dimly lit room. It's not much; a small makeshift office in your relatively tinier apartment. Your computer dominates one corner of the room, but this time just barely, and for good reason. While the repair equipment you have is always up and running (just in case), your examination table is seldom occupied, much less by someone like Connor.

You weren't strangers; you tinkered in android tech, usually contract work. After the revolution, Connor had seemed to find contentment in cybersecurity. You'd been helping develop some anti-malware hardware additions for androids, and your contractor had suggested the small firm he was employed at as a resource. 

Software development wasn't your thing. It'd been a productive meeting, and you'd kept in contact, but hadn't really, hung out, as it were. At least, not until recently. Your careers had overlapped again, and this time, you'd started to meet up and talk more.

"Go over symptoms for me, again?" you ask. You're in your computer chair. Your tool belt clinks lightly when you shift to look at him, and you idly fidget with the pair rubber gloves in your hands.

Connor's mildly impatient, has been since he arrived asking for your assistance. Agitation rolls from him in waves. 

"Thirium distribution has been irregular," he recounts, an edge of frustration. "The entire rhythm is off, and it's causing decreases in energy efficiency—"

He freezes for several heartbeats. He's done this a couple times since arriving, too.

"—and-lag-in-my-output." Connor's voice speeds without pitching up when he moves again. He seems to catch the error and grits his teeth.

"I already know what's wrong," he says. He'd be pacing if you hadn't instructed him to stay seated. You let him vent, eyes tracking him.

"Right, your regulator's screwy," you agree. You turn in your chair to your computer. "I'll still need to figure out what the specific problem is. Your model doesn't exactly have spare parts mass produced everywhere, so I'll just have to repair what you have."

Connor pauses again. You give him a moment before looking back to him, worried he'd gotten a particularly nasty bout of lagging, but he's just drumming his fingers on the edge of the examination table. He speaks after a moment.

"If I could just run a proper diagnostic, this wouldn't be a problem."

"It's not your fault," you try to soothe. "We'll, it's a fault that you're currently dealing with, and it probably occurred due to an action you took, but don't beat yourself up about it."

He's barely listening, muttering under his breath. "How am I supposed to assess a problem if the problem itself is interfering with my ability to assess?" 

"You're not," you cut in. You catch his attention this time and lean away from some text you'd been scrolling through. "That's why you called me." 

When he doesn't answer right away, you decide to just jump into it. He's a big boy. He can handle it.

"To cut to the chase — I've gotta remove your regulator for a bit," you explain. "Gonna have to pop it open. Good news is I can hook you up to one of my fancy doohickeys and keep your stable during that."

When Connor hesitates, you add, "If it doesn't feel safe, you don't have to — get a second opinion if it makes you feel better, but they'll tell you the same thing."

To lighten things, you add, "And I'm easier to sue if you get damaged."

Connor's LED whirs yellow for a moment, catching your eye, and you prepare to ease up, let him process. His mouth twists into a frown.

"It's just—" 

An organic pause, and he tries again.

"I'm worried about my reaction to it ha—" His voice fizzles into static as he lags, then comes back in, rushed like before. "—appening again. My thirium is already irregular. A panic response could make it worse."

You spare him a glance from where you'd stood to power on some machinery. "What, have you damaged your regulator like this before?"

"Not like this," Connor says a bit too quickly. He clears his throat. 

"During the—" he starts, pauses, corrects. "Before the revolution, when I was investigating deviated androids, there was an altercation."

"Hold on," you say suddenly, quickly moving to where Connor sits. You pull out a few supplies haphazardly, finally pressing an electrode patch just under his jaw. You turn your attention to your computer screen without tuning him out. "Okay. Now tell me."

Connor furrows his brow, though not out of confusion. He can follow your line of thinking, he just doesn't really like it. "As I was saying, there was an altercation, and my regulator was forcibly removed from my—" A short hiccup of lag. "—body."

"My reaction to danger is different now. Less predictable. I worry about ca—aaauuuu—sing harm."

"I could strap you down," you comment, a bit too flat.

"Seriously."

"Alright," you relent. "Well, at the very least, I'll keep you alert while I take it out. I could power you down, but there's always the chance of... reflex related activation. Yours is the last model I need to get risky with."

"...Okay," Connor agrees quietly, glancing at your equipment. Normally he can scan something and understand its mechanisms, purpose, and context near instantly. Now he feels stunted, trying to figure out what he doesn't remember though guesswork. "How will you go about... that?"

You tap a few keys, pulling up a low poly model of a humanoid. You love when you get to use your graphics. "I'll start with connecting the stabilizer to get your thirium moving properly," you explain, gesturing to the model's abdomen, where a panel slides open. "For that I'll have to kind of get in there, if you don't mind."

Connor minds, just a little bit, but this is the inevitable part of the situation.

"Once you're running smoothly, I'll be able to pop open your regulator and figure out what the problem is. This machine can keep you stable for twelve hours tops before I need to refuel it, but it shouldn't take me more than one, if that."

"Right," Connor says. Hesitates.

You catch his pause and tilt your head encouragingly.

"Just—be careful."

"I promise I know my way around a regulator."

"No, not that," he protests. "It's—they're sensitive."

