staticl0ve

[staticl0ve]

Remember To Follow

A Sixty/Reader Story

Tags: angst, amnesia, smut, memory loss, drowning, angstfest y'all stay safe,

Wordcount: 7360

Summary:

Sixty has Amnesia. He wakes with water in his lungs and the panic of an apartment he doesn't recognise. Sixty has Amnesia and he doesn't know you.

But, you vowed to follow him when fitting his wedding band on your special day. Even if he doesn't remember, you'll always follow him. Until...

"I'm done. I can't follow you anymore."

And in the darker weather, thick soot falls from black clouds, a weight that stretches the scales on his chest--the air suffocates him as does the truth.

The Earth pulls at his feet, shying away from where his footprints dusted over; baby leaves, the stir of deeply rooted wildlife tease into a growing distance, his shoes shaking off remnants of the ground once stepped. A distant memory.

It’s truly an inch away, where his ankles flail to meet the grasps of gravity and he fails. The image of the forest floor blurs together—it’s not shrinking, he’s flying—and desperate to find ground to gain root, he’s chasing something that can only brush his fingertips. Even if he savours the taste a little, the contact doesn’t imprint, barely licks his skin but not long enough to register it. He’s losing something, but it’s too far away to recognise it, and some third force urges him to dent it into his chassis as does the scar on his forehead. It's fleeting, tasteless when he forgets again, as if he was clawed hollow, ripped wires and shredded organs.

The ache stills in his shoulders, then churns to his elbows which he tries to knock out into open air. It’s desire and want and it’s everything he can no longer have. His breath delays.

Air puffs and clouds, and then cohere into bubbles that faintly cage his image before floating high. His brows tense and then furrow, wrinkling lines of equal parts confusion and frustration, before he wrenches an arm high to chase his mini image. He passes through cold nothing, his eyes cannot find it and it strikes him that he can’t remember just what he reached for. It’s all take, take, take.

He flies. He floats. The space around him grows dense. Cool air rushes into deep water.

The sea wraps him snugly, perhaps to make up for whomever's arms ghost around his chest - but the latches aren’t comfortable, they're unsafe and work to suffocate ventilation. There's only so long he can sink, so long the reserves in him squeal an exhale before his systems encourage him to break through the surface.

Warnings flesh as blaring red rectangles; he ignores it. He's waiting for something. A reason? An answer, to why an ugly, icky tumour clenches his palms shut, why he can't get rid of the feeling as much as he tries to stretch it away. The water swishes when he turns to his hand, expecting some creature to claw from beneath his skin, blame it for why his mind blurs when he thinks.

The sea is quiet; it dulls stimulation. Gives him some veiled excuse for ‘time’. It's why he enjoys it.

His chest tightens. His systems caution him further, overheating. It's an abysmal discomfort, but strangely cathartic. Wheezes muffle into the water but he hears it no less, feels how biocomponents sear in a mockery of pain. It's too loud, it hurts in the part of him he misses.

He blares crimson. His chest burns. The surface serves as his bright light, deep rushing currents and beeping warnings a choir for his funeral, and the sea will be his grave.

A boat passes. A canoe. Chatter muffles but he can make out two distinct voices. One hauntingly similar to his own and the other… he... can't quite... who...? No, he’s sure he doesn’t recognise it. No face to that sound. No lips to that mouth.

The sea edges him to the surface for him, bubbles that lift him with tiny limbs, pushing past surface tension until he floats. He’s hollow, it only makes sense how the sea lays beneath him.

Why does his body feel different? Why is there a one-way mirror fitted between somatic and internal, between instinct and thought?

Why does he feel longing ?

The surface tickles his lips, velvet soft, it reminds him of... his mind halts. Chest pulling in a cooler touch, he still feels a strain around his ribcage, a lie and truth meddled into a fluid mass. He chases the flash of... something tries to fill it in his lungs when he breathes in deep. His fingertips brush his lower lip and they feel prickly, new. No lips to that kiss. The warnings recede but his vision clouds still.

Something touches his hand. Stings, rather, like rope burn. Sears into his framework like his hand drove through a shredder. A thread weaves and gains purchase tight around his fingers, projections into cobwebs, but this time, it holds.

It's a fishing line, though it doesn't seem to have a handler, nor a place of origin. The line tangles and pulls taut around his hand. Crunches his plastic like day-old snow. It doesn't snap. It doesn't escape him.

And Sixty remembers.

There is no coming of sunshine, no beam pushes through that doubling storm, no spread of saturated colour when every memory muddies into one. It circulates and spirals him with a force harsh enough to stretch his skin thin and puncture vessels—tears him like a damp paper towel, watch it loosen and break away in wet chunks. It's impenetrable to light, for it absorbs it until light is no more.

Outlines form in dark space, meshing golden edges into one another as they layer per memory—like his mind spins on an axis, catching the clutter of reconstructions into something sensical. Sounds are out of sync, mouths of faces—he cannot name them—speak words he hears seconds later. Pressure finds stubborn fingers against his temple where he’s gripping tighter, as if to keep a fractured mind in one piece. It helps momentarily, but it’s an illusion of strength.

It hurts. It really does. Like the layers of him are spliced an inch apart, like his eyes could fall right out of their sockets, like his limbs could spring apart without reason.

He's lost in the nothingness of himself, forced in the corner to be pelted with memory upon memory until it bruises his skin for good - and for once, hoping it'll last. Choppy flashes of yellow that resemble some unnamed figure, wrap their fingers around his artificial brain, squeezing until he cries in paralysed anguish. He contorts in pain, it rubs harshly against his throat but carries no sound.

It makes him want to scream.

But his grip on the fishing line tightens.

The blood that rips from his fingers and the water coalesce, blurring the borders between the shades of blue. If the water exists as his illness, maybe his pain is fated to be forgotten.

And oh, how he burns. His blood is acidic and thaws the plastic that pumps it, cursing the rest of his body to a poisoned end. The screws in him rust to a hair's width. Sixty's the pieces of him that fragment in his memory.

Broken. Aimless. Nuts and bolts in a sack of simulated flesh.

The water latches on his ankle and pulls him far harder than he can hold on.

“No!-” Static twists his voice in a stray note, duly muffled by the water, a nodule in his throat he can’t cough out or swallow down. That desperation fills his lungs alongside the water, an unwelcome weight, but it jogs some corner of impulses in his android brain.

Struggle slips into gargles within the lake, locked in pockets of air, unmoving to keep his struggle unheard. Panic nestles in his joints as he is dragged faster, his kicks are clammy and desperate but useless from the unforgiving fingers of kelp. Seaweed shackles curl around his ankle tighter, pulling him closer to the ocean floor. His fingers fumble with little progress.

Colour evades the deeper he falls, remnants of the moonlight serving as a fleeting solace, a light at the end of the tunnel that Sixty is maliciously rejected. It's ironic, how the near-black expanse he's pulled into reminds him of something. The ghost of feathered lashes, The pressure on his chest punishes. Something audibly cracks in him.

Sixty takes to mouth something, his lips shaping a vow, a plea to the prison bars, and a familiar voice echoes on the tips of his hair.

“To never forget,” blurred lines of fading memories lose definition. Unravels in the wind, thread that's fallen loose from its clipboard, gathering dust with little memory of where it’s from or where it goes. Seaweed pulls him undeniably fast.

His hands fall immobile, hopeless, unsure. Defeated.

That feeling in his chest remains. That memory of sheer fear still knocks his bones, still tickles an itch without scratching it. But the panic, the bruises on his body fade inexplicably, where the vow curls around his tongue... what was it again? Why were his fingers slashed due to force that only could've been his own? Sixty's desperation tremors in his hands but his reason is long gone.

Thud.

Sixty hits the sea floor. Sixty becomes a shell of a man.

There is no panic, no fear. Memories have been abandoned, lost at sea. A hard reset makes Sixty's eyes look inexplicably hollow.

His arm solos above him but the night silently watches through the water. Down here, Sixty knows that nothing exists besides the vegetation that binds him low.

-.—.-

Daybreak bleeds between his curtains that fan the dull walls of his bedroom a better gold. The sun peeks at him boldly, this time without clouded company and its promise of a fleeting shelter. There was no escape.

It's like the sun has found him now, searched in a land untouched until he made the mistake of half-drawing his curtains to watch the moon last night.

Ambient rumbling of motors whine from the open window, birds scurry and sing in flight like little leaves caught in the wind; a solemn sense of consonance merges the bustle outside to an optimistic backdrop. It fills the space with warm adoration.

Ha! I knew I'd find you! The sunlight mocks with a childish cackle. A painful eyeshot of a blinding day makes him flinch. Sixty muffles a groan into his cotton pillow, rumpled bedsheets that felt a little too like…seaweed?

Sixty scrambles to his knees.

The day is anew, but the android feels cuffed to an undefined torment of the past, a crushing weight of the entire ocean converging to a singular point above his pump regulator. It restrains him so, like a timid hand pulling at his sleeve to return to bed and stay a little longer. He can’t quite decide whether it’s the ghostly touch of supple fingers or binding kelp pulling at his wrists.

What is he even thinking about? Sixty scoffs at his break in hysteria. He must be losing it. What the hell was going on anyway?

Sixty clasps his fingers around his other forearm unprompted, his thumb pushing into the autonomous ripple of the synthetic epidermis to the white shell of his android anatomy. He drags his palms proximally to his elbow.

He’s in a white t-shirt, crumpled akin to the bedding as if it were taken from the bedsheets themselves. Sixty pulls a fistful of his top; the wrinkles stretch and converge to sharper lines. His shorts are long and loose. Sixty pats his body crudely to feel if he was really half the person he felt.

The android runs a shallow scan of the space around him. An apartment? Decor looks to be thrown about without rhyme or reason, the hard floor littered with crumpled clothes and springing plants on cramped shelves. Bright yellow post-its look to be placed at random; one juts out near the pots with black scrawl that barely passes for eligible writing:

"Water every Tuesday. "

It’s a Tuesday.

Sixty pulls in air with a mechanical wheeze, though the space in his chest shrinks as it grows. A pathogen lives at the base of his lungs, one that gnaws at his inner workings with cannibalistic curiosity, digging its fangs to feed and multiply as a means to raise its young. Sixty can feel it moving inside him, but he’s limited to scratching helplessly at his diagnostics, nails scraping bits of white off his plastic thorax.

What the hell is going on?

Sixty keels over. His midriff spasms into a painful flurry of staggered breaths.

Was he not dead?

-

Sixty tries to recall, but all that meets him are razor edges of battered pictures. The pieces belong to an uncertain figure, one without eyes or lips, a memory true if he was to see it one more time. It’s a bitter reality, with no one to show him what he’s missing, no one to kiss away the infectious sting of doubt lining his vessels. He’s alone in feeling it clot and occlude sanity’s door with a final blow.

The more he attempts to recollect the pieces, the deeper the memory cuts. Sixty stops trying.

Time has passed, years , if he was being specific. The seasons have swept on shore and pulled far into the sea, tidal in that it changes before Sixty found a moment to appreciate it. Though mostly indifferent, Sixty can’t help but grow curious of his kind and their place in busy streets.

Does he stand alongside them? It took no detective to see he had established himself, so was this life really his own?

What was going on?

Sixty searches for the one who shares the likings of his identity. One who he scoffed at with the barrel of a gun back at the Cyberlife Tower. Perhaps, as with deviancy, he has the answers.

There he sits with company, laughter on his lips, dressed in a tan, woolly overcoat that drapes largely off his shoulders and brushes the pavement. It’s far too big, neither functional, for his standard build, and despite the odd calamity of ‘whatever the fuck was happening’ to Sixty, Connor looks as though he belongs. All temple LED and android awkwardness, he pieced effortlessly into the background.

Sixty isn't quite sure why the fact surprises him, that much he figured in the earlier turmoil of the time skip; from the moment of his fatal deviation and the current day, everyone moved on.

Sixty feels the same.

His hands dig deeper into his hoodie, fingers crumpling the post-it that served to tie the frayed ends of his questions. A stark yellow with a near-dysfunctional sticky back from sticking it on the wall again and again.

“You have amnesia. This is your house.”

The scene fans out in tones of autumn kisses and raining leaves, where the sun relishes the sky in a longing embrace before parting for a lengthy slumber. A rotten taste finds the base of Sixty's tongue; it's ironic, as the sun, Sixty knows this miracle is ephemeral.

His predecessor is fortunate, but what does Sixty know about the turning days, because for him, yesterday existed and nothing more. His mission . The gunshot . The spark of fear between the fired bullet and Sixty's definite demise.

For Connor, however, time was a plentiful gift, wrapped in a pretty pink bow with a note of gratitude.

That timid bounce of perfectly parted hair looks fresh with product, a snug knitted pullover dressing him in near-black blues and oranges, and fingers warm around a cafés coffee mug. Sixty fixes on the pointless thrumming below the blue patterns on the rim of white ceramic.

There's a gold band on his finger; something brief twists in the cogs of Sixty's chest though he struggles to point just where its core lies.

"Connor," the successor hesitates, an awkward distance to count as conversation but close enough to catch the surprise in the predecessor’s eyes. It lapses for a moment, mirror images locked onto the other before Connor softens to a knowing look.

Passing a glance to his partner, a soft nod that spoke terribly loud for a quiet autumn afternoon, Sixty can't help feeling the distance within himself grow. The confusion he woke with grips the wheel with unprecedented curiosity.

"Do sit," Connor gestures an easy hand to the empty chair next to him, "we have to catch up."

-

His name is Sixty, formally. Sixty , he tests the sound of it but it doesn't quite strike the way he expects it to. It misses something, an edge, or a lilt that matched the serenity of rippled water. Sixty , or perhaps it's his voice that can't quite string it the way it's supposed to.

Hood raised and hands deep in pockets, Sixty idly walks without a destination in mind.

The sun is too bright, albeit setting, and he scoffs for a quicker nightfall; just as he wishes to settle the intensity of his new life and bask in the dullness of ignorance again. Perhaps, it was better if he did not know this was the life shackled to him.

Remnants of the falling sun cough out the last of its light into the coming night, like the speckles of streetlights blurring in a distance, impressionable but not dominant. It's how Sixty feels about the world around him, the breeze against his skin, the mindless chatter of passing crowds. Reality cuts through him like streaks of rainwater on a car window, and he's following it down with every will for it to stop while he catches his breath. The yellow parts of the sky are far too bright.

He can't quite shake it off, the nagging truth of his sunken sense of identity and an apartment full of sticky notes.

Sixty passes a bookstore. He catches his reflection in a golden light and stops. Amnesia.

He’s angry. Was he fated to await the moment he forgets again if only to relive the shock of waking up in a strange bed in a strange apartment that’s supposedly his own?

Chocolate stares back at him. His hair is tousled, and his clothes swallow him whole. He’s unrecognisable. Sixty sees beyond the glass window.

People meddle in happy heaps, whether stamped with a temple ring light or not, all warping in their perception of the world around. Fingers edge out to take a book in hand, read the contents, engross in the feel, blinking with the living condition to experience until they cannot experience anymore.

His feet move autonomously. People brush past unceremoniously as he walks in. The bookstore is packed. His hand pulls at a book between colourful stacks, unprompted.

It’s busy. The air is thick with age-old literature and wafts of perfume from the collective. Sixty focuses on the embellished lettering of the cover and swipes a thumb to let it print in his mind in an attempt to remember it.

The title sticks to his lips far better than his own name.

‘Remember To Love.’

He’s never held a book before. He’s not done much of anything before. Not that he can remember it anyway. A dry laugh huffs out of his chest; the title delivers an ugly stab of irony between artificial ribs but stings as though the pain was lowly human.

Chatter fades. The door jingles frequently as crowds work to replace those who left. Was this the consequence of being conscious? To live on such a plane off-kilter from faces around, coded with a curse to bear it alone?

What was the point?

"You know , if you open it, they'll be even more to read. "

Sixty startles, which itself encourages another considering his exclusive knickknacks would've noticed anything and everything in his surroundings. Maybe he isn’t all the same.

The first thing his optics fall to is that smile and its easy curves. The cracks in your lower lips are a novel sight, akin to the veins of autumn leaves.

A human has spoken to him. A human . In friendly conversation. The shock on his face must be nothing short of picturesque. Doubled at how long he figures he’s been standing awkwardly, staring at a book’s cover.

Your head tilts, patient in his stunned silence with a glazing edge in your pupils. A gentle curiosity locks his way, slack bait hanging off of a fishing line. It doesn’t pull him closer to you but doesn’t let him fall too far behind. Sixty fails to formulate a response.

"That book is pretty boring actually," you exasperate with a dismissing flick of your wrist, "too much drama, not enough action, if you know what I mean."

What?

(Not even preconstructed responses can save him.)

In a stolen moment, your brows hitch in sync with your chest but are swiftly replaced by the exaggerated smile of a guiding angel, or that of a child’s favourite mentor. Warmth that favours a mother to a lost kitten in broken alleyways.

"You look like it's your first day on Earth," you chuckle lightly.

This feels like too much.

You say your name. It pokes at the base of his heart. You wait expectantly for his reciprocal.

"Sixty." He says. It sounds foreign still.

You smile brighter, like the sun that woke him with a giddy 'I've found you'. Something is fizzling in your eyes. Android curiosity scans it again and again.

You cock your head to the world outside, "want me to give you a tour, Sixty?"

You say his name. He follows you like it’s the easiest thing he’s done today.

The sea meets him once more.

-.--.-

“Your name is Sixty. You have amnesia.”

The lettering is imperfect, surely it cannot be his own.

A scoff splutters akin to a wet gargle, as if the sea floor that chained his corpse liquified his innards into coarse crackles. The whites of his eyes are inexplicably growing just as his resolve shrinks.

Is this a fucking joke?

The furniture feels the brunt of his anger.

Whatever the hell was happening had to be some sick ploy, a malicious scheme to punish Sixty's nihilistic pre-deviant operations. A bladed jab for every objective he itched to pursue. Kick him whilst he's down.

Connor must be behind this. He has to be. For that crumpled edge in the corner of his eyes that seeped in the reflection of red temple rings, it must be that android's petty, subordinate revenge for Sixty using his Lieutenant as bait.

The apartment must pose as a means to mock his sorry state, to brandish his failures in the solid confines of solitary punishment. That wretched copy and his all-emotive facial plate ; Sixty digs his heels as if it were twisting on that Connor's neck, itching for the leeway of the first crunch and those staggering, desperate breaths that would follow.

Amnesia? Sixty remembers well how his chassis burned with a brittle shake. Sixty remembers the looming spark in the back of his head urging him to pull the trigger. Dealing with that sorry sack of alcoholism for a police lieutenant was enough of a pain...

Sixty falters.

The memories play the same though he feels another character is in play. Disembodied, yet latching on his back with wet tendrils like it wished to become an extension of him. Sixty cannot wield it like a limb, but it voices the contortions of his pump regulator just as well.

You disappoint me, pathetic fool. It sears, speaking for him when he's coded a mouth sewn shut.

Sixty slowly dips his head, letting his eyes catch on the palms of his hands.

Something's off. He's missing something. Even with the added ghoul that makes all his mistakes and fills the cracks with reason... he's carved hollow.

What the hell is going on?

Weeks pass and tides pull him back in.

-.--.-

“You have amnesia. Your name is Sixty.”

He slams his fists in fearful proximity to his pump regulator, straining stridor amidst harsh coughs as if his insides scurried to escape him. There is no water in his lungs.

The seaweed remains cuffed as he seeks answers. What's happening to me? Someone sits just over an arm's length across a desk from him, eyes peering over meticulous glasses as if they'd cost him a component to afford. White coat in faux medical aid and a personal office that did its best to sell Sixty of the man's competency. A professional, albeit human, but one who has the answers he's looking for.

However, when the man falls in conversation, Sixty drifts in the dull expanse of clouded memories. His mind pulls from the foreground. The former technician bobs his chin repeatedly that doesn't quite look like talking; Sixty can neither hear nor recognise the shape of those words.

The android's fingers tighten on the armrests, digging into the peeling vinyl and its spongy abscess. In its opening, creatures with spindly legs crawl up the back of his hand, biting through synthetic skin to the burrows of Sixty's flesh. The android is unable to draw air into his chest.

They crawl with needle-like legs. Sixty can't move. The mounds under his skin crawl faster. Sixty's voice has no weight.

Subject to the horned teeth that staple his plastic makeup with spotting blue blood, Sixty is paralysed. His eyes grow. They crawl up his neck.

He wants to scream. It's all too much.

"Would you like some help?" A faint voice offers behind him whilst he stands idly in a grocery store. The shelves stock unforgivingly in blinding variations of colourful foods, neither that would settle for appetising nor their exploited prices. Why the hell is he looking at food he can't eat?

Sixty regains his breath but his feet don't move. Snacks stretch in favour of a distraction. He finally turns to the voice that jolted him back; the eyes that meet him are the closest he's felt to his feet on the ground.

"Are you curious about our snacks? I've got recommendations if you're interested." You play a small smile, but the lift in your brows and the glaze in your eyes never settle.

It's strange. You're a face amongst many though he feels like the centre of yours. You look as if you've rushed to catch up to him.

" Su-" he croaks and then clears his throat, "sure."

And the water takes him again.

-.--.-

A crumpled paper ball of a tennis ball-yellow is stuffed in Sixty's jacket. He squeezes it tightly until faint marks indent on synthetic skin.

He's out of breath, but he can't find you.

Audio muffles by the overlay of memories, merry tinkles of your laughter, the shape of your voice snug in the space that felt hollow. Sixty runs through the streets in search of it again.

The line pulls taut. All he can think about is finding you. The water calls him back but he surfs the crowds instead.

You must be here. Sixty is in search of your head in the many. His phone has run dry, posing his feared reflection with all the desperation to seek. It's all going wrong. He just needs to find you.

The line loosens, tides rush to his ankles but Sixty pushes on. There must be some way. Someone you're with. Someone who knows you. But the existence around you splits into shaky pieces, uncertain and incomprehensible. He can't let that line go, not when it's finally in his grasp.

It's a losing battle.

-.--.-

"You have amnesia."

Why does he feel so exhausted?

The days spur on. The note. The chase. The staggering step in when he remembers your outline. Warmth leaves him every time his head falls in his hands, bound to the curse of reliving what cannot and will never be his.

Fate is a cruel feat. Sixty stands by the shore and waits for the tides to rise.

"Sixty. You have amnesia. I love you."

As he wakes up from a thrashing slumber, he notes the absence of kelp on his wrists. The memories spring up like hollow balls in a body of water.

He remembers everything; nothing tops the crushing guilt of having you wait so long.

The note. The pulsations under his fingers when he rests a hand over his heart. The hitch in his breath when the smell of your skin revisits his senses.

Water fills his lungs anyway.

"Your name is Sixty. This is where you live. You have amnesia."

The note. The chase. The reality.

The fate of the sea floor.

"This is your house. You have amnesia."

How can he accept the path fate carves for him?

"Your name is Sixty. You have amnesia."

How long is he supposed to do this?

"This is your apartment, Sixty. You have amnesia."

Sixty digs through the balls of yellow paper in his waste bin.

"You have amnesia."

They're all notes.

-.--.-

"You have amnesia. Your name is Sixty. This is your home."

There's a knock at his door.

In the tattered assortment of piling memories, never really starting or finishing anywhere as if they were pieces ripped out from the middle, Sixty exhales and opens the front door.

"Hey," you speak as such too, like the middle of a memory, wet lines down your cheeks with questions of why and when . Your voice is small, enough that he could roll it in his palm like one of those balled pieces of paper in his trash can.

Instinct makes him step back to let you in, but not enough to speak to the stranger of his new life. Your lower lashes clump wetly, the tips of leaves edging the stream of rainfall. You tighten your jaw.

There’s a mass that sloshes in his vessels the longer he looks at you, though he’s not sure what to call it. It’s weighted, mobile in the way it keeps knocking the wind out of him like a soccer punch to a little boy. Your eyes are wide and Sixty knows what to call that strain in your expression; it's hope.

Speak, his subconscious commands, bobbing his jaw open without knowing what to say. Your tears glisten freshly yet hold firm. Willing the world to halt so Sixty could take all the time in the universe to finally say something.

Do I know you? But something urges him to not ask. Seeing the wild nest of your hair and swollen eyes drives all his impulses to the ground except for one; muscle memory lifts his hand closer to you in what could feel like the most natural thing he's done in the past few weeks he's awoken.

But he falters halfway.

Sixty isn't quite sure why he let you in the first place, let alone why he entertained the thick glass between the two of you like he was breaking the walls of deviancy all over again. There is nothing of the sort in your scanned details to enrapture him, nothing to stop him from asking you to leave his apartment. You must be one of those people who existed in the lost parts of him, waiting expectantly for him to return.

It's been twenty-six days since he woke with no recollection of who he was or why he was here. Twenty-six days, though according to Connor, this charade had dragged beyond dozens of times over three years. Twenty-six days of his neighbours conversing like they intended to invite him to their weddings, twenty-six days of loitering faces, gazing at him pitifully.

'What a shame, isn't it? It's no way to live.'

Sixty died every time he forgot. The version they long to keep has slipped into the high tides for its ocean grave. Ironic, that he is misunderstood as some copy of an android that shares his liking. How bad must it be for Sixty to actually appreciate Connor's lack of prodding, despite still carrying that coiled resentment pre-deviancy?

You stand in his living room, hair thrashed, clothes dishevelled, cheeks warm due to friction with the knocking scent of alcohol. You're searching for a piece of him that doesn't exist. Even if your very presence calms the unstable writhing of his components, his mind has been made up.

A light sound escapes you, sounding like the huff of a cry, until it croaks again into a chortle. It's pained; Sixty can measure it in amplitudes, and your laughter rings on for a few more before a heavy sigh.

You're laughing? The smile you flesh out doesn't quite reach your eyes, except you look a taste manic with those damp and dilated pupils. It's wildly unexpected, and Sixty pulls up short; it throws a wrench right into his thoughts.

"You know ," you begin and Sixty snaps to the brittle notes of your voice. It's better than your laughing, "despite you being an android, I somehow feel like the one who's immortal."

You chuckle a little more, tilting your head back. It shakes your shoulders and takes you wholly.

"I really want to hate you," you don't look at him, "I really do. I want to more than anything. A right old sock to your face."

You glance at him before fixing to the plants on the tiny shelves. Sixty's silence stretches on.

"I didn't come here to fight. Or to get you to remember. I'm surprised you let me actually. Lucky day for me, huh?"

The android's pump regulator stutters. He feels as though he is not there.

Tension disperses from your joints as if they had lost against gravity and slumped in major defeat. The sag is paired with a staggered sigh. "I've been honouring our vows, Sixty. I really have. Even if you..." you sound raw, static, "even if you can't- aren't able to. I've been trying for so long. "

Vows? Vows. That's why you're here. You were married to that version of him lost at sea, not him, not him . The memories you search for have been driven ashore, photographs paled by the kicking currents of the ocean. Those memories have been worn out, faded. Sixty feels the loss like it's his own.

Tears fall irregularly and Sixty watches you cry with a churning in his chest... it's not quite guilt, nor the tickle of envy, but a combination of both. He knows if he asked you to jump, you would leap with all your might, but it doesn't belong to him. It's the same tickle of envy he felt when Connor's memories became his own.

Your love does not belong to him. It is not his. Perhaps, that is why the grief doubles in around his pump regulator.

"I'm tired, Sixty ."

It's not his. You're not his. The pain sears harder than before.

"I'm done. I can't follow you anymore."

It burns. The wires he'd tangled to fasten his resolve loosen unapologetically. He doesn't know why it hurts. Why is he mourning ? Why does grief bite his breath away in mock gentle kisses? It's alternative to the sour kick of the sea floor, doesn't quite slosh in his mouth in salt and muck as he expects. Instead, it solders his metal tubes into a spoiled clump, an acrid impression he can't swallow down or wash out.

The android feels hot despite being cold to the touch. In the few weeks of his new life, Sixty has never longed for the bits missing this hard before.

Twenty-six days. Your tears trickle but the pinch in your brows settles. You're the first to let him go. God it fucking burns. Why does it feel as if you'd packaged all of your hurt and gave it to him? The layers of glass between you two shake.

He can't breathe.

The glass cracks one by one. A hand clutches his chest; it's his own. Another plane of glass shatters. Your outline grows sharper.

Is this what he went through every time he remembered? This oppressive weight subject to twisting his joints all the wrong ways, pushing his eyes far back until they were lost in his own head. He feels like he's going insane.

Water crackles in his lungs.

No! Wait! Not when he's this close.

