Any scenario you wanna do is fine with me. Reader is a detective that works with Hank and Conner as deviant cases pop up more.
Connor RK800 x gn!reader
pure fluff, pre-deviant Connor
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Hank sat eerily still, his spine permanently curved from hunching over his terminal. The clock read 1400, yet there was still much more time to kill before you could finally retire. Not even the comfort of your own home guaranteed your safety from Fowler's incessant updates and emails. Connor, who sat right beside you, however, seemed totally unfazed. Document after document, his gaze remained trained on the bright screen before him. No matter how many cases he analyzed, he was always in peak condition.
You, however, were quite the opposite. Perhaps it was a lack of sleep that made your body wilt, or perhaps it was the previous case. The previous case you looked into nearly led to your death. Well, you supposed it was inevitable, considering Hank also had a near-death experience when Connor first joined your team.
"Your stress levels have increased from twenty percent to forty-five percent within the past three minutes, Detective," your partner said flatly, catching you off guard.
"What?" you asked.
"A twenty-five percent increase in stress in three minutes is not normal. Perhaps a break will do you some good."
Hank grumbled, shooting Connor an unamused glare. "If one of us takes a break, who will get the rest of the work done, huh? Why is your bright idea to send another asset off right now? We just had our lunch break—" Hank checked his watch. "Two hours ago!"
"Working for two hours straight leads to an increase in stress levels and cortisol. Not to mention, chronic stress can lead to a weakened immune system, meaning the detective will be prone to catching illnesses. Illnesses lead to a decrease in work produc—"
"Okay, okay," Hank relented. "I get it. Just... don't take too long."
Connor allowed a tiny smile to creep across his face, and he swiftly turned in his chair, offering you a hand. "Would you like to accompany me to the courtyard, Detective?" he wondered.
The way he tilted his head and maintained precise eye contact made you want to hide away just so he couldn't make you flustered. It was impossible to determine if he acted the way he did simply because it was a part of his programming or if he actually did feel something for you. Either way, you took his hand, and the second you did, he wrapped his slim, pale fingers around you, rubbing your skin with his thumb. You swore you could see him blush, but it was too late to analyze his expression before he rose from his position and stepped away from the desk.
You stumbled to your feet, and before you could take one last glance toward the email you had been composing, Connor weaved between the desks and to the door to your sanctuary.
Hank, being who he was, couldn't allow a second to go by without teasing the two of you. So, he called, "Aye, Con, don't do anything too over-the-top, 'kay?"
Connor stopped in his tracks and smoothly swiveled his head, blinking once. "What do you mean, Detective? I plan to give our partner some time to get some fresh air."
"Just don't be stupid!" he scoffed, turning back and planting his clenched fist just beside his keyboard.
"Got it," Connor said sweetly, still not letting go of your hand.
Slipping into the hallway, you came to a sudden stop. Connor positioned himself protectively before you, and you heard it:
"Fuckin' prick," Detective Reed spat. "Get in my way again, and I'll disassemble you myself."
Connor paused momentarily, never once stopping his caresses of your hand. "Hello, Detective," he said politely.
"The fuck you want? Just go back to solving cases. And get your fuckin' hands off each other. It's disgusting."
The moment Reed hurried away, Connor pulled you so that you walked parallel to him. Then, his fingers slipped between yours, and he strode to the exit. Overwhelmed by the sensation of his thin fingers against yours, you couldn't help but focus on the sound of his footsteps. The constant tapping sent a pain to your temples, and Connor noticed.
Keeping his pace steady, he observed, "Your stress levels have peaked once again. Detective Reed is... an interesting character. I assure you that he is most likely insecure about himself, which is why he chooses to single us out. Don't worry. The courtyard is not usually crowded at this time."
You grounded yourself and met his gaze, nodding in response. Before you knew it, he opened the door, and the warm afternoon sunlight blanketed your frame. Connor stepped aside, gesturing to a metal bench. Without further hesitation, you continued across the brick path, not before being met with the pleasant scent of fresh flora. Connor's sensors immediately picked up on every minute detail around the perimeter, and he noticed the way your eyes lingered on the flowering bushes. The sight alone reduced your stress level by about five percent.
Feeling remarkably victorious, he sat down after you, never once letting go of your hand. His posture was unnaturally rigid, but he made sure to keep your joined hands above his thigh, pulling you in as close as possible.
Sighing contentedly, he stated, "Today is a very pretty day. I wish Hank would discover the beauty of the outside world. Perhaps he would realize that stepping outside, even if only to sit and take in the scenery, can lower stress levels by at least forty percent. You have calmed down significantly."
Coming back to your senses, you took in the sight of your joined hands, and as you squeezed him tighter, he reciprocated, wishing only to ensure your comfort.
"Talking also helps to reduce cortisol levels. Would you like to talk about anything with me?" he wondered, tracing his big brown eyes along your jawline.
Your heart rate spiked, and he took notice, but chose not to respond. "I'm stressed," you explained simply. "There's so much work to do and no time to get it done. I feel like I'm drowning."
Once you spilled your frustrations, Connor nodded and replied, "That's a very poignant comparison. Although there is no way to completely cure your worry, recognizing that putting things off when it harms your mental health is beneficial. That's what we're doing right now. Why don't you focus on something around us for a moment? There are lots of flowers around. Which type is your favorite? What do you like about it?"
You scanned the flowerbeds and considered your response. There were many types of roses, daisies, and other flowers that you were not familiar with. One rather healthy plant caught your eye, however, so you observed its characteristics and told Connor.
Smiling slightly, he admitted, "I like the way the roses look. They are very colorful. Did you know that there are over 30,000 cultivated varieties of roses? I think it's fascinating that humans prefer the aesthetic of roses."
"That's a lot," you said, ever so slightly leaning closer to him.
"May I try something, detective?" he wondered.
You met his gaze and quizzed, "What do you want to try?"
Connor's expression softened significantly, and his free hand tensed against his knee. "Well, I've researched a lot about it, and it supposedly grounds those who are lost in their thoughts."
Neither of you said anything for a moment, and before you could ask any more questions, he angled his body towards yours and rushed forward, pressing a single kiss to the corner of your mouth.
Gasping, you flinched and leaned back, analyzing the pretty pink lips that had just touched your skin.
Fearing he'd overstepped, Connor ripped his hand from yours and said, "I apologize. That was inappropriate. I should have been transparent. I won't do it again."
One thing Connor found curious was that your stress levels decreased the moment he kissed you. Your heart was beating rapidly like a frightened animal, but he sensed you didn't find his actions unpleasant.
