Connor/Gender Neutral Reader | 1st Person POV | Fluff | 1699 Words
“Hey love, any plans for the evening?” I stepped out from the bedroom, my gaze falling on the handsome android I called my boyfriend. He looked over at me from his spot on the couch, his book falling slightly in his hand as he smiled brightly.
“Yes, actually.”
I raised a brow at him, moving to sit beside him on the faded green sofa, curling up into his side and resting my head on his chest. I looked up at him, prompting further information, “And what might those plans be?”
He gave a breath of a laugh, “I can’t tell you. It’s a surprise.”
A pout crossed my face, but I rolled my eyes and snuggled further into him, “Alright, alright. I’ll trust your judgement. Should I dress any certain kind of way?”
“Comfortable, something to walk in.”
“Oh, so we’re walking?”
“Not necessarily.” He wouldn’t budge, and I huffed, shaking my head weakly.
After a little while more of reading and resting, Connor stood, pulling me to my feet with a gentle hold of my hand. Before I could ask what he was doing, I was being pulled into a gentle embrace, swaying and rocking lazily.
“Is this your attempt at slow dancing?”
“No, this is my attempt at slow dancing like a human.” He winked at me, “I know you’re too clumsy to complete the complicated steps and instructions involved with dance.”
I shot him a dirty look, and he burst out laughing, pressing a warm kiss to my cheek. I shook my head with a wide smile, a blush crossing my skin.
He raised a hand to brush a strand of hair from my eyes, meeting my loving stare tenfold, “You know I love you, right?”
I felt a delightful warmth all over my face and neck, certain that my blush had spread with his words. I decided not to play along, smirking mischievously, “Do you? I wasn’t so sure.”
It was his turn to give me a look, and I felt pride swell in my chest before I was suddenly being scooped up and carried, and tossed down on the couch again. I didn’t have the chance to sit up before Connor was leaning over me, pressing light kisses all over my face, neck, and shoulders.
When he finally relented, pulling back and letting me sit up, I noticed his LED blinking a soft yellow, and a blue flush across his own cheeks and neck. His hair was a bit messy, several strands out of place, and a general fluffiness to it that didn’t match his usual sleek look.
I straightened up, watching him kneel in front of me on the floor, my lips parted to say something but no words coming out. I raised a hand to idly play with his hair, and his hand closed around mine, pulling it to his face and pressing his lips to my palm in an intimate manner.
I swallowed harshly, just what was he doing?
Connor’s eyes lifted to meet mine, and I found myself lost in that same auburn sunset I fell in love with almost a year ago. The hand not being held by him moved to cup his cheek, my fingertips brushing at his messy hair. He was so beautiful.
Moments passed, feeling like the sort of moment you capture in a Renaissance painting, before he leaned up, our faces meeting in a clumsy kiss. Our noses bumped first, both of us pulling back to giggle softly, before he tried again, much more smoothly the second time.
His lips were just as soft as his heart.
My own heart fluttered, and I realized how strange it felt to be the taller person in a kiss, with him still kneeling, knees pressed to the floor and all. The thought made me laugh, and Connor pulled away, watching me with a curious expression, “Is something wrong?”
“No, no, nothing’s wrong. I just realized how weird it is to be taller than you when we kiss.”
He grinned at me, and I raised my hand to cup his face again, the pad of my thumb brushing over the blue hue of his skin. Finally, he giggled, and I raised a brow.
Almost sheepishly, he admitted, “You know, if anyone with the same processing power as I were to scan me, they’d see nothing more than your fingerprints all over me.”
“Am I like, painting you with my DNA or something?”
“With the oils in your skin, sort of.” I cringed at the idea, and was quickly reasurred, “It isn’t gross or unhygienic, I promise. It would be stranger if you didn’t leave fingerprints on me, with how often you touch me.” He smiled, placing his hand over mine, his thumb stroking over my knuckles gently.
I felt the need to ask, “What about when you shower, or get wet?”
“They fade. But they always seem to be replaced.” He dipped his head slightly, giving me a knowing look, and a blush took its familiar place on my skin once more.