"They're... sensitive?"

Blue dusts Connor's face, frustration prickling at his words like a rose. He pointlessly clears his throat. "It's overstimulating, that's all."

...Hm.

"Overstimulating," you repeat. "Noted."

You have an eye on the charts tracking Connor's "pulse" via the patch under his jaw. It's been steadily erratic as long as you've tracked, and you assume before he arrived, too. It spiked a bit when he said, overstimulating, then again, almost twice as much, when you spoke. You have enough information.

The way that Connor obediently moves and cooperates as you get him comfortable on the examination bench shouldn't be so distracting. You exhale through your nose when he tilts his head to the side, making room for another electrode patch, before you get the chance to ask. 

"I joked earlier, but I really do have to strap you down," you explain, gently moving one of his arms to lay on the armrest. "Just makes things easier for both of us. Try to relax."

"Right," Connor says, in such a stiff demeanor that one would wonder if he's trying to get the perception of androids as 'coldly robotic' popular again.

Your movements are careful but efficient. Once he's removed his shirt to make room, you fasten his arms and wrists, then legs. You try to take care not to touch him directly, seeing as he's already nervous about the operation. Your wrist rustles the fabric of his pants against a calf, and his heart rate bobs up like a fishing lure.

Once you're satisfied, you pull up a wheeled stool and settle beside him, pulling on your gloves. They're specially made, your own design; "thirium-phobic" material that helps mitigate how much stray biofuel is lost during these procedures. Among other features.

"Alright," you start, voice steady. "Just stay calm for me."

"Alright," Connor agrees with a shaky exhale.

You give him another moment before leaning over the android. One hand comes up, and you splay your fingers over his abdomen. Material in the gloves allows you to engage with his body's mechanisms. It's incredibly rudimentary, nothing close to what an android can do in a couple seconds, but it's functional enough to work an "open/closed" switch with ease. The panel over his stomach slides open.

Connor winces.

Your eyes flick to him immediately, and he handwaves you, encouragingly, you think.

You turn back to his now exposed guts. It's both more and less humanlike than you'd expected. It makes sense to model this functionality in the image of humans, but there's a certain point where it feels gratuitous. Like, you're pretty sure memory storage doesn't need to be wound up in a faux small intestine. 

The nanofans lining what you can see of his translucent, glowing lungs are almost distracting from the damaged part itself.

The thirium pump has several connecting lines from within it to the rest of Connor's body. This is also connected to a round, metal base just under Connor's sternum, and that's where the regulator plugs into. You'll be hooking him up to an artificial, artificial heart.

First you'll need to prepare him. The regulator begins to store power into his body once it's been securely locked in, so once you unplug the regulator itself, you'll have a couple of generator-minutes to get him connected. You try to heed Connor's words and move slowly and carefully. Occasionally it's unavoidable for your fingers to press more firmly against a group of wiring or a hard part of his inner frame. Every time, you see his heartbeat jump.

You turn a couple parts in place, and the metal base releases the regulator with a low hiss. The strength needed to remove it by force would be nothing less than android, and doing so would shatter the release valve. It's a bit of a risky and fragile way to design energy administration, but it's also the most efficient, so long as no one is wrenching out each other's regulators. It looks like Connor's had the release valve replaced at least once.

As you lift the piece of machinery out of his body, Connor's eyes track your hand, eyelashes fluttering like he can't bear to see but is unable to look away. You quickly place it out of sight, on your workdesk. The stabilizer begins a low hum, and Connor seems to relax minutely. It's probably the clearest his mind's been all week.

Once you feel satisfied that Connor can handle you turned away working, you do so. Vaguely you can make out the sound of his finger tapping against the examination bench. The stabilizer's hum grows slightly louder.

"I take you're excited, but don't run too many processes at once," you warn him. "It'll slow you down while you're undergoing a delicate operation and possibly sap more energy." You bump the machine lightly with your knuckles.

"I know that," Connor says, a hint of defensive, and you opt not to comment with grace even when the stabilizer's hum lowers accordingly a couple heartbeats later.

You settle in your chair, pulling your legs up to be crossed in your seat. This isn't a model you've operated on before, and for some reason has a unique pump, but you can figure it out easily enough. You wonder if this design choice were made with future dependency in mind.

Probably.

The best place to start is the valve connector. You unscew it like a lid, popping it fully off the rest with your screwdriver once it's loose. It clatters on the table.

"You said you'd be careful—"

"It's basically a sardine lid, it's fine," you quickly inform him. It's more like fifty sardine lids pressed into waifish diamond, but he doesn't have to think about that right now.

Connor relents with a quiet sigh. You know, like a dog.

You bite back your amusement and focus on the task at hand. Once you have the component in your hand, you can easily figure out the problem. Whenever his regulator had last been damaged, whoever repaired it must have left a bit of glass just small enough to be unnoticed. Repaired, it seemed to have been negligible. Something changed recently, and allowed the old oversight to become a problem.

"You been in any stressful situations lately?" you ask, conversational. Pulling on goggles (just in case) and grabbing a pair of tweezers, you start to look into the component. 

"Define 'stressful'," Connor answers, obviously knowing what you're talking about.