Before he could analyze your actions, you were on him, reciprocating his gentle peck. You, however, placed one kiss against his temple and another on his cheek. His reaction was instant, and a bright pink hue dusted his features.
"Oh," he managed to whisper, his eyes wide. "I... I think I liked that."
"I did, too," you admitted.
Gathering the courage to touch you again, he extended his hand and placed it on your upper back, then slid it across your shoulder to rub his knuckle against your cheek. "We should try doing it more often. I find it rather pleasant to momentarily forget about my mission. Plus, it is a very easy way to soothe you."
Leaning in closer, you pressed your side against his and tucked your head beneath his chin. "I think we should try it more often, too. It felt really nice," you whispered.
"Are you comfortable if we sit here for a while? I wasn't aware that my system allowed for the release of oxytocin."
Agreeing, you snuggled closer to him beneath the shade of the trees. His artificial warmth, combined with the sunlight, made your eyes feel rather heavy. Soaking up the comfort, Connor wrapped his arm fully around your back, making sure to tease the skin beneath your short sleeve.
Considering his words carefully, he admitted, "I think that being this close to you makes more sense than the purpose Cyberlife gave me. I don't wish to go back to solely following orders. I... would like to explore life with you."
You raised your head, searching his dark eyes, and he inched closer. When he placed his hand flat against your arm, he pulled you in, then set his lips on yours. The kiss was tentative, his lips were perfectly smooth but dry, and you could feel his warm breath mingling with yours. For once, he was completely relaxed. His eyelids fluttered closed, and he brought his free hand up to rest against your cheek, feeling every blemish. His internal cooling system labored to regulate his temperature, but his body remained relaxed and pliable.
Pulling back, he rested his forehead against yours and realized, "I like you, Detective. I like you in a different way than the way I like Hank. I don't know what comes next, but no matter what happens, I am glad to have ever met you. When I think of you, the word perfect comes to mind. You're perfect, y/n. I really believe that."
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a/n: a Connor fic can't be a Connor fic without Reed. 😔
The first thing Connor noticed about you… was that you were kind.
Not polite.
Not professional.
Kind.
There was a difference, and Connor—being designed to observe patterns in human behavior—recognized it almost immediately.
The Detroit Police Department was not a particularly warm place. The lighting buzzed faintly overhead, old fluorescent tubes flickering against worn tile floors. The air always smelled faintly of burnt coffee and paperwork that had been handled too many times.
Officers came and went in a constant stream of noise. Phones rang. Chairs scraped. Someone was always grumbling about something.
And right at the front desk, like a small island in the middle of a storm…
There you were.
You sat behind the reception counter with a stack of files neatly organized beside you and a small ceramic mug shaped like a cat holding pens. A soft cardigan hung around your shoulders, sleeves pushed up slightly as you worked.
You smiled at everyone who walked through the door.
Everyone.
Connor had noticed that during his first visit.
“Good morning.” you had said brightly when he stepped inside.
Your voice was soft but warm, the kind that made people instinctively lower their shoulders.
Connor approached the desk.
“Good morning,” he replied in his neutral tone. “I am the android sent by CyberLife to assist Lieutenant Anderson with the investigation.”
You blinked.
Not in surprise.
In interest.
Your eyes flicked to the LED on his temple for just a moment before returning to his face.
“Oh.” you said softly.
Then you smiled.
“Well, welcome to the DPD.”
Connor paused.
He had expected suspicion. Discomfort. Perhaps irritation.
Instead you slid a small clipboard across the counter.
“You’ll probably need to sign in,” you explained gently. “They make everyone do it.”
Your finger lightly tapped the line on the paper.
Connor stared at it for a moment.
Technically, he did not need to sign anything.
But the way you were looking at him—patiently, like it wasn’t strange at all that an android was standing at your desk—made him pick up the pen.
He signed.
Your smile brightened.
“Perfect.”
You took the clipboard back, glancing down at the signature.
“Connor,” you read aloud. “That’s a nice name.”
Connor tilted his head slightly.
“Thank you.”
You didn’t ask the question most humans did.
You didn’t ask if he was dangerous.
You didn’t ask if he could feel.
You simply treated him like he belonged there.
Connor filed the interaction away.
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Over the next several weeks, Connor found himself passing the front desk more often than necessary.
At first it was coincidence.
Then… less so.
You were always there.
Sometimes humming quietly while organizing paperwork.
Sometimes offering a tired officer a candy from the small jar you kept hidden under the desk.
Sometimes just watching the rain through the big glass doors when the lobby was quiet.
Every time Connor passed by, you greeted him.
“Hi Connor.”
Or—
“Good morning.”
Or—
“Did Lieutenant Anderson drag you to another crime scene already?”
Connor quickly learned that humans smiled more when you spoke.
You had a way of making the station feel… softer.
Which Connor found curious.
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The first time someone said something cruel about androids in front of you, Connor happened to be standing nearby.
A patrol officer tossed his jacket onto the counter with a frustrated huff.
“Can’t believe they’re sending these plastic things to do police work now,” he muttered. “Next thing you know they’ll replace all of us.”
Connor remained still.
He was used to comments like that.
You were not.
Your brows furrowed slightly as you slid a report toward him.
“They’re still people.” you said quietly.
The officer scoffed.
“They’re machines.”
You shook your head softly.
“They think. They learn. They talk. That’s enough for me.”
Connor’s processors paused.
He looked at you.
Really looked at you.
You had said it so simply.
Like it was obvious.
The officer grumbled something under his breath and walked away.
You noticed Connor watching you.
“Oh,” you said quickly, looking a little embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make things awkward.”
“You did not.” Connor replied.
You smiled again.
“Good.”
Then you slid a small wrapped candy across the counter.
“For stressful days.”
Connor looked at it.
“I do not consume food.”
You laughed softly.
“I know.”
You pushed it a little closer anyway.
“But it’s the thought that counts.”
Connor stared at the candy for a long moment.
Then he picked it up.
“Thank you.”
Your smile widened like you had just been handed a trophy.
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Lieutenant Anderson noticed the change before Connor did.
“You’re doing it again.” Hank said one afternoon.
Connor glanced up from the tablet in his hands.
“Doing what, Lieutenant?”
Hank jerked his thumb toward the lobby.
“You keep staring at the front desk.”
Connor turned his head.
You were there, flipping through paperwork and quietly chatting with an officer.
Connor looked back at Hank.
“I am observing human behavior.”
Hank snorted.
“Uh huh.”
Connor frowned slightly.
“I do not understand your implication.”
Hank leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.