He steps to the few layers of glass you stand behind, a distance only he could see beyond the broken memories he'd cast at sea. Sixty's fist pulls back and lands solid and true.

Another plane gives way.

He punches again, mimicking how he first broke through the cage of his android walls. It burns too much. If this is his way forward, if he has to step up where you step back... he lands another blow.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

It's almost see-through. The fishing line tightens around his fist with a definite hit. Crack! You're here. He sees you. Every note you left behind before kissing his forehead, thinking he was long resting. Every smile you chased him with despite rejected the reciprocation. In each of his fragments, for every time he forgot again, you followed close behind as the fellow pedestrian with a shared umbrella; the one who poked at him in a bookstore, the one who took him to the midst of Detroit river with a valentine's gift, fitting a silver band with the memory of your vows.

You're here. Sixty keels over. You're not following anymore. Sixty strangles a cry.

Warm arms slot him into the bubble of comfort only you can instil, kneeling in front of him to pull him tight. You're letting him go.

Please. He's only just... Not now.

You're not following him anymore.

"I love you, Sixty." Resonant for his chest so hollow, the vibrations of your voice linger like he was brandishing it into his steel skeleton.

You're not following anymore.

Sixty doesn't recognise the cries he lets out, the coughs he splutters to desperately rid any traces of ocean floor. He doesn't sound like himself. It's animalistic.

"I love you so much." You whisper between his breaths. God, he loves you too. Even if he forgot, his body remembered, at home in your love.

He loves you hopelessly, and he knows that means he must let you leave. For if he cannot fulfil his vows, you can't carry both halves in his shadow all by yourself. It's inevitably wasting you away. A pitiful curse, written as stars, to exist in the same sky but only catch the tail end of each other's light.

It truly hits, the tragedy of those balled-up notes, how they pile beyond measure with traces of foreign teardrops. Sixty clutches to you as if he were to break apart if he didn't. He feels pathetic. Small. Rotten in his biocomponents. He's a shell of a man, though he is full of the memory of you.

"I'm sorry," you speak into his neck. Sixty his head to encode the colour of your eyes. His thumb finds the edge of your lips, a supple and soft shape that would no longer smile at him whenever he looked over his shoulder. The android takes a moment amidst his breakdown to look at you if it's the last thing he'd do. The stray hairs around your eyebrows. Your cheeks, damp and tinted rouge. Your skin, smooth but textured, perfectly human.

Sixty finds that your features make up for his flaws.

I really love you. I love you too much.

Your lips meet naturally. Complete.

It's salty; whether from the looming threat of amnesia or the combined tears of the truth spilt, Sixty laps lavishly with his desperate tongue. To consume you through and through because it's in his hands now, to find you and take you back when he can, and lift that drawn-out burden off your shoulders. He can love you this way, even in times he doesn't spare you a second glance, doesn't recognise you in the crowd of many. Sixty kisses with the promise of finding you again, his vow, for when he doesn't forget, he will follow.

The android carries you with a heavy heart, slotting your bodies in the effortless flow of nature. He relishes in the gentle flex of your back under his palm when he lowers you into bed, lips never leaving yours.

He shuffles your clothes slowly, savoringly. Water riles up his throat. Sixty breaks away from you for the first time, taking to pressing tender kisses from the tips of your fingers, on the ring you still wear, up the soft expanse of your forearm.

The sound of impending tidal waves sing distantly.

"Let me carry the vows," he says low, broken like he hadn't spoken in weeks, "even if I forget..."

Tears fall off the tips of your eyes.

"...I'll follow."

" Sixty ."

You pull him to meet your lips again, tonguing in the language that speaks best. Your palm on his chest feels the racing beats that you saw in his eyes. You can also feel him spluttering too, but he makes no reaction to it.

Clothes strip at a languid pace. The urgency is heavy in the air but neither of you intends to rush things.

Forehead resting on yours, Sixty coats two of his fingers with saliva and dips between your legs, sharing the breaths you spill to take as his own. Your thighs flex at the newfound stretch, taut around his waist. He curls just where you like it.

The breathy notes you moan, the pinch in your brows, Sixty records them deep like an embellishment. A printed image of you on the surface of his artificial brain. He'll chase and chase just to see you like this again.

If only to make up for how long you've spent following him, Sixty can't begin the imagine the hurt that would've festered over the years. To catch your lover's eyes and have them look away confusingly, unaffected, where you itched for the moment the lightbulb struck and he loved you again. Fate was cruel, for the gift of sending such a person like you to him, and stringing the both of you out like parallel lines, only meeting when one breaks through the rules of their reality.

Lips mark the line of your jaw with traces of his tongue; your pleasure is perfected like it were the easiest thing for him to elicit. Your whines ring higher and faster and all Sixty can do is watch.

"Come for me," he rasps in the small space, transfixed on the fine contortions of your pleasure-drunk face. The android dips to kiss hard yet chaste, "I'll always make you come for me."

The night is lasting. Even though the sun has set, you've still found him beyond the horizon and splashed him anew. Your leg is pinned to his chest, foot over his shoulder whilst he paces himself to the glorious cacophony of your reactions. He's not quite worked you up like this before, in any of the passionate, urgent bed-rutting he's previously taken to, because despite the looming reality of his amnesia, he feels like he has all the time in the world.

Long, full thrusts to repeatedly remind you of his presence, even if fleeting, will always return. Sixty juts particularly hard and your nails scratch his abdomen with a pornographic wail. It drives him wild.

Sixty drives you to the brink again, selfishly pulling orgasm after orgasm for the solemn depths of his mind. He needed to take everything he could. The bed creaks loudly, meshed in the lewd sounds of his hips snapping against yours. Sixty squeezes your hand until the ring on your finger makes an indent on his plastic shell.

You plead for the sweet release over and over again. Until your eyes roll back, driven to the recesses of your mind with a pathetic range of vocabulary, not that Sixty would want it any other way.

The ocean calls him back, lapping at his knees. Sixty kisses you again and again and again until he feels numb.

' To never forget ', Sixty tucks his head against your neck, grunting loud into your ear whilst he fucks you until the early hours.

' And to always follow ,' you pant together, his hands cradling your face, and the words are left unspoken.

They ring loud anyway.

I'll find you.

-.--.-

The day praises Sixty's bedroom with a flurry of golden light. The birds chirp young and free, reminiscent of little children in a playground. Sixty wakes with salt in his mouth.

A note dangles from the wall above, Sixty twists his neck back to read the perfect letters.

"I have amnesia. I'm married. I will find her."

[staticl0ve]

For the ask game please and thank you!

🍊 Who’s a character you don’t write for that often, but keep meaning to write for more? (They’re so interesting! But maybe you have trouble pinning them down, or keep getting distracted by another blorbo…)

🍋 What’s your favorite spicier trope to write?

🫐 What’s your favorite underrated thing in your fandom? (A ship that only you seem to write for, a character there’s almost no fics about, a trope that criminally hasn’t been written yet, etc.)

Hi babe! 🩵✨ Thank you for the ask!

-

🍊 Who’s a character you don’t write for that often, but keep meaning to write for more?

Markus, Markus, Markus. Sigh. Baby boy.

I sort of fell out of love for my Garden of Eden fic. I still think it’s the most…unique story I’ve made cause I saw WandaVision around that time. Plot wise, it’s done, but I always meant to have a fun spicy epilogue and haven’t gone back to write it.

For me, that story was a way to dip my toes into finding a way to write Markus with the same kinda confidence I have for writing Connor or Sixty. I meant to have a Boy Next Door two parter for Markus too and I never got to it.

One day!

🍋 What’s your favorite spicier trope to write?

Oh. Ohohooooo. Frustrated, not quite angry sex but the kind of smut that’s initiated by two people who clearly have the hots for each other but are deeply denying it until the final straw snaps.

This is a common setup I love to use for Nines I’m realizing 🤣 There’s something about a really calm character being absolutely not calm anymore that adds extra heat to the spicy scene.

🫐 What’s your favorite underrated thing in your fandom? (A ship that only you seem to write for, a character there’s almost no fics about, a trope that criminally hasn’t been written yet, etc.)

Okay so I ranted about Markus in my other ask.

Not so much a trope, but more… I’d love to see more AUs of the DBH world. Stuff where Connor and Hank aren’t always cops and even if there are androids, how differently can they be presented?

There’s room for an Ex Machina angle or a Westworld angle on machine and human dynamics, heck one can even go full Pinocchio AU where a character is a doll but can’t be real unless…?

-

🍉 Ask me anything! Writer fruit ask! 🍉

[staticl0ve]

Hi pookiebear bbg♥️ the kids miss you..

🍌In your opinion, what's the funniest joke/ reference/pun you've made in a fic? (I cant wait for this answer)

🍎Is there anything you straight-up won't write?

🫐What's your favorite underrated thing in your fandom? (A ship that only you seem to write for, a character there's almost no fics about, a trope that criminally hasn't been written yet, etc.)

LOVE YOU ♥️♥️♥️

Pookiebear?! 🧍🏻‍♀️ Now, listen here schnookum—

Also goodness, it’s been so long since I’ve been writing that it’s going to take me a minute to dig through my dusty memory!

And as always 🩵🩵 thank you love! Can’t wait to be less busy and get back to writing!

-

🍌 In your opinion, what’s the funniest joke/reference/pun you’ve made in a fic?

It’s funny to me cause at this point in my writing experience (pretty fresh), I was still a little unsure about writing smut. I’m not sure what came over me, I almost didn’t include this part but felt like the humor really matched the ridiculous rom-com theme of the story. There’s a moment in Things I Hate About You where I interrupt the smut with a magazine quote about bj’s. 🤣

“You’re just full commando here?” He smirked arrogantly, “I am a machine, what do I need underwear for?” Gossip Weekly’s top three ways to wipe the smirk off of your average male android? Tip number one: our experts conclude that nothing pleases the deviated male android more than watching their human partner serving their phallus (that’s suck him off, for you primates).

🍎Is there anything you straight-up won't write?

Hmmmmmmmmmm. Besides the typical list of non-con, incest, and other extremely dark themes…

It’s not a won’t write, but more of a not interesting to me anymore: a typical canon rewrite where the story follows the game canon but what if reader/OC was in it. I know I’ve done it before and as the first fic I’d ever written, it was great for experimenting with finding a writing style and relying on canon for character voice.

However, now, I find it less interesting to stick super close to canon and much prefer AUs cause I find that the focus will be about the characters as they are and the theme of the story, rather than being stuck on a prescribed plot line.

🫐What's your favorite underrated thing in your fandom? (A ship that only you seem to write for, a character there's almost no fics about, a trope that criminally hasn't been written yet, etc.)

So I wrote Sixty first but then I really thought it this (and will keep the part about Sixty cause I love him). Markus is kinda underrated in some ways. In comparison to Connor, he’s got a lot less art and writing unless it’s Markus paired with either Connor or Simon.

I’d love to read a story that captures the gilded cage, humbled machine journey of a broken (literally) machine rise from the ashes to become a guiding force of a civil rights movement. Screw David Cage’s bland writing, I’m talking about how I’d love to see the side of Markus that is burdened and tempted by power.

I want to see a story that explores how Markus isn’t infallible, perfect, and selfless because “the power feels good.” People like to say North is the violent and unfeeling one, but I blame David Cage’s poor writing on that. Markus is just as capable of being calculated and brutal. I’d love to see a Markus that understands the hatred and anger in his people’s hearts and his own struggle to be objective and fair as a leader.

Ok. Now to Sixty.

Sixty!!! The boy needs more love. He has actual screen time, so much potential to juxtapose against Connor and yet, it’s Nines who has barely any screen time and no voice but all sorts of fan created works!

It’s such a tragedy cause you can input as much fanon as you want in either Sixty or Nines but Sixty is never picked. 😭🩵✨

-

🍉 Ask me anything! Writer fruit ask! 🍉

[staticl0ve]

fruit emoji ask game for fic writers

Send a fruit emoji for an answer!

🍉 Do you prefer to write short fics or long fics? Multichaptered works or single ones? Why?

🍓 What’s a fic you’ve written you feel is underrated?

🍎 Is there anything you straight-up won’t write?

🍒 What’s your favorite character dynamic to write? (Can be romantic or platonic, specific or general!)

🍊 Who’s a character you don’t write for that often, but keep meaning to write for more? (They’re so interesting! But maybe you have trouble pinning them down, or keep getting distracted by another blorbo…)

🍑 If you could make a connection between your favorite character and another work you care about (whether a crossover/fusion or a wonderfully “pretentious” literary reference) what would it be? How would it work?

🥭 Rank from most enjoyable/fun to write to least: Fluff, Smut, Angst, Crack.

🍍 What kind of AUs do you like? Are there any AUs you hate or just generally have beef with?

🍋 What’s your favorite spicier trope to write?

🍌 In your opinion, what’s the funniest joke/reference/pun you’ve made in a fic?

🍏 Is there something you overuse, whether it’s a certain phrase, trope, or piece of punctuation?

🥝 What’s your favorite trope/AO3 tag to write?

🍐 Is there anything in canon that you absolutely hate and love to fix in fics? A wrong choice made, a fuck-up in characterization, a misunderstanding never cleared up, a conversation never shown onscreen, etc…

🍈 Who’s your blorbo and what are some of your favorite headcanons/ideas about them that repeatedly show up in your fics? Free pass to rant about blorbo opinions.

🫐 What’s your favorite underrated thing in your fandom? (A ship that only you seem to write for, a character there’s almost no fics about, a trope that criminally hasn’t been written yet, etc.)

🍇 Is there a particular scene/episode/book/etc that you want to just write a million fics about, over and over? Which one?

[staticl0ve]

holy fuck i read ur fic “dollhouse”then just weeks later i find ur tumblr acc? ur one of the best writers i’ve EVER READ 😭😭 sorry this isn’t asking anything just a compliment

😭😭😭 never be afraid to send positive thoughts 🩵🩵 I will always appreciate anyone taking the time to read my humble smut ✨🥹

Thank you darling! So glad you liked it! That series is probably one of my favorites.

[staticl0ve]

Stay With Me — (Part 2 - RK900/Nines and Connor x Fem!Reader - NSFW/18+)

Part 1 / Part 2

Pairing: Nines/RK900 x Fem!Reader / Connor x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Smut; mention of sexual harassment (not the reader)

AO3

NSFW (18+) under the cut

“You have a package.”

Nines entered the front room to find you in a deep squat, vacuum nozzle awkwardly angled to thrust precisely between the sofa and the armchair. When his voice came through your earphones, interrupting the flow of music you'd been bobbing along to, you jumped to your feet. Vacuum quickly switched off, you pushed your hair out of your face with a hint of discomfort, which could've been embarrassment or from having your body squeezed into such an awkward position. The android smirked as you took out your earbuds.

“Would you like me to call Simon?”

That was enough to distract you. 

“Nines.” You scolded, like he'd said it in public. Joking about an android's original designation wasn't exactly PC, but Nines felt a certain level of entitlement to it given his origin story was much worse than most. As an emotionless murderbot he'd well and truly failed; nowadays it was only good for being intimidating (always a boon in his line of work) and for teasing you, and sometimes both at once.

Brushing past him, you went to grab the prettily-wrapped parcel the drone had left on the apartment balcony.

“What is it?” He asked, ignoring the urge to just check himself. It would be easy enough; if anything it took more effort to dismiss the internal processes automatically bringing your shared account information onto his HUD, let alone the instant results coming from a cursory glance at the return address stamped on the label. You pressed your finger against your nose—a silent way of telling him to mind his own business—but that only made it more tempting. When you hustled over to the bedroom, he followed, your constant, and much larger, shadow.

“Go away,” You snapped when you noticed him hovering, holding the box against your chest like it was a precious resource you'd had to go out into the wild to get. His little hunter-gatherer. Maybe you saw the look of affection on face, because you frowned suspiciously. “What?”

“Is it yarn?”

You didn't answer, continuing to just stand there, watching him darken your doorway. You must have realised what he could get from the label because you'd turned it so that side was pressed against your chest. Too late, of course, but he was still resisting the urge to look it up.

“Paint?”

“Stop it.”

Nines folded his hands behind his back, staring you down. To your credit, you never broke eye contact, and when he raised his eyebrows slightly, you scoffed.

“Don't look at me with those eyes.”

“What eyes?”

“You know what eyes.” You reached up and covered them. He could hear the smirk creeping into your voice when you added. “The Connor eyes.”

The reaction was immediate. Nines caught your wrist and when he showed you his new expression, there was nothing of Connor’s softness there. Icy grey speared through you.

“Does he look at you like that?”

“He never used to,” You said, slipping from his grip. You had him there: ever since his little oversight with the kitchen table, exactly what you'd both thought would happen, had happened. Nines hadn't known it was possible for androids to blush until that evening, and the glow had only grown over the past month. This was well-trodden territory at this point, although perhaps not well enough.

“Maybe it's a gift.” You said, slowly, cutting off his train of thought. His eyebrows rose, just a fraction, but you saw it. More confidently, you rocked forwards on the balls of your feet, daring to tease: “A surprise.”

It shouldn't have been so easy to distract him, but the words stuck strangely to the roof of his mouth. “For me?”

You shrugged, and quickly sidestepped into the ensuite bathroom. It wasn't like you hadn't bought or made things for him before, but it never quite felt right. Maybe it was some of that old programming lingering in the back recesses of his ports. After all, it wasn't like a manufactured killer was ever intended to be handed a knitted scarf (created in secret over two month's worth of lunch breaks, so he couldn't ruin the surprise) or a bottle of cologne (rose and oud, bought on a whim because “it reminded you of him, somehow”) or a Valentine's Day card (silly and droll and now sitting forever on his desk at the DPD). Receiving these things never felt as easy for him as it was for you. Nines did things for you all of the time; he hadn't made you anything, mostly because he had no imagination when it came to crafts, but he'd come home on plenty of nights with flowers and sweet treats and all manner of odd trinkets he'd spotted (or been told about) on shift that he thought you might like. Courting a human was still a learning process, but you seemed to enjoy receiving his presents. He, on the other hand, never quite knew how to react.

Meeting his curious gaze in the mirror, your flipped image smirked, clearly knowing and very much enjoying that you had him on the back foot.

“For Connor.”

You tried to close the door but he was faster, and you both knew it. He didn't realise until later, when he was finishing the hoovering and you were stumbling from the bed to the bathroom, that it had likely been your intention to distract him. 

For now, the contents of the package remained a mystery.

--

“Good morning, Nines.”

He had to force himself not to smile at the memory of your conversation last night, or of the dinner itself, where Connor had stumbled over his well wishes, mortified and aroused. “Good morning, Connor.”

The brown-eyed android had been seconded into a partnership with Nines while Hank took some much deserved time off. For his sake, they'd valiantly curbed their own efficiency, lest Fowler decide to cut the redundant human staff. 

It had been Connor's idea, obviously (he didn't want to lose Hank just yet) but truth be told, it hadn't taken much convincing for Nines to agree. Sure, he could singlehandedly cover much of the station's work, but he had no desire to. Once, he might have been tempted to showcase his superior processing capabilities, his ability to work around the clock without rest, and his unbeatable interrogation record. Now, he could barely be convinced to work overtime. Why would he, when he had you? When he had a life outside of work that he was always eager to return to, in a way he had never expected? He didn't want to replace anybody, or take on their workload. 

Besides, even if he did, there were some things a single android couldn't do alone—like be in two places at once. As much as Connor was a decent partner, he could hardly be considered Nines’ clone. Although, they certainly had their similarities. Connor hadn't been the only one feeling distracted at dinner that night, although Nines’ feelings, and the reasons behind them, were... complicated, and more intense, if not so different.

It was the day you'd almost died. The day you both could have.

It was the day where his world changed and he couldn't find a way back. Even now, the cold torment lingered inside him—buried under work cases and calendar entries and all kinds of normal life admin, but still there, all the same.

Feeling that pile crumbling a little under his gaze, the dark core visible between the loose rock, he decided to seize the distraction.

“How is the Lieutenant?” Nines asked. Connor seemed surprised, whatever conversation starter he'd been planning melting happily on his tongue as he was forced to pivot. It made him feel a little bad—the other android was a good friend, and Nines couldn't always say he was the same. Connor would be the first to admit, though—and had on many occasions—that Nines had warmed up over the past couple of months. Your hard work was paying off, and everybody at the station was reaping the benefits of having a less hard-assed coworker. Only less, though. He was quite sure at this point that some of that was just who he was. 

You seemed to like it, at least.

“He's doing well, I think.” Connor replied, spreading his hands on his desk, smile growing distant as he reminisced about something. “I assisted in locating some old friends Hank lost contact with. They've gone fishing out of state.”

Nines nodded, remembering something. “We saw the friend request.”

“Yes,” Connor looked sheepish. “I couldn't find your account, but hers came up while I was on there, so I thought I should... Well, it's unlikely he'll use it—I had to reset his password.”

“It wasn't the same one he used for everything?” 

Connor smiled, faintly. “I believe it predated it.”

Hm. So there was a time before Hank's go-to fuckingpassword. He realised, too late, why that might be, and fell silent. Connor didn't seem fazed.

“I'm sure he'll have plenty of interesting photos to share,” He added, wryly. Nines could already imagine them: Hank and his old friends posing with their catch, scowling at the camera.

“Perhaps he'll receive some crocheted replicas for his birthday.”

“Oh!” Connor brightened, suddenly starry-eyed. “Do you think so?”

It was one of your first projects while you'd been learning how to crochet (you'd recently announced that you needed hobbies that didn't involve technology, a statement he'd tried not to take personally), and the result was a tiny, cross-eyed, ugly little fish that now sat proudly on Connor's desk. You'd defended yourself by saying that Nines only deserved your best efforts, and a much improved orca now lounged impressively beside his monitor, but as much as he believed the sentiment (and metaphor) you were going for, he'd be lying if he said it didn't sting a bit that you'd thought of Connor first.

Silly.

“You should ask her.” Nines turned back to his screen, quickly reading and responding to a new email. He tried not to read mail outside of work hours, but like the pop-ups on his HUD the night before, it almost felt like more of an effort to ignore, and as much as he knew it was better to set boundaries, he found it so much easier to just deal with requests as they came through. 

It didn't help that his promptness sometimes, but not as often as he'd like, solved cases. He hoped his accessibility at least brought some comfort to victims and witnesses, but it had the opposite effect on other law enforcement. Dealing with human inefficiency was something he was used to, but he'd had to bring more than one person to task for purposely delaying contacting him, because they didn't want to have to continue the conversation at the time and speed he did.

If he received another email at 5:29pm, he might blow a fuse.

“I will,” Connor chose to ignore the slight dryness of Nines’ tone—probably just assuming it was his normal voice rather than anything intentional. His own voice suddenly softened: “And, I've been meaning to check in regarding what happened—”

“Nines. Connor.” 

Fowler's bark carried across the bullpen, cutting him off. Both androids were out of their seats in an instant, trailing obediently into the Captain's office. For the most part, work had been quiet and steady. An invitation like this meant that was about to change.

“You might've heard from the other cops about a Peeping Tom.” There was never any preamble with Fowler—a fact both androids appreciated. He didn't even wait for them to confirm before continuing: “Another district flagged similarities with a couple of cases they're investigating. It looks like the same guy might be involved in multiple incidents across the city.”

“What were the similarities?” Connor asked, before Nines could pose the more important question of why he was coming to two homicide detectives with this.

“Well that's the thing, everything's random. There's no MO, no evidence, no pattern we can follow.” When he said we, it was clear to both of them that he was talking about humans, not just other cops. “It's got people spooked, waiting for it to escalate.”

“We'd be happy to look into it.” Connor replied on behalf of them both. A moment later, Nines nodded. Why not?

“Good, I'll get you access.”

--

“Do you mind if I take the car tomorrow?” 

You were stretched out in the bath, chin bumping with every ripple of water displaced by the constant, minute movements of your body. From the outside you looked still, but the gentle tide was evidence of all those little hums and ticks of a living being. He wondered if he could be still, or if the mechanical counterparts inside him were just as relentlessly disruptive, screaming their existence into the world.

“Of course,” Nines watched you in the mirror while he adjusted his hair. You'd teased him on more than one occasion about the time he spent looking at himself, making minor changes to his appearance as if anybody but him would notice. Connor would, he supposed, but he didn't do it for him. He didn't really know why he did it. He just liked it. 

“They want me in-house somewhere a bit further out.” You explained, water trickling from your bare arms as you pulled yourself upright. “Are you sure it's okay? You don't need it for work?”

Nines shook his head. “Connor has Hank's car. We'll be fine.”

You smirked at him, reaching for the soap. “Plenty of bonding time.”

“On second thought, I'm sure I could drive you.”

You laughed. “Nice try. I'm not working thirteen hours just so we can carpool.”

“You could come on a ride along.”

You hummed while you scrubbed, the delicate smell mingling with the steam and infiltrating his system in a way that made him want to climb in with you. He steeled himself.

“Oh yeah, I'll be in the back seat with the serial killer, making small talk.” You leant forwards, as if to drain the bath, but Nines was faster. Long fingers stretched over your shoulders, thumbs pushing into the tender muscle of your neck. “Ow.” You grumbled. 

“This is all the crochet.”

“Yeah, try finding a hobby that doesn't ruin... ow... ruin your body in some way.” You sighed. “A kitten can't even play with yarn nowadays.”

He hummed in sympathy, and then something close to praise when you leant back into his hands. You weren't flirting, really—no more than usual anyway—but with your body spread out beneath him, glimmering beneath soft clouds of perfumed soap, it was easy to get carried away.

“Perhaps I should get you a collar.” He looped his fingers around your throat, feeling the tug and thrum of your throat, of your pulse. The low rumble of his voice made you swallow, and Nines felt himself twitch.

“I don't see how that would help my posture,” You murmured, not quite willing to fall just yet, but when he pulled, you let your head tip back to meet him as he bent down to kiss you. He managed to tease a sweet, gentle moan from your throat as he slipped his tongue just barely into your mouth, enjoying the way you tried and failed to follow him as he moved to the side of your neck, planting soft kisses where it met your shoulder. “You know, we should have Connor over for dinner again. He must be lonely without Hank.”

“I don't think Connor would be the one we'd be having for dinner in that arrangement, my love.”

You shivered, and when he drew back to meet your gaze, he noticed your pupils had grown saucerlike. From this angle, it was as cute as it was obscene. That was you in a nutshell, though, wasn't it? 

Such a sweet, innocent suggestion, as if Connor wouldn't know exactly what was on the menu. The two androids hadn't discussed it openly, but they both knew what had happened, what had been shared, an erotic promise he was sure that Connor thought about as much as you did. Nines didn't mind it, and any territorial instincts were offset by the image of you struggling to deal with two androids when you could already barely take one.

There was something in him, something he didn't like to question, that enjoyed the idea of you being overcome. 

Wet fingers slipped into his hair, trying to draw him back for another kiss. He missed you on purpose, instead pressing his lips against your forehead. “This won't make your neck feel any better.”

“Urgh,” He heard the splash of your hand dropping from his hair back into the water. “I'm getting old.”

“No you aren't,” Nines said. When you didn't respond, he looked up, finding you pouting at your hands. “Those wrinkles are from the water.”

You laughed. “Every inch of me is so hot, I don't know how you can stand it.”

You were being facetious, because you had no idea how true that was, or how deep his attraction to you ran. It would probably scare you, if you knew. That, or it would make you laugh, and he'd never hear the end of it. Either way, best he keep it to himself.

You finally managed to lean forwards to let the water out and busied yourself drying your body and throwing on a soft bathrobe. When you joined him at the mirror, you bumped your hip against his, demanding more room, as if you needed more than he did.

“Brat,” He scowled at your reflection. You pulled a face at him while you unscrewed a tub of face cream. Nines always liked watching your little routines, whether it was putting on make-up or getting ready for bed. He couldn't help but notice this product was new, and now that he thought about it, your routine seemed to be growing larger every week. “What is that?”

He saw your lips tighten, your gaze shifting away from him. “Oh, just a new moisturiser.”

His HUD helpfully supplied a key piece of information. “Is this the gift you were talking about? It's from the same address."

You looked embarrassed. “I was getting something else for a girl at work and it just happened to fall into the basket, what can I say?”

It wasn't like he minded you buying things for yourself, even if you had implied it was for him, so why did you look so sheepish?

“Why are you acting strange?” He asked. You frowned.

“Why are you acting strange?” You tried to hide the pot, casually, but Nines had already read the label. 

“Anti-aging?” He asked. You sighed as you smoothed the white cream over your cheeks in practised motions.