"Possibly adverse experiences, new changes in your life." You roll right along, unwilling to let him even try to trip you up. "More responsibilities at work, keeping up with deadlines, new friends..."

The smallest bunny hop on the monitor.

"Maybe not stressful," you continue when Connor's jaw tightens. "Exciting?"

"Why are you interrogating me?" he asks, dark eyes trained on you from where he's harmlessly strapped to the bench.

"Just curious about what caused your thirium pump to experience heavier use," you reply. You hope the confidence you're riding isn't completely unfounded. It was enough of a change from his hardware's baseline that a bit of debris was jostled from where it'd been sitting along the valve, benign, for months. Clogged a tiny, load-bearing component in the part of the regulator that actually, physically manages the pump's rhythm. 

You relay this to Connor.

"You don't have to tell me what happened," you quickly add. A quiet hiss of victory when your tweezers lock around one of the offending bits of glass. "I'm just being nosy." The glass clinks into the waste dish on your desk.

He doesn't respond at first. Just when you're about to anxiously change topics, Connor exhales again, very doglike, and turns his head away, not that you see from your desk. He drums his fingers, and you let him take his time.

"I just — got a new upgrade," he barely doesn't mumble. "Tested it. It affected my systems more than I expected."

You catch on easily and don't torment him further on explicits. "That's nice, though," you reply, and it sounds a bit cannned even though you mean it. "Tried it out with someone?"

"No," Connor replies.

Your pause is a bit too long, and when Connor follows up with, "Is it weird if I didn't?" you have to force yourself to stop imagining him jerking off.

"Of course it isn't," you quickly say. "Sorry, focused."

Connor's too caught on his own anxiety to notice your obvious preoccupation on the man strapped down three feet away. "Right," he says, in that polite way one disengages from a person they've kept too long in the cereal aisle.

You get back to your task, and the two of you lapse into what you hope is a comfortable silence. You hear the stabilizer hum a bit louder, though not as much as before, and regardless you leave him to it. It doesn't take much for him to get restless.

The grains of dust remaining in the regulator's chamber are making you desperately irritated with whoever did the repairs previously, but you can figure it was probably one of Connor's friends, so you don't say anything. Though, it would be nice if it were safe to just turn it over and give it a hard tamp on the workbench. Even shaking it unplugged like this isn't a great idea. So you continue to toil.

Connor's pulse bobs for a half second before he speaks. "Have you been well?" 

Anyone else you'd assume this small talk and answer non-committally. "It's been alright," you reply. "Managed to build a savings a bit ago, so I've been trying to take it easy." You adjust your goggles. "Getting a little lazy, though. Thanks for the work." 

You shoot him a wink over your shoulder, mostly obscured by your eyewear. You can't tell if he catches it, even though his pulse bunny hops.

All the bits of glass you're able to remove with tweezers form a shallow pile in your waste dish. You take a microfiber cloth and fix it around the tip of a longer, narrow component, like a cotton swab. You don't dare to try and fit your fingers or hands into the regulator. All the grace in the world wouldn't make it better than the cotton swab strat.

Once you're happy with your work, you fasten the lid back onto the regulator with a satisfying click. It looks alright, not anymore dinged up than how you received it. You suppose surface scratches are superficial for something usually inside his body. 

"Done," you announce, spinning around in the stool and pushing your goggles to sit atop your head. "Doing okay?"

"Peachy," Connor replies dryly. 

"Spending too much time with that Hank of yours," you tease as you roll to his side, to little amusement, cradling the regulator to your chest. "I'm gonna wean you off the stabilizer, and then we'll get your regulator back in place. It might be a bit of an uncomfortable transition."

Connor opens his mouth, then closes it. You give him a moment.

"Wean?" he finally manages.

"The stabilizer can't store excess energy for the transfer like your regulator can," you explain. "I'm swapping them slowly so your system isn't thrown off as much."

He nods, and you get the impression that his question was more about the phrasing itself than the actual mechanical logic. Oh well.

There's five wires fastening Connor to the stabilizer. You start to reach, then pause and look up at Connor. He's watching you. It's not hesitation in his eyes. If anything, you feel spurred on.

"Ready?" you ask.

"Ready," he replies, low enough that his voice scrapes on his breath like steel wool.

You turn your attention back to his open abdomen. You hadn't quite noticed how much it glows. It takes a lot of effort to not just start pulling out organs and studying them. 

Well, maybe not a lot, but the thought crosses your mind with more gusto than you're comfortable with.

...Right. You're performing surgery.

You reach into his torso, careful to avoid the... everything all pressed inside. Your fingers brush against a bit of that memory-intestine, and you hear Connor exhale roughly above you. 

Your jaw clenches. 

You gently grab the first wire, twist and unhook it. You keep glancing up at Connor for any signs of discomfort, but he just stares upwards, jaw clenched. 

When you unhook the second wire, you hear his breath catch.

On the third, you're certain you see pale blue crawling up his neck.

You reach to remove the fourth wire. This one's placement is a bit tricky, and you'd accidentally touched his biocomponents with more pressure than either of you had been quite amicable to, when you'd first hooked him to the stabilizer. You conclude that if you're going to have to touch his insides, then you'd rather do so on purpose, so you gently press aside a bit of obscuring lung to remove the plug.