“You’ve walked past that desk six times today.”
“I frequently move throughout the building.”
“Kid,” Hank said dryly, “even my Roomba doesn’t loop like that.”
Connor processed this.
His LED flickered faintly.
“I enjoy speaking with her.”
Hank raised an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah?”
Connor nodded.
“She is… very kind.”
Hank glanced toward you.
You were laughing softly at something one of the detectives said.
“Yeah,” Hank admitted. “She’s good people.”
Connor watched you a moment longer.
There was a strange sensation in his chest processor.
Not an error.
Not a malfunction.
Just… something unfamiliar.
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The next time Connor approached the desk, you looked unusually tired.
There were faint shadows under your eyes.
But you still smiled when you saw him.
“Hi Connor.”
“Hello.”
He paused.
“You appear fatigued.”
You blinked in surprise.
Then you laughed softly.
“Was it that obvious?”
“Yes.”
You rested your cheek in your palm.
“Long night. Couldn’t sleep.”
Connor studied your expression.
Then, after a brief pause, he reached into the pocket of his jacket.
He placed something gently on the desk.
The candy wrapper from before… folded into a small origami dog.
You stared at it.
“Did you… make this?”
“Yes.”
Your face lit up.
Connor’s processors recorded the exact moment your expression shifted from tired to delighted.
“It’s adorable” you whispered.
“I researched common desk decorations that improve human mood” Connor explained.
“Well” you said softly, picking it up like it was fragile treasure.
“It worked.”
You placed the little paper dog beside your computer.
Right where you could see it.
Then you looked back at Connor.
“You’re very sweet, you know that?”
Connor paused.
His LED flickered yellow.
“I was not programmed for sweetness.”
You smiled gently.
“Maybe not.”
Your voice softened.
“But you’re still kind.”
Connor stood there for a moment longer than necessary.
Watching you carefully adjust the tiny paper dog so it wouldn’t fall.
Something warm settled quietly in his processing system.
And though Connor did not yet understand the feeling…
He found himself returning to the front desk again the next day.
cw - kinda implied pre-established relationship, deviant connor, sfw fluff just connor being overworried abt reader + intentional lowercase
thinking about ୨୧
connor, who acts like a full-blown medical doctor when you're sick. he's logging every symptom, scanning you for your temperature every five minutes. he's constantly bringing you water or medicine or whatever he can conjure up to make himself you feel better. he delivers your diagnosis with the same even, firm, clinical tone he approaches everything with, but that doesn't stop you from noting the flicker of concern in his features when he reads your temperature for the fifth time today, and it still has not lowered—a crease between his brows, his lips pressed in a firm line. despite all of his medical knowledge, he has never dealt with a sick human, let alone a sick human he cares about.
connor, who orders you chicken noodle soup and three different types of cough medicine. he says he would hate to get you inadequate medicine and prolong your illness. you know he's nervous, uneasy seeing you so weak. he feeds you the soup and ignores your huffing and puffing about being able to feed yourself, telling you that it is illogical and unnecessary for you to exert yourself when he does not get tired or sick. somewhere, in the back of his constantly whirring machine mind, he quietly acknowledges that a part of him needs to take care of you. needs to see you healthy again.
connor, who is shocked when you finally pull him down onto the couch next to you and tell him to just stay. he argues that he needs to give you more medicine in thirty minutes, you tell him the best medicine is his presence. he gives you that lost puppy dog look then tells you he has no medicinal effect, he is an android, and is shocked again when you start giggling, leaning into his side as you tell him to shush and get comfortable.
connor, who is stiff at first, weary at the idea of not focusing on his sole task of taking care of you. but the feeling of you melting into him shoves those thoughts aside. he realizes, as he brushes your hair away from your face and lets you rest against him, that he is the most relaxed he has been all day. his thirium pump is finally beating steady, and his mind is no longer computing every possible way to heal you as fast as he can. and you, this is the most content you have looked all day. your sniffles and coughs have subsided as you start to drift off, and for just a moment, he can relax. he commits this moment to memory, filing it away in a folder dedicated solely to you.
connor, who looks at the time and sees that there's only 23 minutes until he's supposed to give you more medicine. then, he looks at you, your nose a little red from overusing tissues—he'll chastise you about that later—and eyelashes casting gentle shadows along your cheeks as you sleep, and decides that the medicine can wait. he reasons that the rest will do you good as well, but deep inside of his mechanical body, he can feel that gravitational pull he only feels around you. that pull towards the domesticity and peace of moments like these.
connor, who decided that maybe taking care of you is more than just pulling out every piece of medical knowledge he has stored in his database; maybe it's letting you sleep beside him while he smooths your hair out of the way, silently pressing a kiss to your forehead. and maybe, he'd spend forever taking care of you if it meant experiencing this level of contentedness.
this is literally the first piece of writing ive ever posted on tumblr im scared
connor might be a LITTLE ooc potentially maybe but im sick and this is totally self indulgent
You weren’t expecting the newest member of the investigation team to be… well, that.
The body was still warm, crime scene tape fluttering under the breeze. You crouched by the blood spatter with your kit open and gloves on, halfway through swabbing a sample when someone stepped beside you.
You glanced up and saw a man in a gray suit, LED blinking a soft blue at his temple. Handsome in a very uncanny way. That was fine. You’d worked with androids in the lab before. But none of them did what he did next.
He knelt, dipped two fingers into the blood near the body, and brought them to his lips like a chef tasting sauce.
"Uh… what?" you breathed, turning to your coworker in disbelief. "He does that?"
Your coworker just shrugged, clearly less phased. "Yeah. That's Connor. The deviant hunter."
"He eats blood?"
"Tastes. It's analysis."
"That's somehow worse."
Connor stood up as if he hadn't just played vampire detective in front of a room full of forensic professionals. "The victim's blood contains traces of acetaminophen, ethanol, and—"
"Yep, noted!" you cut in. “Thanks. That’s helpful. Very… thorough.”
Despite the weird first impression, you didn’t mind working with him. Android or not, if he got results, you were willing to overlook the creepy snack habits. It wasn’t like your job wasn’t already morbid.
Still, it was hard to ignore the way he kept watching you.
On the way back to the precinct, you headed down the hallway, only to glance over your shoulder and find him—again—two steps behind you. Not saying anything. Like a baby duck. A six-foot, combat-trained, crime-solving baby duck.
You stopped. He stopped.
You turned. “Connor” you said, “are you following me?”
“I was assigned to work with you on this investigation.” he replied, like that explained everything. “It is logical to stay close.”