“I can do better than that.” I promised him, gently moving him off of my lap to stand, stretching out my shoulders. He sat on the floor, a confused expression on his face. He looked like a puppy.
I left Connor in the living room while I ran to the bedroom, digging around in a couple drawers, before retrieving my idea, and hiding it behind my back as I rejoined him. He moved to sit on the couch, and I perched beside him. His eyes narrowed at me, still curious as to whatever devious plan I had at play.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but ditch your shirt.” I ordered him, watching his brows jump in surprise. He didn’t argue, though, and soon enough the layers of fabric rested neatly on the back of the couch. I pushed him back with one hand, making him lay down, and shuffling so I was almost sitting in his lap.
Connor’s eyes widened, and I watched with satisfaction as the pale blue spread across his cheeks and down his neck beautifully. With a flourish, I produced a box of tubes containing oil paint. Realization dawned on him, and he raised a brow questioningly. I only gave him a smile, setting the box on the coffee table and popping open one of the tubes.
I smeared the paint across my fingers, and pressed them to his chest, taking in the sharp breath from Connor as the cold seeped into his artifical skin. He stayed still, though, one arm draped over the arm of the couch behind his head, and the other brushing the floor idly. I continued to mark his body, opening a few other tubes to dot my fingertips with the paint and press fingerprints on him.
Soon enough, he was covered in several colors, reaching up into his collarbones and neck, and down to his stomach. Now it really felt like a Renaissance painting, with soft smudges of white, blue, gold, brown, orange, and more. While I painted, I wasn’t sure what was taking form, but when I sat back and looked down at him, I saw a beautiful sunrise. The colors stretched over a smudgy little city, buildings dotted in grey, purple, and blue, while sloping hills and fields crested up towards his pecs. I was somewhat proud of it, but something felt missing.
“You seem unsatisfied with your work.” Connor mentioned, and I met his eyes. Yes, I knew what was missing. With a shake of my head, I took another few tubes of paint, putting another color on each finger individually, instead of one color at once, and I fixed him with a loving look.
“You know I love you, right?”
“Your statement worries me slightly.” He raised a brow, smiling.
I leaned forward, careful as to not mess up the paint on his stomach, smearing the colors on his cheeks. This time when I sat back, it really did look finished. I got off of him, but pushed him back onto the couch when he tried to stand with me, “No, you stay. I need a picture. Get back into that pose.”
He did as instructed, and I fetched my older camera, an expensive polaroid painstakingly betted for online. I settled back on him, resting on his thighs, and peering down at him through the camera. The lighting was perfect, the sunlight from the window casting a lovely orange glow to his perfect skin. We met eyes, and he smiled warmly.
I took the picture.
When it came out, we both watched as the most precious image came to vision, and I sighed almost dreamily.
“You really enjoy marking me up as yours, huh?” Connor leaned over as soon as we’d sat up, his fingers gently holding my chin for him to kiss me sweetly.
“Of course.” I breathed against his lips for a sparce moment, “Why wouldn’t I, when given the perfect canvas?”
I wouldn’t let him hold me, since I didn’t want paint staining my clothes, but I allowed him to go wash off his torso. His torso, only.
“I can’t wash the paint off my face?” He questioned cautiously, and I shook my head vehemently, raising my hand to show him the smudges of paint all over it.
“If we’re going out tonight, I want us to look like we match. You keep the face paint, and I’ll keep the gloves.”
He sighed, obviously done with my shenanigans, but smiling nonetheless, “So be it. Good thing we’re going to the fair at night.”
My eyes widened, and a large smile began to cross my features, “We’re going to the fair?”
“Of course, it’s here in town this week. That’s why I said something you can walk in.” He informed me, a hand reaching out to press his fingers on my own cheek as he washed off, a muddy orange and blue heart forming from the watery paint. It had no fingerprints, but marked me as his anyway. He leaned over to kiss me, smiling into the movement, “Now we’re even.”
I couldn’t’ve found a better person to share my life with.