Connor's pulse jumps, but luckily he does not. You catch his eyelashes fluttering, and you ask, quietly, as if trying not to spook a horse, "Doing alright?"

"Fine," Connor replies, too quickly. You can see his face flushed with blue. Worried he's having issues with thirium flow, you go to inspect the pump itself. It's moving faster than ideal, but not so much that it's irregular or unsafe.

You flick your eyes back to him. He's already trained his on you. The air between you hasn't quite shifted, but it certainly isn't stagnant.

"I'm fine," Connor reiterates. You can practically see him trying to control his thirium pump. It makes you a bit too brave. 

"You're fine?" you repeat, and he stiffens impossibly further when your voice lowers. "Your heart's pounding."

You can see his chest heave a bit at that. His gaze, fixed, only darkens, and he's still strapped down.

"Because I'm between regulators," he replies weakly.

You're emboldened. "How does it feel?"

For once, Connor's the one who feels hunted. "Dizzying," he answers. "Like you're—like my pulse is being held down."

Hot, you think. "Does it feel good?"

His pulse had slowed a bit, but quickens again.

You try again. "Do you like it?"

"I—" 

His voice wavers.

"Yes."

His words make your spine buzz. Your hand, resting at your hip, draws up to his abdomen again. You feel encouraged. 

You turn your attention back down to his insides. Your hand had brushed against the memory-intestine before. Distractingly, it's an interesting piece of technology — paper-thin layers of synthetic tissue, each leaf with no less than a terabyte of memory spread across it, in a long paper domino line, surrounded by a thin, protective membrane. Neatly folded and tucked into his body like it might distract from the otherworldly blue flooding through his veins.

Your palm presses over some of the synthetic tissue. Connor's eyes widen, and you squeeze, gentle and hesitant. His entire body shudders. Your fingers slide along the length of what's exposed to you, and a low noise rises from the back of his throat. 

It's so wet. You close your hand around a bit of the line, bringing your other up supportively. You gently lift some of the organ, not too high, admiring the translucent material, admiring the way it pulls another involuntary groan from Connor's lips.

And then he says your name, in a tone that's equal parts warning and pleading. 

You take in a sharp inhale. Heat crawling up your neck, you slowly return his memory line to where it belongs and re-orient yourself to the task at hand. You reach in to unhook the final wire connecting him to the stabilizer, and then quickly press his regulator back into place in one smooth motion. 

Instantly Connor takes in a deep breath, lets his eyes shut. You can imagine how good that feels, to have your mind clear, in your own body. Autonomous.

It's a welcome distraction to allow you to turn away and start tidying your workspace, though you pause to release Connor from the bindings of your examination table, and to power down the electrode patches, by flicking a switch near your monitor. Your skin is burning. You'd definitely gotten carried away. He didn't seem upset or uncomfortable, at least, but you still avoid eye contact like the plague as you remove your gloves and goggles.

Connor breaks the silence. "Thank you. That was bothering me. A lot."

You pause for the half second it takes for you to realize he's referring to the repair. "Of course," you reply, just as stilted. "Sorry my bedside manner isn't as good as it could be." Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

"You're fine," he assures you, like you hadn't been fondling his organs. There's shuffling, and you hear the sound of his shoes touching the floor from where you're wiping down your counter. You scrub harder.

You see Connor's hand rest on the table before you register him drawing closer. He's put his shirt back on, but it's rumpled enough to make you lightheaded at the very implication of the ways it could end up so. Your pulse jumps in your throat.

"Though," he says—no, drawls, "you do have a lot of nerve."

You tense, but are unable to resist turning to look up at him. Admittedly you'd only gotten so cocky because he couldn't do anything about it. Now he's more capable than when he arrived.

His gaze flicks down to your chest, and you almost get even more flustered, but it quickly returns to you. His voice dips into a rough breath from the chest to tease you.

"You're heart's pounding." And then, just to fuck with you, probably, "Cute."

You might pass out.

Taking your lack of protest as encouragement, Connor leans further into your space, bringing his other arm around to cage you in against the workdesk. 

"I wonder how you'd like it." His breath against your ear makes you shiver. "Being at someone's mercy like that."

"What, gonna cut me open?" you manage to warble back, somehow.

You make out one of his fists clenching against the table. 

"I don't need to."

You fail to bite back the whimper that squirms up your throat, thrill and fear intertwined.

Connor leans back, but doesn't free you from being caged against the desk. "You know I won't actually hurt you."

You hesitate a beat too long.

"Oh," Connor murmurs. "You don't."

Your throat's dry. You have mixed feelings on how much the potential danger here is turning you on. Your hesitation signals protest to Connor, and he starts to draw back.

Your hand shoots out to death grip his wrist. You fix your eyes on his. "No," you answer, pointed and suggestive. "I don't."

It takes him a second to catch on. 

It takes even less for him to shove his tongue down your throat.

Connor might've implied a lack of experience earlier, but his clumsy forcefulness is very much working for you. His lips are soft but firm, and he just goes for it. He's good at leading without fighting against you, and you melt into him, even moreso when his hands suddenly grip your thighs and lift you onto the workbench.