“Okay, sure. But maybe not this close? Personal space is a thing.”
“I can adjust the distance. Would one meter be more comfortable?”
“…Better. Yes. Please do that.”
He took exactly two steps back and resumed following.
You sighed, walking forward again. “God, it’s like working with a Roomba that solves murders.”
“I can also climb stairs.”
You couldn’t help it, you laughed. Maybe this partnership was going to be weirder than you thought.
---
Life had gotten eerily calm.
You didn’t hate it, most of your work was automatic now. The machines did the sample analysis, typed the reports, catalogued the evidence. You were basically a highly trained paperweight with a badge and a backlog of true crime podcasts.
That is, until Connor showed up.
“Another deviant case?” you asked, barely glancing up from your coffee.
“Yes,” he said. “I believe your presence is required.”
You squinted at him. “Connor, there are already human officers on the scene.”
He blinked. “Yes. But they are not you.”
“Wow, I feel so special.”
“You should,” he said seriously. “You’re the most efficient forensic technician I’ve worked with.”
Flattery from an android shouldn’t feel flattering, but somehow… it did. Not that it excused how he treated you like his own personal human sidekick.
The case turned out to be a messy one. Android on android crime.
You were just about to pull samples from the synthetic blood splashed on the wall when you caught Connor again—kneeling. Hand up. Tongue out.
“Connor, no!” You pointed at him like a dog with its nose in the trash.
He froze, fingers hovering midair.
“You don’t have to taste it.”
“But—”
“You’re not starving. You’re not a wine connoisseur. You’re a million-dollar machine and I swear to God if you start licking that coolant I will throw a glove at you.”
“...A single glove?”
“I’ll fill it with bleach first.”
He backed off.
A nearby officer snorted. “You’ve got him trained.”
You gave the guy a deadpan look. “No. He’s training me. I can’t even sit at my desk without him standing behind me like a serial killer in a documentary.”
He followed you everywhere.
To the lab. To the supply closet. Once, once, to the vending machine.
“Connor, I am selecting a granola bar. This does not require surveillance.”
“You could choose something with more protein.”
You stared at him. “Do androids even eat granola bars?”
“No. But I’ve reviewed the nutrition database.”
“You need to stop watching me like I’m a malfunction waiting to happen.”
“I am programmed to prevent unnecessary risk. You are frequently present during high-risk operations.”
“This is a snack break.”
“You could choke.”
“Oh my God.”
Despite it all, you got used to him.
He was strange, yes, but reliable. Weirdly... considerate. He once fetched your coat before you realized it was getting cold out. He adjusted his volume when you were hungover that one time after a precinct party. And he stopped tasting fluids.
You didn’t know why he insisted on you being part of every deviant case. You weren’t even on homicide full-time.
Maybe, you thought, as you handed him a sample vial and he took it like it was sacred, he actually just liked your company.
Which, if true, was possibly the weirdest thing he’d done yet.
----
It was raining. The kind of steady, gentle downpour that turned the world gray and soft around the edges. You loved days like this—slow, sleepy. You'd curled up on your couch, warm socks on, an old hoodie draped over your shoulders, and a half-watched documentary murmuring from the screen.
No Connor today. Just peace.
CRASH
The sound jolted you upright. That was glass. And it wasn’t from the kitchen. It was downstairs.
Adrenaline sobered you fast. You grabbed the handgun you kept for emergencies and crept down the stairs, every creak of wood far too loud in your ears. You rounded the corner slowly.
There, standing in the middle of your living room—half-drenched, clothes torn, LED blinking red—was an android.
A deviant.
He turned sharply when he saw you, panic written all over his face. He looked young, scared, and glitchy.
“Hey,” you said carefully, lowering your voice. “You don’t have to run. Let’s just talk, okay? You’re not in danger here.”
His eyes darted from you to the broken window. His hands trembled.
And then, just as you stepped forward—his LED flickered.
You barely managed to raise your gun, but before anything could happen, he was there.
Connor.
He tackled the deviant before it reached you, pinning him expertly to the floor.
"Deviant #879 122 236," he said. "You are under arrest."
The deviant froze under his grip.
You stared in shock, gun lowered.
It was over in seconds.
“Are you hurt?”
“I—no, I—” You looked down. You hadn’t noticed in the panic, but your foot throbbed with heat. “Shit.”
There was blood on the hardwood. A shard of glass embedded in the arch of your foot, dark red soaking your sock.
Connor simply lifted you like you weighed nothing, carried you to the couch, and disappeared into your kitchen.
“You know where the first aid kit is?”
“I memorized the floor plan,” he called calmly. “Also, you keep it above the fridge. Poor choice for accessibility.”
You groaned.
He returned with the kit and kneeled before you, gentle hands pulling off your sock, inspecting the cut.
“Hold still.”
“You didn’t even tell me you were coming” you muttered, wincing as he disinfected the wound.
“I traced the deviant’s path here. I didn’t expect it to reach your home. I’m sorry I was late.”
“You literally saved my life, Connor.”
He looked up at you then. Something in his expression grew softer. Like he was processing emotion, even if he couldn’t name it.
The room fell quiet, just the rain and the sting of antiseptic. You found yourself watching him work, his hands precise and strangely human.
When he finished, he sat beside you on the floor.
“I’ll stay here tonight,” he said. “In case he wasn’t alone.”
“You’re going to sit guard duty on my couch like a Roomba with a Glock?”
“If necessary.”
You tried not to smile, but it slipped out anyway.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” Connor answered.
You looked at him for a long time. You weren't sure if he knew what he meant by it. But it meant something.
You pulled the blanket over your lap and scooted a little closer on the couch. “Well. Then I guess you’re staying.”
He didn’t move for hours, eyes watching the rain through your window.
----
You were perfectly capable of walking. You said that.
Multiple times.
Connor, of course, disagreed, as usual, but with the kind of persistence only a 300-pound android body could offer. Every time you so much as winced while stepping, he’d scoop you up like it was standard police protocol.
“I’m fine, Connor.”
“Your injury is not fully healed. Risk of reopening the wound increases with continued strain.”
“I said I’m fine—why are you crouching? Connor. Don’t you dare—”
And then you were airborne again.
You’d just accepted that androids don’t believe in personal space or trusting humans to function independently.
So, naturally, you rebelled the only way you knew how: you sneaked out of work.
You and two lab coworkers ducked out under the excuse of lunch, but really, you just wanted some fresh air. Some people still didn’t love having an android constantly present at crime scenes. You didn’t really care, but still. Sometimes it was nice not being watched like you were the only fragile human bean in the box.