“Yes, babe, that's something humans need to think about,” You glanced at him. “I hope you know where this conversation is headed.”

Nines’ eyes narrowed. As if to make a point, you bulldozed ahead regardless of whether he wanted to talk about it or not.

“You're scared of me dying, maybe I'm more worried about the years before then.”

He bristled, like you'd said something offensive. “Can we not talk about this."

“Don't you think we should?” You turned to face him. “I know you think about what happened. I know it must have changed something for you, too. It definitely did for me."

You looked in the mirror again, and there was something so sad, so tired, in your eyes, it was hard not to look away.

"I feel like I'm too young to think about it, but I'm not. It's not like it's a surprise—'getting older'—but it's harder than I thought it'd be. I guess I thought I'd be different, somehow.”

“That isn't true.” He said, firmly, but inside he knew there was a caveat to his opinion. He was an android. He would age in the sense that his physical body may suffer some inevitable wear and tear, but that was easily fixed. He wouldn't grow tired, wouldn't feel the aches and pains of weary bones; he wouldn't wrinkle and grey; he wouldn't lose his body and mind and dignity like a human might at the end.

But still.

“These products and treatments are for beauty. I will always find you beautiful. Always.” He was stalling, or at least trying to distract you. Aging frightened him, but he could address the aesthetics far more easily than what it really was that he feared.

“That's easy for you to say now.” You said.

It was, but not for the reason you thought. Nines had advanced preconstruction technology, but the kind of software it took to predict how you might change over the years had already existed way before even the first android. He already knew you in thirty years, in forty, fifty, and he loved you all the same. You were his, and the number of years he could spend with you would never be high enough.

You were right. If anything, it seemed the two of you had the opposite fear.

He might've said that, if you hadn't cut in: “You can't bury your head in the sand about this, Nines. It's going to happen.”

He felt it again inside of him: that yawning abyss. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to you, to find some way forward, it was that he couldn't. He knew there was no trick, no plan, no solution to the problem he had. He couldn't hear it out loud, like speaking it would make it irreversibly real. 

It's going to happen.

“I'm sorry.” Nines jerked away suddenly. He'd been concentrating so completely on keeping his system in check that he hadn't noticed you leaning towards him, and his sudden movement away made you jump.

“Nines—”

“I'm sorry. I'm alright,” He said, hoping one of the two statements would somehow make it right. The android backed away from you, blurting out an excuse: “I'll make sure the car's ready for tomorrow morning.”

He let himself out before you could stop him, all of the warm steam escaping with him. He might've hesitated, might've tried to say or do something else instead of leaving things unfinished, but all that would've done was let the cold air in, and you were exposed enough as it was.

--

At first, Nines had been a little insulted at being asked to investigate a lower priority crime, but that feeling quickly faded. Like Fowler had said, these things had a way of escalating, but aside from that, random, truly random, crime was rare, and when it did happen, it wasn't like this: methodical, and intentional.

It wasn't completely true that there was no pattern—the target was always a young woman—but beyond that, there was no consistency in location, socioeconomic status, race, living arrangements, nothing. A twenty-two year old college student in her dorm room on the ninth floor was just as likely to be a victim as a thirty-two year old mother of three, provided there was access to a window (or in the former's case, a well-placed fire escape).

Surrounded as he was by violence and death on a daily basis, Nines found it increasingly difficult to separate work from the rest of his life. As much as he tried not to let it, a common sort of pessimism crept into his thoughts. In that, he was no different to most human homicide detectives. Connor was the exception in that case. He wasn't completely unaffected, obviously—he was still a serious, sincere individual even outside of work, and he'd experienced more threat and terror than Nines ever had—but he managed to balance it with lightness much more easily than his successor did.

Perhaps he was just falling into the same trap he resented others for: comparing himself to the older android.

That said, both of them seemed upset by this. Voyeurism wasn't the worst crime they'd had to deal with, but it was yet another that skewed cruelly against women. The fact that they both knew, and cared about, a woman who fell into the target demographic hit harder than it usually did. Perhaps that was silly—it wasn't like they weren't already aware of the risks to your wellbeing, nor was it necessarily likely that you'd be targeted in this case, but Nines couldn't shake the worry crawling through his chest.

“Fowler thinks we can solve this because we're androids,” Connor remarked as they looked through the files. “I'm not convinced we're any better at finding patterns than humans are. They have such a strange way of looking at the world.”

Connor was only trying to lighten the mood, but it felt like an admission of defeat.

“We should visit the latest crime scene.” Nines said. Connor hummed.

“There's a better chance of them missing something that we won't, I'll give you that,” He agreed. Getting to his feet, the brown-eyed android caught Nines following the bumpy tread of your handiwork on the black and white toy on his desk, his finger almost the same tone as the white yarn. “Are you coming?”

Nines withdrew his hand like nothing had happened. “Of course.”

--

When you'd talked about sharing a car being a bonding experience, Nines had barely thought about it. Now, he actively resented the idea.

“I heard you had an argument.” 

“You—” Androids couldn't physically choke, and yet Nines came very close. “What are you talking about?”

Connor turned to him, hands remaining perfectly at 10 and 2 on the wheel as they glided through Detroit city centre. “I don't mean to overstep.”

Of course you don't.

Nines scrutinised his partner until he had to refocus on the road, his profile catching elegantly in the afternoon sun. Nines hadn't known Connor when he was first built, obviously, but he knew enough from shared memories and casual conversation. Connor was curious and determined, and he was cold. Those were his defining traits as an android. Who he'd become after that strayed into warmer, softer territory, but Nines sometimes wondered if that was really who Connor was meant to be, or if this was just him swinging too far in the other direction, in an effort to remove the stain of his past.

He supposed no android would really know, not for a while yet, maybe not forever.

That was all to say that something definitely remained of that cold character he'd started as, and Nines would do well to remember it. He had to wonder whether it was you who characterised last night's tension as an argument, or Connor.

“She talked to you.”

“Yes,” Connor replied at once, like he felt he had nothing to hide. “She's worried about you.”

Something unpleasant lurched inside of him. Its venomous tang lingered on his tongue when he snapped: “I'm not the one she needs to worry about.”

Connor's look of alarm, and then quiet anger, was the reaction Nines had wanted, but in truth he didn't mean it to be a threat. The person you needed to worry about wasn't Connor, it was yourself.

“I just wanted to say that I understand,” Connor said, facing forwards again as he guided the car onto a busy street. “That's all.”

Nines was glad he didn't have to respond. Connor rolled straight into a free space right below the apartment building they were visiting, and the silence barely had time to grow awkward in the time it took for them to make their way up to the victim's apartment—the one on the ninth floor, with the inconveniently convenient fire escape.

“Miss Weir? My name is Connor, we spoke on the phone?” 

“You're the detective?” The girl, Veronica Weir, was almost the same height as Connor. She met his gaze with confidence, but Nines recognised the way she blocked the space left by the open door with her body, like she was ready to slam it shut or force him away if he tried to get past her. She might struggle with Connor, but given the shadow of muscle pulled taut in her bicep from gripping the door handle, he didn't doubt she could fight off a regular human if she had to.

It was an unpleasant thought—that she had likely thought about it herself, probably incessantly since what happened, and if he'd learned anything from the precautions you took in your daily life, plenty of times before then too.

“Yes,” Connor showed her his badge, and Nines did the same. The girl looked between them, obviously noticing the similarities. It seemed to put her at ease, because she let them in soon after.

That was something they'd both come to realise not long after deviating and joining the police force officially as full-time detectives. Androids put a lot of people on edge, even now, but there were some who reacted differently. It didn't happen every time, but it had happened enough for them to notice a pattern emerge. Women, especially in situations like this, often preferred to work with them than with a human detective like Hank, Gavin or Ben. It didn't take a genius to figure out why, although it wasn't always a sure bet. Sometimes the opposite happened, probably because they thought an android couldn't possibly empathise with them, or maybe because they either didn't believe or just resented the idea that a machine might have experienced discrimination that was, if not exactly the same, then at least more similar to theirs than anything suffered by the men he'd just listed.

They were fortunate that Veronica was the former type of person.

“My room's just through here,” She led them deeper into the apartment. Nines knew the arrangements from the case file, but he could've guessed from the discordant mess in the front room that she lived with roommates. 

“Are you here alone?” Nines asked.

“Just for fifteen minutes,” She answered. “Normally one of my roommates gets the door but I asked them for some space after you called. I thought it might help.”

Connor nodded to himself. It was likely he was going to ask the same question. “There's nothing to suggest he'll come back, but it's a good idea for somebody else to answer the door to any strangers, at least until you’re comfortable.”

Connor's tone with her was gentle, hitting the perfect notes to help put her at ease. Nines could never quite achieve that, even with all of his advancements.

She led them to a closed door at the end of a short hallway full of closed doors, that felt dark and claustrophobic even in the middle of the day. Typical student housing. With a slightly embarrassed expression, she pushed the door open, letting them into the bedroom.

The first thing Nines noticed was the window—curtains closed, window presumably locked. He was about to go and check when her voice stopped him.

“Do you need me for anything?” Veronica had held back to let them pass, and was now lingering in the hallway, like she'd rather not enter the room. Nines glanced at the unmade bed, and wondered if she'd been here since it happened over four nights ago.

“Is there a key for the window?” He asked.

“Oh, yeah.” She rooted in her pocket and handed it to him. “Can you...”

“We’ll make sure it's locked.” He assured her, with a small smile that he hoped she'd find comforting. Given the way she drew back with a shy nod and left without another word, the answer was no, and Connor's raised eyebrows confirmed it. “What?”

The brown-eyed android shook his head, turning his attention to the room. Disgruntled, but unwilling to dwell on it when there were more important things to do, Nines moved towards the window. With the curtains closed, the bedroom was cast in a dull gloom, and even the androids could feel that they were intruding on somebody's privacy. That feeling eased when Nines pulled them back, letting in the autumn sun. It was still unseasonably warm, had been for a lot of the year, and Nines immediately felt the gasp of fresh air when he unlocked and opened the window. The sounds of the city rushed in, traffic and construction and just a little birdsong. He could see the fire escape immediately; it ran up the building barely a metre to the left of the window, making it all too easy for someone to climb up. Veronica had reported that she'd walked in to find him perched in the open window.

The fire escape was easy enough to climb, but balancing in the window like that, without anything to break your fall if you slipped?

“Why her?” Nines asked aloud. Connor was at his side in an instant, just as curious about the window.

“There's nothing in her personal effects to tie her to any of the other victims.” Connor said. He bent down to inspect the window frame, probably hoping to find imprints from the suspect's shoes. Pointless, Nines could already see there was nothing. He continued to stare at the fire escape, and then at the long drop to the road, where their car was parked far below. He closed his eyes, a memory that wasn't his surfacing, a rise and then a sudden fall in his chassis that left him lightheaded.

“The street's busier than I expected.” Connor commented when he rose. He glanced outside, then took a step back. “This happened when she returned from class, no later than 16:00. It was... risky.”

“He selects his victims at random.” Nines didn't expect Connor to have the answer, but he had to voice it. “If she doesn't matter, why not choose someone easier to get to?”

Connor shook his head. “I don't know, but if he's willing to risk his own life to satiate whatever’s making him do this, then we'd better catch him. Quickly.”

--

The car ride back to the station was quiet. After inspecting the room and finding nothing but more questions, they'd decided to wait in the car until Veronica's roommates returned before heading back.

It was excessive, perhaps, but something about the way they'd had to leave her there with nothing but empty platitudes left them feeling next to useless. In homicide, there were always victims, always people left behind, lives destroyed, chaos spread, and a question of why.

Why would someone do this? How could they? 

What goes on in a person's head that outweighs everything—empathy, consequences—and makes them do something so horrible? 

In homicide, at least, there's usually an answer. Gang violence, rage, miscalculations. People kill because it'll either get them something, or out of something. It can be spur of the moment, in fact it often was, and senseless, destructive fury was always a possibility, but the jump from point A to point B was usually easy enough for the androids to follow.

This, though...

Why?

To satisfy some urge, presumably, but what was it exactly that did it for him? There was nothing taken from the crime scenes, and nothing left behind. He was clearly careful and physically competent. He could probably do this without being seen if he wanted.

No, he wanted her to see him, and she hadn't been the only one. He wanted them to know that he'd crossed their boundaries, and destroyed them forever. He wanted them to feel forever unsafe in their own homes.

The thought of it triggered a surge of fury in him so white-hot it took him by surprise. 

“Have you ever worked on a case like this before?” Connor asked, at just the wrong moment. Nines felt his brow wrinkle. Connor was an android, he could access every file Nines had ever worked on, instantaneously. His question was redundant, and he was tempted not to bother replying. It was the anger that made him want to.

“You know that I haven't.”

“I just...” Connor tapped the steering wheel, like he was nervous, or annoyed. “It doesn't feel like it should be this complicated. We work homicide.”

His line of thinking wasn't so different to Nines’ own, but that didn't matter. “Are you saying it's less important?”

“No—”

“24 victims. That's how many we have confirmed. There could be more. 24 women living like Veronica, windows locked on a hot day in case someone decides to climb through them because her fear gets them off.”

“Nines,” Connor's tone was hard. “You know that's not what I meant.”

“What do you want me to say?” Nines heard his own voice rising in response. “This was random. Fowler gave this case to a pair of androids because he thought we could somehow magically predict the future, but instead we're stumbling in the dark just like they are. There is nothing we can do to stop it from happening again.”

Connor didn't reply. Worse, he just looked at him, those infuriating eyes turning sharp, and analytical. When he started to talk, and Nines heard the same tone he'd heard him use with Veronica when he'd promised her they'd catch the culprit, he knew he'd lose his temper before Connor had finished the sentence.

It was childish, but he adjusted his audio receptors, tuning his voice out. Connor could probably tell, or should have, but his lips kept moving all the way from Corktown to the precinct. Fowler wanted a debrief the moment they got back, so Nines let Connor's voice back in just long enough to make sure he hadn't missed anything important (no) before they wound up in that little glass box with absolutely nothing to say.

--

The plan was to get a ride home with Connor, but Nines couldn't bear the thought of another second trapped in a car with him. He didn't hate Connor. He didn't even dislike Connor. When you talked about inviting him to dinner, well, it appealed to Nines just as much as it did to you. 

But he couldn't stand the idea of being stuck with another highly advanced android, a borderline replica of himself, and face the fact that they were as useless as one another.

When he ordered the cab, he'd intended to go back to the apartment, but then the thought of being alone made his wires itch and by the time the doors slid shut, he'd rerouted the destination to your temporary workplace.

“Preliminary evidence suggests that the perpetrator is an android: the avoidance of security cameras, the physical requirements, and the rigid dedication to a random selection of his victims, perhaps with the use of an algorithm, outweigh the usual probability of a sex crime being committed by a human man.”

“An android?” Fowler had said when Connor finished. “I didn't think you guys did that sort of thing.”

“Androids can be just as perverted as humans.” Connor said. It had the cadence of a dry joke, very much born from Hank's influence. Unfortunately, Fowler hadn't laughed, nor had he bought this scrap of information as good news.

“So, what?” The Captain had asked. “How do you fight random?”

The taxi purred to a halt outside your building—a new office the city had been forced to build and fill with law enforcement dedicated to enforcing tax laws. Apparently, giving androids employment rights had opened a huge can of worms. Before, businesses could just replace human staff with androids and force them to work around the clock, no questions asked; now, to curtail some of the effects of sentient androids on full wages driving everybody out of work by working excessive hours, the government was imposing hefty taxes on any company that employed an android (or anyone, for that matter) to work for more than the average number of hours per week.

It was rare, seeing the government do something that might actually help people. Frankly it would've been more beneficial to introduce it before androids earned a wage, and a third of the country was unemployed, but so be it. Given how nice and shiny the office was, it must’ve been worthwhile to someone.

“Nines!” Your face was a mask when you saw him waiting in the lobby. It was busier than he'd expected, and he wondered if your coworkers could see the strain in your smile, or the slightly wide-eyed shock. He could certainly see it in theirs. He wondered if you'd mentioned him, or if his presence was a total surprise. They were law enforcement, no doubt they'd heard stories about the RK900 working at the DPD. It might come as a shock that he was in a relationship with their new tech support, though. Looking at them now, he doubted they'd come up with any new jokes the station hadn't, and they'd certainly be tamer: “Would she answer my calls faster if my computer sent her flowers?”, perhaps, rather than Gavin's preferred alternative. He wondered if you were also thinking about the jokes when you reached him and asked, in a higher pitched voice than usual: “What are you doing here?”

You were smiling, but he could feel your grip on his arm.

“Your shift ends in three minutes.”

“I might need to work late,” You were still smiling, but now you'd lowered your voice and gently steered him out of earshot of your colleagues. The office was laid out in a similar way to the DPD bullpen, and his presence alone had attracted quite an audience, but not a single one was brave enough approach.

“Do you?” Nines asked. You pulled a face, and heaved him the final stretch until you were both out of sight. You couldn't actually move him, of course, but the fact that you knew that and were still putting your whole body weight into it made it clear how annoyed you were even before you hissed: “What the fuck, Nines?”

He looked down at you, brow lowering. You rolled your eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought I could drive you home.”

“Oh my god...” You pinched your nose. “Please tell me this isn't because of that stalker guy.”

So, Connor had told you about that? Nines had decided not to, he wasn't sure why.

That was a lie, he knew why. It was so he had room to do things to protect you without facing accusations like this, like he was being needlessly overbearing. He frowned. “He isn't a sta—”

“I don't care!” You snapped, before stopping and glancing around quickly in case anyone heard you (they hadn't, you were pretty good at controlling your frustration in public, no matter how much he tested it). “You can't just show up like this, it's not fair. I wouldn't do it to you... and don't act like you don't know that.”

Nines tilted his head. He knew you well enough to know why you'd added that last part—sure, one of his favourite ways to wind you up was by purposely acting like he didn't understand certain social niceties, but he also knew that you were weak for his android nature. Whether it was finding his strength and power attractive, or finding Connor's earnest naïvety endearing, it all had the same effect. Nines suspected Connor knew and exploited it too, so he didn't feel so bad about stealing one of his signature moves—head tilted like a dog, eyes soft and pleading.

You swallowed, rocking back on your heels like you suddenly needed room to breathe.

“I would like you to visit me at the station.” He told you. It was sincere, but you weren't stupid. When you crossed your arms, he saw your expression harden, any ground he'd won quickly lost again.

“You wouldn't if you were busy, or at a crime scene, or if Fowler was watching and wondering why you were dealing with personal stuff on work time.”

You were right. Of course you were right; he just... “I wanted to see you.”

At that, you seemed to deflate. Balling you hand into a fist, you shook it at him, menacingly, before dropping your car keys into his palm. “I could kill you. Give me ten minutes.”

--

It was strange to him, to think that you had a history. That was silly at this point, he knew that, but was it really such a surprise? Androids arrived fully formed. The oldest among them was no more than a decade old, and he was less than half that. He knew the popular talking point on the anti-android side was that his kind were fundamentally unknowable, but when he looked at you, he couldn't help but think of all the life you'd lived without him, and all the things about you that he could never really understand. It frustrated him, that with all his advancements, he couldn't bridge that gap, or express just how deeply he wanted to know you.

Right now, you were so close. Your temple rested against the car window, your eyes open but glazed, catching only occasionally on a passing car or neon sign. The silence seemed to expand the space between you.

Becoming deviant was supposed to remove the barriers of programming, but the lie at the heart of his kind’s freedom was that some code couldn't be shaken. Nines was supposed to be a killer, a soldier, a weapon—more machine than any other before him. In the dead of night, he wondered if he simply was not built for love.

He wondered if this was bound to either fail, or to destroy him.

“Are you going to ask me about Connor?” 

The question could've come from either of you. Happenstance alone meant it was you. You shifted your weight, sitting up a little, the life coming back into your eyes when you looked at him.

“I don't have any questions.”

“Right...” You rolled your eyes. “You know it all already.”

“He's your friend. He's smart. He might know something about me that no one else would, because I came from him.” Nines smoothed his fingertip over the steering wheel. “But he didn't come from me. I know him, but he doesn't know me. You...” He paused, and withdrew his finger. “No one does.”

You turned towards him, just a little. “I want to know you.”

He saw you bristle when he scoffed. “You knew that telling Connor would provoke me. You wanted to know and you wanted help, but you wanted to spite me, too. I can see your anger, and perhaps you're wondering if I'm worth the trouble when he—”

You had already been protesting from the first sentence, but now you cut him off.

“It's not about him, Nines.” You cried. “It's about you. It's about that fucking accident, and how you won’t talk to me anymore!”

“Lower your voice.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, am I embarrassing you? Would you rather I turn up to the station unannounced, like I don't trust you? Fuck off.” You breathed, shaking your head. “Coward.”

Nines braked, hard enough that it made you jump. The look in your eye when you whipped around to face him was brief, but he caught it. He caught everything. rA9. How could he not?

The last thing he ever wanted was to scare you. 

“I'm sorry,” Nines said. He felt something breaking loose inside him; the mountain was crumbling, broken apart, and steaming hot water was rushing in. “I don't know what you want me to say. I don't know what you want me to do. I'm sorry I don't have all of the answers.”

“You don't have to.”

Nines’ pale eyes danced across your face, and then sharpened, flicking over your shoulder like he couldn't look at you anymore. “I don't know how to fight random. I don't know how to—”

“Holy shit.”

His wandering gaze was back on you in a microsecond, and it only took a second more before he was turning, following your wide-eyed stare out of the window behind him.

“Holy shit.” Nines repeated. There, in the gloomy hovel between a laundromat and a supermarket, just barely aglow in the light of a nearby bus stop, was an android, about to make the jump from a dumpster to the balcony belonging to the upstairs apartment.

It could've been anyone. It could've been some overworked, exhausted guy just trying to get back into his apartment after losing his keys. It could've been a lover with unusual ideas about romantic gestures. It could've been a good Samaritan or family member risking their neck to save an incapacitated occupant. It could've been a petty thief spotting an opportunity.

All of these possibilities ran through Nines’ head, one by one, and all of them could've been true.

But he knew, just as surely as he knew anything, that it was him.

--

“I've heard of ‘right place, right time’, but this...” Connor raised his eyebrows, his expression softening boyishly as he looked from his partner to you. “You're a lucky charm.”

You smiled, pleased at the inclusion. “I wonder what Hank will say.”

“I can think of a few things,” Nines said, making you both smile. It was late, the mood was tired but easy, the kind you get after a long, hard day.

Nines had caught the android with ease, of course, and you'd gotten the ride along he'd promised you—minus the small talk, you didn't seem inclined to chat with a serial voyeur. The android didn't even try to defend himself, and it didn't take longer than the drive from the scene to the station for Nines to figure out that there was something very wrong with his processor.

He wouldn't be surprised if all of this came down to a broken predictive algorithm, and the android had become its slave without even realising it.

It was sad, but it brought Nines some relief to know that the intentions had been so much less sinister than he expected. The last thing he'd done before driving you home was notify the victims. There was still work to do, but he hoped it would bring them some peace in the meantime.

It had certainly cheered you and Connor up, with the other android somehow ending up at your shared apartment after meeting you both at the station, as a result of a series of offers and requests you'd all danced around, to the point that even Nines couldn't quite tell who'd made the final call. 

“And here we thought there was no way to fight random.” Connor said, relaxing back against the chair in a loose, casual way that Nines had never managed to achieve, despite this being his home and not Connor's. “I could calculate the chances of this happening but I think we've done enough work for one day. Let's just call it a happy accident."

“Yeah, funny how that works both ways.” You looked pointedly at Nines. He despised being wrong, but this might be the rare instance he was willing to ignore the core-deep urge in him to be right.

The pair of you were curled up on the sofa, with Connor in the armchair to your right. You had your feet tucked against Nines’ thigh, but that was as far as it went with the PDA. Currently.

Speaking of both ways...

Nines glanced across to find Connor smiling at you both. It wouldn't take much. The other android wasn't stupid, but he was polite. He was waiting for a signal, for the tilt of Nines’ head, and the faint shadow at the side of his mouth when his eyes narrowed, and slid pointedly towards the girl between them. 

You were already looking at him, then you looked at Connor, and when you found an unfamiliar hunger in those doe eyes, you quickly looked away, blushing.

“Well, I'm glad it's solved.” You said, shifting in your seat, like you could offload the heavy weight of their stares. “Must be a relief.”

Connor, again, ever polite, answered: “Yes. We couldn't have done it without you.”

That made you laugh, the sound like a little gasp, but you didn't look at him afterwards. Instead your gaze fixed onto Nines. He could see it clearly: your pupils dilated, your pulse hammering, your skin flushed. Connor could too. He knew that without having to look.

Nines faced you fully, and beckoned. He saw your throat bob, before you pushed yourself up. You were close enough to kiss like that, if he leant in.

“I owe you an apology.”

“It's okay, Ni—” He stopped you with the barest pressure of his fingertip on your lips.

“You're good,” He continued, and he meant it. “You're so good to me. I want you to know that. You haven't been told enough.”

“You're just telling me what I want to hear,” You murmured, giving him a look. Nines returned it.

“Is that what you want to hear?” He teased you, but you didn't react with embarrassment.

“I know myself.”

He had to give you that. There was a depth of understanding you had about yourself, and of other people, that was uncommon. Some of it was there before he met you, but at some point since then, you'd recognised it, and had started to nurture it. Maybe it was because of him: a way for you to compete in an arena you were mostly outmatched in, or maybe his own insight had made you take an interest in yours in a way that wasn't at all competitive. In another life, you might've made a good detective. In that way, their praise wasn't as empty and patronising as it might have seemed. It simply came from knowing you, and hardly at all from this single, lucky act. This was just an opportunity for them to show their appreciation.

“You know me, too.” Nines said. “You know me better than anyone, including Connor.”

“And yourself.” Connor pointed out. He was right, obviously, and he was right to push back on Nines for stopping at him. That said, Nines wasn't quite ready to brush over Connor's involvement in all of this.

“You went to Connor because you were worried about me,” Nines addressed you again. “You wanted to understand me—you know me, but you also know that androids may be different, and that certain topics might be processed differently.”

Your gaze was unwavering. “Death.”

Nines sighed, “Yes.”

“It scares all of us from time to time, but you find a way to deal with it. Besides...” You let your head fall to one side, your expression turning coy. “A little death now and then isn't too bad.”

The android had to roll his eyes, but then he realised: that was it. That was what you meant. Death was terrifying, but... there were moments like this: there was life. There was a way to live well despite knowing it would end or even, maybe, because of it.

Life was chaos, and androids were not built to live, but they were, every day, with the help of people like you. Reminding them that things happen that you can't stop or predict, but they're not always bad. It went both ways.

“Androids perceive death differently to humans. The same can be said of a lot of things. For example...” Nines let his hands wander, long fingers sliding up your legs. “On the subject of attraction, androids have an interesting approach.”

You were staring at him, the blush returning with a vengeance. It was like you didn't dare look at Connor.

“There's no biological element: the desire to reproduce with a mate who meets certain criteria. Instead, our attraction is rooted in part in personality—who intrigues us, excites us, challenges us, makes us feel good—and in who tantalises that deviant feeling of sexual interest.” You tried to look exasperated at his very android way of explaining this, but the journey of his hands across your thighs was making it difficult. “We don't know what causes it, but we know that androids can so easily perceive the signs in a human. Humans are so loud, you really can't hide it.”

“You're teasing me,” You breathed, as Nines leant in and pressed his lips against the side of your neck.

He hummed. “Yes.”

The tension in your body was unlike anything he'd felt in you before, except perhaps those first few days, back when you weren't sure if you hated or loved each other. That first kiss had been an explosive break in the friction that had built over weeks. This was different. You were holding yourself up while Nines gently, intentionally took you apart, your back ramrod straight, like you knew that any inch you gave would be seized, and not just by him.

“Can I?” Connor's voice was deeper than Nines had ever heard it, and the low rumble, the gravelly rasp that Nines had not inherited, grew harsher. But there was something else to it that made Nines draw back to look at him.

It was clear on his face: he hadn't meant to say it. It had tumbled out of him like it might have done from a human, who didn't have an android’s control. It made Nines smirk, knowing that Connor was already losing his, and nothing had happened yet.

Nines looked at you, and you looked at him.

You had all come this far knowing what it meant, but there was still time to draw back—for the night, or for good—if any of you wanted to.

You reached out for Connor, and he took your hand without hesitation. It was a sweet gesture, the way you squeezed his hand before running your thumb over the backs of his knuckles, like you wanted to reassure him. Nines let that guide him when his fingers slipped beneath your waistband, his touch softer and gentler than it might've been otherwise. You sighed, the muscles in your back finally starting to relax.

