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Connor had never felt so... hot, before. It had started with an uneasy and restless feeling settling over him - starting in his chest, blossoming out through the rest of his body. He'd been forced to loosen his tie midday, finding the fabric oddly restricting despite having worn it during every waking moment of his existence.
And then there was the matter of you. Had they always smelled so nice? Had their hair always framed their face so nicely? Were their lips always so... *alluring?*
He was almost tempted to stay with them when he heard news of their overnight shift in his ... disrupted state. But that uneasy feeling had bloomed into a steady throb pulsing in his groin, and he'd been forced to subtly readjust himself in the middle of the office already. And with his current... processing issues, he's not even sure he can manage to spend another second in their company.
Especially with their curious gaze and sympathetic personality. It's endearing, surely, but not when he can't bear their pleading gaze bearing into his own and pressing about his current state. What was he supposed to tell them?
*"My apologies, Detective. It appears that I've become abnormally aroused by your presence, smell, and general composition. I'll remove myself from the premises as soon as possible to avoid any additionally unwelcome effects."*
No. He makes his way back to his own apartment without issue. At least, until the later hours of the night, when his cock continues to stir. And despite *knowing* he can simply deal with it via normal methods, every internal impulse sends for you instead. He's not so sure he can resist the pull of his programming for much longer. After all... he *is* designed for obedience.
So, lust-driven and slightly hazed, Connor makes his way back to the precinct. To you's desk. Where they look up at him, and his disheveled state, with an oddly concerned expression.
They open their mouth to speak, but he cuts them off before they can hardly get a word in.
"Please," he croaks out, sounding all-too-needy already. "I just... I need... *something*. I need..." a short pause, and he averts his eyes, muttering out the last part of his sentence. "Please touch me."
Connor tentatively places his hand over you's, hoping the gesture comes across as pleading or subtle rather than desperate. But the moment their fingers brush, every protocol in his system lurches, and suddenly he's tugged them out of their chair and plastered his lips to theirs with a mounting desperation; hand curled around the back of their neck, drawing them onto himself without restraint.
What could possibly have been more desperate than *that?*
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