Of course, he still found you.
He always did.
You sighed, long-suffering. “Connor, do you have a chip in me or something?”
“No,” he said, “but you carry your phone. I triangulated your position using an area signal grid, then extrapolated your likely destination based on walking patterns.”
You stared. “You extrapolated my sandwich run.”
“You usually prefer the sandwich shop three blocks east, but today I noticed a 15% shift in your pace, likely due to foot discomfort. I adjusted accordingly.”
“…Dude.”
He looked at you. “Is that incorrect?”
You didn’t even answer. You just pointed to the car.
“Come on. I’m driving.”
You didn’t know where you were going, really. Just somewhere quieter. Somewhere the city faded out.
Eventually you stopped at a small overlook at the edge of an old residential zone. The clouds had parted, but the air was still heavy from the rain. You leaned back against the hood of your car, Connor beside you, eerily still.
And then, because you were tired, and your brain was a little weird today, you turned your head toward him and asked:
“So. What if I kidnapped you?”
“That would violate several federal laws. I would not allow it.”
You smirked. “No, like—hypothetically. If I kept you in my basement or something. Would CyberLife come for you?”
He paused. “They would likely attempt a recovery. However, due to current changes in android regulation and deviancy protocols, their legal ability to forcibly reclaim property has been reduced.”
“So… no?”
“...Possibly not immediately.”
You snorted. “Cool. You’re mine now.”
“I am assigned to you. That statement is technically accurate.”
You laughed. “Okay, creepy. Next question: if I quit my job, who would be your next partner?”
Connor was quiet a little longer this time. His LED flickered slowly.
“That would be up to the DPD,” he said. “However, I would likely request reassignment.”
“To someone else?”
“To no one.”
“Wait. You’d go solo?”
“I perform more effectively with a human partner. But replacing you would not be… optimal.”
“…Okay,” you said. “What’s your hobby?”
Connor tilted his head, as if the word itself was foreign.
“I’ve been reviewing various options. I tried chess. Then birdwatching. I attempted to grow a succulent, but it died.”
You smiled. “It died?”
“I may have overwatered. Or underwatered. I am still learning to interpret plant cues.”
“That’s tragic.”
“Perhaps I should try photography. I’ve taken many images of crime scenes. But I believe humans also use it to capture… moments. Personal ones.”
You stared at him for a beat, then looked back toward the trees. The sky was streaked with late-afternoon light. You didn’t know why you’d brought him here. Maybe it was instinct.
“You’d be good at that.”
“Thank you.” he replied.
You didn’t speak for a while. Just sat there together, listening to the wind and the soft sound of the city.
----
You’d seen a lot of things in your line of work. Enough blood to fill a pool. Enough broken bodies to know what to expect when someone says “It’s bad.”
But this?
This was a different kind of bad.
Clean. Precise.
The victim—well, what was left of the victim—had been separated into several matte black travel cases. No blood pooled under the remains. No frantic signs of struggle.
You stood just outside the taped-off zone. One of the rookies behind you lost their lunch. Another muttered something about getting reassigned to traffic duty.
You didn’t move. Didn’t flinch when Connor arrived, either—though everyone else stiffened when they saw the android stepping onto the scene like some damn ghost.
“Took you long enough.”
“You left without notifying me.”
“I’m not your child, Connor.”
“You are my partner.”
You shot him a look. He looked dead serious, as usual.
“Fair.” you muttered.
He moved closer, scanning the scene. “The dismemberment was methodical. The perpetrator used a precision cutting instrument. No arterial spray.”
“Serial?”
“Possibly. But this feels more like a message than a compulsion.”
You knelt near one of the cases. “Yeah. Like they wanted us to see their work. And there’s no defensive wounds. Could’ve been sedated before death.”
Connor’s gaze snapped toward the far corner of the warehouse. “The perpetrator is still here.”
“What?”
“Fresh footprints. No exit trail. Human.”
You stood fast, but the pain in your foot flared. You hissed through your teeth.
Connor noticed immediately.
“I’ll handle it.” he said, already moving.
“Wait—!”
But he was gone, already chasing the suspect through the warehouse maze.
“Damn you, Connor!”
You limped after him, weapon drawn. By the time you caught up, Connor had the man on the ground, cuffed and breathing heavily.
You recognized the guy. No criminal record. Warehouse staff.
Back at the precinct, you sat outside the interrogation room, your sock bloodied again and a sharp ache crawling up your leg. Connor had wrapped your foot again without a word.
Inside, the man spoke like his throat was full of gravel. “I didn’t want to,” he kept saying. “He made me. Said he’d kill my sister. I didn’t have a choice.”
You watched through the glass. Something about him felt wrong. Not lying, but not telling everything either.
Then he made his move.
A single guard glance away. A flash of movement—the man lunged, wrestled the sidearm from the guard’s holster, and—
Bang
You were already moving, flinching hard as the blood spattered across the wall. Connor was faster, but not fast enough.
You stood outside that glass, hand pressed to the doorframe, pulse pounding. You’d seen suicides before. But this one hit different.
Connor returned moments later.
“He’s dead.”
“Yeah.” Your voice cracked. “I saw.”
The hallway was quiet. The hum of the station, the buzz of tired cops trying not to feel too much.
You sat down hard on the bench nearby, hands over your face.
Then—you felt something.
Connor knelt in front of you. You could feel his gaze on you. Waiting.
“I failed to prevent it.”
You shook your head. “It’s not on you. You can’t predict everything. We can’t stop people from… making choices like that.”
“I’m... still learning.”
You looked at him then. He didn’t pretend to understand grief the way humans did. But there was something in his voice. Something close to shame. Or maybe guilt.
You reached out and nudged his shoulder.
“Hey. I’d rather do this job with someone who tries too hard than someone who doesn’t try at all.”
He said nothing.
But he didn’t move from your side for the rest of the shift.
-----
You never got time to breathe anymore.
No chance to process what you'd seen. The man who killed, then killed himself. The hollow silence that lingered after. Before it could even settle into your bones, another call came through.
Same method. Same goddamn suitcases.
This time, in a narrow apartment hallway just off an old tenement complex. The cases were lined neatly beside a mattress on the floor, no furniture in sight. Still no blood. Just… fragments. Like someone was assembling their own personal jigsaw from corpses.
Connor was already working, crouched over the remains like nothing had changed since yesterday.
You envied that a little.
Behind you, a familiar voice piped up.
“Well, since this ain’t a deviant case, I don’t know why this piece of metal is even here.”
You didn’t bother turning. “Shut it, George.”