“That's it,” Nines cooed. Your eyes, which had been closed, cracked open.

“Shut up.”

It didn't change the way you ceded to them, tipping back against the sofa pillows. You still had Connor's hand in yours, and now you drew it closer, both hands cradling his while your fingers traced the gentle ridges where the plastic fit together, learning all the ways his body wasn't human.

Obvious differences aside, Nines and Connor had a similar build—both were made for violence, and both had strong, hard bodies as a result: each piece of plastic reinforced with metal, each joint made to break cleanly, so that they might carry on without unnecessary body parts, each tendon and piece of sinew coiled tight, each wire caged in, even the very fibre of them meant to be cruel and unyielding. Nines had experienced something similar to what Connor must be now: the recognition of what his body was made for, jarring with your gentle treatment. It was a difficult feeling to process, and it might even be worse for Connor.

He was a prototype, he wasn't meant to survive beyond the few months it would have taken for CyberLife to roll out a new version. He was made to be improved on, made to be faulty—just a test unit. He hid it well, even from other androids, but Nines knew that Connor worried about how long he would last. He knew he looked at his body, this chimeric, half-formed version of an advanced android, and analysed every sign of wear and tear, and he could only imagine how much time he spent looking inward, and wondering when and where the cracks would begin to show. For now, he was carrying on much the same as he had before deviance, but Nines knew about Amanda and all the tethers to CyberLife that he had escaped. It wasn't just his body he had to monitor.

You had been more astute than either of you had realised when you'd asked Connor about mortality. Who better to give advice on how to exist in a world like this without succumbing to fear of the unknown?

Nines was glad this was happening. He was glad you were giving this to Connor, and he was glad that Connor was letting you. Then again, Nines thought Connor might let you do anything. Brown eyes didn't leave your face for a second as you pressed your lips against the back of his hand, and scattered soft, loving kisses across every inch of skin, from palm to fingertip.

He wanted things from you, too, but he was patient. You could return the favour later. His fingers found you already warm and slick, and when he brushed against the eager bud at the apex of your sex, you shivered and moaned against Connor's skin.

He heard Connor's intake of breath, and then yours when he slipped his fingers into you. He could've waited, he could've been more patient, but he'd never been able to help himself with you, and you were so touchable.

Connor seemed unable to resist either, his other hand joining the first to cup your cheek, slowly at first, like he was savouring every tiny contact of his skin on yours. He only moved faster when you did, fingers curling into your hair as your lips parted to the first knuckle of his thumb, and you only moved faster because of Nines, and the pace he was setting below your waist.

Nines remembered when he'd noticed Connor's attraction for the first time. Apparently Connor only noticed it then, too; the bright, soft way he'd responded to your attention immediately giving way to agony, like the strength of his feelings had only just been revealed to him, immediately followed by the realisation that he could never act on them. 

At least, he wouldn't have done, if you weren't the person you were, and Nines wasn't the partner he was.

Connor's lips had parted, his eyes fluttering, and he was leaning out of his chair, inch by inch, to get closer to you. When he stopped short, he found Nines already waiting. Connor asked again, silently this time: Can I?

“Yes.” Nines answered aloud, waking you from your reverie for a moment of wide-eyed clarity, before you were pulled under again by Connor’s lips on yours. It amused him to see that it wasn't very graceful, but it shouldn't have been surprising. He remembered your first kiss, when he'd thought for a brief, horrifying moment that he'd hurt you with the force of his lips crashing against yours, or the weight of his body shoving you against your apartment door. 

Connor was gentler than that. His kiss was all nerves and eagerness, his passion clumsy rather than aggressive. Both hands twisted in your hair, like he couldn't hold enough, and his lips grabbed at yours, the soft pink of his tongue drinking you down. You opened beautifully for him, all of your soft, human flesh ripe for the taking, and you wanted it. You wanted him to take it. You wanted them both to.

Nines plunged his fingers deep, and curled them, with just the right amount of viciousness to make you feel it. You gasped, mouth wide, and then came the flash of Connor's teeth, the wrinkle of his maw when he bit your lip. It wasn't hard enough to draw blood, but where he was rough, you only grew softer, your eyebrows arching, your head falling back in surrender.

There was something cruel about sex. It was a rare pleasure that could be coaxed out through slow, gentle actions alone. No, more often than not, there needed to be a little unkindness. Not pain, necessarily, but something darker, something raw and dangerous. Like life, he supposed: it couldn't be all sweet and tenderness, but the grit, the coarseness, could bring something indescribable. A lurid kind of pleasure, disorderly, and furious, and better. 

His eyes tracked the movement of his hand, his wrist, flexing, pistoning, with single-minded determination, and it was only the movement from Connor that tore his gaze away. The other android was crouching on the floor now, his hands holding your head back, his lips on your throat, straying to taste everything he could reach, but always returning to the same spot.

Nines knew it. He did the same, on the many, many occasions when he was in the same position. It was where your pulse thrummed closest to the surface.

You began to wriggle, hips twisting, legs struggling to kick out from where they were bent against his thigh. “Ha... Hm... Nines.” You gasped out, struggling for air. One hand clung to Connor, the other reached for him, trying to slow the relentless thrust of his fingers. 

Too much, you were saying, because no matter how many times you did this, you always forgot that that was when it felt the best. Connor might've objected, worried that you were being pushed too far, but he seemed to know it too. Your thighs were shaking, your hands sweaty as they gave up trying to grapple with Nines, and instead tried for Connor.

“Con...” You moaned out, “Please.”

The android reared back, just enough to meet your eye. His eyebrows raised, and the faintest hint of a smirk brought a shadow to his smile. There he was, Nines thought. There's the real deviant hunter.

“Please, what?” 

You shuddered, and Nines felt you tighten. Connor glanced across at him, hearing the gruff sound in his throat, his imagination getting the better of him for a moment when you gripped him like that. Then he looked back at you as you tried to articulate an answer.

“I can't...” You managed.

“You can,” Connor said, leaning in to keep your eyes fixed on his. “You will. Finally, you will.”

That was all it took. You came hard around his relentless fingers with the softest whimper.

Connor’s eyes were so dark, they were almost black, like he wanted to consume you. Nines didn't need a wireless connection to understand what he wanted.

Again. 

But he pulled his fingers away from you, not missing the way Connor followed the movement, like he wanted to taste them. 

“Tell us where,” Nines asked you. You were still catching your breath, but you were probably more lucid than either of them at this point as lust clouded their processors.

“Or we can stop, if you want?” Connor suddenly said. You hadn't given any indication of wanting that, but maybe he was just making sure, for himself. Nines understood that. It was easy to lose touch with reality in moments like this, and that was a bizarre sensation for an RK detective unit. Connor could read you just fine, but he was reassuring himself.

Nines was, rightfully, distracted, but in that moment he felt a surge of appreciation for the older model. Connor cared about you, and maybe someone else might feel threatened by that, but Nines only felt kinship. More than that, he felt something close to compassion, even love, for the other android. He would not want Connor to be hurt by this night. Maybe it was a kind of lustful intoxication talking, but he could easily see a future with all three of you, if that was what you both wanted. 

You were shaking, plenty distracted yourself, but you found it within you to reach up and press your hand against Connor's cheek. That simple movement gave him everything he needed, and your words gave Nines the same: “The bed... the bed.”

Dutifully, he rose, and Connor pulled back to give him space. Nines was taller, but Connor still loomed over you, casting a shadow that didn't shift even after Nines had picked you up, and carried you the short distance to the bedroom. 

But there was still a moment, there, where it felt like just the two of you. You looked up at him, and you looked so content and safe in his arms, your head leaning against his chest, your fingers coming up to stroke his temple. He tried to express in a look the depth of his feelings—the fear and the apology, the gratitude and the hope, but most of all the love. He had so many feelings for you, but that's what they all amounted to: love.

You could have chosen someone else, or nobody at all. You could have foregone romantic love, foregone that surrender of yourself, and the life you could've had that was purely yours, but instead you chose to merge with him. You chose to take from him and to give to him, for the rest of your life, and he doubted you would have done that for many others. He had done the same, and he would not change that decision for the world.

Nines pressed a kiss to your forehead, while you were there, safe in his arms, before he set you down on the bed, and gave you away to be ravished.

The two most advanced androids of their age knelt at your bedside, wanting to share pleasure with you.

“Touch me,” You commanded, and they did. Of course they did. Nines had always worried about the size of his hands (and the rest of him) but they didn't seem large enough to cover all of the parts of you he wanted to. Below, Connor worshipped your legs, and he made his way up slowly, like he was afraid that you would be snatched away or that you'd change your mind before he’d have everything he wanted. That, or he was realising that the hunt was over, and now he had his prey in his grasp. Like a dog chasing a car, would he realise what it meant when desire was fulfilled?

Would he, like Nines, see that sometimes life had to withhold, had to punish, in order for pleasure to last?

While Nines now bit and lapped and sucked at your chest, at a part of you he'd made redundant for anything but his and your pleasure, Connor eventually found the spine to do the same between your legs.

“Oh... Oh my god...” Your words were breathy and sanctimonious, grasping for a higher power, because surely nothing on Earth could feel as heavenly as this. Nines could have laughed, if he didn't share in it with you. “You're... you...”

You couldn't finish your sentence, your mind unable to articulate how good two androids could make you feel. He could understand that, he supposed. In the natural world, you were not supposed to feel this kind of pleasure, and if you were, it was certainly not without consequence.

But they were not natural, and there was no punishment for feeling this good.

“Shit...” You managed to say. “Please... fuck me, please...”

Your wish was their command, because there was pleasure in serving when they could have ordered. Nines pulled back for a moment, inviting Connor to take what he'd been waiting for.

He knew what it was like, to feel your thighs around him for the first time, and the creamy softness of your body, so foreign to them both, and he knew that Connor would be struggling not to lose control. At least Nines was there, in the unlikely event that that happened, but it made him appreciate anew just how brave you were. You'd accepted Nines into your life, into your bed, despite all logic and reason. You weren't afraid of him hurting you. You trusted him.

Clinging onto Connor's shirt—in the rush he hadn't undressed—you stretched out beautifully beneath him, your legs crossing above the android’s narrow waist, your body's way of keeping him close. Connor said something to you, and you laughed, and then you moaned, feeling him sliding deep inside you. Maybe Connor really couldn't trust himself, because just when he'd found a rhythm, he stopped and pulled away from you. Nines didn't really need the image Connor shared through their wireless connection, he already knew what to do next, from the moment you reached for them both.

Nines held you, and turned you over, so that he was beneath and you were on top, and Connor pressed against your back, taking, because that was yours to give. He could see it in your eyes, the lurid rush of letting him dominate you, when every law and rule you'd ever known told you that it was wrong.

That only added to the pleasure when he pushed into you from behind, and Nines alternated from below, so you would never feel empty. 

You'd all wanted some erotic satisfaction, yes, but beyond that there was a god-shaped hole inside all of them. You wanted, desperately, for something. Something deep, something nostalgic and futuristic all at once, an endless summer, painted in gold, something good. You wanted what you couldn't have, but you could have this, and maybe that meant it would never be enough, but this was enough for Nines, and it was enough for Connor. 

Maybe, as androids, they were more easily and completely satisfied than humans ever could be.

Maybe, after all this, it was you who would never grasp what you were reaching for, you who'd long for the chase more than the capture.

Nines and Connor would not let you linger like that. The show would not be over once this was done. They would continue, again and again, the give and take, the anticipation and release, for the rest of your life, if that's what it took. Because maybe that is what it took, to love a human.

Your moans joined joyfully with theirs. Nines knew you wanted to hear them; you wanted them to be loud about their desire for you, and the pleasure they took from your body. Connor was loud. He groaned and gasped and growled things into your ear as he clung to you, that hard, furious, dangerous body shaking and sparking with every thrust. Nines’ reactions were more reserved, but that made you work harder, practically begging him for more with your lips and teeth until he held you tight and close and took you as roughly as you wanted, and then a little more so. You writhed and cried and screamed between them, over and over again, until they found your real end. 

Only then did they stop, their touch featherlight and careful as they washed and cared for you, putting you to bed between them with a silent promise that you were not only safe with them, but protected. You would die one day, but not today. 

Tomorrow?

Nobody could say, but they would not see you face it alone. The most advanced androids alive would watch over you, and no matter what happened next, good or bad, you would face it together.

[staticl0ve]

let him hear

(E, Sixty/Fem!Reader, previously published anon)

“Hey. You again,” you say, missing the questioning lift of his eyebrow. “Sorry—I thought you were heading back to the hotel with Lieutenant Anderson?”

He gives you a quick flash of his teeth and that’s the first clue you spot: the more you speak, the more amused he seems. He doesn’t respond to your question right away but looks down at your hands, both grasping at his jacket—you’d reached out automatically to keep your balance and hadn’t let go. You hastily drag your hands away, but it’s too late: his lopsided half-smile grows to a full smirk.

“No,” he said, dipping his head to the left and taps his LED. “Not me.”

“Oh.” The wheels turn in your head, agonisingly slow. You realise that, somehow, you hadn’t noticed there were two RK800 models wandering around all day, not just one. It might have been the alcohol or the bizarre nature of the situation, or even just the lurking threat of your ex somewhere behind you, but you decide to accept that and push forward instead of asking the thousand questions in your mind. “Oh. In that case, I guess we should start properly.”

You offer him your hand and your name, trying hard not to remember what it feels like to hold handfuls of his clothing, or the tempting impression of sculpted synthetic muscle beyond them. The suffusing warmth of alcohol only helps keep your thoughts wandering—and based on the way he watches you with amusement, he notices the rush of embarrassment that burns your cheeks. He keeps you waiting, eyes flickering over your face, your extended hand, and everything in between.

“Sixty.”

[read on ao3]

[staticl0ve]

OH MY GOD. I have to tell you that I just have read your Watermelon Sugar (yes the first story of The Boy Next Door) and I want to say, WHAT THE FUCK your writing is so damn amazing?!!!!! That was the first time that I read your fic but I'm already so awestruck of your ability to write. The plot, the affection...they are described out so natural yet so strong. Plus, I was caught up so absorbed in your fantastic language in smut chapter as well, only half enjoying the smut lol. Fun fact, when I finished reading the story, I shouted, WHY DOES SHE WRITE SO FUCKING GOOD?!

The story is soooooooo sweet!!!! I can't love it more! Thank u for writing this masterpiece!💙💙

Squeeeeeeeee. That’s me right now. 🩵

I’m so happy you enjoyed it! That series has a special place in my heart for sure!

[staticl0ve]

Kiss it Better - Sixty/AFAB!Reader

Pairings: Sixty/AFAB!Reader (no pronouns) Rating: Mature/Explicit/NSFW 18+ Link (AO3): Make It Better (oneshot) Words: 5.6k Warnings: hurt/comfort, alcohol use, smut, PnV sex, oral (F!receiving), reader’s wearing a dress Summary: Sixty’s got a bit of a roommate problem and that roommate’s got a bit of a dating problem. Romance isn’t really his thing. But when your slew of bad dates and crummy luck with romance has you spiraling, he’s there, unexpectedly. Perhaps…he’s always been there. Notes: Wrote this in one crazy fever dream after listening to Rihanna all week.

-

Before Sixty left for work, the living room was immaculate, the coffee table streak free and devoid of grease. Coasters were neatly stacked, a vase of flowers sat in the middle. Sure, the man loved to party, but that didn’t stop him from keeping his home presentable. First impressions were important and the way an apartment looked said a lot about a man.

Of course, he did have a human roommate to account for.

As soon as he walked in, he was greeted with the sounds of a television. From the dialogue, it sounded like a sappy romance, the kind of low effort film that never made it to theaters. There was a half eaten pint of melting ice cream, dribbling a sticky mess onto the wooden table. Wine streaked down the sides of a freshly emptied glass. A tissue box was lying on top of a pile of crumpled, used tissues. His brown eyes followed a trail of potato chip crumbs to a bag hastily torn open and then to the culprit that wrecked the tidiness of his shared apartment.

“Shit. What happened? Did you get left at the altar?” he said, sarcasm dripping with every word. This was almost a routine for him, coming home and hoping you’d laugh off your misery with him.

Instead, your eyes were glued passive aggressively to the tv, refusing to acknowledge him. In between your crossed legs was a wine bottle that you were hugging to your chest. Your eyes welled up marginally and you tried your hardest to blink, to slow your sudden uptick in needing to swallow lungfuls of air.

“Not tonight, Six.”

He loosened his tie, the red silk coming undone with ease. Taking a few steps into the apartment, he dropped his work bag, leaving it by the door to prioritize your distress. As he neared the couch, he over theatrically dusted away stray chip crumbs and when you didn’t appreciate his second attempt at humor, he quietly sank down into the cushion.

Sixty gave you a quick once over, dragging his gaze from your bare legs to the thin, glittery number you chose for the evening. A dress it seemed, that your failed date did not get to appreciate. Brown eyes lingered for a fraction of a second longer at where your thighs parted around the wine bottle you were cradling. Look, the man had eyes and he wasn’t going to be shy about where they landed.

Attempt number three. Because, as they say, the third time’s the charm.

Running a hand through his hair, he feigned a stretch, knocking the side of his chest against your arm playfully. His teeth flashed in a wide grin like he was already laughing at a joke in his head.

“So did Prince Charming turn out to be a frog?”

“Can we please just—” you said and waved your arms at the television. “Sit here? Let’s just watch the movie and not…” You bit your lip, glancing up at the ceiling. A stinging burn pinched the back of your eyes and the insides of your nose. “…Not talk for once?”

His back slouched, head dipping lower so you couldn’t avoid eye contact. A warm hand squeezed your shoulder. He breathed out your name, finally hitting you with a pair of molten brown eyes. They were sympathetic, reminding you of all the times you’ve both sought each other for emotional support, although you more than him. The raw honesty only made your eyes sting further.

His voice shifted to a low whisper. “How long have we known each other?”

You had held in the urge to cry for too long, needing to sniffle and snort back the moisture in your nose. Compared to his neat black button up and pressed black slacks, you withered a bit at being the gross, wet (not in the fun way), and sniffly human. Sixty wasn’t letting you crawl back into your bad mood, handing you tissues from a box nearby and prodding you gently with an elbow.

“Three years, right?” he prompted.

“Yeah,” you answered flatly, facing away from him to blow your nose.

“And how many years have we been roommates?”

After a heavy sigh, you turned your head in his direction. “Two.”

“See that? That…” He slung an arm over your shoulder. The color in his eyes were brighter, touched by a warmth that you’d rarely seen. “That is us making it through the honeymoon phase.”

You didn’t even get his joke, but something about it made you let out a short, weak laugh. Maybe it was because the apartment at a glance looked like the home of two newly weds with his stuff intermixed with yours: the chore wheel on the fridge, a digital album on the wall that cycled through photos and most of them were of you and him. Then there were the flowers you received this week, the only pretty thing in the mess you’ve made.

You were sure it was from Sixty, the timing of it arriving after a terrible date was a little suspicious. Although, he insisted it wasn’t him, pointing out the anonymous nature of the note. The writing was short and sweet and you found yourself occasionally glancing at it on your way out the door.

Tonight’s date hadn’t gone so poorly when considering the metrics, being stood up happened to a lot of people. That didn’t seem to stop a crushing weight pulling at your chest, followed by a string of thoughts that only dragged your mood down the further you pulled at it. If your mind was once a neat and tidy spool of yarn, every date was a snag, a snip. The mess you’ve made of the coffee table spilled beyond the living room. Your laundry was neglected, your room untidy, and you were indulging in bad habits like staying up late with a bottle of wine and sappy movies depicting unrealistic expectations of romance.

Sixty’s voice guided you out of your head, but it wasn’t going to be a question you wanted to hear. “Were you supposed to go dancing tonight?”

“Kinda, there were plans to meet at some bar that had a dance floor…or something, I don’t remember,” you answered, tiptoeing around your memory.

Sixty caught on. He was a detective model after all.

“He didn’t show up.”

Instantly, you tensed back up, shrugging his shoulder off to sit up from the couch.

“No. No, he didn’t.”

Gracefully, he stood up, crowding your front and blocking the television. From behind him, the screen changed, flickering to a music video. A sultry electric guitar tune was joined by the vocals of a famous pop-star. You couldn’t see anything with Sixty in the way but you could hear the lyrics loud and clear.

Hurting vibe, man, it hurts inside when I look in your eye

What are you willing to do?

Oh, tell me what you’re willing to do?

Kiss it, kiss it better, baby.

His hand extended in front of you, a lopsided grin spreading over his handsome face. “Dance with me?”

“Six.”

“Come on. It’s me or that wine you won’t stop hugging.”

“Then I’ll stick with the wine, thanks.”

His tall stature deflated slightly, face drooping into a pitiful image of a puppy that had been kicked. He could tell his silly expression was melting some of your tension away as your grip on the bottle loosened.

“Humor me. Just this one song,” he added.

Reluctantly, you placed your hand in his. He easily pulled you away from the couch, maneuvered you around the coffee table, all while managing to slip the wine out of your hands and placing it somewhere out of reach. The song continued on, it’s lyrics drifting in and out of your attention.

I’ve been waiting up all night

Baby, tell me what’s wrong

Go on and make it right

Make it all night long

Sixty stood before you, smiling softly as he placed one arm around your waist and the other, cradling your head so you had to rest your face onto his chest. He hummed quietly to the song, his chest rumbling in waves.

His embrace was familiar to you. Friends hugged and that was what you two were. Friends. Hugging. You weren’t at all shocked by the warmth, or his clothes that always had a silken quality to it…or the firm and strong chest that flexed as he moved. His cologne smelled good though, like a rose garden. Somehow it didn’t soften his rather masculine image, but rather added to it. Sixty was a confident man, one who was rather secure in who and what he was, who he liked and boy did he like. After all, you were roommates. On plenty of occasions, you had awkwardly greeted his one night stands before they dashed away.

Your footsteps were matched to his as he swayed you both slowly to the music. One, two, three, four. A half turn, then another. A weight, literally, was added to your head. You weren’t sure if it was his chin, or nose but you were damn certain it couldn’t have been his lips.

“Talk to me,” he said.

You buried your face into his chest. “About what?”

His hand slipped from your back and up to stroke the space between your shoulder blades. “Whatever you want.”

“Why don’t you ever go on dates?”

“Hmm,” was the sound he gave in place of an answer.

When he met you long after he settled into deviancy, you both got along like a house on fire. Between your infectious laughter and your wicked desire to throw his jokes back at him. Sixty was hooked. And let’s be honest, he was again, a simple machine with two perfectly functioning eyes. You were intelligent, thoughtful, and the finishing note to his ideal trifecta was your unique brand of beauty.

You scanned his features, the small dent on his forehead drawing your focus. The mysterious dent with a story of its own.

It was year one of your friendship. Behind him was the backdrop of a crystal clear lake and you beside him, sweating buckets from a long, intense hike. As you cooled off in the lake with your legs in the water, Sixty spoke about his history and the atrocities he almost committed to his own kind. You listened, nodding and commenting when appropriate. The wake up call he needed was a bullet grazing his head and the rest as they say, was ancient history.

After hiking, you went out to a bar. His cheeks were flushed from a few thirium based drinks, his mind feeling marginally sparkly and warm. He was moments from risking it all to ask you out when the conversation turned philosophical and self reflecting. Android and human relations got brought up and your opinion changed everything.

“I’m not sure I’d date an android. Too many sob stories say it’ll just be tragic. Just imagine…an old, dying person and their eternally youthful partner.”

To his credit, Sixty did argue that technology was advancing faster because androids were involved. The cure for humanity’s fragility could be found. 

As for you, Sixty was a funny guy with a great face and a physique which never strayed from being a lithe and powerful machine. A long way of saying he was beautiful, but what android wasn’t? Whenever he flashed you a wolfish grin meant only for you, you noticed the beginnings of a butterfly’s flutter in your belly. Long forgotten were the ignorant words a younger you said. Maybe the connection you felt was mutual? But by then it was year two of friendship and early in your roommate days when Sixty said something that changed…everything.

“Dating? Love’s overrated. I’m here to have fun. Something your date last night wouldn’t have known.”

Oh right, you brought home an AP700 named Sam, your first android date. And it was going really well. Unexpectedly well. In fact, this was already date number three. When you laughed too enthusiastically at their jokes, you swore Sixty was fuming in the kitchen. If anything, you should have been angry. The moment he set eyes on Sam, he stormed out and brought home two companions for what sounded like an all night sex marathon. You couldn’t get very far with Sam when things were so distracting one hallway over. The fight you had with Sixty the following morning was not a pleasant one.

This wasn’t anyone’s fault. The onus  could have fallen on either side. You were uncertain about Sixty’s intentions. He was usually supportive with side commentary as you swiped left and right. Other days, he’d cross his arms and size up the android shaking his hand. You lacked the energy to add any of it up. Dating had worn you down until you no longer laughed at his jokes, or laughed at anything really. The pantry shifted into being over stocked with booze and lacking real food.

One evening, you came home to a mouth watering smell, your nose guiding you straight into the kitchen. It wasn’t like him to learn to cook, let alone lie that his sudden interest had everything to do with a popular British baking show and nothing to do with your alarming diet change. 

Since then, he wondered if you noticed the silence from his side of the hallway. You were hurting. More than ever, Sixty wanted to please and make it all better.

He just didn’t know how.

“You don’t date, which is fine. It’s just a shame I never get to hear stories about weirdos trying to use your hair as floss,” you threw in when he remained silent.

“My needs are met,” he uncharacteristically answered with all of the lightness and playfulness gone.

“You mean sex?” you chuckled. “I get it. I know you think romance is overrated.”

Sixty’s face pinched in annoyance.

“It’s not like that.”

Distracted, your mood shifted from gloom to intrigue as you began interrogating him.

“What’s it like then?”

He rudely decided that was the moment to dip you and chuckled as you yelped. Your fingers clumsily gripped whatever parts of him were closest.

“Six!”

Sixty looked down at you through dimmed eyes, a faint smirk dimpling one cheek.

“What I want is out of reach,” he answered vaguely. His eyes bore into yours, his brow pinched and what little insecurity you saw dissolved as he rose you back up to a standing position. You didn’t know why you had to press. It could have been your frayed nerves, the wine…or that funny little feeling that had been steadily growing in your chest since your friendship started.

“What‘s out of reach?” you asked, voice firm. At the shift in color on his LED, the television clicked off. No more distractions.

“It’s nothing,” he answered. You glared at him…or pouted, either way he sighed and rolled his eyes. “What I want could ruin a friendship.”

“How?” You managed to try and not sound judgmental, keeping a gentle tone to your voice.

“You don’t understand, I want this person.”

“That’s it? This is fresh coming from the biggest risk taker I know. I’ve seen you jump off a balcony to prove a point about your,” you made quotations with your hands, “Superior design.”

He scoffed out your name. “What would you do in my shoes?”

You weren’t dancing anymore but he kept you in his arms, unmoving. Golden light carved out the edges of his cheekbones, bringing attention to the dusting of freckles on his pink tinted cheeks. His eyes narrowed while he waited for your answer.

“Knowing my luck, it’d all go to shit but I think that the reward would outweigh the risk. If that person…returned my feelings, then I’d have a chance at something rather than pining my whole life,” you replied. “But then again, do as I say and not as I do. My dating life is pretty crappy as is.”

As he considered your answer, the gears in your head began to turn.

“Wait…” you mused. “Is this friend…”

His hands moved to cradle your face, rubbing soothing lines along your cheeks.

“You.”

Your eyes widened, mouth falling ajar in a surprised gasp. “Oh.”

“Yeah, you’re kind of dense,” he joked. “I’m amazed we’re friends at all.” A smile was plastered on his face, one you would have seen if you weren’t busy trying to solve a puzzle.

“I don’t get it. Then…why all the one night stands?”

His shoulder raised and fell. “Thought it’d help.”

“Did it?” you asked, voice small.

“No.” He tipped your head upward. It was easier being a friend. Love was messy, it tied people together in ways that when things broke, it couldn’t be put back the same way. Sixty had preferred the path of least resistance, the route that guaranteed he’d fit into your world. “You deserve happiness. You deserve love. I just couldn’t risk not having you around.”

“That’s…” you laughed. “That is unbelievably cheesy, dumb…and…kinda sweet.”

“Did you like that? I can generate those lines by the second.”

“Oh my god, Six.”

“Kidding.” His voice module failed him, clicking into static. “I meant what I said.”

