Hank has a problem.
Admittedly, it's a big fucking problem manifested in his goddamn inability to keep his libido under control. Hank never had any issues with controlling certain... compulsions in the past (barring the slutty college years because everyone had those), easily able to let go of an infatuation if it was leading nowhere. To handle his emotions and keep himself from falling too quickly, too deep. To steer clear of those married or otherwise engaged—and of friends because fuck it, ruining a friendship was not worth a god-knows how long-lasting a relationship.
Leave it to the android with a heart of gold and the literal body of a chiseled Ancient Greek god to worm his way into Hank's life, completely crush his resolve and leave him hanging in an obsessive-compulsive state of helplessly turned on.
Because why the fuck not.
Hank tries not to lay blame on the guy—he really does. Connor's probably (most likely) oblivious to what he does to Hank (and to others) with his cocky (mesmerizing) half-smiles and awkward (endearing) behavior. He may or may not realize just how his touches and playful words aimed at Hank make the latter feel, how all that leads to Hank picturing Connor at night in his bed, jacking his dick senseless as his feelings go through an explosive hailstorm of pleasure and shame. Connor definitely didn't return the sentiment, of that Hank was sure, and so he did his best to keep a distance from him, make sure nothing gave his un-fucking-necessary sexual turmoil away.
That is, until the night Hank opens the door out of his room with no intention other than to take a piss and hears Connor let out a drawn-out moan like a goddamn Eden Club model, voice soft yet so desperately needy it makes Hank freeze and his breath hitch before he can take another fucking step.
His brain turns off, and his dick is, naturally, instantly excited by the situation.
Holy.
Shit.
Hank slowly closes the door, taking care not to make the slightest sound, and takes a deep breath.
Inhale. Exhale.
Think.
If he were an android, his LED would probably be flashing something along the lines of YELLOW-RED right about then, and so Hank pulls at the door again, hands moving of their own accord, and stands near the opening, listening intently to Connor—Hank still can't fucking believe it—jerking off on Hank's goddamn couch. He can hear the slick movements of Connor bringing himself off, harsh breaths and sweet, delectable sounds escaping him as he does. The tantalizing wrongness of Hank listening in sends wave after wave of sheer desire through every fiber of Hank's shell-shocked being, as his cock rises steadily to full hardness, very conspicuously demanding attention.
Hank turns around and leans back against the wall, sinking to the floor and closing his eyes, an incessant mantra of holy fucking hell resonating through his mind like a prayer. His hand is on his dick without his noticing how it even fucking got there, and it takes almost no effort imagining Connor's delicate hands on him instead of his, long fingers wrapping around Hank's cock and stroking it quickly, rhythmically, perfectly because it would be Connor and everything he does is nothing short of flawless.
"Hank, please..."
Did he just fucking say my name?
It's barely a fucking whisper—probably nothing but Hank's overeager imagination—and it makes his cock impossibly harder, precome already starting to leak from the tip, spurred on by the increasingly lascivious images playing in Hank's mind. Hank would be good to Connor, he thinks, caring and patient as he would guide the evidently less experienced android through this particular learning process, yet in his fantasies, Hank allows himself to let go of his already tenuous measure of control. In his fantasies, Connor is on his knees in front of Hank, stroking his cock, relentlessly efficient as ever, quickening and slowing the pace at Hank orders. In his fantasies, Hank pulls Connor's head towards his cock, making him take it deep down his throat as he looks up at Hank, eyes darkened with want, and Hank fucks that beautifully innocent-looking face of his with hopeless abandon. In his fantasies, Hank pins Connor against the wall, kissing down his neck and his chest as his fingers, two, three, four at once push into and stretch Connor's asshole, preparing him for his cock, and it's not long before Hank pushes into Connor and fucks him at a hard, punishing pace to whatever the android experience of an orgasm feels like...
"Hank," he hears Connor breathe out, like the name's something sacred, and there's no doubting the stark reality of it now because he hears it clear as day. "Hank, oh, please—"
And fuck, Hank almost, almost comes then and there because Connor's breaths stop completely and he lets out an honest-to-god whimper, as it seems like he, finally, reaches completion.
Hank's hand speeds up on his cock as he replays the sound of Connor's wanton moans over and over again, and he, too, comes hard all over his hand and his pants, and relaxes once more against the wall, feeling utterly fucking spent.
He might have been compelled to believe this was a dream were it not for the very real, almost tangible feeling of guilt permeating his whole being at that particular moment. Because, he figures, even if he were, for some inexplicable reason, the object of Connor's masturbatory fantasies, it was only due to the guy being confused, is all. All Hank had to do was wait for him to start communicating with other people more often and then—
Connor starts up again, the steady, wet movement of his hand unmistakable and inescapably alluring to the point that Hank's cock gives a valiant but futile attempt at hardening again so soon. Hank almost groans in frustration as it hits him that he's not going to be able to say fucking no to this and that Connor is probably on the way to tormenting the fuck out of him and his right hand for the rest of the fucking night.
Because of fucking course androids would have endless stamina. Hank...well Hank decides he's really got nothing to complain about.