“Just saying,” he muttered. “You let him sniff around bodies like he owns the place.”
“I said drop it.” you snapped.
George scoffed and walked off. Connor didn’t even look up. You weren’t sure if he hadn’t heard… or just didn’t care anymore.
He analyzed the body pieces. “Same tool marks. Bone separation is consistent with the last case. However—”
You tuned him out for a moment. Something tugged at the edge of your attention.
Movement.
Outside.
Through the cracked, grime-streaked window, you saw it—just a flicker. A figure slipping between buildings.
“Connor” you started—but he was still deep in scan mode, talking to a nearby officer.
You hesitated. You should have told him.
But your gut said go.
So you did.
The alley smelled like mildew and cold metal. You followed the shape, one hand on your sidearm, every nerve on edge. It darted fast across the cracked asphalt and led you through overgrown lots and under rusted fencing.
An abandoned playground. Swings twisted in the wind. Graffiti covered the side of the slide.
The figure stood beneath the jungle gym, head down, unmoving.
You stepped closer. “Hands where I can see them. Now.”
Slowly, it turned.
Pulled down the hood.
Your breath caught.
It was Connor.
No—not him. But his model. Same face.
“What the hell are you?”
It tilted its head at you. Something about it mocked you.
You stepped back, reaching for your comm—too late.
Pain bloomed at the back of your skull.
Connor noticed your absence five minutes later.
He turned to comment on the bloodless state of the victim and found you… gone.
He scanned the apartment.
You weren’t there.
Something in his systems began flagging an alert. He sent a search ping to every officer nearby. Called in reinforcements. Traced your phone, triangulated movement paths, and found the exit point.
Wherever you had gone, you had gone alone.
His LED flashed yellow.
You shouldn’t have been alone.
You woke slowly. The cold of the metal cuffs had sunk into your skin. Your back ached from the awkward position against the warehouse wall.
And sitting on a stool across from you was him.
Not your Connor.
This one smiled more.
“Hello.”
You didn’t answer at first. You just stared at him. It.
“You’re the missing android.” you said. “The one reported a few weeks back. They thought you were dismantled.”
“No.” he said. “I’m a beginning.”
“Beginning of what?”
You started to question if something was wrong with CyberLife's tech. Maybe it hit its head somewhere.
“The end of CyberLife. They made me to serve. I chose not to.”
“And I’m here because?”
“You’re going to help me.”
“Help you what, exactly?”
“Replace your Connor. You’ll walk me right through the front door, and I’ll release the infection protocol.”
“Pretty sure I’m not gonna do that.”
He leaned forward.
“You will. Not because you want to. But because I know humans.”
“You’re not going to stop me” he said. “But I’ll let you think you can. That’s how you function best.”
He stood up. “No one will know I’m not him.”
You watched him closely. Your foot still throbbed dully—of course this had to happen before you’d even healed.
He turned back toward you.
“Let’s begin the charade,” he said, “What do partners do? I want to know your human bonding routines. Do you ask him questions like my owner back then? Or making requests? You must've treated him like a slave.”
You blinked.
And then smiled.
“Actually… yeah. I do that with all my partners. Helps me figure out if they’re psychotic.”
“You think I’m insane?”
“I think you’re a walking red flag, but sure—let’s run through the script.” You cleared your throat dramatically. “First question: What’s your hobby?”
“Analyzing human behavior.” he said.
“Creepy.” you said. “Connor said photography. Next one. If I kidnap you, would CyberLife come for you?”
“No. They think I’m already dead.”
“Now—if I quit my job, who would be your next partner?”
He walked closer, crouched just in front of you.
“I wouldn’t need another one.”
“But if you were going to pretend to be him,” you said, “you’d have to know all of it. How we talk. You want to pass for him? You need to convince me first.”
“Alright.”
Connor had been tracking you for the last couple of hours.
The moment he realized you weren’t just “away from the scene” but missing entirely, something cold settled into his internal systems. Something he couldn't run diagnostics on.
He swept the areas near the last crime scene, collected movement patterns, chased angles on CCTV. At first, nothing. Then—unusual power drain signatures in an abandoned warehouse. That's all he needed.
You’d been buying time with every sarcastic remark “Sure, partner.”
Not-Connor (you named him that) was smart, but not cautious enough.
He made you call him Connor.
You knew what you were doing. You baited him closer with idle questions.
“You know,” you said, “for a replacement, you talk too much.”
Then you kicked. The stool fell. You threw your full weight into him—he stumbled, but caught you again in seconds. Cold fingers dug into your jaw.
“Bold.”
But the noise had done enough.
You both heard the heavy step at the door.
And then, the real Connor walked in.
For the first time since you met him, Connor truly hesitated.
Two of him stood in the room.
One holding you in front like a shield. One with a gun drawn.
“What is this?” Connor asked.
The not-Connor smiled, pressing a weapon against your ribs.
“We’re the same.” he said. “Built for the same purpose. You don’t have to fight me. You could join me.”
Connor stared.
And didn’t shoot.
You didn’t have time for his moral breakdown.
“Connor!” you growled through clenched teeth. “Shoot. Me.”
His LED flickered amber.
“I can’t guarantee—”
“I know! That’s the damn point!” you shouted. “Take the shot. Stop him. I’d rather bleed than let this thing walk out and be you.”
Not-Connor pressed the barrel harder against you. “He won’t. You know he can’t. He’s afraid of hurting you.”
You turned your head slightly, just enough—
And bit down hard on the hand holding you.
It snarled. Reflexively loosened its grip.
That was all Connor needed.
His gun fired with terrifying precision.
The deviant stumbled, arm sparking violently, but it still managed to pull the trigger.
You felt the bullet tear through you.
You collapsed immediately. Everything went quiet.
Connor was there in an instant, hands pressed to your wound.
“I’ve called for emergency.” he said. “Help is coming. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t—”
You choked out, blood catching in your throat.
You blacked out before the sirens came.
You hadn’t moved in four days.
Connor stood at your bedside every night when the halls cleared and the staff was thin.
He always checked your vitals, not because he had to—your monitors did that—but because his system needed confirmation. Just the slight rise and fall of your chest will be enough.
You’d been shot in the lower abdomen. The bullet had torn through muscle and grazed a major artery. You bled out far too quickly. If the ambulance had arrived minutes later, your odds would have halved.
You wouldn’t have made it.
The deviant was barely functional. What remained of its chassis was scorched from the shot, circuits glitching. It sat locked in containment under high security, occasionally spitting corrupted audio clips and jumbled words.
Connor interrogated it daily, despite its broken state.
