#bryan dechart

It began as a case so small it should have barely brushed your radar, two cars lifted from opposite ends of the same neighborhood, a string of thefts so low-profile that most of the senior detectives had waved them off with excuses about being overworked.

Having been on the force a short time, Captain Fowler had tossed the case your way with a pointed look that said “cut your teeth on this before asking for the heavier stuff.” A couple of stolen vehicles weren’t glamorous compared to murders or corporate sabotage, but you took it anyway, determined to prove yourself.

That’s when Connor inserted himself into your orbit. The sleek prototype android was still most often paired with Lieutenant Hank Anderson, trailing the older detective with quiet deference. Everyone at the precinct had made the joke at least once that Connor looked like Hank’s reluctant, overgrown son, but you kept the joke alive more than anyone else, partly because you liked the way Connor’s LED flickered yellow when you teased, as if he wasn’t entirely sure if he was supposed to correct you.

When he offered to help you with your beginner’s case, it startled you more than you’d ever admit. The great RK800, deviant hunter, revolution-savior, working on car thefts? Still, his smile when he extended the offer was different from his usual rehearsed expressions. It wasn’t tight at the edges or calculated to mimic humanity; it felt real, faint and hesitant, but warm. It's impossible to turn it down.

The revolution had changed everything and deep down you knew it was for the better, a city that now felt alive in a way it hadn’t in years with androids walking free, experimenting with choice and freedom, the precinct reluctantly but steadily adapting.

And there was now Connor, too handsome for his own good, far too easy for your eyes to linger on whenever you were supposed to be analyzing evidence.

You thought tonight was just another routine late meeting, one more night of coffee growing cold between you while you swapped notes and tried to connect the dots. The suspect list had narrowed, just a few names left to check.

What you had no clue of was that Connor had already solved it. The last man you interviewed still carried the crime on his skin, oily residues of gasoline and engine degreaser clinging to his hands, absorbed into his cuticles, faint sheens beneath his fingernails.

Your human eyes failed at detecting those but Connor’s sensors parsed the chemical profile instantly, octane traces consistent with handling unrefined gasoline, oxidized hydrocarbons embedding in fabric fibers of his sleeve. Too specific and impossible to mistake.

If Connor had wanted, he could have closed the case that moment, reported and wrapped it all neatly with his usual clinical precision.

But he didn’t. Hank’s words echoed in his memory to sometimes just… live. He decided to wait and stretch the case a little longer, because this wasn’t really about cars anymore.

It was about the time he enjoyed spending with you.

Nights where you sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the precinct, laughing over shared frustrations and half-joking that you were both married to the job already. Nights where you dragged him to bars that welcomed androids, your enthusiasm radiant every time he walked in beside you, thirium pump humming faster at the warmth in your voice when you ordered for the two of you. Ninety percent of your conversations weren’t even about work, dogs you both loved, movies you tore apart scene by scene, small preferences like how you hated watered-down beer but liked the bottles icy enough to sting your lips.

He logged every detail.

Tonight felt no different until you admitted, voice soft and hesitant, that you liked being with him, maybe more than you should. His response was immediate, characteristically blunt as he told you he had all your moments together catalogued, every file carefully preserved, that spending time with you had checked off every milestone he’d been told a partner should reach.

Then, zero filters and with an utterly deadpan expression, he asked you out on a date.

The shock must have been plain on your face because his LED spun yellow, processing outcomes while tilting his head to the right, lips pressed together, brows drawn low in concentration.

His pupils didn’t dilate the way a human’s would, but there was still a depth in his stare, confusion painting every line of his face hotter than anything you’d ever seen, a machine glitching on the most beautiful error, so precise in every other circumstance, but now staring at you like he couldn’t compute your laughter.

And oh, how you laughed. Too hard and sudden, hand coming up to cover your mouth as tears threatened at the corners of your eyes, laughing at the sheer absurdity of his clinical delivery, that perfect poker face paired with something so vulnerably human, tore the air out of your lungs.

Connor froze mid-analysis, his search algorithms halting, because every wave of your laughter filled his auditory canals with a sensation he had no metric for. The sound wasn’t something he wanted to classify, but keep forever on.

When you caught your breath, you asked him if this had been his plan all along, helping with your case just to have an excuse to ask you out. He nodded, simple and unembarrassed, confirming your suspicion with that same mechanical sincerity that made your chest ache.