It's overwhelming. Most men you've made out with don't use so much tongue, but Connor makes you unable to comprehend why everyone isn't doing this, all the time. His hands press into the tops of your thighs to steady himself, fingers digging into your jeans. You grab at his shirt collar and yank him forward, pleased when his grunt of surprise is more of a moan.

Connor presses even closer to you, like he can't handle the distance, and you whine when his hand comes up to cushion your head from the wall. Your hands slide up to cup his throat, and you press your thumbs into his jugular. It's a shot in the dark, but Connor groans against your lips and kisses you with even more fervor. 

Abruptly he pulls away. You follow after him, eyes widening in dismay, but he's just impatiently unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it aside. His hands go for the hem of your own t-shirt, and you raise your arms cooperatively before he even has time to ask for permission. The tool belt takes some finagling, but quickly joins your shirt on the floor.

"What'd you even put your shirt back on for?" you tease, a bit breathless, chest heaving. You're staring. He is, too.

"Why are you wearing anything at all," he deadpans back, not even bothering to lift his gaze from where it's taking you in.

He doesn't give you a chance to respond. You surge back into each other, your hands pressing into his chest and sliding down his sides, unabashedly panting into his mouth. Connor seems to take great pleasure in overwhelming you, one hand squeezing your waist, the other cupping your breast. You feel him smile against your lips when you whine.

You shove him back, your skin tingling hotly. "Okay, room," you say. You're already a bit too dizzy with arousal to form a proper sentence. You point over his shoulder. "Room."

Connor aborts a laugh into a little huff. You know plenty about his model, but it's one thing to intellectually know his strength, and an entire other for him to effortlessly hup you up into his arms, bridal style. You throw your arms around his neck, startled despite everything.

He laughs again. You want to make him forget how to do that. You want him to take so much pleasure in you that he forgets anything else.

Your room's only down the hall from your little office, but it's still an ordeal to get there. Connor, for his credit, tries to keep stumbling forward when you yank him down to kiss, but even he pauses to adjust your position and shove you against the wall right outside your bedroom, hands firmly gripping your thighs around his waist. You can feel the upgrade that'd caused him so much grief pressing against your hip.

At least you'll know if your repairs stick by the end of this.

You break away, breathless and desperate, wriggling in his grip. "Not against the wall," you pant. "Not gonna come against the wall."

Connor exhales against your throat. "Wasn't gonna," he grits out. "I want you under me when you come."

That draws a whimper from you, and he uses the distraction to lift you properly and make it the rest of the way to your room. You're deposited onto the bed with a light bounce that forces a startled laugh from you, and Connor's biting back a small smile when he crawls after you. He doesn't waste time, peppering your stomach with kisses and working his way back up, like it's his mission to get his mouth on every bit of exposed skin he can manage.

"Let me undress you," he breathes against your neck. His hand's already fumbling for your waistband. You're putty in his palms.

"Please."

Connor kisses your throat again, leaning back to help you shimmy out of your jeans and boyshorts. Your skin is hot down to your chest, and your hips pulse with even more. You sit up to pat his forearm when he leans aside to set your clothes on a nearby chair.

"Keep your jeans on?" you suggest, flushing even deeper. 

He raises a brow. You can't tell if he's genuinely confused or tormenting you.

"It's, uh — " You clear your throat pointedly. "You look hot like that."

Connor's gaze softens against your expectation of teasing, and you make a small, muffled noise of surprise when he leans back over you and presses a kiss against your lips. You admittedly go right for deepening it, but he only humors you for a few moments before pulling back and speaking into your ear.

"Such a sweet girl." His voice is a low, gravelly murmur. You squeeze your eyes too tightly at the praise. Not enough to avoid noticing the way Connor visibly notes and catalogs your reaction. He leans in close again, ducks to lave his tongue over your jugular, returns to your ear.

"One hundred ten beats per minute and rising," he murmurs. "All that blood moving." One hand shifts to cup your hip, thumb tracing small, firm circles into your skin. "Much less in that pretty little head, I'm afraid."

All you manage is a breathy, "oh, God."

Connor's hand moves lower, and you bite back a whine when his fingers slide against your clit, jolting you. He presses harder.

"Can you feel that?" You can hear the soft, damp click of his mouth opening when he speaks. His thumb rolls over your clit, and you whimper. "You're already all wet and hard for me."

You open your mouth defensively, but nothing comes up. 

The corner of Connor's lips twitch, and his eyes narrow. "That's alright," he breathes against your ear. You shiver. He knows he's overstimulating you. "I know you poor humans are beholden to things like that. Can't control yourselves."

You swallow a moan. You can barely keep your eyes open, but you hope he can tell you're trying to glare. Performatively. But still a glare.

He leans back, glances at you like one would a nagging child. His hand shifts, presses the heel of his palm against your core. You can't stop from grinding against it. Your skin is burning.

"Good girl." You whine, and he shushes you like a spooked animal, murmurs your name. "Try to keep ahold of yourself. Your heartbeat's already at a hundred fifteen."

It certainly feels that way.

You make a pathetic noise. Trembling, you try to relax under him, and Connor rewards you by ducking down and sucking on your neck hard enough to make you keen. Your hips still twitch pathetically against his hand, until he gently pulls back, earning a whine of dismay.