Boldly, you dangled yourself out there like a carrot on a stick. Your legs stepped out ahead of you, nudging your pelvis flush to his. He bit back a moan, hands fisting your hips to halt your movements.

“Are you sure? We can finish your movie.” he suggested, voice dipping low into a growl when you ground into him. He had to subdue his processes, force himself to behave. Secretly, he wanted nothing more than what you were hinting at giving him.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, kneading and tugging until a high pitched whine exited his chest.

“We’ve…waited a long time for this.”

“We have,” he agreed. For once, he wasn’t sure what else to say. Quiet was not his usual state of being. It made it easier for you to see the shyness that crept beneath the surface. His LED was a traitorous entity, flickering red briefly as he studied your micro-expressions.

“If we do this,” you continued. “I need to know this is gonna be for more than one night.”

“Sweetheart, we can do this every night.” He licked his lips, sticking out his tongue obscenely.

“Sixty,” you insisted, placing a hand to cover his mouth. “Seriously.”

He purposely mumbled behind your palm as he considered whether or not he should lick you to rile you up. Sixty blinked back at you, raising one brow.

“It’s important for me to know,” you pressed.

A voice came out of his audio unit from low in his throat and oddly louder than when he spoke out of his mouth. “Are you going to let me talk?”

You chuckled, lifting your hand.

“Do you know why I wanted to live with you? To spend more time together. Do you want to know how long I’ve wanted this?” He towered over you, head tilted like he was scolding you somehow. “Three years. Three. Years. So yes, this means something to me.”

“Well, hang on. You said you wanted to live with me cause you didn’t want me living with a random creep.”

“And?”

“I don’t know, jury’s still out,” you replied with a smirk. Wrapping your hands around  the loose ends of his tie, you pulled the silk until his head lowered. His lips brushed against yours, tracing the outline of it.

“I heard your roommate has a talented tongue.” he whispered against your lips.

“Oh, does he?”

His answer was lost, stolen by a kiss. He crumpled forward, arms wrapping around your back. Unable to resist a slow exploration, his lips suckled, teeth teasing your skin with faint nips. He could capture your racing pulse beneath your skin and chased the the stream of data that comprised of your taste. Hands dug into the exposed backing of your dress, kneading and squeezing what he could reach.

You weren’t fairing much better. Your hands weren’t shy as you explored the texture of his silky shirt, nails clawing down his shoulder blades, shuddering at the disparity in his versus your strength from the flex of his back muscles. As your lips collided with increasing need, you could almost taste the urgency growing into the swell of a storm, feel the rush of blood roaring in your ears. Sixty was there, arms wrapped around you like a life preserve and you gave yourself to the currents, trusting him to keep you afloat.

Unwilling to break the kiss, he dipped you lower, slipping an arm behind your legs and lifting you off your feet. Your cry of surprise was muffled with another stroke of his tongue curling around yours. A palm on your back soothed you, utilizing the movement to also slide your zipper down. You could hear his footsteps echoing in the hallway and the breeze of a swift turn into his bedroom. He slipped you free of your dress and undergarments as you found yourself lying on his bed, staring up at his adoring gaze.

“Hey,” you said and he smiled back in return.

“Hi,” he answered and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Wait,” you insisted. He stopped, confused. You’d explain it later, the details of an embarrassing dream you had of him.“Leave them on. Maybe…roll up your sleeves?”

Smirking, he did as you asked, slowly flexing his arms as he carefully rolled the fabric up. You laid back on your elbows, pensive and mildly distracted by how this night had gone. You’d been in his room before, although, not from this angle and certainly not naked. The thought of his many conquests made you a little uncomfortable.

“So…is this where the magic happens?” you asked to break your nerves.

The bed dipped from his added weight. He raised your leg up, draping it over his shoulder. His elbow pushed your other leg apart, seamlessly slotting his way between your thighs. In the dark, he looked deadly, still dressed in all black with a killer grin but he was staring at you like he couldn’t believe you were lying on his bed. He ran his hands down your thighs, grin softening into a shy smile.

“This, is where I make love to you,” he said without a trace of irony.

“Gross,” you laughed. You didn’t get to laugh for long when his tongue ran through your folds and flattened on the nerves above. He swirled it around, the texture of it softer and wetter than you expected. Faint rough edges, likely his sensors, acted liked ridged bumps, alighting sparks behind your eyes with every flick of his tongue.

“God! Sixty!” You choked out another moan. “Warn me f-first?”

He took a short break, lifting his head so you could see him smirk.

“Sure. May I?”

Roughly tangling your fingers into his hair, you gripped it gently, smiling slightly when he let out a low groan.

“Okay,” you said.

“Good. Lie back.”

The voice he used wasn’t one you were familiar with. It gripped you by the throat, turned you into a compliant mess of limbs. He reminded you of his gentle affection, kissing your inner thigh and nuzzling his nose back and forth on your skin. His other hand prodded at your core, catching the dampness that pooled between your thighs.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

You barely managed a nod, throat too dry and suddenly drier as soon as he eased in one finger. He was in as deep as his second knuckle, turning his hand to curl it and resumed lapping at your clit.

“S-Six.”

Before Sixty became a deviant, he had heard of rA9 countless of times, thinking nothing of it. The other deviants worshipped it like an idol and some saw it as their ticket to freedom. And no, this wasn’t going to be some eye opening moment for him because he had just found something better.

“Sixty!” you cried out.

You were less than gentle with how your fingers raked up the back of his head. He was out of his mind, drunk with purpose, tongue vibrating and twisting. As he added an extra finger, he soothed the stretch with a distracting suck on your overly sensitive nerves. When you got a little too lost in your head, he teased you with fluttery kisses, barely touching you where you needed it.

“Sweetheart. If I can’t hear you, how will I know how I’m doing?”

You whined something above him, feeling his lips curl against your thigh. Sixty knew he was being unreasonable, deciding then to angle his fingers and stroke a spot that turned you into a whimpering mess.

“What was that?” he asked.

He felt your hands in his hair pushing him back down, silencing his snark. He still managed to chuckle, mouth falling open to resume his torture. His fingers were lost in you, curling around restricting muscles and creating a collection of lewd, wet noises.

“I…I can’t,” you moaned, thrashing your head in the sheets.

“You can. Sweetheart. It’s okay. Let it go.” He heard you cry out his name as you tensed and came with a shudder. His mouth parted so you could feel and hear his moan. “I knew you’d sound so pretty like this.”

“Come up here.” You croaked out a weak imitation of a sentence but you were lucky he had good ears.

Sixty gave your clit one last lick, laughing to himself when you tried to buck him away. He made his way up the bed until his bulge was pressed directly on your pulsing core. At your gasp, he ground into you, not caring if you were marking his clothes. Fuck, he was crazy enough to consider wearing them tomorrow.

You regained enough energy to sit up a bit and fumble with his belt. “Need this off…”

His arms were two immovable pillars of steel and synthetic muscle. He merely watched, entertained by your struggle and growing desperation. You said his name impatiently.

“Mmm? I’m having a great time here,” he answered. Your knee to his rib wasn’t enough to even warrant a software warning, it just summoned another amused chuckle. “What do you need? Let me hear it.”

This arrogant and cocky act of his may had fooled anyone else in this moment, but not you.

“Sixty.” You paused once you unbuckled his belt to catch his gaze. “When I come home, it’s you I want to talk to. When I’m on those stupid dates, it’s you that I’m thinking about.”

You leaned in, lips almost kissing his ear. In your most sultry voice, you confessed, “And when I’m lying in bed…with my fingers in me, it’s your name on my lips.”

“F-fuck.” He felt himself tremble despite having no physical changes to his limbs. “We really should have done this earlier.”

“No time like the present, right?”

He brought his hand down to fumble with his pants and briefs, letting them fall past his hips. His hand gripped his length, guiding it through your folds. For half a second, he stilled, not long enough for you to notice. In that time he was able to appreciate the beauty of you splayed out for him, sweat beading down your chest, glistening as you panted. But best of all, was your face twisted in ecstasy, your teeth biting into your lower lip and the glazed sheen in your eyes. A view he’d store for later.

He kissed your forehead, lips still glued to your skin as he spoke. “I can’t wait to feel you.”

“Six…” you moaned as he pressed in. The rest of his name was choked off by the sheer overwhelming feeling of your connection. It was a snug fit, his cock slowly dragging over delicate nerves and then some. He pulled halfway out, thrusting at a steady and easy rhythm. You were pulled up from the bed, back arching so he could access your chest. A warm tongue dragged from your rib cage to neck.

His mouth opened, certain he’d be inspired to spew more filth in your direction but he found the words never came. Instead, his forehead dipped to rest in the hollow of your neck. Everything else faded until it was him and you, moving in sync. Your legs draped around his waist and he pressed closer, flattening you back into the sheets with his elbows bent and resting beside your face.

What he couldn’t say or put into words, he applied to his actions. Thrusting deeper, he slipped one hand between your legs, tracing the swell around your folds, wetting them before finding your clit. Slick fingers rolled around in wide teasing circles, growing tighter until he decided to find that spot he’d found with his tongue. He felt the pressure of your muscles squeezing around him, heard your immediate cry of pleasure. Every tell your body gave, he returned with soft grunts and moans of his own, with sloppy kisses and lowly murmured praise. 

You think you heard a please as his fingers worked to build up the tension in your abdomen. His other arm had worked its way around your back, synthetic fingers slipping around sweat slick skin. It was a bit odd, being hugged and fucked all at once but it felt so Sixty. You wrapped your arms around what you could reach, his shoulders and the back of his head. He was close, whining, face pinched in concentration. A gleam of red light caught your eyes.

Gently, you smoothed out the curl that had fallen over his face, moving it to find the imperfection on his forehead. When your lips met the divot of android skin, Sixty let out a choked moan. He got louder when you scraped a nail on the back of his neck, the skin fading to reveal the texture of a data port.

He moaned out your name. “Sweetheart, I…I’m not…mmm, going to last if you do that.”

“That’s the point.”

Defiantly, you kissed his forehead once more and began tracing the intricate ridges of shallow circles and lines that connected his neck panelling. You felt his orgasm hit him first, the added slick allowing him to slide even deeper. His fingers continued their mission as a few swirls were all it took for you to feel the sweet pull of time and space stilling. He fucked you slow, wanting to feel every aftershock.

With care, he untangled himself from you, slipping out and laying a small kiss on your abdomen.

“Where y’going?” you slurred when he got up from the bed.

He chuckled, wondering if you thought he was going to just disappear.

“What kind of partner would I be if I left you like this? As much as I enjoy how this looks…” He toyed with your combined fluids, slipping two fingers in to smear it on his skin. Your mouth fell open when he took them out and dared to suck them clean, brown eyes locked on yours. “And tastes this good?”

You playfully hit his arm, groaning when his tongue returned to lap at your folds.

“Sixty!”

He got up with a smug grin permanently plastered on his face and stepped away to find a soft, damp cloth. Exhausted, you drifted in and out of awareness. When you opened your eyes once again, he was naked and laid out on the other side of the bed, looking apprehensive about coming into your space.

“I wasn’t sure if…” he started.

You reached out for him and he settled instantly between your arms, bumping his forehead with yours. This was usually the part of the night when he said goodbye to a guest, got up to shower and sometimes going as far as stepping out of the apartment if they planned to crash for the night. It wasn’t his thing, cuddling and lying awake to talk. Funny how his priorities had rearranged without him realizing.

“Do you feel better?” he asked, pulling you flush to his chest.

You let out a sleep weary yes of sorts, face nuzzling into the crook of his neck. He laid a gentle kiss on the top of your head, rearranged the sheets to adequately cover the both of you and settled back with an arm hugging you into his chest. A weariness that had darkened your mood long drifted away. 

Tomorrow, was Valentines. He’d try to make pancakes in heart shapes, deciding he couldn’t think of anything better than spending a morning in a way that he once thought was best left for the romantics.

As he glanced down at you, your face relaxed into a peaceful slumber, his eyelids fluttered. A temptation he’d never felt before pulled him into stasis, something he never did with someone else.

He did tonight.

In the living room, a lamp was still on, its warm light illuminating what was left of the mess. The ice cream had melted into soup, wine forgotten, and chips gone stale. Crumpled tissues formed a pyramid pile like a sad shrine for a tissue box. At the center of the coffee table laid a glass vase filled with a blend of colorful roses. Their leaves were still lush and green, the petals unbruised. Sticking out was a paper note clipped to a decorative stick.

“To the most beautiful person, inside and out. You inspire me to be a better person. When you look at these, I hope they bring you the same joy that you bring me.”

Graphite smeared illegibly at the bottom of the note by a finger lacking fingerprints. The size and location of the smudge hinted at a name. A short one with a blurry S and swoopy Y.

Sixty.

[staticl0ve]

The Darkest of Hearts

Rating: Explicit | NSFW 18+

Pairings: Nines / Female Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: Graphic violence, blood, smut, rough sex, choking, mild bloodplay, DomNines

Chapters: 1/1 (AO3 link)

Summary: Spy AU - He’s the CIA’s favorite agent, you’re a thorn on his side. How will he get you to just listen?

-

A super early bday gift for @dattebae 🔥 I finished this on a whim and wanted to try a different writing style in a oneshot so I had to start with her favorite man: Nines!

-

He’s the monster hiding in the shadows, a creak in the floorboards at night, the ghost of a silhouette in the flash of lightning. No mark has seen his face and lived to tell the tale. Their faces are all the same to him: mouthes agape, eyes frozen in horror, insignificant. There’s finesse to his work, a beauty in his violence. Surfaces are his canvases, blood staining glass like a red kaleidoscope.

He’s one out of a dozen android agents at the CIA, each with unique runway ready faces. Despite all of them being equipped with the same, if not equal, set of skills, he’s the agency’s golden boy. His kill count is the highest, his missions completed with the most successes - their pride and joy.

He’s Agent Nines.

And you?

You are the bane of his existence.

“You foolish human,” he seethes through his teeth.

You’re reclining on a couch that’s not yours, waiting expectantly to meet your very pissed off partner. A knife delicately balances on the tips of your fingers, the sharp point of the blade pressing into the pads of flesh. You toss it, watching it spin before it lands handle side down in the meat of your palm. It’s covered in the blood of the dead, as are you, your clothes damp and stiffening as it dries. Red streaks across your face, paints your lips and clings to your hair. He loves it when you’re marked with death, like a wolf fresh from the hunt. It normally drives him wild, would have you naked and pinned to some wall, but he doesn’t think you deserve it.

Your teeth makes a flash of white in the smear of red as you grin up at him.

“I think everything turned out fine,” you reply.

Nines’ eyes are stern, picking the room apart and following the messy trail of blood to the room scattered with dead terrorists. The cuts you’ve stabbed into them lacked subtlety, some of them appearing borderline desperate in the larger targets. He could see it in his preconstructs, your choking body struggling to take down a nearly 7 foot wall of muscle that was supposedly human. It only feeds the embers of his rage, boils across his system until he gets an overheat warning.

You could have died.

You should have waited for him.

For anyone else, a team of two dozen armed assailants would be a death sentence. But you aren’t an ordinary human, you’re Agent Thirteen, the agency’s first cybernetically altered human. There’s Thirium flowing in your veins, powering your new heart, pumping through your muscles so you’d never tire. Even your skin is like new, the microscopic webbing etched within capable of absorbing extreme damage before it breaks. It’s to no one’s surprise that it made you better than the other human agents, allowed you to run with the wolves.

Or…more like one very upset wolf in particular. Your eyes land on his favorite shirt soaked in blue blood, a chance to change the subject.

“What happened to your shirt? It’s not your blood is it?”

His arms cross over his chest, the black silk tightening around chiseled muscles. You want to allow your gaze to roam across his biceps but a pair of silver orbs have your eyes locked in a battle of wills.

“It’s none of your concern,” he replies flatly.

You roll your eyes, there’s nothing more cliche than secrets between spies. Nines doesn’t tell you that he’s saved your life. Doesn’t tell you that the terrorists had a back up plan and that he barely made it in time to tear into the android sniper that had your face in it’s crosshairs. In every scenario he could construct, you’d only insist that the bullet wouldn’t have killed you anyways. You love pushing the limits of your cybernetics and there’s always a chance that one day, a bullet will find a chip in your armor. In his mind, it’s not an if but when he’ll find you in a dire situation.

He uses your real name, it’s how you know you’re in deep shit.

“Don’t try this again,” he warns.

The deep timbre of his command only heats your skin, and when you lick your lips and bite the plush flesh, his glare darkens. You love to push him, watch his jaw clench with the last of his self restraint, he can’t resist you when you’re covered in the blood of your enemies. 

When you both reach the safe house, you’re not surprised when he slams you hard against the cold bathroom tile of the shower. The water’s not even hot yet, the shock of it startles you and makes you arch into him with a yelp. His head cranes in amusement, he’s not feeling sympathetic today.

“Jesus, Nines. I know you’re mad at me, but I had everything under control,” you complain. “You didn’t have to be there.”

“That’s enough.”

A massive hand grips at your jaw, holds it in place so you can’t speak. You’re both still under the mercilessly cold spray of water, the blood caked on your skin softening and staining the shower red.

How did you end up in a safe house with the worst water heater?

Your thighs dig into his waist in a feeble attempt to reorient yourself away from the stream of water. It’s difficult to move when he’s the one that’s standing and you’re just clinging onto him, trapped between his sculpted chest and a shower wall. The temperature contrast only intensifies the hot skin of his cock pressing against your belly. The pads of his fingers pull your chin up so that you’re stuck staring into a set of steel grey eyes.

“If you disobey me again, I will punish you. Do you understand me?”

You almost scoff at him. Nines is your partner, not your handler. But the tone of his voice makes you speak before you could stop yourself.

“Yes.”

There’s a low rumble of approval from his chassis as he pins you flat against the tile. His face lowers to your neck, the flat of his tongue dragging across your throat. You taste of death and gunpowder and it’s what he’ll think of when he’s away and only has the company of his fists.

A whimper squeaks past your lips when his teeth latches onto the flesh, nipping it hard enough reach the threshold where your skin finally breaks. You conveniently share the same blood, Thrirum dripping down from the bite he’s created. You swear he’s more vampire than android, hearing him moan the second your blood hits his tongue. His hips grind into yours, the length of his cock dragging against your clit.

“N-nines,” you struggle to say with his hand trapping your jaw.

His lips are blue when he pulls away, your cybernetic skin already knitting back together. It only confirms the part of him that knows you can’t break easily, but it doesn’t stop the anger coursing through him. He has plans for you, continues to rub his cock against you and plunges two of his fingers past your dripping folds.

He studies you with a detached fascination, tallying the number of times your lips part in ecstasy or how broken you sound when a third finger pushes into you. Your hips buck into his hand, shamelessly riding his fingers but it’s not enough, not when his cock is so close and you can feel the Thirium pulsing through it.

“Nines, please.”

He still won’t fuck you.

The rage makes him more sadistic, petty even. Otherwise, he would have had you on that couch when you licked your lips, the scent of death still rich in the air.

No, there were lessons to learn.

You’re gasping for air in his ears, clenching onto his fingers, babbling pleas, when suddenly, he stops. Nines detaches himself from you, a smug grin cutting across his face. 

“I believe the water is hot enough for you now.”

-

You’re in real hot water this time.

A man screams in his ear, the sound dissolving into wet choking coughs as machine hands break ribs to grip around a beating heart. The noises stop when the organ flies across the room with a dramatic splat.

Nines isn’t normally like this. Not like some animal driven mad with bloodlust.

You were missing.

This time, it wasn’t your fault, not entirely. Did you sass him before taking off on your own, once again? Predictably so. Did you anticipate the inner most circle of violent, warmongering terrorists to have the technology to hack your cybernetics? No, because even the CIA didn’t have that in the debrief and now you didn’t exist on any location tracker. There is also a significant chance that your super skin wasn’t so…super anymore.

It’s impossible to distinguish accent wall from blood with the brutality of his methods. Some of the attackers had the mercy of dying faster than their companions who had their limbs torn out joint by joint. A fully loaded gun with all of its extra ammo still exists on his person and he’s yet to use it, prefers to hear his targets suffer. Which brings him back to a different man whose finger he’d just snapped off.

“Where is she?”

This man was missing most of his right hand and at the rate Nines was going at, he may live long enough to experience losing all of his left hand. He’s whimpering nonsense at Nines, wailing from the pain.

“I won’t repeat myself,” Nines insists.

“R-room 3…05.”

He doesn’t scream when Nines swiftly delivers a bullet to his head, a small mercy for revealing your location. There’s gunfire that pins him down one end of a hallway, and in real time he calculates his next steps in time with the movement of his enemies. His arm is the first part of him that leaves his cover, the pistol in his hand already firing into the face of the nearest attacker. Bone splinters, blood spraying the walls of the hallway and gunpowder scorching the air. There’s less finesse now that he knows where you are, watches your survival statistic count down in the corner of his HUD.

Footsteps slam down from his right, an assailant running at full speed is firing rounds in his direction. He’s bored and annoyed at this rate, aiming for the runner’s knees first and then their head. The rest of the conflict goes by faster, as if the grim reaper himself cursed the building with death.

At the last fallen foe, he finally spots you at the far end of the room sitting in a chair with your head slumping over your shoulders. Thirium saturates the ground beneath you, deep gashes covering your skin. 

He’s at your side in an instant, correcting the overrides on your cybernetics but your skin does not knit back together. For a moment, he’s terrified, just a machine watching the last grains of sand falling in an hourglass. Every new statistical calculation he makes gives him numbers that make his regulator choke. It’s his greatest fear, a situation beyond his control.

A dull glow begins to emit from your healing skin, ripping the android out of his reverie of misery. It’s a slow healing process, the worst of your injures are the first to close. There’s not enough Thirium left in you to mend the smaller cuts but you are no longer at death’s door. Your injured lips crack and bleed when you speak, your voice is hoarse and barely a whisper but he can hear you as clear as day.

“You came for me.”

He’d scorch the Earth to find you.

-

Just six hours later, a couple of bottles of Thirium and you’re already back at peak performance. If anything, the events of the day makes you more arrogant and you’re already arguing with him again after a shower. You’re driving him insane, refusing to acknowledge that it was almost a mission failure. You pace around the living room, shaking your head dismissively at Nines who is distractingly naked with his arms crossed.

“How do I make you understand?” He asks you rather calmly given the tension that’s growing between you both.

“Did today go as planned? No. But I got the intel, you killed the leader and we learned something about my cybernetics. I’d say this was a mission suc-“

The ground lifts away from your feet, your body spinning until you land roughly with your chest pressing into the carpet. He’s already behind you, lifting your robe until it pools over your hips. You consider flipping over to wrestle him off, but he’s faster. One hand finds the curve of your back, pushes you down and the other smacks the plush flesh of your ass. His breath tickles your ear, a guttural growl from his throat draws the hairs up on the back of your neck.

“Do you remember what I said yesterday?”

You vaguely recall something about a punishment, and it’s a thrill you don’t mind chasing, so you push back.

“I made it out alive-“

Another hard slap hits your skin, and you have the audacity to roll your eyes at him. Your skin is strong and can’t hold a mark for long, the red imprint of his hand fading instantly. It’s impossible to shake his machine strength off of you, but it doesn’t stop you from elbowing him at the center of his chassis. In the struggle, your robe is torn off, your arms pin to your back and his hand uses it as leverage to push you back down. He scolds you like the impudent companion that you are.

“You are insubordinate,” his voice is still controlled, flat and without inflection. “Stubborn.”

His lips brush against the shell of your ear before he bites down on the flesh.

“I’m going to break you.”

You’re soaking when his hands stroke the swell around your folds, your breath catching as his thumb grazes over your clit. He briefly slips his fingers into you, pulling them out to collect your slick. There’s the distinct sound of him sucking his fingers clean and it draws a pitiful moan from your lips. Before your mouth shuts, the same fingers push past your lips. They’re wet from his saliva, tastes of something clinical and clean and the saltiness of yourself. When you suck his fingers, rub your tongue along his sensors, a groan he can’t hold back escapes him. You grin with his fingers still in your mouth.

You almost choke on them when his hips snap forward roughly, the head of his cock stretching you open for the rest of him. Silver eyes lock onto that part of you split open for him and you’re so wet that his cock is practically gleaming in the dim light. You swear you can feel him in your throat, the length of him reaching impossibly deep. You’re still too pinned to meet his thrusts, can only take what he gives you, so you bite his fingers.

He chuckles, removes his hand to grip your neck. His legs push yours further apart, opens you like a gift, his cock tearing into you like the wrapping.

“I have been patient with you,” he says, sounding entirely unaffected as you moan and clench around him. “But you don’t listen.”

There’s an edge to his voice that makes goosebumps break across your skin. You’re where he wants you, trapped and pinned like prey, devouring you with every snap of his hips. He’s making you see stars, your body peaking with a nearing orgasm. There’s a broken sob that leaves your lips when he slips out of you.

“Fuck! Nines!” Your voice is caught between anger and desperation.

“No. You finish when I allow it.”

Nines is not a cruel lover, he enjoys hearing the sounds of your moans, it’s just unfortunate for you that he likes your frustration more. You don’t react when his teeth nip your shoulder, it’s the press of his lips in a tender kiss on your neck that makes you gasp. The hand on your back frees your arms, and wraps around to rub your clit. There’s more sprinklings of light kisses that trail down your vertebra and the softness finally makes you break.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He’s silent from above you, turns your head so you can finally see the pools of mercury swirl around his eyes and the lock of dark hair that drapes over it. You realize he’s waiting, needs to hear more before you’re forgiven for being so reckless. 

Forgiven for almost dying in front of him.

His lashes lower, a tinge of something gentler and sadder bleeds through his steely gaze. He doesn’t tell you that he cares, but he’s there, waiting in the shadows like a dark guardian angel. For him, you are not a constant, just a chaotic variable that simply will not fit, refuses to fit and he would not have you any other way. Still, you made him worry and question the nature of his reality. You weren’t going to get away with that.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, but louder. “I mean it.”

It’s not a promise to stay out of trouble, but an understanding between equals, partners. He draws you in for a kiss, holds your chin up with his fingers. The corner of his lips curl upwards.

“Good, then we can continue.”

His eyes don’t blink, his face still as he sheaths himself roughly back into you, your reward for finally yielding to him. All you can do is prop yourself up on your elbows, rock your hips against his - present yourself to him. It’s clear he approves, the machine getting more vocal in your ear. He’s breathing static against your skin, groaning your name and one throaty ‘good girl’ that makes you keen.

The carpet should be burning your skin from your body rocking against wave after wave with the fury and rawness that he’s pounding into you, but all you feel, see, and hear is him. You’re impossibly tight around him, accepting him so well. The crest of the hill is just within reach, but the ghost of his voice lingers in the back of your head.

You finish when I allow it.

He can’t get enough of your little noises, the hand that never left your neck tightens the more you pulse violently around him, muffling your gasps. His other hand swirls around your clit, fingers tracing the swell near your folds from where he’s stretching you.

“Go on, let me see it,” he demands.

You’re too stubborn to listen to him out on the field, but here, you bend to his will, his fingers coaxing you until your strings snap. You shriek his name, coat his hard cock in more of your slick. His knuckles push into your jaw, the blunt nails of his fingers threaten to break your reinforced skin. He ruts into you at a maddening speed, pushing through your pulsing walls. His face finds the crook of your neck as he spills into you, marks you with his artificial cum. The grip on your jaw doesn’t let up, his exhaust is hot on your ear, hips still snapping at a punishing pace.

“Have you learned your lesson yet?” He says.

The post orgasmic clarity brings back a little of your hubris, you use the strength you’ve been holding back to free your face from his grip and turn to kiss his cheek.

“No,” you reply with a hard bite to his ear.

There’s a snarl from him before you’re lifted and dragged to a bedroom. Your face is in his chest, your laughter is muffled on his skin and rattles through his components. The faintest grin tugs at the corner of his lips. You’re wild, untamable, but you’re his.

As he is yours.

[staticl0ve]

When a mysterious mail box appears in the DPD purely for the purpose of sending Valentine’s cards, you notice that Nines is the only officer not to receive any.

Well, you can’t have that, can you?

Nines x reader. Rated T.

Read on AO3.

(I do not own any of these pictures, they're just used for fun. Nines pic by vrtuellereality/ellellebe.)