The delight on your face softened into something warmer and deeper, your gaze heavy with adoration as you stepped closer. Both your arms draped over his shoulders and Connor’s internal readings spiked: surface skin temperature up by two degrees where you pressed into him, heart rate soaring from baseline. He processed the rise in your heat signature instantly, logged it as a sign of arousal, but what mattered wasn’t the data. It was the closeness, the living pulse he could feel against him.

You whispered to him then, words like a prayer, asking what he possibly found in you when he was already so flawless and perfect.

His answer wasn’t hurried. He looked at you steadily, tone calm but the content searing hot in its raw honesty when admitting that you occupied his every thought even when he wasn’t at work, that during long nights alone he reviewed surveillance feeds just to see you in the background. He confessed how, in the bullpen, his eyes always gravitated to your desk first and when you weren’t there, it triggered a sense of alarm he hadn’t been programmed to feel.

The words hit you with the weight of how this was how he really felt and it gave you no hesitation, convincing you to surge forward as your lips found his, soft and trembling.

At first, he was rigid and awkward, his mouth not quite matching the pressure of yours, movements stilted as though he were pulling from stored simulations of what kissing should be, then his programming caught up with his desire and lips softened, angled and parted.

A big and soft hand of his lifted to cradle the back of your head, thumb brushing against your hairline as he tilted you deeper into him. The kiss turned full consuming, no longer awkward but alive, tongue teasing against yours while his vision was filled with datas about you.

Connor had calculated every parameter of your body long before you even touched him, yet the moment your lips pressed to his, the flood of human unpredictability overwhelmed his predictive models.

His HUD lit with biometric data scrolling in streams: skin flushed to thirty-eight degrees Celsius, a spike of adrenaline lifting heart rate from resting seventy-two to one hundred thirty-one beats per minute, pupils dilating until only a thin iris band remained.

Every moan you choked out registered as both sound pressure wave and elevated blood oxygen demand, heightened oxytocin release.

Moments blurred, the desk forgotten, the case closed in silence. Sheets rustled instead, back against your bed, Connor’s weight above you as clothing vanished in quick, efficient motions. His cock slid into you with inexorable depth, stretch burning and every thrust lit his HUD with cascading readings: your prostate struck, pelvic tension spiking, heartbeat climbing to one-forty-six.

He heard every gasp and desperate plea spilling out as you clenched around him and catalogued them to replay in perfect fidelity when he craved you.

All while fucking you with relentless rhythm, data and desire merging. Semen release calculated, volume predicted, yet his system poured it into you like an inexhaustible cycle. He watched your abdomen swell subtly, sensors marking internal pressure as his cum filled you, each pulse syncing with your trembling moans, his own LED glowing yellow with the impossible sight of you taking more, more, more, while his audio systems drowned in your cries.

What began as minutes bled into something endless, a loop of motion and sensation so consuming that your brain had long since stopped tracking where you ended and Connor began. Your legs were locked high around his waist, ankles hooked tight as he drove in and out of your hole, the wet slap of skin and the obscene squelch of your body wrapping him echoing through the room.

Connor’s hands pressed firmly on either side of the mattress, caging you, pinning you into place beneath him, lips parted as faint low grunts passed through them, breaths perfectly measured in volume but too raw to be anything except genuine.

Inside him, systems that had never been touched before were lighting up. His sexual subroutines had been buried, unnecessary for missions, ignored like extraneous code. But now they activated one by one, mapping every microsecond of sensation as your body gripped him. The tight heat of your hole sent positive feedback signals cascading across his network, every squeeze a data point that spiked his pleasure sensors until his thirium pump surged faster than combat ever demanded.

Built for infinite stamina and durability that never faltered in case of chase with criminals, Connor was unleashing every ounce of that design into you who lost count of how many times he had already reached climax, releasing his synthetic semen and coated your insides with every spurt. But instead of shutting down, he simply reset and began again. Never have you asked him to stop and he never faltered in his pace of fucking you.

The mess inside you was staggering, possible to feel with every thrust, a wet fullness that made your body clench tighter around him, desperate for more even as you overflowed.

He measured every contraction of your muscles, every tremor that signaled the edge of your orgasm and adjusted his pace, angling perfectly until you cried out, arching beneath him, spilling against your stomach and his.