"It's okay," he murmurs, kissing your forehead, shushes you again. "It's okay."

With difficulty you settle under him. His hand slides up your side, palm still slick, and your eyelashes flutter. He squeezes your body right below your breast.

"Feel all that give," he whispers in your ear. Tightens his grip. "You're so fragile. I could crush your ribs right now if I saw fit."

You shudder.

"You're okay," he tells you. "I'm not going to hurt you. You're just going to have to trust me."

You respond with a shaky nod.

He squeezes you harder. 

"I trust you," you squeak out, reflexive.

His grip relaxes.

"Good girl."

Your eyes flutter, overwhelmed as Connor shifts, kissing down your chest and stomach. He sucks a mark into your inner thigh that makes you mewl. You can feel his breath against your core, and it's a struggle to keep your legs open. Not that the grip he has on you is making it particularly difficult.

"You're — " you start, voice cracking enough to make you falter. Connor pauses anyways, looking up at you. Nothing in his expression implies anything except attentive concern, but you have to turn away, too overwhelmed under his gaze.

"Do you need to stop?" Connor asks.

"No!" you burst out, ears burning when Connor smiles softly at your enthusiasm. "No, I just — it's a lot. Are you — are we — "

You trail off again, and Connor watches you. When you don't pick your sentence back up, Connor glances to the side, idly resting his cheek against your inner thigh. You exhale at the sensation.

Connor speaks. "We both know how my regulator's past damage was exacerbated." He pauses, like he's nervous, but seems to steel himself. "And I think we both know that, even so, it took quite a bit of force to do so."

The image of Connor, flushed and panting, cock in hand, driving himself to orgasm, assumedly, over and over — 

You feel dizzy. You almost miss Connor's next words.

"I could've gone to anyone else about this. There's a reason it was you, and now I want to make you feel good." He firmly enunciates, fixes you with a scolding look that just makes you shudder all over.

"Let me make you feel good."

I jerked off to you so hard I re-damaged my biocomponent isn't the reassurance you usually crave, but it does just fine right now. 

"Okay," you breathe, relaxing under him. You let your legs go limp in his grip, eyelashes fluttering. "Okay. Sorry."

Connor's tutting you before you even get the word out. "Don't be sorry." And then, clearly trying to help you lose your anxieties, "Just be a good girl and keep still for me."

You can do that. 

You lashes flutter as you exhale. Connor watches you for a heartbeat longer before ducking his head again, peppering your belly with kisses. He takes his time to ease you back into the headspace, hands sliding up along your sides soothingly. 

He drifts down, tongue hot against your inner thigh when he kisses you again, and you whine, hips twitching. Connor makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat, lets his mouth drift steadily closer. 

His hands move to grip your thighs firmly, tugging you a bit closer as he open-mouth kisses into your cunt. You twitch, lips falling open in a soft gasp, and Connor seems to take that as encouragement. You'd felt his tongue — very much so — when he'd kissed you, but it's something different against your clit, just slightly firmer and rougher than a human's, in a way you notice much more like this. The way he goes at it — instantly ravenous, moaning softly against your core, hand unsteadily gripping higher, fingers digging into your skin — like he's barely noticed that there's a living person attached to his new fixation, that he isn't just savoring a delicacy. 

You whimper. His tongue is laving over your entrance and up to your clit, his breath warm on sensitive skin. He starts flat-tongued and gentle over your core, teasing you terribly, his tongue firming and making you shake when it slides over your swollen bundle of nerves. You whine, legs tensing around his head, and Connor forces your legs wider with a low growl.

He keeps going, steadily building you up. He's insatiable but not over-eager. His tongue moves enough to have you trembling, but not so fast that it just becomes stinging white noise. 

It's obvious that his pace comes from his own pleasure first, and just happens to be working you over. The thought makes you momentarily light-headed, and your hips squirm against Connor's face.

Connor pulls back just long enough to adjust, and you catch the sight of him, eyes dark, mouth and chin covered in your slick. He shifts to a higher kneel, hauls one thigh over his shoulder, holds you up to his face in his hands, fingers digging into your hips. You cry out when he dives back in, his movements becoming more forceful, panting against your wet, pulsing core.

He's getting you close, and you buck against him — or try to, at least, against his hold. Your body is trembling as you manage, "Connor — "

Connor licks your clit, hard. You cut yourself off with a sob.

"Connor," you choke out again. "I need you inside me. Please."

He shifts you, lowers you to the bed, still leans over your body. One palm braces by your waist, the other hand dives between your legs as he shoves two fingers into your wet heat.

"Like that?" he pants, and his voice is rough enough to make you whine. "Is that what you need?"

You're moaning, pitched and needy, with every rough pump of his fingers. Blinking rapidly, you struggle to keep your mind clear. Your fists curl into the sheets. 

"Please," you say again. 

Connor thrusts a third finger into you. "Yeah?" he exhales. "Is that all you can do? Whine and beg for me?"

You groan and grind into his hand.

"Look at you," he all-but purrs. "You're such a weak little thing. A bit of touching and you fall apart."

Stars blink in your vision.