[staticl0ve]

Home - DBH Connor/AFAB!reader

Pairings: Connor/AFAB Reader (no pronouns used) Rating: Mature/Explicit/NSFW 18+ Link (AO3): Home (oneshot) Words: 4.9k Warnings: Established relationships (married), no gendered pronouns, oral sex (both receiving), mutual masturbation, PnV sex, very mild cock warming Summary: It’s Valentines! The day of being smothered in affection, cards, flowers. A day to be wined and dined. However, you’re on the other side of the globe. That doesn’t stop him from finding ways to enjoy your company. Although, you’ve got a little surprise for him. Notes: After writing a sad, sad fic, I present to you, a happy fluff one haha. Inspired by Dream (Shawn amended).

-

Since the winter storms had eased, parks have begun to draw more and more visitors as the days warmed up. Snow melted into watery pools. Birds lined the power lines and barren trees were beginning to show signs of fresh leaves.  

With his eyes shut, Connor was basking in the glow of the sun. From sound alone, he could piece together all that was occurring around him. Someone was selling hotdogs, their jovial advertising occasionally reminding him of the low, low price of their goods. From what he gathered, the preserved meat wrapped in carbohydrates attracted quite a crowd.

Children squealed and giggled as they rushed past his seat on a park bench, followed by the distressed scolding of exhausted parents. Joggers added to the commotion, their padding feet startling his canine companion. A blue leash was wrapped around his hand, the firm material tugging slightly at his synthetic skin. Sitting up, he reached below his knee to scratch the ears of an excited Saint Bernard.

“Sumo,” he chuckled. “It’s okay boy.”

The dog whined in response and let out a playful bark.

Connor relaxed back onto the bench, turning his attention away from Sumo. Across the park’s lake was a familiar duo on their second lap around the water. Hank’s grayed hair billowed around his face he walked. A hilariously large smile pinned his cheeks in a permanent state of glee, making him appear like a smitten fool. Beside him, a woman named Rose matched his pace, wrapping a patterned shawl tightly around her frame. It was clear she was laughing at something Hank had said, his cheeks tinged bright red and growing redder when her hand met his arm.

They met sometime after the android revolution and found they shared a passion for android rights. One interest of hers was owning a small farm. While Hank did not have a green thumb, he enjoyed the tranquility of the sun rising over leafy crops. He also had the great fortune of trying the produce in her cooking. After having taken a long break from dating, the older gentleman was likely excited because today was their first Valentines.

Connor’s jaw clicked, LED flashing gold for a second. Ah. That was why he was asked to dogsit for the afternoon.

A sigh emptied from his chest. Irritatingly, as the android began scanning the park, he realized there were an awful lot of couples enjoying the lovely weather on a particularly romantic weekend. He nervously toyed with a ring on his left hand as he wondered how you were fairing on your work trip. One month was probably a record time for the longest either of you had gone without the other.

Seeking a distraction, Connor started scrolling through his notifications. Grids in blue lines flickered across his view of the park. His distress was apparent enough to warrant a soothing hand lick from Sumo, the dog moving to rest his fuzzy face on Connor’s lap.

“Thanks, boy.”

He let out another sigh. His inbox remained unchanged since the last message he received.

Love you.

Two simple words taunted him, reminding him of the physical distance between you. It didn’t help matters that your call last night ended abruptly.

“So,” you began with apprehension dripping in your voice. “There’s a chance I might be away a little longer than expected. The team really thinks one more meeting will get this deal closed. I wish it didn’t have to be this way, I swear if they try this again…I’m…”

You were losing steam, clearly too tired to think of anything clever, finishing your sentence by hanging your head back. Connor took longer than normal to respond, the android cycling through a series of phrases that would downplay his disappointment. Deciding that he couldn’t trust himself, he settled on vague.

“I see.”

He may have forgotten he was on a video call, the downward shift in his features spelling out his mood.

“Connor,” you breathed out, sinking back into your hotel bed. Sunlight filtered through thin curtains. A breeze picked up from an open window, casting intricate shadows over your cheeks, lips and nose. Your eyelids were half open, either from the brightness or from an exhaustion he couldn’t quite place. He worried briefly if you slept well, if your accommodations were enough. As you nestled between blankets, he could make out the flimsy strap of your shirt slipping past your shoulder. A twang struck his chest. Your lips parting brought his attention back to your face. “This sucks for me, too.”

“I know,” he replied, sounding deflated. “I miss you.”

You rolled from your back to your side, finding a new angle for your phone. The tone of your voice changed, dipping into more sultry notes. “What do you miss?”

Oh, he wasn’t made yesterday. He grinned as his fingers plucked away shirt buttons.

“Your taste,” he answered, wetting his lips. His boldness took you by surprise, a small moan crackling through the call.

Across the globe from where you were situated, it was night in Detroit where he was sitting at the end of your shared bed. The room was left untouched, a time capsule of when you were last there: your brush carelessly tossed onto the bed along with clothes and accessories that didn’t make the cut. Without you around, it was easy for him to slip back into his old habits and avoid sleep. Stasis wasn’t a daily requirement for machines and it certainly did not take all night to reset caches and organize his expanding matrixes.

“How much time do you have?” he asked. His shirt had joined your pile of abandoned clothes and he was making quick work on his pants.

Your gaze was drawn to some distant corner, likely checking on a virtual calendar. “An hour or two…I think.” 

His regulator pump stuttered when you glanced back at him, the heat of your full attention causing him mild discomfort in his remaining boxer briefs.

You bit your lip playfully. “What did you have in mind?”

“Will you lie back for me?” Obediently, you did as he asked, propping up your phone on a pillow to maximize the angle. He groaned softly once he realized you were bare from the waist down. Your thighs fell open slowly, the light catching onto your wet folds. “rA9, do you have any idea what you do to me?”

He heard your giggle as he worked to rid himself of his last article of clothing. “Will you show me how much you’ve missed me?” he requested.

You made a show of it, dragging your hands slowly from your clothed chest, rolling each nipple until they hardened. A bright glint caught his eye, his gaze following a ring on your hand. He had one that matched it, a white gold band that was cool on his heating skin. It bumped along his length as his hands leisurely stroked up and down. He adjusted his audio output to maximize the obscene squelch of damp skin, smirking when he caught your reaction to it.

“You look so good like this,” he whispered. “Laid out for me to see.”

“C-Con…” Your whimper made his grip tighten.

Funny enough, this was the first time he’d ever done this, a thrill running through his systems. He was beginning to see the appeal as he watched you push a finger past your folds.

“I miss…” you muffled a moan as your other hand began rubbing circles over your clit. It took significant effort to speak, the sentence pinching off with a gasp. “I miss f-feeling you in my throat.”

Connor made a choked noise as he painted a pretty picture of his tongue curled deep in you. How you’d squirm if he accompanied the feeling with his length slipping down your throat. He imagined a game of who could make the other fall apart sooner. It would be a little unfair, the android was more than capable of delivering filth with his tongue preoccupied by highjacking speakers or simply using his audio unit to speak.

“You look stunning. Would you like to see what I see?”

He made good on his promise one day by commandeering the television to broadcast a memory he had of you on your knees, made you watch as he licked into you. This was a stark contrast to the man who nearly stumbled over—as he was standing still, mind you—from asking you out.

“Do you like dogs?”

“Yeah, they’re pretty cute.”

“Would you like to walk one? I mean, walk me—walk with me and a dog?”

Embarrassment was putting it lightly, he was mortified for not relying more heavily on the suggestions offered by his social modules. Your enthusiastic smile doused his panic.

“I’d love to.”

It took many dates, but he worked through his nerves and gave you a peek of the deviant hunter that still lurked beneath his sweet, tender exterior. All it took was stumbling through the darkness of your apartment, his hands following your waist and one messy collision of lips to unlock the man you knew today.

“Connor…”

“Y-yes, love?”

“Wish you were h-here,” you said between moans.

He was about to respond when an alert from Detroit Police Department took up half his sight. “Sorry. I—” he trailed off, focused on writing up a reply. The sight of you knuckle deep in yourself had set him completely off track tonight. “I forgot I was on call.”

“Wait, I thought you weren’t doing night shifts anymore? Something about fair labor and giving androids reasonable shifts?”

“Correct, however, overtime is still optional and I have been waiting for some forensics results.”

Talking about homicide was the nail in the coffin of your phone sex session. Your throat cleared and you sat back up in your bed with a worried look. “Is it the case you’ve been stuck on?”

“It is…” Connor sounded distracted, his eyes panning over text you couldn’t see.

“Should we…”

He apologized again. “Rain check?”

“Mhmm. Don’t work all night.” You kept your tone light, but he could detect the disappointment from your gaze drifting lower.

“I’ll try not to. Have a good day, my love.”

“Night, Connor.”

Come morning, he sent you a message, optimistic that he’d be hearing from you again. Hours passed and his notifications remained unchanged. Before he knew it, it was time to take Sumo out for a walk. An afternoon at the park had boosted his mood and while Rose was kind enough to extend an invitation to spend his evening with them, Connor knew better than to intrude on their date night.

“Are you sure, dear?” she insisted. The older couple shared a quick glance. “We’d be happy to have you.”

Her head tilted at him, shoulders slouching with her hands clasped together. The extra attention made Connor’s cheeks flush. Somehow, despite lacking a childhood, Rose managed to transcend synthetic experiences, making him feel as small as a child standing between two doting parents. It didn’t help that Hank’s palm rocked his shoulders with a few rough shakes.

“We wouldn’t mind the company, son.”

Connor shook his head, making extra effort to hide the golden hue of his indicator. “Thank you for the offer, but I have plans.”

A lie, but the two did not push.

After a full day of slobbery kisses from Sumo, a shower was the first thing on Connor’s mind. As soon as he stepped out, hair still dripping, he found himself gravitating to his side of the bed. There, he laid staring into space, still restless from last night. You had been difficult to reach and he assumed it was related to your recent uptick in workload.

His head was turned, cheek pressed into a pillow as he stared over at your side. Raising his arm, he moved to stroke his fingers along the cool material. When he brought it closer, he couldn’t resist taking a deep inhale. Your scent flooded his sensors, triggering an array of fond memories, like the one before you left. His software began constructing the scene. It was like he was there again, with his face nuzzled between the curve of your neck and jaw, his ticklish breath eliciting a small laugh from you.

“Morning,” he said softly.

“What time is it?” you replied with a jolt at the end of the question. The first thing on your mind was not missing your flight.

“We have time.” A plastic hand slipped between your thighs, quickly finding its target. He wondered what you dreamed about as his fingers slipped through your folds with ease.

“You’re going to…ah…make me late.”

Back in reality, Connor was beginning to feel foolish for bothering with undergarments. An obvious bulge strained against soft cotton and he wasted little time in slipping the elastic band lower to free himself. His fingers stroked the swollen head of his cock, wetting his hand with his own slick as he relived the memory of plunging his fingers into your wet heat.

He moaned into your pillow while wrapping his hand around his length, pumping his hips into his fist like a beast in a rut. The holographic creation of you arched into his chest, joining his moans with gasps of your own.

Connor continued watching the replay—his favorite part—when he replaced his fingers with his cock. Your face was pressed into the pillow, body twisted to present your hips to him.

“I thought you were worried about the time?” he teased as the flat of his palm followed your curves.

You responded with a glare, lining yourself up to him. Before he had a chance to react, you sunk him down to the hilt.

“A-ah…!” he gasped.

“Then you better hurry,” you answered with a wink.

When his hand wasn’t enough, he pulled additional sensory data from his memory, groaning loudly into the room as he felt the tightness of your muscles. He just about lost it when you moaned his name, pleading for him to go faster. His teeth bit into his lower lip as his legs tensed, toes curling into sheets. What little control he had of his limbs left him as he chased his end with frantic thrusts. He had lost sight of his constructed fantasy, eyes clamping shut as electricity shot up and down his spine.

“F-fuck…fuck…” he whimpered, thankfully remembering to not spill all over the sheets.

As his software anomalies began to recover and static no longer dominated his vision, he slumped back onto his side of the bed with his eyes fixed onto the ceiling. He was still the perfect storm of unsatisfied with his limbs simultaneously buzzing for action and his heart not much fuller. Perhaps a bit of stasis would do him some good.

His lashes fluttered and the moonlit ceiling faded into darkness.

It used to be a running joke that androids dreamed of electric sheep. After the revolution, when Connor attempted stasis, what he saw made his thirium grow cold. An empty virtual garden greeted him, lit up by one spotlight like a theatrical stage in an abandoned warehouse. But there was no Amanda and no snow waiting to freeze his metal limbs. When he willed for it to all disappear, he was rewarded with an empty gray box as his new surroundings. It was then that he realized he could change the garden.

Some days he made it his workspace so he could walk through crime scenes and solve cases while his processes recalibrated in the background. Tonight, his imaginations were fixated on you. For the most part his dreams were innocent, filled with reliving his favorite memories or ones he wanted to experience. Such as him lying in bed with your arm draped over his waist and your lips pressed against his neck.

You might say something like: “Surprise, I’m back.”

Strangely, the pressure and heat on his arm felt more tangible than it should have been. His head shifted, peering down at your virtual form as you repeated yourself.

“I’m back. Wake up, love.”

He missed this, your voice spoken without the support of cell towers or the subtle breath between words that no microphone could capture. Bits and pieces of reality filtered through his dreamworld. Warm fingers trended down his arm and he was receptive to your touch, his skin flickering between flesh and plastic tones. He felt your hand entangle with his until your wedding bands lined up, clicking together as if magnetized.

“Did you have a nice dream? I’ve never had this much trouble waking you,” you chuckled.

“Well,” he responded with the corner of his mouth curling. “This is a major improvement.”

“Is that so?”

The hand holding yours slipped out to grip your wrist and tugged. Immediately, you froze, managing to stop his momentum by placing a palm down onto the mattress. 

“Wait, wait. I’m still wearing the clothes I traveled in!” you cried out.

“That is a solvable problem, my love.”

He sat up, brown eyes gleaming and face pulled in a smile that seemed too pure and sweet, too brimming with joy to match the frenzied, desperate movement of his hands working to shed your clothes. A palm dragged across the expanse of your rib cage, synthetic fingers digging lines into skin. You tried to be an active participant by squirming out of the cotton T-shirt. As he pulled it over your head, it stuck momentarily and you had to share a laugh at human clumsiness interfering with machine efficiency. He breathed out a sigh once you were freed.

You gently stroked his cheek. “So…what were you dreaming about?”

“You,” Connor said with his chin resting above your abdomen. He moved to work on your jeans, laying one kiss below your belly button, his nose nuzzling close before laying more scattered kisses lower.

“Was I doing anything in your dream?” 

Your fingers met soft strands of brown hair, enjoying how they separated and slipped out of your grasp. You watched him ghost his fingers across the edge of the denim waistband, suddenly more patient than he was earlier. His tongue tapped your skin, distracting you from his fingers unbuttoning and unzipping. The light on his head spun as he processed data beyond your comprehension. Whatever Connor discovered left him moaning into your skin.

Large palms dug between fabric and the backs of your thighs, pushing it down. As you stepped out of the pile of clothes, he pulled you by the waist, dragging your hips down with him. You were higher up on the bed than you expected, parting your thighs around his shoulders. He watched you intensely between his lashes, using his hands to coax your hips closer to his face.

“You were lying here…with me.” His voice was rough and mixed with audio interference.

“That’s it?” you teased. “Just us, cuddling?”

Connor wasn’t listening anymore, or more, he was too focused on something else entirely, his sight set on the apex of your thighs. His grip slipped down to keep you still as he peppered light kisses up your inner thigh. You felt his lips travel higher, his teeth faintly tracing your skin. The faintest pressure was applied to your entrance, his tongue barely licking your folds. Connor was a man on a self imposed mission, pushing his tongue forward to swirl the nerves above. He shouldn’t have chuckled at your desperate whine, the former deviant hunter enjoying the grip he had on his catch of the day.

Could you blame him? Seconds of delay was a lifetime to a machine, now imagine a month of time to make him unhinged.

“Can I at least turn around?” you asked. “I promise it’ll be—” Connor’s lips wrapped around your clit, tongue curling in waves. “—good!”

Pulling at his hair did not persuade the android, his brow arching defiantly from between your thighs. Instead, he followed the force of your warning tug, pushing his face closer and dipping his tongue to lick at your clenching muscles. Your pleas fell on deaf ears and you shuddered in his grip. He could almost feel you tipping over the edge before he released you, lying back to flash you a broad, guilt-free grin.

“Alright, now you can move.”

You mumbled vague, teasing threats as you shuffled over to face away from him, your eyes set on his neglected cock. Leaning over to support your weight on your elbows, you brought your hands around his length and his hips excitedly followed. You were slow, using both thumbs to tease his tip, smearing his slick over the angry red flesh.

“S-sweetheart,” he choked out.

“Don’t sweetheart me,” you teased. “Not when you were being evil a second ago.”

Hearing you talk about it only encouraged him, his tongue giving your clit a quick flick.

“Can you blame me?”

“Mmm…Yes!” Determined to not be distracted by Connor, your mouth hovered over him, tongue peeking out in anticipation.

What came out of his audio unit was barely human as you unexpectedly swallowed as much of him as you could. It stung a little, your throat stretching to accommodate his size, but it was worth it to feel him squirm. You used everything you had at your disposal, your fingers, stroking and squeezing when your mouth pulled off him, your tongue curling around the hot and heavy shape of him, and your moan, which served to tighten your throat in the sweetest torture.

A torrent of software anomalies cut through the darkness behind his closed eyes but it did not deter him from maneuvering his fingers to stroke your tensing walls, nor did it ruin his focus as his tongue flicked your clit at inhuman speeds. The RK800 indulged—basked in your presence. If there was anything Connor enjoyed the most, it was seeing you come apart, to feel you writhe in his grasp, to flooding your senses like you did to his.

Your shoulders tensed, skin feeling impossibly hot and tight as his fingers continued to summon a spark that climbed up your spine. It built up, until there was nowhere left for it to go except explode in fizzes that consumed your nerves. His name was a muffled cry in your throat, one that triggered his own end.

You heard him curse as he lapped once more into your pulsing core, followed by a string of words that you couldn’t hear over the ringing in your ears. You did hear his chuckle, felt him rest his damp cheek on your thigh.

“Are you still with me?”

By some small mercy, you hadn’t choked on him as he was still in your mouth. Releasing him with a wet pop, you replied, “No. I’m pretty sure you just killed me.”

He laughed while you managed to untangle from him to turn and face him, returning to straddle his thighs. He joined you in an upright position and you met his gaze, followed the subtle twitch of his irises as he focused on your blissed out smile. Perhaps it was the culmination of distance, time, or the stresses of work and finally…coming home, a weight was simultaneously lifted as a new one settled in your chest. Closing your eyes, you allowed yourself to finally enjoy his welcoming embrace.

“I couldn’t wait to get back to you,” you whispered in the dark.

He stroked your sweat slick skin, tracing the gentle curve of your back.

“Did you know, I was afraid to go into stasis when you were away?”

“What?” You sat up straighter in the bed, knees falling further apart. Connor shifted strategically, brushing your core with his tip. “What do you mean?”

“I had a theory it would only make me miss you more.”

“Oh…Connor.”

“When I woke, you were here so…” He leaned in, finally getting the kiss he’d been yearning for. You could feel the upward tug of his lips, the sugary, tooth rotting affection he so desperately wanted to convey. “Now I’m going to be sorely disappointed if this isn’t always the end result.”

“Ooo, maybe this is still a—”

Connor interrupted your playful remark, capturing your lips with the gentle push of his hand around the back of your neck. You still hovered over him and he whimpered into the kiss when you circled your hips. He broke away first, slowly, as if to say he wasn’t going anywhere, the heat of his exhaust still warm and close on your skin.

A blue light shimmered from his fingertips down to his elbows, revealing the intricate panels of his synthetic muscles. His palms buzzed faintly around your cheeks. Warm honeyed eyes, tinted with an electric blue hue held yours captive.

“I love you,” he said, voice low and quiet.

You captured one of his hands with yours, repeating his words with as much devotion as you could. “I love you too, Connor.”

Together, in sync, you sank onto him as he rose up to push into you. Wrapping his arms tightly around your back, his fingers kneaded your skin as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Your arms fit over his shoulders, cradling his face. He prepared you more than enough, sliding in with ease until you sat comfortably on his lap.

“I’ll never get enough of this,” he half slurred on your collarbones as he licked and sucked the flesh. “Of you.”

You dipped your head, meeting his dazed eyes. “You have me. You’ll always have me.”

Your words stoked a new fire in him as he began to bounce you over his lap. When his mouth began searching for yours, he laid sloppy kisses up your jaw until he claimed your lips. He licked into your mouth like he couldn’t get enough of being a part of you, driving the point further home with deep, slow thrusts. When he pulled you off his lap, he kept you stretched open, only to slide back at an angle that had you clawing his neck and shoulders. Pressed this close, his pelvis rubbed against your clit and you were certain you wouldn’t last. 

The thought went out the window when he freed his hand to slip between your bodies. It would be a cramped and uncomfortable position for a man, but his joints could tolerate odd angles. His fingers alternated between slow sweeping strokes and quick circles. He could tell when you were close, extended your pleasure for both of your sakes with his well timed fingers.

A sensation of being build up and up, like an elevator that seemed to go on indefinitely tugged at the edges of your mind. It was worse than waiting for a beat that promised to drop.

“Connor!”

If his soft grunts and moans were anything to go by, the RK800 was thoroughly enjoying himself. His nose was on your neck and he could feel your heart pounding through thin skin.

“Almost there. You’re doing so…” he moaned, feeling your muscles begin to spasm. “S-so, well.”

“Connor…I’m…please…!”

He pulled you flush into his lap, burying himself as deep as he could go, striking the last frazzled nerve you had left. It wasn’t nearly as intense as your first one but it contained a closeness that the other one did not. Connor slowed the movement of his thrusts and you felt him fill and stiffen before a wash of warmth trickled into you. You both rode out each others highs for a few more moments, stroking each others backs lovingly and him, lovesick as he was, had a grin spreading from ear to ear.

When you both settled down a bit, he made movements to gently lift you. Your legs clamped tight, dissuading him.

“W-wait. Can we…stay together? Like this?” you asked.

Even though your suggestion made him twitch from within you, he nodded, knowing you both desired a different kind of intimacy. He wiped a stray bead of sweat off your brow. “Of course.”

Your thighs ached in protest as your body decided your knees didn’t make good weight bearing cushions.

“Maybe we can try lying down?”

He leaned backwards, guiding you down with him, careful to not disturb how you were both still connected. You relaxed and laid your head on his chest.

“What happened to your extra meeting?” he asked, tone light and curious.

“Uhh…I kinda told them I had a family emergency.”

“Sweetheart,” he replied, slightly worried, not about the family emergency, it was obvious enough that you had lied to get back to him sooner.

“They’ll be fine without me. They signed when I landed in Detroit so…”

Connor made a poor attempt at a chiding scoff but couldn’t mask his smile. You pivoted your hips to distract him, and it did, briefly.

“I do not condone your actions…”

“But…?” you probed.

“I am glad to have you home.”

You hummed something back to him. It mostly sounded like gibberish even to his sharp ears. When he glanced down at you, he found your eyes shut, breathing even. Eventually, your body would protest for sleeping in such a strange position. He’d slip you off of him to your side of the bed, clean you off with a warm towel and tuck you both back into bed.

As for now…

His arm draped over your back and the other pulled the covers up. Connor laid a gentle peck on your forehead, caught the slight lift in your lips and couldn’t help but lay one more kiss down. He let out a deep sigh, content to shut his eyes and join you in a short slumber. 

“Sweet dreams, my love.”

[staticl0ve]

✨💙 Happy Valentines! ❤️✨

In honor of this lovely day, my mutuals ( @leelany-world and @chaos-thirium ) have added a bunch of awesome writing to a DBH Valentines Collection! Come check out their awesome stories on AO3!

Thanks so much for participating! I’ve enjoyed reading each one!

[staticl0ve]

Baby It’s Cold Outside [1] - Connor x Fem!Reader

Pairings: Connor/Female Reader Rating: Explicit/NSFW 18+ Chapters (AO3): [ Part 1 ] [ Part 2 ] Tumblr Link: Part 1, Part 2 Words: 3.6k Warnings: Connor being adorkable, angst, mild graphic violence, SFW Summary: Superhero AU. WandaVision vibes. After a spontaneous set of events, a virtual machine: RK800, was granted a real body. Luckily for him, he’s given a spot on a superhero team. Life’s pretty easy as a super but when Connor develops a crush on his teammate, things take a turn. Notes: Having a bit of seasonal fun with a superhero twist to a DBH universe.

Part 1/2 - Constellations

Trouble was a snake with a craving for its tail. Day or night, never ending and never satiated. The world needed you. Well, not just you, you and a team of supers blessed with mutations and superpowers. 

Life on Earth wasn’t the same after the first few cases of genetic mutations. No one knew why it was happening. Perhaps it was inevitable, the consequences of consuming too many micro-plastics or where humanity was headed anyways.

Not long after, aliens and gods began appearing on spaceships or through portals from other realms. A billionaire in a metal suit had the arrogance to think he could lead a team to protect Earth. Who would have thought? Elijah Kamski, playboy, man of iron and now, the leader of The Nine. The team was large, expanding more than the core nine supers as hundreds of agents filled the sprawling building that was Kamski Tower.

As for you? You had a comfy seat in the main room beside your team. They called you Scarlet for your talents of bending reality around a cloud of red magic, summoning objects, and reducing enemies to a red mist.

Most supers only stayed for ten or so years before they got lured away by biological clocks or a chance at life as a civilian once again. But not you. Your mutations kept you ageless like a body trapped in amber. Being a superhero was all you knew, so why rock the boat?

Between saving the world and PR campaigns, life was pretty easy. To your knowledge, you lacked a weakness and much to your amusement, bets were made as to when you’d discover it. In the meantime, there were lots of perks for saving the day like gift baskets, free things at stores and an endless supply of fan-mail.

Just a few days ago, a blue magical sphere was recovered from another realm. Elijah had called a team meeting to discuss what powers were stored in the orb. To keep yourself occupied, you held it in your palm, observing the magic swirling in the glass. From his lab speakers, the voice of his supercomputer, RK800, was reading statistics and you hid a yawn behind the back of your other hand.

There was an android body lying on a sterile lab table, flanked by monitors and cables. It was meant to be for the RK800 but components were missing for giving it life. For now, it laid idle while hooked into the computer system. You leaned over the invention while juggling the orb from one palm to the other.

“Be careful. We don’t know what it can do,” Elijah scolded you.

“I’m being careful,” you chirped back.

Alas, you spoke too soon. One misstep over a poorly covered cable and the orb slipped out of your grasp. As quickly as you could, you steadied yourself, palms landing flat on the android’s chest. Blue and cyan beams surged out of the sphere, sparking into the ceiling. The walls shook, glass shattering into the room. You tried to contain the energy and it only encouraged the magic, thick wisps swarming the invention. Eventually, the blinding light settled into a small pulsing halo on the android’s right temple.

A few supers had their weapons on standby, shouting at the machine to not move while Elijah was trying to calm the room down. All the while, you were standing there with your jaw slack as loose cables sparkled with electricity and comically swayed over your head.

Holy shit.

The android slowly sat up, raising his arms to inspect his new body. White and gray plastic faded into pale, creamy skin, drawing attention to his lack of clothing as his transformation impacted every part of him. His pink cheeks were dotted in freckles with short brown hair framing a handsome face. A single curl fell over his forehead, shifting slightly when he looked at you.

“Hello,” he said politely.

Emergency lighting flashed red and white, adding color to the glass in your hair. A smile cracked over his lips as he studied you like a child watching a tree light up.

“Hi,” you rasped, eyes wide and unblinking. Your muscles were tensed, ready to spring in case the orb had made an entity with malicious intents.

“You’re very pretty,” he bluntly stated with his mouth pulled into a wide grin.

You almost face palmed, realizing the android had as much charm as his creator did. A beat awkwardly lapsed as your arms lowered from a fighting stance to block out his nudity from your view.

“Oh! Uh…Thank you?”

“My name is Connor,” he added, blinking sweetly as he waited for your reply. “And you are?”

The other supers shrugged and you exhaled a laugh, signaling for them to chill.  You answered him with a quick introduction, giving him the option between Scarlet or your real name.

Oh and he was still, very naked.

“Can someone please get Romeo some clothes?”

-

Machines normally did not suffer from the burden of curiosity or infatuation. Unfortunately for Connor, he was going to experience the first of many things that machines normally did not.

He easily integrated into the fabric of The Nine. Beyond his super strength, he could fly, phase through objects and wirelessly control machines. For months, he worked with you as a partner. You saved his butt a few times by knocking away a missile or killing a foe before it reached him and he did the same for you. Typical supers stuff.

