#you don't have a word for SOFFRITTO and it HURTS me stop using FRENCH

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the sound of his kisses muffled by your skin, a brief rustling of clothes here and there “you’re so cute” he whispers, letting go of your lips to peck your left cheek, and then your jaw, and then your chin, leaving room for you to respond “thanks, could say the same to you” he stops a moment and faintly chuckles at that compliment, his right hand already resuming to the task of teasing your hips “is this position comfortable?” he hints with his brow at the slim black recliner you two are leaning on, your spine kinda pressed by his whole body. however there’s no way you can reply now, too busy focusing on reciprocating his affection, what a needy man – you would never have guessed it; that RK900 was such a tender alpha, his cold exterior hid it too well, not that you had anything to complain about the former or the latter, for you loved both. another thing you wouldn’t have thought was him crushing on you as hard as you did. can’t complain on this side either. a low growl comes from his chest, along a silent buzz of his jacket’s pocket. his eyes roll in annoyance and, while lifting up a bit his torso, he reaches for his phone, giving you the time to breathe more freely “yes, detective reed?” of course it’s him. you giggle, mouth ajar, slightly short of air, warm blood weaving in the veins under your dark circles – thought you don’t know this but you’ve just made RK900’s heart skips a beat. and he can’t help but puts his fingers near your left ear, caressing your features, basking in your loveliness, ooh gavin could have waited even an entire day if this little android wasn’t so meticulous about work in the first place “mh, i understand.” he mumbles, deciding that these few minutes shouldn’t be wasted, and lowers down to gently nibble at your neck “i see, that makes sense.” at your carotid “no, i didn’t.” and at your collarbone “c’mon you’ll make me purr” you jokingly murmur but he retorts with a wink, still paying attention to the call “very well, then.” the last picking at the start of your sternum “i’ll hang up.” and he does, finishing his path of invisible lovebites in a hushed speech. you wonder how you’ll be able to face the other detective without being too embarrassed the next occasion you meet him “i’m sorry, looks like i have to go.” “y-yeah, figured.” you clumsily attempt to smile, using your elbow as a lever to start raising your figure “but i’d love if we could, uh, continue this?” fuck please yes “sure! – i mean, mh, sure, why not.” we’ve got to the part where you have to act casual but it’s not your forte, shit “perfect! seems i’ll be late this evening but you can come home with connor.” he slowly gets up to iron the wrinkles out of his suit with his palms. a kiss on your forehead and he’s gone. wait what. connor? he leaves you there, dumbfounded, trying to decipher his words. by all means it must be some kind of mistake, you didn’t hear right or maybe you did but he meant something else or.... not, as you get to confirm at the end of your shift. connor standing in front of the DPD entrance, tall, unsettled, probably concerned, most certainly awkward, 100% anxious “hey” you notice his digits unravel in a continuous motion, but as soon as you acknowledge that particular he’s quick to hide them in his trousers, perhaps playing with his usual coin “hey” a tiny show of his teeth in an immaculate friendly manner, he really is different from RK900, huh. “this is not going to work, i’m a mess” “you’re fine connor, love, you’ve been made for this” “stop joking you’re not helping. also, your scent is mixed with [name]’s and i have trouble restraining myself gosh” “do you want a human punchline?” “NO i do not want a human punchline” “you’re so funny i’d marry you” “i regret the day you downloaded a sense of humor” you point the tip of your shoes onwards and rock the heels backwards, to and fro, to and fro, looking at the glass doors disclosing the sudden downpour “sooo....” he abruptly wakes up from his train of thought “ah! it’s fine, i brought an umbrella!” from behind his frame appears the aforementioned dark object, which, honestly, wasn’t your first worry “that’s good.... but i actually wanted to understand.... how can i say it– what’s the deal?” “you haven’t told them?” “mh?” “you haven’t told them.” “oh. i might have accidentally forgotten.” “you’re dead.” he softly grits through his teeth and unwittingly you let out tiny gasp “oh so that’s the plan? to kill me?” his pupils quickly wander to you again “nonononono no no, i guarantee you that’s not what’s going to happen” you can feel a tinge of panic set in his bones (bones? he does not have them). making you distressed it’s the least he wants to, that, you can infer. however this does seem an episode of some crime tv series where two robots want to kill their co-worker for absurds reasons “i was– talking to myself.... i think.” he thinks. the return trip is weird. not because you actually fear he’s going to murder you (do you?) but because he’s.... too stiff. you’re familiar with connor. everyone’s familiar with him. he’s pleasant and easy to talk to, you’ve had plenty of conversations with him before – even flirts? one can say so? –, yet in this instant there’s a dead calm between your shoulders, each of you struggling to keep a topic going for more than twenty seconds. you hope to change this at the earliest opportunity “please take a seat if you’re tired” in his voice the ghost of confidence while his index begins to scrape at his jowl, he’s clearly nervous but does his best at finding something to occupy his mind, oh right! he should prepare dinner! “Nines is going to make us wait but you must be hungry.” you do as told, having a faded green chair caw above the white pavement “do you two live together?” he opens the fridge, taking out three eggs, one leek and half an onion “mh? yeah, we’ve been for quite some time now” (they’re a thing?) carefully he washes and chops the vegetables with a shiny knife. androids don’t need to eat so it’s almost obvious that he bought ingredients just for you, which is terribly sweet you must admit. did he also practice cooking for today only? gosh, the sole thought is enough to make you endearingly beam “and.... you’re happy?” he finishes cutting, in insanely equal pieces, and places down the cutlery. he needs a pan with a dash of extra-virgin olive oil, pinches of salt and pepper and everything’s ready to be sautéed “mhh” a subtle hum along a conspiratorial nod. the food sizzles “i am. and i wish for him to be too.” he wishes, uh. it’s the turn of the eggs, gently beaten in a bowl “of course, mh–” he fakely clears his throat as he pours the yellow concoction in the pan, again, stirring to blend “i– i’d love if you could be happy too– with us.”