"I could do whatever I wanted to you right now," he says, voice dropping lower. His hand keeps moving, thumb shifting to press over your clit, the storm of sensation curling tighter in your stomach. "You'd be so obedient. You'd be gorgeous. You'd be so helpless."

"I'm close," you gasp suddenly, eyes squeezed tight, thighs trembling. You hear Connor sharply inhale, eyes glittering.

He shifts you again, keeps his fingers pumping into you, but lifts you by the hips to resume licking at your clit. You let out a noise like a sob, and he presses closer, flats his tongue against the bud of flesh, makes the damn thing vibrate.

You come almost violently with a rough cry, thighs clamping around Connor's head, but he doesn't seem to care. If anything, he presses his tongue in harder, keeps fucking you on his fingers through your orgasm, into overstimulation that has tears pricking at your eyes. You keep trying to swallow back your whimpers, but they just break through as a wail, and he pushes you through another orgasm, barely after the last has the chance to die down.

It takes you a moment to come back to earth. You're lightheaded, clit tingling numbly, thighs shaking. At some point Connor had retrieved his fingers and tongue, open hand gently stroking your belly.

"Why can your tongue vibrate," you manage.

Connor's eyes flick to yours in a very, oh, good, you're awake, way, and he replies, visibly biting back a smile, "What, you didn't like it?"

"Somehow I thought you'd be a lot sweeter like this," you croak out drily.

Connor does smile at that, something shy despite it all. "I like teasing you," he replies, plain and simple. "It's fun."

You start to open your mouth in protest, but the way he's staring at you gives you pause. Pot and kettle, you suppose.

Connor seems to follow your line of thinking. He moves to kneel between your legs properly, leans over you and laves his tongue over your collarbone, drawing a shudder from you. Him and that tongue, jesus.

"Especially after how you teased me," he continues in your ear, tone dropping. Your eyes flutter back. "After all I let you get away with, I'm very much looking forward to rearranging your insides."

"Fair enough," you reply weakly.

That makes him bark a laugh, which seems to startle both of you. Shaking his head, still faintly smiling, Connor fumbles with his jeans, impatiently shoving them down just as much as needed to free his straining cock. Admittedly you're interested both from the obvious as well as the perspective of your work, and the two bleed together, a bit.

He's big, relatively. Not so much you're terrified of taking it, but enough that you're certain to be sore after. The look on your face seems to inform him enough of your impression, and you have to bite back a groan when you see him get even harder.

"Tell me that thing has a limit," you say.

"I'm not even teasing you this time when I say it does and it's this."

"I don't believe you," you snark, trying to coax him closer with your legs. 

"Fair enough," he repeats, drawing a noise from the back of your throat. To his credit, he does scoot closer, bracing his palm against your knee. There's the smallest bit of hesitation, and you tap his leg with your heel encouragingly — to speak.

"I haven't — " You stop yourself from jumping in when he falters, wanting to give him the space to talk, but his eyes flicker to you like he's too nervous to say the rest.

"It's okay," you tell him. "Everyone's gotta start somewhere. You only just got the upgrade."

"I know, I know," Connor starts, shakes his head. "I just want it to be good for you."

You reflexively deadpan, "You just made me come twice," which isn't as helpful as it could be, so you quickly add, "Hey, look, I don't want you to be stressed and under pressure during your first time. Just take it slow. I don't mind if we don't — "

He cuts you off, voice low. "I don't want to take it slow."

Your jaw clamps shut, and you watch him, shuddering as he draws closer, lips by your ear, and starts pushing into you.

"I think if I don't fuck your brains out right now, I'll — "

You moan. He doesn't finish his sentence. He keeps moving forward until his thighs are flush with yours, eyes tensing shut as his LED flicks into red. You blink up at him, panting softly as you try to adjust to his size. Connor's exhale tickles your cheek, and he ducks his head to nuzzle your throat. Idly he mouths at the skin there, hands tensing and un-tensing in the sheets around you. 

His lips working a mark into your throat draw a soft whimper from you, and you thread your fingers through his hair, squeeze gently. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat, pulls back gently, and thrusts, hard.

"It's overwhelming," he admits softly. "I can feel everything. I can feel you. You're shaking."

Pulls back, fucks in. You're already panting again.

"I can feel your blood," he says, low. "I can feel where your body tenses, I can feel — " He cuts himself off with a low hiss when you squeeze around him. He starts to grind into you, slowly building up to a steady rhythm. Each sound he forces out of you is met with a sharper snap of his hips.

You whine, pulling him down to kiss. It's barely any amount of articulation, just your lips and tongues sliding against each other, breath hot in each other's mouths. He pulls back, pushes one of your legs onto his shoulder, almost folds you in half sinking even deeper into your cunt. Your breath hitches, head lolling to the side, and Connor takes advantage, tongue almost digging into the hollow of your throat, teeth scraping your skin. 

His pace picks up, fingers digging into your thigh. He returns to your ear, heavy breath making the heat in your stomach curl. He's revelling in it, in being so animal.

Your skin is burning. 

"I can feel — " His voice dissolves into static, coming back strong. " — Every fucking nerve."