He never let you come alone, calculating perfectly to reach his own peak with you, cock pulsing hard, releasing another torrent of synthetic cum deep inside, forcing your walls to milk him harder, milking you both for every drop.

One hand left the mattress, shifting down to your abdomen. His palm pressed lightly against you, fingers splayed as he felt the swell beneath your skin, the way his own previous release had accumulated inside. Warm fluid displaced, slick pressure against his shaft as he pushed deeper. The sensation made your back arch, a hiss ripping from your throat as you trembled under the new stimulation.

Without hesitation, he leaned down, mouth sealing over yours, swallowing the moan that broke free. His hips drove in harder, deeper, perfect strokes that had you seeing white. You tasted faintly of salt and sweat, but he devoured it as if it was the most precious thing he’d ever known.

Then he bottomed out one final time, hips flush, cock buried to the hilt. His body jerked, releasing again pulse after pulse of thick, hot synthetic fluid pouring into you. The pressure built until you swore you’d split from the fullness and that was enough to tip you over. You cried out against his mouth, releasing shooting up your belly, splashing against his hard, perfect abs. He swallowed your sound greedily, fucking you through it, not stopping even as both of you shuddered violently.

The room was still heavy with warmth lingering in the sheets, the air damp with sweat and the faint musk of synthetic fluid that clung to your skin. You’d finally peeled yourself away from him, shaky-legged and laughing at your own wobble, insisting you’d collapse if you didn’t wash up. Connor, propped against the headboard with that perfectly composed posture, had logged every second of your walk to the bathroom, eyes tracing the marks he’d left on your thighs, the slick shine between your legs that he’d put there.

He sat in the silence after, processors whirring with the unfamiliar ache in his thirium pump. He should have shut down excess cycles, focused on self-diagnostics, but instead he initiated a call sequence. His HUD flickered, encryption keys exchanged, the line crackling as Hank’s gruff voice came through.

“Christ, Connor,” Hank rasped, voice thick with sleep, that perpetual gravel even rougher in the middle of the night. “What the hell’s wrong? It’s—” a pause, paper rustling, probably his clock—“three in the goddamn morning. Even my damn dog doesn’t get me up this late.”

Connor hesitated, LED flickering yellow, then blue again. His tone, though calm, carried something softer than usual. “Everything is fine, Lieutenant. I wasn’t certain whether or not I should call, but I decided… to go for it.”

There was a beat of silence on the line, and then a weak, tired chuckle. Hank’s laugh was like worn leather creaking, weary but genuine. Connor could visualize it perfectly with the free hand rubbing at his face, dragging down his white bearded chin in exasperation.

“That so.” He sniffed, voice softer than he’d admit. “Where’s the kid, then? He’s not makin’ you do extra paperwork at this hour, is he?”

Connor blinked once, lips twitching faintly. “He is in the shower. He said he preferred it, even though he initially wanted to sleep. I believe he required it after the activity we engaged in.” His voice didn’t waver, still that smooth monotone, but his words were loaded. “We had sex for one hour, thirty-seven minutes and twenty-six seconds, with brief intervals for repositioning.”

The sound Hank made was halfway between a cough and a choke. There was a sharp clatter, as though he’d nearly dropped his phone, followed by wet, sputtering hacks. “Connor—” he wheezed, “Jesus Christ—don’t—” he coughed again, a curse muffled against the receiver. “Don’t need a damn stopwatch on your sex life.”

Connor tilted his head slightly, LED pulsing. “I thought precision would help clarify the context. He invited me to join him in the shower, but I was… confused. I do not require hygiene protocols. Bathing is unnecessary for me.”

Another groan came down the line, long and beleaguered, like Hank was dragging every ounce of energy just to keep from slamming the phone shut. “Goddamn it, Connor. You don’t gotta tell me all the play-by-play. Sweet mother of…” His mutter trailed off, low and grumbling. “CyberLife’s crown jewel, state-of-the-art machine, but dumb as a brick.”

Connor’s brows furrowed, LED flashing yellow as he parsed the insult. “Lieutenant—”

The line clicked dead, leaving Connor in the dim quiet. He sat there, bare chest streaked faintly with the dried remnants of your release while listening to the water run in the shower. The sound wrapped around him, not like data but like comfort. His fingers brushed the sheets where your warmth lingered and though he didn’t have the word for it, every system in his body hummed with something bigger than programming.