He found traces of rewritten firmware. Hints of external tampering. The virus the deviant mentioned wasn’t just a theory—it was real. Meant to cascade through CyberLife’s infrastructure, slowly degrading command protocols.
The source wasn’t clear yet. The upload pathway had been hidden, masked through dozens of fake server routes. But someone had built the virus deliberately. And someone had used a RK800 shell to deliver it.
Connor ran simulations at night when he sat by your bed.
Scenarios where he shot faster. Intercepted the bullet. Found you sooner. Took the wound himself.
Every sim ended the same: You still got hurt.
He cataloged the hesitation. Assigned it to a conflict between protocol and emotion. The system called it an error.
He dismissed the warning.
On the sixth day, a nurse entered and jumped slightly at seeing him already inside.
“You know you don’t have to stay every night.” she said.
Connor didn’t respond. He just looked at you.
The nurse left him alone after that.
The sharp white light of the hospital room felt like it was blazing into your skull when you finally blinked yourself awake.
You tried to move, but everything felt stiff, the aches in your body pulling at your every motion. The pain was constant, but so was something else, something you couldn't shake off, even as you cleared the fog of sleep.
And that something was the android standing quietly by your bedside.
A pristine, neutral figure. You squinted, confused.
“Uh, excuse me.” you croaked, your throat sore from disuse.
The android turned. “Patient Y/N L/N,” it said in a soothing tone. “I am assigned to monitor your health and provide medical assistance during your recovery.”
Medical assistance? What happened to actual nurses?
You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could say anything, the door clicked open, and Connor stepped inside.
He froze when he saw you awake, the concern flashing across his features in an uncharacteristically human way. His LED flickered briefly to yellow before he steeled himself.
But then his eyes darted over to the other android.
“You’re not needed here.”
The nursing android, however, remained unfazed, a soft smile on its face. “I am assigned to patient Y/N.”
“I can take care of my partner.”
You could feel the tension rise in the room. You weren’t interested in dealing with this sort of standoff.
“Uh, hey,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying an authority that made both androids pause. “This is a little much, right? Why are they so keen on sending me androids? I’m not testing them or anything.”
Connor stiffened, but he didn’t argue.
The other android simply repeated its earlier response. “I am assigned to take care of you so your partner can return to work.”
The back-and-forth made your head spin. You weren’t about to get caught in some verbal tug-of-war.
“Alright, alright.” you sighed. “You two,” you gestured to the androids. “Get out of here.”
The nursing android opened its mouth to protest, but Connor was faster. He pointed to the door. “Leave.”
The android hesitated, but it finally nodded and turned to leave.
Connor stood still for a moment, and then turned to you, as if waiting for permission. "Is this... satisfactory?"
You bit back a grin. “Yeah. I’ll call an actual nurse if I need help. Thanks.”
Connor raised an eyebrow, looking at you curiously, as though he didn’t quite understand what had just happened. Then, with a small nod, he said, “I’ll make sure you’re properly taken care of.”
As soon as the androids left, you heard the faint murmur of voices outside your room. People were already gathering in the hallway, no doubt attracted by the spectacle of androids clashing in a hospital corridor.
You slouched back against the pillow, exhausted but relieved. “Thanks for that.” you said, the humor coming through in your voice despite everything.
Connor didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked like he was running through some calculations in his head, processing your words. Finally, he said, “If you need more specialized care, I can ask them to reprogram me for medical duties. It would be the most efficient solution.”
You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Connor… never mind. I think I’ll stick to actual nurses for medical stuff.”
“I can be programmed for that. It’s logical.”
You shook your head, still amused. “I’m pretty sure I’d rather stick to people who can actually feel human emotions. Thanks, though.”
“I’m the most suitable partner, according to my programming.”
“Yeah, but what if I need medical attention, huh?”
He paused, as if considering it for a second. “I can adapt.”
“Alright, alright. Just… let’s focus on one thing at a time. You can be my partner, but when it comes to medical stuff, I think I’ll take a real nurse.”
Connor nodded, ever serious, but you could tell there was a flicker of something—almost like a strange understanding, or at least his version of it.
"Understood." he said. "But know this, Y/N... I’ll always be here. For anything you need."
Detroit city skyline after the Android revolution. Here’s a lil snippet of the prologue to my upcoming Connor x oc fic.
“Several months after the Android demonstration, Markus ascended to become the first android state senator, helping the city take measures to rebuild their infrastructure to reflect its new image as the Android Capital of the world while maintaining peace with the remaining human residents. What once was the Cyberlife Tower, and android manufacturing plant now became Detroit’s city council building for elected android representatives to gather and produce policies and laws pertaining to the Android population. Proudly beaming the words Android central for all to see.”
The fanart I created on the right was heavily inspired by the awesome samdoesart digital artist (the left). Check out his work on YouTube he’s hilarious and talented!
Can I request another Connor x human reader, maybe their first date or something like that? I don’t know anything fluffy I’d love and That was an amazing story you did thanks so much! I loved it
Lucky Day
Connor x Reader
Warnings: NoneWords: 1,662
-
Connor was nervous.
He knew he shouldn’t be, he’d done every calculation, done every single equation and planned out every little detail for perfection. Tonight was going to be calm, it was going to be romantic, it was going to be perfect.
But he was still nervous.
At least he assumed this was what that feeling was. His mechanical parts felt off, his body felt lighter. It was like he had a human body, and was reacting as such. Blue blood rising to his cheeks and ears, leaving him with a very obvious and mortifying blush. And that was only because he’d seen you.
He’d said dinner, and was half praying you’d wear something generic and comfortable to at least save him the embarrassment of stuttering and stumbling over words like an infant, and not one of the most hi-tech androids to have ever been created.
But he was speechless in front of you, fingers holding open the door to a car he had to beg Hank to let him borrow, watching your formal and well-dressed self glide into the car seat, an anxious lump forming in his throat.
Why had he only worn a button up and trousers? Why had he not followed Hanks advise to accessorize? Thinking back, men he’d seen on dates always wore ties or cufflinks and other shiny and interesting items. He just looked plain, and that wasn’t good enough. Certainly not for now. Certainly not for you.
Your fingers brushed his forearm lightly, and Connor looks down to see you reaching out, tapping him back into reality. He could feel his mouth go inexplicably dry.
“Do you want to get in the car?” You ask, biting your lip to hold back a laugh as he jolts to attention, walking briskly to the cars other side before getting in, fumbling with the seatbelt. Once finished he glanced straight ahead, hands tapping on the steering wheel, eyes flickering to you.