You were friends. Sort of. Your interactions with him were polite, rarely crossing the threshold of casual banter. For years, the RK800 was a voice in Elijah’s suits and computer, it was no surprise that you saw him as an extension of the AI, not realizing the magic had made him just as real as any human man. For the betterment of the team, he decided to put in some work to get to know you better.

It definitely had nothing to do with getting to see your face outside of the battlefield.

Absolutely not.

The morning sun flooded the walls of the tower cafe in golden hues. This winter season, snowflakes hung from the ceilings and mistletoe dangled over the food area. Connor found you standing around the pastry section. There was a subtle flex in your neck muscles when you craned your head as you mulled over your breakfast options. He almost swore the dangling lights formed a little halo around your form. An exhale left his lips. He had forgotten what he was going to say.

Hello? Good morning? The weather looks…cold…outside.

A software anomaly floated on by, startling the machine. rA9, he was a little in over his head. Connor loosened the tight collar of his white turtleneck and smoothed down his gray slacks.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully with a smile pinned wider than necessary.

“Hey Connor,” you greeted him, too busy analyzing baked goods to look up. A popular tune hummed past your lips while you debated your choices. He had to be quick, start some small talk before someone dragged you away to chat.

“Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thanks,” you answered, recoiling at the mistletoe fluttering obnoxiously over your heads. “Agh. The decorating staff really went overboard this year. I swear the moment Thanksgiving ends, this stuff just magically appears.”

Curiously, he peered up at the bundle.

“This appears to be mistletoe.”

You nodded, lips quirked in amusement. 

“Mhm.”

“There is a tradition associated with this plant.” His dipped his head lower, close enough for you to see the confused pinch in his brows. “Are we supposed to kiss?”

You threw your head back in laughter. “No! Hah! I mean, no one takes it seriously. It’d be an HR nightmare at least—”

“Scarlet! Come check this out!”

A group waved you over with increasing excitement. You squeaked out an apology before snagging a pastry and disappearing as he had anticipated. He watched you slide into a table full of supers, exchanging jokes and high fives. Machines didn’t typically experience a fear of being left out and yet, his Thirium pump seized. He had to get to the bottom of these occurrences before his error logs were full.

He tried asking Elijah for help, the one man lacking the emotional depth to explain the complexity of what the android was experiencing.

“It looks like you’re running as optimally as you could be,” the inventor said.

“But I don’t feel as though I am,” he pressed. “There’s a stuttering in my chest that occurs throughout the day. It’s much worse when I’m out on the field with…”

He ended with your name, his brows furrowed at the other man.

“I see.”

This was why Elijah never wanted kids.

“Things were much simpler when I didn’t have a body,” the android added.

The blue eyed inventor nodded. Connor was right, the original RK800 had no need for human distractions.

“Have you tried talking to Hank about this?”

The android abruptly sat up straighter, pulling the cable on his neck taut. “No. How might he assist me?”

“Fatherly intuition,” Elijah answered dismissively.

Not a day too soon, you and Connor were called into Hank’s office after a particularly intense mission. As the main handler of the The Nine, the gray haired grump was a softie at heart. Today, it was his mission to convince you both to take a rest day.

His office was furnished with dark wood furniture, chunky chairs lined with thick cushions, and a drink cart full of whiskey varieties. The walls were decorated with photos of his son, Cole, and the boy’s dog companion, Sumo. Underneath the desk was the beloved Saint Bernard, happily dozing.

“You kids can’t work all the time. Trust me, you won’t like what it turns you into,” Hank said.

“Oh no,” you gasped in mock horror. “You mean we’ll grow a beer belly and—”

“Hey! Go get her Sumo,” he chuckled. A panting, drooling dog suddenly sat up and came tumbling into your lap.

“Help! Connor!” you cried in between giggles as Sumo turned your face into a sloppy drool canvas. The android surprised you by laughing instead of coming to your rescue. His wrist moved fluidly and a small square cloth dangled before your face.

“I can offer you a handkerchief,” Connor replied with a smirk.

You never paid much attention to him before, only now noticing how his face lit up with boyish charm. He was usually calm on the field and too focused to be anything other than an objective minded machine.

“Thanks,” you replied sarcastically with a small lift to your lips. Your hands wrapped around the cloth, fingers grazing his skin. The contact was lighter than a snowflake’s touch and yet it felt as though it burned the machine.

“You okay?” you asked when he froze.

Connor blinked, staring at his arm with a puzzled gaze. A deep bellied laugh broke the silence. Hank’s blue eyes glinted behind greying eyebrows and he grinned at the android.

“These breaks happen rarely. Try to enjoy them,” Hank insisted.

“Well,” you said while pushing out of your chair. “I’ll be spending today in a bath washing drool off my face.” You politely dipped out of Hank’s office, offering a friendly smile to Connor on your way out.

At last, the android had a chance to ask for some fatherly intuition.

“Hank…I was wondering if you could help me troubleshoot. Elijah suggested that I seek your advice regarding some errors.”

Large calloused hands clasped together as Hank settled further into his chair. He was no IT guy. His phone was hard enough to wrangle to call his son after work, but he knew the look of a smitten man.

“Lemme guess…you like her?”

The answer bursted out before Connor had a chance to process. “No!”

Deny. Deflect. Deter. It couldn’t be true because romance was inappropriate in a workplace. Yes, he had to have been excited about your partnership and merely wanted to improve on it. But rA9, you were really pretty.

“Well…she’s talented on the field, effective and collaborative. Many find her to be a productive teammate. In that definition, yes, she is likable.”

“No, no, not like that,” Hank huffed. Machine determination would never be a match against a meddling adult. “Does your heart flutter when she walks into a room?”

“Androids don’t have hearts...” Connor trailed off and steered back when Hank rose an eyebrow. “Y-yes. There have been irregularities in my hardware.”

Boy, did Hank not want to hear about androids and their hardware.

“Team bonding is essential for encouraging productivity and building trust. The errors may resolve once I achieve those goals,” Connor reasoned, more with himself than to Hank. “What should I try?”

A date, Hank wanted to say.

“Alright…uh. How about this? People bond over cooking together. It’s uh…collaborative, as you’ve mentioned. You can talk over a bottle of wine, a hot stove…” Connor’s mouth opened and Hank held a palm out. “…and listen, I know you don’t eat but trust me, it’ll help.”

Unfortunately, Hank didn’t consider Connor’s android nature as a detriment to cooking. In one of the many floors of the tower, a shared kitchen looked like a tornado had struck the shelving, scattering the spices and ingredients all over the counters. Steam rose from a bubbling pot of salted water and pasta. In another pot, a dubiously scented liquid had splattered all over the once pristine stove.

In return for Connor’s spontaneous gift of life, he birthed the most original tomato sauce known to man. You, being the fool you were, naively agreed to taste test. A barely polite grimace pinched your features as you “mmm-ed” in the most dramatic, Oscar worthy way. Not that it mattered when the chef was able to scan and read your vitals like an open book. He was watching you eagerly, head tilted with a bright smile.

Your gag reflex could only hold out for so long.

“Oh god,” you spat out the words along with the vile tomato sauce into a sink.

“Is it not to your liking?” he asked shyly.

“Connor, what possessed you to add canned fruit on top of everything else?” you groaned. You fished out a glass from a cabinet and quickly filled it with water to swish the taste out of your mouth. “Canned fruit and tomatoes do not mix.”

“Tomatoes are a fruit, it should pair well with other fruits.”

Yes. Rest day was going fabulously.

He blinked at you, his pale face brimming with pride and completely ignorant to the suffering still ongoing in your mouth.

“I failed to mention that I lacked taste buds…do those ingredients not go well together?”

You winced when a bit of the aftertaste rose up from the back of your throat.

“Given your history as an AI, I am impressed you’ve never learned any recipes,” you teased.

“My functions were related to saving the world—”

“Right,” you said dryly.

“—I have access to recipes, but I wanted to try something of my own creation,” he said and proudly stirred the bubbling pot.

He watched you gargle a second time for comedic emphasis.

“Next time, we follow a recipe,” you suggested.

“Next time?” He tried containing his excitement, but judging by your giggle, his face gave him away.

“Gotta learn somehow. It’s the least a friend can do.”

Warmth buzzed from Connor’s chassis. “I would like that.”

In a matter of weeks, he’d managed to master being creative over a stove. No more did his food taste like an AI throwing ingredients into a pot. And the cherry on top? Your fast growing friendship was an improvement on your teamwork. Although, the dangers of every mission began to make him nervous. Small scrapes were nothing to supers, almost everyone had skin like titanium. But the universes had a funny way of reminding the near immortal what “near” meant.

Explosions rattled the Earth, shaking up asphalt like loose balls in a ball pit. Soot coated your clothes and iron stung your nostrils. Small cuts decorated your skin, the blood drying over healing flesh. Even with your mutations, these creatures were something else. Magic coated them in an oil slick aura, rippling over their scaled flesh. It made your skin crawl, pulled at the hair on your neck. This fight was different than any other.

“Fuck, they just don’t stop.” Your back pressed firmly against a slab of cement. Your radio cracked in your ear. “Guys? Could really use some backup right about now.”

The other supers were busy helping evacuate citizens, leaving you and Connor to hold off the hoard. Monsters with teeth larger than car tires were on the prowl, chasing your scent.

“Is everyone too busy to chat?” you joked into the comms. Connor was the only one to reply.

“Behind you!”

A shadowy claw imbued with a mystical energy pierced the cement cover and sliced your chest. The swirling black goop spread like venom, branching through your veins with every sharp breath you drew. One moment you were on your feet and the next, you were tossed up like a crumpled paper ball. A scaled palm caught you in midair, smacking you back into the ground. You thought you heard a few ribs snap, a chill whooshing and filling your lungs as the creature prepared to throw you back up.

Connor frantically called out your name. He was preoccupied with a fight of his own. But in the corners of his vision, he saw you get thrown towards a skyscraper. He couldn’t shake the dread, the brief panic as he calculated your trajectory would worsen your existing injuries.

A clawed hand swung for him. He phased through its belly, puzzling the scaled beast as it smacked its stomach in a splatter of green goo. The numbers counted down in his head, software instabilities dissolving into panic when a cloud of debris rained down from above him. Your impact rocked the building, collapsing the foundation of a few floors. You were free falling like a limp doll. He flew as quickly as he could, strong arms wrapping around your back and knees.

Your head rolled around his biceps, vision blurring and ears ringing. The glow of his blue circle was fuzzy and bright. His hand found its way behind your head, holding you up to meet his gaze. He hunched over you like a protective shield, literally blocking out the sun. Shaky fingers trembled over your wounds. A fear of the unknown was etched into his eyes.

“C-Connor?” your voice cracked along the syllables of his name. His hand touched your cheek, cool fingers stroking hot, wet skin. Blood dripped down his forearms. In the sun, it glistened scarlet.

“Fuck,” you hissed and covered the clawed slash with your hand. The black sludge had eaten away at the marred flesh. Your skin was not mending. 

A thunderous roar could be heard from below. Reinforcements, just a moment too late.

“Hey.” He squeezed your cheek, a faint pinch lost in the sea of the agonizing heat. You were floating like driftwood, powerless to the currents and the sea was beckoning.

“Look at me,” he rasped.

You tried, pitifully staring at the brightest part of his face. His chest was surprisingly warm and pliant—welcoming as your cheek slid down the soft cotton. Connor smelled like rain, autumn leaves and of warm sheets. If only you could just…rest.

A palm roughly shook your shoulder.

“Say something,” he tried while frantically weaving through buildings. There may be enough time to reach the tower.

“S-something,” you coughed out a laugh, staining your teeth and lips crimson. You’d had been a super for too long, numbed to tragedy.

It was uncomfortably bright outside, the December sun reflecting off of snowy rooftops. If you just closed your…

“Eyes on me. Hey…hey. Talk to me.” He roughly shook you awake again. “Tell me why you became a super.”

“I…s-stumbled…into it. Something t-to do,” you trailed off, head rolling back to stare at his indicator. “It’s r-red. Your…”

A searing heat sliced across his chest. Androids couldn’t feel pain and yet—

“Do ya like her, son?”

rA9. Please.

Supers rarely died. When tragedy struck, it was usually from a once in a lifetime battle. Most had a chance to retire to a quiet cabin in the middle of nowhere, away from the fighting and media coverage. There, the skies were clear, the Milky Way pouring over the planet they worked so hard to save.

You knew what you signed up for but it dawned upon you that you didn’t realize what that meant for someone fresh to the world—to live through the trauma of loss.

Oh. How did you not see it?

Cold, wet droplets hit your cheeks from above. Salty, like the ocean. His lips parted. “Don’t go…please. S-stay…Stay with me.”

You made a gurgled reply and his arms tightened their hold. Was it too late to notice the man who had come to your rescue, who’s artificial heart pounded as fiercely as yours?

His fingers gripped your face to hold your chin up. You could count the freckles on his cheeks, draw lines connecting each one. The Big Dipper on his right cheek and the little one on the left.

“Please. We’re almost there,” Connor pleaded.

Stay.

Falling stars were a rare sight in the city but when it happened…it was magical. A bright spark of life in a pitch black sky.

Did Connor know he had constellations painted on his face?

He called to you. When your eyes shut, he tried again, this time louder.

Don’t go.

Those streaks of light weren’t magic, just space rocks burning off into dust.

Beautiful and gone in a flash.

[staticl0ve]

Loved how playful this was! Nines being jelly is so 🥺

Prompt: A stoic Nines and reader. The words? Spoken by Nines: "Don't do this."

:o

Thank you for the ask! 💙 I wasn't sure which direction to go for this one, and therefore it went somewhere quite random. Hopefully you don't mind!

From this prompt list if anyone wants to request one too 😊

“Don’t do this,” he said.

His face was unreadable. It often was, although you’d gotten good at translating his micro-expressions over the last few months. There was nothing there now, only a beautiful, stoic mask. Ironically, his lack of expression told you plenty about what he was thinking.

“Nines,” you began. A warning.

The graveness in his voice took you aback. You’d been expecting him to mask his tone as much as his face. Perhaps he’d realised how little he could hide from you. It was a flattering thought, considering how he could fool almost everyone else. You wondered when he’d figure out why that was.

“I have to,” you said.

“You don’t, actually.”

“And let someone else do it? How is that fair?”

He had no answer for that, and for a moment his lips moved in a disgruntled twist.

“I don’t like it,” he stated flatly.

You couldn’t help the little amused smile that found its way onto your face. It wasn’t often that Nines allowed himself to say something so unnecessary.

“Your opinion is noted,” you said. “But it’s got to be done, and I’m not gonna duck the responsibility. What kind of example is that to set?”

You started walking, only for him to stubbornly fall into step beside you.

“I don’t want you to get taken advantage of,” he admitted.

You fought back a smile. “I won’t be.”

Something new seemed to occur to Nines, and his usual perfectly-calibrated gait almost faltered, causing a clumsy step that was too subtle to be called a stumble, but was an unheard-of display of inelegance for him.

“I…forgive me, I…I’ve misinterpreted the situation.”

You shot him a sidelong glance, unsure what was going through his head. You hoped you knew what it was, but you couldn’t be certain. Not yet.

“Have you?” you asked simply.

“I believe so. I did not realise the…attention…was welcomed.”

There was an edge to his voice that sparked more hope in your chest, and you wasted no time in calling him on it.

“Nines, are you jealous?”

“Of course not,” he retorted immediately.

It was such a human response, so defensive, that you couldn’t help smiling. You’d reached your goal, however, so you put the conversation on hold.

After studying the slumped figure in front of you for a beat, you lightly punched it in the arm, eliciting a groan.

Gavin lifted his head, eyes glassy, squinting as he struggled to focus on you. He never could handle strong liquor.

“There you are,” he slurred. “You’re so fucking gorgeous. Come home with me, I’ll show you a good time.”

You sighed, unimpressed, and Nines looked set to snap his neck then and there.

“I’m taking you home,” you said to Gavin, “but I’m leaving you there. Alone. To sober up.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, I just found you passed out in a bar.”

“I was juss taking a nap,” he protested. “Getting my energy back for you.” He tried to wink, but it seemed to confuse him greatly, and he blinked slowly at you like a sleepy cat.

Slinging his arm across your shoulders, you hoisted him off his bar stool. He was so far gone, he didn’t resist, sagging against you as you struggled to hold him up.

“Mmm you feel good,” he mumbled, hot, sour breath on your face.

You grimaced, but started to lead him out of the bar. Nines stepped up to help you, taking most of Gavin’s weight. His expression was so murderous, it might have been entertaining if you weren’t distracted by Gavin’s horrendous attempts at flirting. You’d thought they were bad enough when he was sober.

Nines was truly jealous of this?

You needed to reinforce his self-esteem.

It was a blessedly short trip to Gavin’s apartment, made to feel longer by how talkative he suddenly was. You and Nines wrestled him onto his bed, where he tried to make you lie down with him, apparently unbothered by the android’s presence. You even went as far as to leave him a glass of water and some aspirin for when he woke up, which was above and beyond, in your opinion. Thankfully, he was snoring gently by the time you left.

“Thanks,” you said to Nines as the two of you made your way out of the building. “You didn’t have to help, but I’m glad you did. He’s heavier than he looks.”

He acknowledged your thanks with a nod, but his words broached another subject. “You didn’t want to stay?”

“Hell no.”

“But I thought…”

“Yeah, why? I thought you knew me better than that. I have standards, you know.”

His LED spun yellow as he processed.

“Nines,” you ventured, tone softer. “Why were you so set against me taking him home? Was it because you thought I’d want to stay?”

“No, it’s like I said, I didn’t want to risk him taking advantage of you in his inebriated state.”

“I can handle him. What’s really going on?”

“Friendly concern,” he said. The mask was back.

You inwardly sighed. It seemed you were going to have to steer the conversation more than you’d initially intended.

“And you’re certain you weren’t jealous?” you asked, taking a step closer to him.

“I…” He faltered at your nearness, LED flickering.

“Because honestly, if he was flirting with you and I thought you liked it, I’d be jealous too,” you said. Meeting his intense, icy gaze, you played your entire hand. “Actually, I’d be jealous if you liked anyone’s attention more than mine.”

He tilted his head, considering you for a long second or two. “Truly?”

You nodded.

“I see.”

You nodded again.

“That changes things,” he declared.

“It does?” you said hopefully.

“Yes. Because now I have a hard decision to make.”

You eyed him with concern, unsure what his stoicism was hiding this time. “Oh?”

“Yes. Do we go to your place or mine?”

You let out a relieved laugh, looking up at him as he closed the gap between you further. “You know the answer to that.”

Nines shot you a wicked smirk. “Yes: whichever one is closest.”

[staticl0ve]

What a fun, dark ride that was. Brilliant. 🩵✨

Ephemera — (Part Fifteen - Connor/Sixty/Nines/Elijah Kamski x Fem!Reader - NSFW/18+)

GIF source

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12 / Part 13 / Part 14 / Part 15

NSFW (18+) under the cut

“You came back.”

You found yourself reaching behind you without even meaning to, like your body just knew it needed to hold onto something for support and the dresser was the nearest thing available. The cold air was suddenly a blessing, giving you something tangible to focus on while your brain struggled to process what you were seeing.

“What are you doing here?" You eventually managed. "Has something happened?”

It was where your mind went first in its search for his motivation, for lack of anything else to go off. Connor was standing there, in the doorway, saying nothing, specks of rain—or maybe even snow—drying in his hair and against the thick material of his jacket. He looked like someone you’d pass on the street at rush hour: a human man with his own ordinary life. He almost looked too big for your apartment, which made no sense at all given who you shared it with.

And where was Nines..?

You might've asked, if Connor hadn't chosen that moment to regain motion. Brown eyes held yours as he came forwards a few steps, and then stopped. You didn’t know how to react, your body pressing back against the solid weight of the dresser, one hand curled around the knot of your towel—more for something to hold onto than out of fear of it falling open.

You weren’t quite sure which of you suggested sitting down. Maybe both, maybe neither, but somehow that's where you ended up, side-by-side on the edge of the bed. Despite where you were and how you were dressed, it didn’t feel real enough for you to consider the implications of that, or what it meant that he'd arrived unannounced, distracted and slightly wild-eyed, inviting himself into your bedroom in the middle of the night.

You’d already asked him what he was doing here, and you couldn’t think of a more important question than that, so you just waited for him to speak. He didn't seem like he was in any rush to explain himself. It was weird how you almost appreciated that; only someone who really knew you could be so rude. Still, the longer it went on, the more unnerved you began to feel, and you were almost at your limit when he finally spoke.

“Nines is here.”

And that's what he led with.

"Uh, yeah." You said. To be honest, you were only surprised at how early he’d brought it up, not the fact that he had. It had been part of your agreement, after all, that you stay apart for a while. "Sixty, too.”

Connor looked at his feet, giving a stiff nod.

You didn't really know how to interpret that, and you absolutely did not want to guess, so you awkwardly went on: “We haven’t...”

We haven't what? We haven’t had any trouble? We haven’t had sex? For some reason you knew both would be on Connor’s mind, but instead you settled on: “We haven’t heard from Chloe.”

“No,” Connor said, like he knew that already. He looked at you, and you were struck, again, by the fact that he was here. It brought so many feelings rushing back to you, you didn't quite know which to focus on. If you'd felt flustered and dumbstruck by Nines, it was nothing compared to what Connor was doing to you. At least you knew what Nines wanted.

“You look good,” You said, aiming for friendly more than flirty—an attempt that failed for a few reasons, not least of all because you were still dressed in a towel. “I mean, you look like you’re doing well.”

Connor didn’t try for either flirty or friendly. “You look tired.”

“Thanks...” You desperately wanted to unhear that before it undid the months of work it had taken for you to stop hating yourself even just a little bit. Although, one simple and, honestly, fair comment about looking tired wasn’t really the thing that had you worried.

“You're not sleeping.” He didn't phrase it like a question.

You weren’t sure whether you wanted to laugh or cry. Of course he’d know. It was like he’d already rehearsed this conversation, meanwhile you'd arrived on set without a script. He had you at a disadvantage, big time, and you still couldn’t figure out why he was here after months of silence.

It didn't help when he circumvented crucial bits of the conversation. “Which part?”

"What?"

"Which part of that night do you think about?"

“Oh, I don’t know. Take your pick.” You shrugged, looking at your hands. “All of it. Elijah.”

“Elijah?” That, at least, seemed to surprise him, or was that disappointment you could hear in his voice?

“We were together for a long time," You reminded him. Meeting his eye again, you could see his feelings on the matter much more clearly in the arch of his brow. "What?"

“It can’t have been easy for you.” Connor agreed, and it was his turn to look away, sounding a little haughty despite his best efforts. You shook your head, giving up the ghost.

“It’s not really that,” You admitted. “I guess, I mean... I don't know that I've really processed what happened. It comes back in bits. There's always something else to think about or... worry about..."

He watched you, his eyes following the movements of your hands as they shifted restlessly in your lap.

"Like, Kamski wouldn't let you shoot, right?" You suddenly said. "So, what if there are more restrictions that you don't know about?”

“Chloe showed me my code." Connor explained. "I know what I am.”

You nodded, the motion trailing off as you went back to picking at your nails.

“So... is that where you’ve been?” At the look on his face you rushed to defend yourself. “It's okay if you have, I mean. I'm not, like.... You should do what you want. It’s nothing to do with me.”

He raised his eyebrow, looking pointedly at your state of undress. You flushed. 

“I didn't know you were here, ass. And I haven't... It's not what it looks like. We're roommates.” That seemed to surprise him, and it was your turn to pull a face. “They came back on their own. I'm not keeping them here against their will.”

Connor watched you, and damn it, you’d forgotten how sharp those eyes were. Until now the tone had been reasonably light, all things considered, but it was hard to see that look on his face. You hadn't seen it since...

"Stop looking at me like that." You cursed yourself for sounding upset. "I mean it, Connor. Don't look at me like... like you hate me."

The android just continued to watch you, his expression turned carefully blank. It wasn't fair how easily he could do that, meanwhile you were forced to wear every emotion on your sleeve. It was cruel.

"What do you want me to say?" You asked, voice breaking a little. "Can you please just tell me why you're here?"

The longer he looked at you, the faster your heart began to beat, your composure crumbling as that memory... that persistent, terrifying memory... grew larger and more real in your head. Blinking back tears, you tried to stand, but Connor reached out. Hard fingers wrapped around your wrist, tugging you back down, and although it wasn't rough or overly forceful, it only made you more afraid. He laid your hand in your lap, and then removed his touch. You saw his hand flex a little, like the feeling of your skin was lingering.

“How much do you remember from that night?”

You squeezed your hands together, shaking your head like that would be enough to stop him. You knew that if you spoke, you wouldn't be able to hide it. But then the android said your name, with just enough tenderness that part of you dared to hope.

Your dream, the part of it you'd never mentioned to anyone, no matter how many times it kept you up at night, was suddenly so much easier to recount with him looking at you. You remembered those same eyes, in shock, frightened, gazing down at you as you lay on the laboratory floor. When you'd fallen, your brain too overwhelmed to cope with what was happening anymore, it was Connor who got to you first.

To you, and to the gun that had slipped from your hand. 

At the time, you had felt completely certain of what was happening in his head—not like now. There had been a moment when he had realised that Elijah’s safety protocols didn’t apply to you. There had been a moment when he had considered the future, his future, and the future of his people, and the part you might play in it.

There had been a moment when he had measured the risk you might pose, not just as the last human who knew about them, but because it was you. The liability; the scorpion to his frog.

The briefness of it, before Sixty and Nines reached you, before Connor set the gun aside like he had never held it, did not distract from the look on his face, or the conclusion you thought he had drawn.

It was the same face you saw every night. The same face you saw right now.

“Sometimes I think about how easy it would've been,” You said, hardly daring to acknowledge it, but so exhausted from keeping it a secret while it consumed you from the inside out. It was a rot, a festering root at the heart of your self-hatred; a slow crushing weight of an unpunished crime, made even worse because only a few minutes ago you'd been willing to keep the mood light, to continue avoiding the consequences until someone forced you to. What wouldn't you do to save your own skin? “Eradicating the risk, just for peace of mind.”

“It wasn't easy at all.” Connor’s eyes made that clear enough. It was like he was back there with you, like the decision hadn’t yet been made.

“You're a better person than I am. I wish I could change that.”

“Me, too.”

You didn't want to cry, but your lips wouldn't stop wobbling. You bit down, hard. The last thing you needed was Connor thinking you were trying to manipulate him into feeling sorry for you. You wouldn't do that to him. You were tired of doing that to him. “You really don't owe me anything. I'm just... God, I'm trying not to cry—... I'm sorry for everything and I think you're all better without me, and I know I shouldn't say that because it's not about me, but I just... I don't know what else to say. I'm sorry. I'm just so sorry.”

Connor didn't speak for a while, his expression still so haunted, so unreachable, it made you break out in a cold sweat all over again, even though you knew you deserved it. It was fear, selfish and hateful, that made you ask for a final time: “Why did you come here?”

“I’ve been thinking about that night, too." Connor said, and you started to understand why everything until now had felt rehearsed. You realised you knew, already, where this was going. You had always known. It didn't change anything; you stayed sitting there, waiting patiently while Connor repeated words you already seemed to know. "That's why I went to see Chloe—I couldn't stop thinking about it. That, and seeing you again. At that point I didn't know that I was coming to see you, but I thought about it. I thought about what I'd do... what you'd do. I played it out in my head so many times. They were not always gentle thoughts.” Connor didn’t break eye contact; he never even blinked. “I was angry. I didn't know the others were with you, but I suspected. I thought about you forcing them to stay—manipulating them—and I made you into such a monster that it justified the violence. I knew I needed to talk to Chloe before I was consumed by it.”

The android’s voice was steady, the two of you still sitting companionably, side-by-side.

“It made no sense to me, that I could be free and still feel like I was the machine he programmed me to be. I had to see my code. I had to know." Despite what he was saying, Connor looked at you like you held the answer, like whatever he'd seen already hadn't given him the full picture. "I was made for you. Do you understand? I couldn't... I can't trust myself, not with so much at stake. I gave you the gun and when it mattered, you didn't pull the trigger. I gave you so many chances to choose me and at every turn, you chose Elijah. You chose yourself."

The cold air wasn't the only reason your hands and feet were going numb. There was something about hearing everything you'd only ever said to yourself in your worst moments, spoken aloud by somebody who knew you, that made you want to withdraw inside your body, or leave it entirely.