You let out a cry, and Connor growls, leans back again only to fold you in half, hands firm against the backs of your thighs. He thrusts harder, eyes squeezing shut, visibly dizzy with pleasure. You feel your stomach burn even more at the sight, a loud whimper falling from your lips.

Connor pulls your legs around his waist, one hand sliding down to pin your wrists. His fingers bite into your skin. You can both feel your pulse, rapid and hammering like a rabbit inches from capture, and your legs draw up to wrap around him, your entire body trembling. His other hand closes on your hip, bruising hold making your eyes roll back.

"Connor — " you start to warble, straining your hands against his grip, only so he'll pin you even more firmly.

"I've got you," he gasps.

"Please — "

His hand on your hip moves down, his thumb firmly pressing against your clit. You let out a sharp whine; your orgasm is building, but still out of reach, and you nearly sob with frustration.

Connor presses harder. You feel yourself tense, still terribly desperate, tearing up at him. His eyes bore down on you, suddenly darkening.

"I'd love to give you a taste of your own medicine," he growls, fucks you harder. You inhale sharply, lips falling open in a wordless moan. "Break open your ribcage, let you see my hands covered in your blood. I want to taste the adrenaline."

You tremble. His lips are against your ear again. 

"I'm going to fill you until it drips out of your mouth."

Your cresting pleasure forces a wail. You shake apart under Connor, and he releases your wrists in favor of clamping his palm over your mouth, which just makes you overcome with lightheadedness, but does not silence you.

You make out the sight of him tensing, eyes shut and LED blaring with red light, and then his hips are slamming into you, pumping you full of his release, fucking you through your orgasm, hand still firmly rubbing your pulsing clit. You're almost crying, unable to keep your vision straight as he works you into painful overstimulation, and then keeps going.

"Connor," you sob, muffled but enough for him to move his hand to hear you, bracing it against the mattress. "Connor, please, I can't — "

"Yes, you can," Connor cuts in, voice warm even through his grit teeth. He's closer, breath fanning over your cheeks. 

"Connor — "

"Say it again."

"Connor," you plead, feeling tears start to well and fall. "Connor, Connor, please, I'm — "

He kisses you, messy and desperate, and drags his lips to your throat, canines pressing in. You're panting terribly, black spots blinking in your vision. He's so rough yet attentive, and you — you're — 

He pushes you through another orgasm. His teeth sink into your collarbone, and you let out a rough sob as pleasure burns through your body. This one doesn't last as long, naturally, but it's twice as intense, and you're a shaking, sobbing mess as he slowly comes to a stop and laves his tongue over the mark he'd left in your skin.

You take several moments to collect yourself. Dimly you make out Connor steadying his breath and regaining his composure above you. At some point he'd shifted to sit back on his heels, and now he's gently stroking your thighs, dark eyes searching and scanning over your body. He hasn't found any sign of physical injury, but the buzz of arousal has started to fade, and Connor was never one to leave these sorts of situations unaffected.

"I'm okay," you say softly, the first thought you manage to push semi-clearly through your clouded mind. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Connor says quickly, with the expression of someone almost offended to be prioritized. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so rough."

You shake your head. "No, no, it was good, I'm okay." You start to sit up, wincing a bit and shifting your supporting arm to favor the side he'd bit you on. "I meant — your regulator, is it okay?"

He looks caught off guard. Connor blinks several times, expression melting into a small, almost baffled smile. "I — yes, it's fine. Your repairs weren't upset."

"Cool," you reply, drawing the syllable out a bit as you flop back onto the bed. You close your eyes for a moment, feeling Connor shift to lie next to you. You do, admittedly, feel just a little bit like you've just been hit by a truck, but more like a toy truck than a semi. But still, hit by a truck.

You can practically feel Connor's gaze burning a hole through you, and you shift to lie on your side, facing him. You reach out, stroking the side of his throat and his hair. He closes his eyes, seems to soak up the attention.

"I'm really okay," you reassure him. "Trust me."

"...Okay," he says. "I trust you."

Vaguely you're amused by how that reminds you of the rough grip he'd had on you only three or four orgasms ago, and you smile softly.

"What?"

"Nothing," you say quickly. "That was just nice."

Connor still looks apprehensive, but he relaxes, just a bit. "It was," he agrees. He opens his mouth, fumbles for words for a moment, settles on, "It was good. You were good."

"It doesn't have to be weird," you start, aiming for reassurance. "I mean, what you said earlier — I feel the same way." God knows how many times the sight of his back muscles, just a little too visible, sat with you for way too long.

Connor flushes. A couple more false starts. "Oh." Furrows his brows. "You do?"

"Connor."

He breaks into a laugh, and you shove at his chest, shaking your head. 

"Okay, okay," Connor relents, and you're just happy to see him relax.

The two of you settle. It feels less tense. You don't think the glass pane separating you from every other person in your individual relationships can ever truly disappear, but it feels a bit thinner, a little bit malleable, when you look at Connor, when you watch the way his eyes soften when they meet yours.

"So," Connor starts, nuzzled into your hair, in that tone he's picked up since deviating, where he's audibly about to attempt a joke. "I don't suppose this earned me a lovers' discount."

You laugh, have to shove your face into his chest to avoid bumping him on the chin. 

"No," you agree, smiling. "Absolutely not."