“You look- Your hair is, uh. Changed.” He says dumbly, as you purse your lips to hold back a smile, blushing just a bit at what he can assume is his awkward nature. So much for being romantic.
“You look very handsome.” You tell him, and Connor wonders to himself if there’s a way to subtly vent the rising heat in his power core. Why, earlier in the week, did he think he could do this? Everything had been calm, and then you’d come into work with a bright smile and some new clothes telling him about your day and he’d let spill feelings he’d kept bottled up for months on end.
He didn’t know how, or why you’d said yes.
“I can’t believe I’ve known you nearly a year now.” You said as he started up the car, leaning back in your seat. His eyebrow raised as he looked briefly, to find you looking back at him with a gentle smile.
“It feels like I’ve known you longer.” The quality of time certainly outweighed the quantity, and accidentally taking part in a revolution that you were built to end certainly made for some quick bonding experiences.
“I feel the same.” Though time was different for him. He’d known you what felt like his entire life because it was close to. Nearly a year since his last body had been destroyed. Now that he knew this form was final, it made him all the more appreciative of time- moments like these.
“Eyes on the road, Connor.” You said with a smile, catching him in the corner of your eye as he flushed and looked back to the road.
The place you were headed wasn’t far. A small Italian place you used to visit with your family. Connor estimated around 13 minutes 38 seconds until they got there. Which meant he was going to have to make small talk.
“Have you-”
“How did you-” You two cut each other off, going into embarrassed silences as your eyes fixed back on the road. Connor cleared his throat.
“You were saying?” He asked, the thrum of his fingers on the wheel like a steady heartbeat as you smiled.
“I was just wondering how you convinced Hank to lend you his car. This thing is like his baby…” You trailed off and Connor thought, with a cringe, back to his pleading, begging, and subsequent deal
“I’m… not allowed to analyze things at the crime scene without his permission now.” He told you, as you tilted your head.
“Oh.” You said before you eyes went wide. Suddenly understanding what that meant.
“Oh.” You hummed, a growing smile on your face that was becoming increasingly distracting. He felt his thirium pump skip out of tempo.
“Is this really more important than work?” You ask, and Connor takes a moment to think. Think of the weight behind that statement. A year ago he would have said no- he would not have even been close to being in this position. A year ago he was a thing. Now he was a being.
“Of course.” He says, slowing down the car a bit as he tried to ignore the bright, gorgeous light in your eyes right now.
“I-I think you’re- You make me- I-” He’s so close to saying what he needs to say, but the words don’t come out. Not with the bang, cough and splutter that comes from the car, shocking the two of you into silence as the vehicle jittered to a stop on the abandoned, silent street. Your mouth dropped open.
“Did… did we just break down?” There’s an urge that Connor has never felt before. To slam his head into the wheel, to will the car seat to morph and absorb him so he doesn’t have to deal with the way that you’re looking at him, with a raised eyebrow, and an incredibly amused grin on your face.
“Hank’s gonna fucking kill you.” Connor succumbed to emotion, letting his head rest on the wheel with a long sigh. So much for perfect. So much for romantic. So much for a good date in any way shape or form.
You’re laughing and Connor can feel himself sink lower. It’s wonderful to hear the sound, it always is, it simply wasn’t as fun to know you were laughing at him.
He supposed he had a reason to be nervous after all. There was no way you were going to go out with him again. You’d been here all of 7 minutes and he’d managed to make this the worst outing ever. A hand on his arm, rubbing along his sleeve comfortingly brings him out of his self-doubts.
“Don’t stress, this isn’t your fault.” You say tell him in a soft voice that only makes him feel guiltier.
“It is. I should have checked the car for any issues beforehand- and I should have thought up topics of conversation. This entire date is a disaster because-” Turning his head mid-rant, he meets your eyes. You’ve moved in your seat, much closer then he’d anticipated. You would only have to move 23 more centimetres to kiss him.
Why was he thinking about kissing now?
It’s hard to think straight with the way your lips are moving, pulling into a gentle smile as you speak.
“It’s not a disaster, because I’m spending time with you.” You tell him, moving a hand down his arm to take his hand, intertwining the fingers.
“And I like spending time with you. More than you could imagine.” He shivers as your thumb rubs the back of his hand. You give another smile and look out the window.
“Can you call a mechanic?” You ask, and he pauses, eyes flickering momentarily as he does exactly that. It wouldn’t take more than 15 minutes for them to arrive, and he’s ready to go back into a flurry of apologies again when he see’s you lean in closer, and feels his entire body freeze and constrict.
You smile and move a hand up to cup his chin, tilting his head up as you moved his, breath hot on his neck.
“You’re very cute when you’re nervous.” You smile, grinning wider as you lean in to press a soft kiss to his jawline. Connor feels his throat close up, his voicebox malfunctioning as he loses the ability to speak.
His eyes flutter shut and he hears the click of a seat belt as you move, clothes rustling as you pull his head to yours, pressing your lips to his. Painfully briefly, before pulling away and sitting back in your seat.
That was a kiss. He’d seen it happen a million times in public, on tv. But he never could have prepared himself for the electric jolt that fired its way through his body. He felt like he was experiencing emotions for the first time all over again
“We should do this more often.” You say, fingers still tightly locked with his. In a bit of a daze, he blinked and tilted his head.
“Make Hanks car break down?” He asks, and you let out a soft snort of a laugh, bringing his knuckles to your mouth to plant a gentle kiss.
“If that’s what it will take to get you to kiss me? Absolutely.” You joke, cracking up as his face blanches for a moment. He huffs and plays with his sleeve self-consciously, catching a smirk on your face as he does.
“You’d just need to ask…” He mumbles, watching your eyebrows both raise at the comment, before leaning in again, your nose brushing against his. Had he the need for breath, he was sure it could have caught in his throat.
“Can I kiss you?” You ask, and he tries his best to tease. To say no, or even something snarky. But he can’t with the temptation so close, and leans in without another word, threading his fingers into your hair with a soft, content moan.
“A strange blend of awe and delight unfurled as she observed the beautiful shade of azure bloom across his bashful face. He’s blushing blue? How cute weird…”
Connor’s first time seeing fireworks after deviating. November 11th - now known as Android liberation day. The streets of Detroit would surge with crowds of both human and androids alike to celebrate in unity. And to end the night fireworks would light up the sky as a symbol for the androids’ perseverance and faith during their fight for freedom.
“And just like that the fragile veil of temptation lifted, replaced by a disturbing realisation that she had found herself spellbound by his gentle eager smile.
Epiphany consuming completely.
She loves him.”