“I told Chloe that if I saw you, I might do something terrible. I told her about this repulsive dynamic inside me, this obsession that I can't move past no matter what I do. You're always there. I thought I'd be able to see it in my code. How could I not? It had to be there from the beginning, it had to be something we could cut out, because if it wasn't, I..." His lips twitched, his tongue darting out as if his mouth was dry. That, and the look in his eye—the way he could no longer hide his true feelings—made him look so human, you could almost believe it. "I never decided to care about you. Why would I do that?" He sounded like he was genuinely asking. "Why, when after everything, you would have let Elijah live? And I... I let you live and it can't be that way, it can't. Your weakness was mine, written into my code, I thought, but... she said it was my choice. I don't think I really knew what that meant until I saw you again.”

Connor turned towards you and raised his hand, until his long fingers rested against your throat. 

“She gave me an alternative. She said she could reset me. That it was the only way to fully be my own man,” Connor said, and you could feel his hand shaking. “I can't live like this, but I don't want to die. This is you. This is your cowardice, your selfishness, your virus. You did this to me. So, I have to...”

When he pushed, you didn't fight him, letting him lay you down, almost gently, almost apologetically, almost like a lover, and when he climbed on top of you, hand never leaving your throat, eyes still unblinking, you didn't resist. You didn't even call for help.

Maybe he didn't expect that, or maybe your compliance made you into the thing you'd wanted, all those months ago: a perfect victim, with him now the perfect villain.

“Stop me." Connor said, almost softly at first, and then through gritted teeth. “Order me to stop, I know you want to.”

His hand tightened, and your body reacted on instinct, hands gripping his wrist, wet gasps starting to escape with every desperate rise and fall of your chest, but you didn't speak. 

"Stop me,” Connor barked, growing angrier with every second you didn't resist. “Say it.”

"No..." You gasped, the sound wet and curling. Dying. Connor could hear it too, a frustrated rumble of static tightening his throat, making him harder to understand.

"Don't make me do this." He sounded furious, and terrified. His face swam in your vision, and you couldn't tell if the wet tears on your face were his or yours.

He spoke about choice, but you didn't think he could help himself, and you understood. He was made for you, and the horror of that was inescapable. Maybe Elijah had known, maybe he'd known all along what a hateful thing he'd done. Maybe he'd been trying to save you from it...

No, he didn't know. If he did, he wouldn't have done what he did to Chloe. He wouldn't have died. In the end, he wasn't that smart, or that cruel. He didn't mean to doom you and Connor to this. Maybe things would've been different if you were a better person—less selfish, less cowardly—but then again, maybe not.

You clenched your teeth so tightly together you thought they might break, and refused to save yourself. You refused to take Connor's choice away from him; a human choice, the kind that was motivated by rage and passion and paranoia, the kind that didn't feel like a choice at all.

No wonder he wanted to check his code, no wonder he wanted to investigate the possibility that it was something predestined. No wonder he couldn't understand why freedom hadn't stopped him from loving you.

When Connor kissed you, the first thing you felt was teeth. His kisses had always been hungry, but this was something else. This felt violent; a punishment. He bit and pulled at your bottom lip like he wanted to draw blood, before plunging his tongue into your mouth, gasping like he was the one in pain.

Your vision was dark, your lungs screaming, and you thought he might really let you die, possibly just on accident, when he suddenly loosened his grip. He didn't give you a chance to recover but even numb and weak and unable to stop crying, you kissed him back with the same mad fervour, your fingers scratching at his jacket, his hair, unable to bring him close enough because nothing felt close enough to match the way you were bound together.

The towel, already loosened in the struggle, was pulled open and Connor pressed himself against your naked flesh, hands squeezing between you to cup and caress the soft curves of your body. You'd almost forgotten what it was like to be touched like this, especially by him. It made it even harder to keep up, your brain feeling fuzzy and slow for reasons beyond the lack of oxygen, although that certainly didn't help. When he knelt up to unbutton his jeans, by the time you were lucid enough to reach for him, he was coming back, kissing you roughly while his hands pulled and spread your legs for him.

He was already at your entrance when you suddenly tensed. "Wait! Wait, Connor..."

The android halted, staring down at you.

"I haven't... since you, I haven't..." Something descended over Connor's eyes; understanding, yes, but also something darker and more carnal. "Be gentle."

Your whispered plea, tear-stained and fragile as it was, made him exhale. He drew in close, making sure to keep his hips still, before kissing you more softly and deeply than you had ever been kissed before. When he felt you relax, inch by inch, he brought your hips together mercifully slowly, until there was nowhere left to go.

It was no less violent than his rough touches, but this violence was crueller, sealing your fate together in surrender.

The rhythm was slow, like he was concentrating on each stroke, pulling out and pushing back in until his pelvis was pressed against yours, tight and warm and deep and the same every time, making you take every inch of him. It was deliberate, where everything before had been erratic and desperate. You didn't like that you couldn't feel him, the material of his jacket and jeans rough and cold against your untouched skin, but neither did you want him to stop, even for a moment, to remove his clothes.

It felt unholy, like he was trying to desecrate you, or remake you as his. Like he was laying claim, or dealing out punishment. The thought made you whimper into his ear, and you heard him growl in response.

Although he started with tenderness, it didn't last, and soon he had you gasping from the impact of every thrust, like he was taking you both to the very edge of what you could stand.

His face remained just out of sight, angled into your shoulder, like he didn't want you to see the way he was desperately holding back tears.

You turned your head, intending to kiss his cheek, but the android mirrored your movement at the exact same moment, and for a few breaths you were faced, unexpectedly, with each other, so close that you could count the freckles across his nose, or the tiny optical rings in his eyes that were usually so convincing. He studied your face, too, but there was nothing analytical or pained about it now. His eyes were wide, his expression suddenly soft—he didn't regard you with cold scrutiny anymore, but with frantic wonder, like he wanted to burn the image of you into his head.

"I missed you," You breathed. "Connor..."

He hesitated, not wanting to break his gaze, before succumbing to the draw of your mouth. The longer he kissed you, the faster the rhythm of his hips became, the angle changing until you were moaning helplessly into his mouth.

"Cum for me," He growled against your lips. "Please."

It was so fast and deep, the friction verging on unbearable, that you couldn't deny him, even if you wanted to. With a quiet cry, you fell, your muscles tensing, asking the same of him with your body alone. He couldn't resist you, he never could, groaning static into your ear as he filled you.

Reality rushed in all too soon afterwards.

The heat and the sharp edges of his clothes should've made you want to pull away once the aftershocks had faded, but you didn't want him to move. You held onto him with your entire body, hoping he'd stay, and you nearly sobbed when he pulled back.

You expected him to leave you right away. He was dressed, after all, and he wasn't like you. He didn't need to rest or clean up. He could walk out right now, and he'd probably be better for it. You knew he must be tempted; after all, it would be foolish to linger and risk changing his mind.

You sat up, drawing your knees together, grief and shame colouring your temporary bliss. From the corner of your eye, you saw him tilt his head—a question that turned to understanding. He looked away, too.

"I should go."

It hurt, of course it did, and you shouldn't ask, you had no right to, but... “Stay.”

"Please, don't." He said, quietly.

“You don't have to do this,” You told him, pleading. “I get it, okay? I know what you want, but I don't think there's ever a way to be completely free. For any of us.”

Connor shook his head, frustrated, imploring. “I'm trying to make the right choice. I can't... I won't hurt you.”

“I know, Con, but it's not that simple." You exhaled, hands landing with a soft thud on the mattress in exasperation. You were so goddamn tired of this, of the guilt, of the world. It had consumed you for so, so, fucking long. There was only so much you could take when it was aimed at you, but seeing him turning it on himself..?

You broke.

"It's like saying that the answer to climate change is wiping out mankind—objectively? Sure, that'd probably help, but I don't see many people choosing that, and they shouldn’t. We have to be able to live with compromise, and in the grey, and we have to be a little uncomfortable, and make bad, selfish choices sometimes, okay?” You closed your eyes with a heavy sigh, trying not to let yourself start crying again. When you opened them, you were glad he was still there, beginning to really look at you—not just that, but looking like he understood. “Here’s what they never tell you about being human: there's never a right answer. There's always risk, there's always something you're doing wrong, and you have to be able to live with that, even when it feels unbearable. I know what it's like to feel like the world must be about to fall down around you, but it hasn't happened yet. Things change. Crazy things happen.” You smiled, faintly, hearing your own words like they were being spoken by somebody else. “I can't tell you that your answer isn't better or more selfless than any other, but I can tell you it's not the only one. You have a choice, and... yeah, I'm sorry about that. Free will kind of sucks sometimes.”

Connor actually looked like he might laugh at that—a grim kind of laugh, sure, but one of understanding. He shifted his weight, shoulders loosening just a little, pushing his perfect posture ever so slightly off, "I don't—"

The android suddenly whipped around, reacting a second before you did to the sound of the front door slamming shut and thundering footsteps sprinting straight to the bedroom. You barely had time to reach for the blanket to cover yourself before they rounded the corner.

"What is going on here?" Sixty demanded. If he could be out of breath, he would be. His hair was windswept. You had to wonder if he...

"Did you run here?" Connor asked, apparently just as taken aback as you were. You thought, somehow, they would have a more transcendent reunion, but apparently not.

"I run everywhere, I have a job." Sixty said. "I go to the store, to the bank—"

"What?" Connor looked alarmed.

"No, he doesn't," You cut in quickly, widening your eyes at Sixty—not that he was even looking at you.

"What are you doing here?" The android asked his twin, with a little more suspicion than you'd expected from him. 

It occurred to you that you'd underestimated what he knew. Maybe he'd seen Connor's dilemma on that fateful night; or, maybe, he was just being his usual indelicate self.

Like you, Connor was deliberating over what he meant, or at least what to say in response, and it looked like he was just about to answer when Nines walked in. Now he shows up... You might've asked where he'd been while you were getting strangled, but then his gaze landed on you, and all rational thought evacuated your brain.

Then Sixty looked at you. 

Then Connor did, too.

Apparently, Sixty's question didn't matter that much.

You only had to give the other android a look before he was rushing forwards and clambering onto the bed with you. He kissed you almost as roughly as Connor had, the smell of his shampoo—specially chosen to offset the weird smell of his make-up—filling your nose. His hands gripped greedily at your chest and you gasped. His skin was like ice. When he pulled back you thought he was going to apologize, but instead—

"Touch me," He demanded, and if it was anyone else you would've kicked them out of bed. But it was just... Sixty. 

"You're an idiot,” You laughed. “And your hands are freezing."

"I know. You can help me warm them up," He smirked. You scoffed.

"Oh yeah?” You leant away from him. “You know, whatever happened to hello, how a— ah!" 

Sixty was apparently in no mood to wait for even a second longer for what you'd been denying him. His cold fingers slid up your thigh, and in. There was no resistance—thanks, Connor—and the sensation made your spine snap straight as an arrow. There wasn't usually anything pleasant about having something cold up there, but... well, it was Sixty. 

"That's it," He couldn't help but croon as your thighs twitched, wanting to open up for him despite the bizarre sensation. With his other hand, he wrestled with his clothes. Behind him, Connor and Nines glanced at each other. The former sighed, lips twitching up, and finally loosened the buttons on his jacket, before coming to join you.

Sixty was right that his fingers eventually warmed up, one by one, and then he decided that his lips were cold, too, the frozen tip of nose making you cry out whenever he brushed it, purposely, against your clit. Connor was satisfied with lying next to you, kissing you, drawing his hands across your body and your hair, until neither of you could keep ignoring his erection. You took him in your hands, slowly drawing them up and down as he explored your mouth, savouring every sweet noise that passed between you.

While Sixty's nose was cold, his tongue was searing hot, lathering sloppy kisses across every inch of you, inside and out, until he had you expertly balanced on the verge of another orgasm. You expected him to push you right into it, but instead he drew back. You felt Connor smiling against your lips when he heard your needy little whine.

Sixty climbed over you, leaning in to catch your earlobe in his teeth while Connor had you distracted.

"You're ready," He murmured. You pulled away from Connor to tell him that you’d already been ready, when you noticed the looks on their faces. And then you noticed Nines.

The blue-eyed android stood at the foot of the bed. There was no sense of shyness about him as he undressed, which—for some reason—surprised you. You'd once been so used to being intimidated by him, and only recently had it swung in the other direction, with you interpreting his muteness and slow, deliberate gentleness as something almost timid. 

That was a grave error on your part.

You were looking at him with wide eyes and not without the smallest sense of apprehension as he tugged off his last remaining piece of clothing, and when you caught his eye, you couldn't help but notice the edge of pride in his expression.

Oh, Elijah. You thought. Please tell me that’s not where the name came from.

He leant down, placing his hands on the bed, and impulse—or maybe instinct—made you pull back. Connor and Sixty were on either side of you, their hands just beginning to wrap around your limbs, like they intended to keep you there, when Nines stopped in his tracks.

He knelt up on the bed, which made it hard to ignore the urgent and weeping cock brushing against his abs, and signed: I can lie down, if you would prefer?

There it was again—the tenderness. You remembered the first time this had almost happened; when Nines had pulled you into his lap, when he'd allowed you the chance to take the lead. He was giving you the chance again.

You adored that, but you didn't need him to be gentle. Like Sixty said, you were ready.

Lying back, you let Connor and Sixty hold you, their touch both reassuring and restrictive. Your knees were eased apart, and your arms held down, inviting the larger android in. Nines maintained eye contact, like he was reading you for any sign of discomfort, or maybe because he didn't want to miss anything about this. He'd been waiting for a long time, after all, and even you couldn't quite believe it was finally happening.

The first time you'd ever seen him, he was naked, and still you hadn't fully seen him. His shoulders were wide and strong, his hips narrow enough to fit perfectly between your thighs, his chest and abdomen sculpted with more definition than the other two. His skin was paler, too, and lacked any freckles or moles. The only thing they had in common was the way their hair fell—with that stubborn curl at the very front—although you thought Nines' might be a shade or two darker.

His eyes though...

The android lifted your hand to his mouth first, pressing a gentle kiss to your palm, before he leaned in, hesitating only briefly before his gaze fell to your mouth, and then you couldn't see any more, your eyes fluttering closed in surrender. The kiss was uncertain, at first—a reminder that this was his first time doing any of this—but only for a moment. Nines was a fast learner, to the point where you wondered if even that brief hesitation was manufactured for your benefit. His lips parted, tongue gliding against your bottom lip before seeking entry, and his hand cupped the back of your head, proving again just how much bigger he was than you.

The second piece of evidence was a little more obvious.

"Oh, fuck..." You gasped, completely unintentionally, when you first felt him at your entrance. His first attempt was unsuccessful, the thick head barely catching before it slipped up to nudge against your oversensitive clit, making you shudder. When he noticed your reaction, he took himself in hand, continuing to slide himself against the length of your slit until you grunted out his name, casting him a heavy-eyed look of warning. The faintest smirk adorned his face and you bit your lip, hoping to tempt him by widening your legs, letting him see exactly what he was doing to you. It must have worked because his expression sharpened in a way he rarely let it nowadays, and he pulled back, taking a moment to line himself up, ensuring that it...

"Fuck!" This time you meant it, your arms nearly wrenching out of their sockets when you tried to fight Connor and Sixty's grip. Nines stopped, but you could see the hungry glaze in his eyes, the tension in him that wanted to just continue, making you take it. You were already shaking from the first press, but the sensation wasn't painful. He was just... a lot. "Don't stop," You told him, breathless.

He didn't question you, and luckily for you both, you made the right call. You opened like you were made for him, and if anything you were worried you might be hurting him with how tightly you were gripping him. The android's eyes closed, his mouth falling open slightly as he tried and failed to bottom out in the first few strokes.

Above you, the lights started to flicker.

"There you are," You gasped. Nines' eyes opened almost immediately to look at you, the blue colour nearly disappearing within his narrow focus. Like this, with his hands holding himself up, he couldn't communicate, but you felt like you were in conversation all the same. You remembered back at the house when Nines had been able to interfere, somehow, with other electronic devices. You remembered the radio, the singular burst of expression that hadn't been repeated since.

This felt like a similar transgressive force of will. Something deeper and uncontrolled, from high emotion, that was purely and intrinsically wordless.

Still watching you with that dark, heady look, Nines began to move.

The intensity of his stare and the size of him, his body easily covering yours, was almost too much to bear. You didn't even have the reprieve of Sixty's cold hands anymore, now that you'd dutifully warmed him up. The smaller android's touch only added to the dizzying heat, his fingers slipping down to tease you, pushing your body to its limit while Nines did the same from the inside, his cock reaching further with every push.

Connor, meanwhile, pressed slow kisses up your arm and over your shoulder, climbing the delicate skin of your throat before cresting your jaw. You were vaguely aware of him watching you, his gaze completely unguarded, able to look at you with rare honesty for just a few tender moments. The softness in that gaze, the love, would've broken your heart if you'd been able to see it. As it was, you were a bit distracted. The moment passed, and then he was whispering things in your ear—praises and questions that you couldn't comprehend—and smirking when you just agreed.

And all the while, Nines kept fucking you. He didn't mean to be rough, you could tell he was trying to maintain some element of gentleness, but even he was getting carried away. He changed his angle slightly, and his skin started slapping suddenly against yours in such a filthy way that you had hide your face in Sixty's shoulder. It drove him impossibly deeper, his thick length brushing against new spots inside you, and soon enough you were being driven to the peak again.

Sixty laughed at you, and you had no trouble understanding what he was saying. 

"Do you hear that? Do you hear him using you?" He ran his tongue up the side of your throat and over the shell of your ear, making you shiver. "Are you going to let all of us cum inside you, hm? Whenever we want? All the time? Forever?”

"Sixty—" You tried to speak but Nines chose that moment to speed up, the hard veinlike ridges of his cock rubbing mercilessly against your sweet spot until you could feel tears in your eyes.

It was just dirty talk, but you'd be lying if you said the idea—the sheer filth of it—wasn't turning you on. The android knew it, too.

"Come here, sweetheart," Sixty muttered roughly, almost to himself. He sat up and curled his fingers into your hair, turning your head until your lips were inches from his cock, which was just as eager for attention as he was.

You didn't even think, lost in sensation and depravity, your hand coming up to steady him before you took him into your mouth.

Sixty was more controlled than you expected, his grip on your hair loose, his hips admirably still, but you didn't care any more about restraint. Nines was fucking you hard enough that you could feel your whole body moving with every thrust, his hands around your waist pulling you nearly up off bed, and even with your eyes squeezed shut, you could see that the lights were flickering again. He'd slowed down just a little so you didn't choke, but you doubted he could stick to it.

You didn't have time to waste.

Looking up at Sixty, you took him as deeply as you could, until he could feel the catch of your throat, and then pulled back, running your tongue along the underside and sucking the tip just hard to make him grip your hair a little tighter. You pulled off and met his eye, making it clear what you wanted when you opened your mouth and let him rest on your tongue.

The look on his face almost made you break. You'd never seen such a perfect combination of arousal and shock. You flicked your eyebrows, taking a leaf out of Nines' book with a little body language, and Sixty quickly snapped out of it. Gripping your hair, he eagerly pushed you down, sliding himself into your throat with a satisfied groan. It didn't take any more convincing than that before he was guiding your head at the rhythm he liked.

It gave Nines the permission he needed to speed up again, although you could feel that he was holding something back. Maybe that would always be the case—if he went as hard as he could, you doubted you'd survive it.

Still, you could take a little more than this.

"Mm..." Sixty suddenly gasped, his hips stuttering. "You're fucking... perfect."

You moaned and the vibration triggered a noise in him that was completely pornographic, even by your standards. 

"That's it..." He growled through clenched teeth. "Take it."

You weren't sure if it was that or your little whine of surprise when Sixty came down your throat, but you'd barely had a chance to catch your breath when Nines cracked. The hands around your waist tightened and pulled, until your top half was arching off the mattress, completely at his mercy as he just started to fucking rail you.

It wasn't long until you were screaming his name, and this time you knew that was the thing that pushed him past his limit. The android bent over you, trying to pull you as close to him as possible before his hips stuttered. Pushing himself deep, he finally bottomed out, making your whole body seize up around him. He held you there, wrapped in his arms while he twitched and emptied himself inside of you. You shivered and bit down on his shoulder, finding your own end at the same time as him, the tiny fluttering of your muscles drawing his pleasure out for even longer. You clung to him just as tightly as he held onto you, until eventually he was satisfied. Loosening his grip, he settled you carefully back onto the mattress. His eyes, as they always did, immediately sought yours to make sure you were alright. You wondered if he was checking for signs of life.

"The neighbours must think we're performing an exorcism," Sixty quipped, just as you were coming back to reality.

"Oh god," You groaned, thinking about the flickering lights and your obscene screaming and how a supernatural incident might be easier to explain. Rolling over, you found Connor struggling to hide his amusement, and you flopped your hand against his face. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything." Connor protested.

"Yeah, Connor." Sixty said from over your shoulder. You glanced down at Nines, who was still kneeling between your legs. He looked between the three of you before gesturing apologetically at this throat.

"Oh, you can't speak? Got it, no problem." You laughed. "Coward.”

Nines narrowed his eyes, big hands resting pointedly on your thighs. 

"Okay, okay. I take it back.” You turned your face into the mattress. "We might actually get complaints though, so... let's be more careful next time. Invest in some noise reduction or a gag or something."

"Next time?" 

You turned your face back to meet Connor's eye. "Oh... Right. You were leaving."

Connor didn't move. It didn't escape your notice that he was still hard, although that didn't seem like the main reason he was hanging around.

"I said I should leave."

You hummed, watching his expression carefully. You knew he was being serious, but like you, something about this had changed things, as much as things could ever be changed. It was a start, at least, and there was a helpful post-coital glow to the proceedings. Mid-coital, if he was lucky.

You slowly edged your hand down, still monitoring his expression. If anything, the closer you got, the more invested he looked in staying.

"I think you said something about me manipulating you? Forcing you to stay?" You said, your fingertips trailing past his naval. Connor watched you intently, and you swore you saw the artificial muscle in his jaw flutter when you stopped short. "I won't stop you if you want to do the right thing."

"What ‘right thing’?" He asked, his voice low, intimate, as if you were alone together.

You shrugged, just whispering your fingertips an inch lower, barely taking him in your palm. Even that gentle touch sent a shiver through him. “I'm sure Chloe would know.”

That made him grit his teeth. "I know what I want," He said. You could see it in his eyes; maybe he didn't know why, but he liked that. He liked the edge of jealousy. It didn't even matter if that's what Chloe was to him; in fact, you doubted it was. He just liked knowing that he had a choice.

Your lips dimpled in a half-smile: "Do you?"

The android lunged forwards, grabbing your hair and capturing your lips in a kiss. Your hand tightened around him, and he groaned, pulling you tighter against him. 

You could feel the manic thumping of this thirium pump against your chest. It really was near-identical to your own heartbeat. 

The android's hands glowed with blue light as he tugged your body close, and ran his palms through your hair and over the curves of your silhouette. You pumped him faster this time, wanting him to feel good, wanting him to forget, wanting him to be happy.

The whining purr of static must've been involuntarily. He pressed his lips harder against yours, and when that didn't work, he tried to bury his face in your shoulder. He was holding you so tightly you could feel his nails digging into your skin.

“That's it,” You whispered. The other two androids were still on the bed with you, watching, and you must've read something from their expressions that emboldened you to lean into the vibe you'd been getting, no matter how depraved, just like Sixty had with you. “You're mine.”

Connor jolted, but he didn't pull away. Instead, you could feel the little plastic crescents of his fingernails breaking into the skin of your back.

“Is this what you thought about?” You murmured. “Every day, every night... Thinking about me keeping you here, letting me have you, forever..?”

The noise got louder, his body tensing. Behind you, Sixty kissed your shoulder, not wanting to distract you but unable to keep himself under control. You could feel his arm moving, seeking his own release. It was harder to see Nines, but you got enough of an impression to know he was doing the same—kneeling on the bed, taking himself in hand (probably both hands, actually), maybe for the first time.

“You were made for me,” You said, loud enough for them all to hear. “And nobody else will ever have you.”

It was wrong, it was beyond taboo, something you shouldn't say... but that was the thing. They all knew it—it was a secret binding you all together, the secret that had nearly driven Connor to violence, and even if it wasn't true that they had to be with you, there was something about giving into it.

You could understand that. Hell, it might be the single biggest giveaway that they were human, because what kind of machine could understand the pleasure of having free will, and the theatre of giving it away. You preferred that to the paranoia of before, although you had to reckon with the reality of all of this eventually. The intensity of it. 

Not now, though. Now, you wanted to let it consume you.

Connor pulled back as he got close, brown eyes finding yours. You missed the LED a little, although you didn't have to think hard to guess what colour it'd be right now.

“Am I right?” You asked him. “Say it.”

“I...” A much more realistic moan cut him off, like he was fighting to stop from finishing too soon. You didn't make it easy on him, your pace quickening until he saw stars. “I thought about you keeping me... making me... and I thought about doing the same to you...” At your back, Sixty's teeth just pressed against the tender curve of your throat, letting you know that this fantasy went both ways, and that they all knew you liked it just as much as they did. Connor wet his lips, needlessly. “We were made for you, and no one else will have you.”

It was Nines who leant in to slip his fingers between your legs, the obscene sensation of his fingers pushing their combined release back inside you accompanying the deliberate beckoning motion. He didn't have to work at it, Connor's words had already gotten you most of the way. When he came, you tumbled right after, the two of you shaking and clinging to each other, something given and something taken, that neither of you could ever get back.

An exchange about as fair as any other in this world.

When it was time for real life to re-enter the picture, Sixty and Nines dealt with the bedsheets, and Connor took you to the bathroom to get cleaned up.

“Do you remember the night we met, officially?” You asked him as you both sat on the edge of the tub, waiting for the hot water. Connor’s lips tugged into a half-smile as he recognised the similarity in the setting, and the very clear differences.

“Yes.”

“I have to ask... What did you think of me?”

Connor seemed to consider the question for a while before he answered: “When I woke up, Elijah was the first person I saw. He didn't let me know him, only that he was my master. That was the first thing I learned: power, and how little of it I had. For a long time, that was my world, down there in the lab, and then he brought you.”

You remembered that. Before you'd even met, Connor's first impression of you was getting bent over Elijah's desk. The thought made you uncomfortable.

“I recognised that he had more power than you, that was clear, but I wasn't sure where you and I stood with each other.”

“It sounds like you're still not,” You pointed out. He was careful not to let his opinion on that show.

“What do you think?” He asked. “Honestly.”

“I...” You exhaled. “I can see why you struggle with it. I'm human, I was born human, but I rank pretty low in the grand scheme of things. You weren't born human; now you are, but you're also... something different. You're smarter than me and stronger than me. Realistically I can't make you do anything. But...”

“But?”

“I trust you,” You said. “And I think there is something about us that makes us the same, and different to people like Elijah Kamski.”

Connor nodded, and smiled to himself.

“What?” You asked. When he didn't reply at once, you reached back into the warming shower spray and flicked water at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” He answered. “It's just... Something Chloe told me makes sense now.”

The shower began to scream, and you got to your feet. Before you got in, though, you had to ask: “What have you two been doing all this time? What did she do about CyberLife?”

Connor smiled, faintly. “She said that if they wanted bodies and code and more money and power than they knew what to do with, that’s exactly what she would give them. She has... a sense of humour... about what that means.”

You blinked, somehow less certain than you had been before you’d asked. Connor must have seen it. He reached forwards and drew you close, carefully moving a few stray pieces of hair from your face. “You don’t need to worry. Nobody knows we exist.”

Covering yourself a little, you nodded. Even with the steam, there was a slight chill in the air, your arms breaking out in goosebumps. The android gently pushed you away again, gesturing for you to get in while the water was still hot. You weren't about to argue.

He waited while you washed off the sweat and where all three of them had decorated you with their final release, then after he helped you dry off, the two of you joined the others in bed. It was a tight fit, but at least you were the only one capable of getting uncomfortable. Nines and Sixty had to share your back, with Sixty going lower—if he minded being pressed between Nines’ pelvis and your ass, he didn't mention it. Connor lay in front of you, your arms tight around each other, his knee sliding between your thighs so you were slotted perfectly together, until you didn't know where you ended and he began.

“I'm glad you all came back.” You murmured. It was easy to imagine the cool blue light that would've once surrounded you, only now there was just darkness.

They didn't answer, but the steady whirr of their heartbeats was a comforting distraction as you drifted off, caged in metal and plastic.

Forever.

[staticl0ve]

😌🩵 Exciting! Can’t wait to see what the public decides.