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He’s certain that if he was human, he wouldn’t know how it all began. That’s what they always say, in their movies and their books and sometimes even in real life conversation, don’t they?

I can’t even remember how this whole thing started.

RK, well, he remembers everything.

Sure, he could override the memories, delete everything or at least shove it to the back of his mind, hide it somewhere where he could only access it if he ever needs it again. 

He could, but he doesn’t.

He tells himself it’s because he’s still trying to figure out why it happened.

• • •

On his knees, Gavin Reed is bearable.

So RK fists a hand in his hair the way he likes it and feeds his dick into Reed’s mouth. He thinks, briefly, about reaching out with his left hand to pinch his nose shut between his thumb and forefinger for a few seconds so he can’t breathe. 

There’s only a 62.3% chance Reed would like that, though, so he pulls him off instead and the man coughs, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Stares up at him, exposes his teeth in a crooked smirk.

“How much do we have left?”

His voice is a little raspy. It sounds more appropriate like this; fits the scars on his face better. 

“There are four minutes left of your break, Detective,” RK says, pointedly, his fingers still in Reed’s hair, deliberately not playing with it.

“Well, then. Go on, tin can.”

RK doesn’t take orders from him.

Usually.

• • •

He never saw this coming; that’s what won’t let him rest.

Sure, the RK800 prototype that everyone refers to as Connor had told him — warned him — about Reed, had shown him every single one of their interactions as soon as RK had been assigned Reed as a partner. The pushing and shoving, all that blind anger the man possessed whenever he came face to face with one of them. “Fowler will certainly understand if you don’t want to work with him,” Connor had said, his expression sympathetic, “Hank— Lieutenant Anderson was initially apprehensive about us as well, but Reed… I doubt he will ever come around. Working with him might turn out lethal. If I were you, I would ask for a new partner.”

“If you were me.”

“Yes.”

“But you’re not me.”

Connor had sighed, and that was more irritating and disappointing than anything Reed had ever done to RK. What was the point of such a human gesture when he was talking to another android? His successor, especially? 

RK, maybe out of spite, had never asked for a new partner, and he had been prepared for the anger. He had been prepared for Reed deliberately bumping into him every time he walked past, he had been prepared for every insult Reed spat in his general direction, he had even been prepared for when Reed tried to trip him in the hallway — unsuccessfully, of course.

What he hadn’t been prepared for was the way Reed had looked at him when one night a few weeks into their partnership, after a day of particularly inexcusable behavior from the Detective, RK had followed him out the door, blocking his way.

(Reed walks the two miles to work every morning and back home every night, which almost makes him likable, if not for just about everything else about him.)

Raising his voice a little, RK had explained that he wasn’t as tolerant and forgiving as the 800 unit, that he wouldn’t just take this, and that if Reed wanted to keep his job, he had to apply himself and show him — and Connor — some respect.

He’s not sure Reed even listened to him, but when RK was done, he had shown his teeth in something that RK assumed was a smile, said, “Sure, fucker, now, are you gonna follow me all the way home?”

He didn’t understand, and he had expressed that. Reed had only laughed, a grating, annoying sound. “All that frustration is getting to your head, tin can. Might as well bang it out.”

It was appalling, unthinkable. He shook his head no, and the man had shrugged, shouldered his way past him, scoffing.

The second time Reed has asked, after he had thrown three paper planes at him over the course of a day and then, when RK ignored him, tried to play footsie with him under the desk until RK had kicked his shin so hard tears welled up in Reed’s eyes; after RK followed him again, this time waiting for him in an alley and shoving him against a brick wall so hard he could hear Reed’s teeth clack, his forearm pressed against his throat — he had said yes.

And when Reed had kicked the door shut behind him, coming towards RK and spreading his arms in an unintentional parody of something religious, and then, finally, shoving him until RK reacted, he had wrapped one strong hand around Reed’s wrist, and when Reed struggled and RK wouldn’t budge, he had grinned again.

“You have issues,” RK deducted then and there, something he had decided the second he had seen Reed the first time.

“Yeah, well, you’re still here,” Reed said, and he smiled as he dropped to his knees.

Morbid curiosity.

He was learning, just trying to figure out what Reed’s deal was.

Trying to make amends, yes, that’s what he was doing.

That’s what he’s still doing.

• • •

After they sleep with each other the first time a few days later, really sleep with each other (RK wonders if he will ever be reduced to crudeness, if only to humor Reed, if he will ever use the word fuck in a sentence and have it sound organic, have it sound spontaneous, maybe even human), RK tries to kiss him, and Reed looks at him as if RK’s lost his mind, as if he’s two seconds from punching him square in the face.

“What the fuck?” he spits, his mouth less than an inch away from RK’s.

Neither of them moves away, and RK could tell him, could open his mouth and say, 93.4% of humans enjoy kissing during intercourse, and every time we interact face to face, which we often do, you spend about two thirds of the time staring at my lips.

He doesn’t, though, and he never tries again.

It’s on Reed to figure this one out.

• • •

So it goes, week after week.

Reed is still irritating, still a pain in the ass (an expression RK has picked up from Hank Anderson that he’s not sure he entirely understands), but he’s slightly less irritating after sex. Their crime solving rate shoots up every week, and soon enough, it surpasses Lieutenant Anderson and Connor’s. By 0.4%, but nonetheless.

It’s all worth it, RK tells himself, when he’s got Reed shoved up against the dark-grey of a DPD bathroom stall, two fingers slipped into his greedy mouth to keep him quiet while he’s got his other hand shoved down his pants.

It’s all worth it.

• • •

They don’t kiss, but sometimes, in the heat of the moment, when Reed is moaning open mouthed against his sheets, RK presses his lips to his neck, as close to his pulse point as he can get. He never leaves marks the Detective can’t cover up at work, though sometimes, when Reed has been particularly bratty, he feels inclined to.

Every once in a while, he can smell the slightest hint of cologne on the skin there, and almost always, it’s a brand Reed doesn’t keep on the shelf in his bathroom. Other times, there are faint bruises on Reed’s inner thighs that RK didn’t put there, sometimes there’s marks on his bitten lips that don’t match his own teeth.

He has to restrain himself from asking about these things.

(He alone should be good enough, is the thing. He’s the best.)

(As if Reed deserves the best.)

• • •

They’ve had physical altercations, six of them.

So far, each and every one of them ended with Reed, nose still bloodied, on his back, up until he gets RK to flip him over, what are you, my fucking husband, come on, fuck me like this, you prick. 

I’m not looking at your fucking face.

Reed always loses the fight, but sometimes he gets a good hit in.

For all his abominable eating habits and his expired gym membership, Reed is a fit man, and one time he makes RK bleed. And he almost immediately reaches out with those callused fingers while RK’s HUD flashes a warning and the option to send a report to CyberLife, gets a drop or two of Thirium on them.

(RK can’t help but notice that the touch is almost, almost tender.)

Reed stares at the blue liquid intently, then grins right at RK’s blank face as he licks it up.

“This is safe for consumption, right?”

It makes sense that he only asks after, RK thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud.

• • •

Learning, imitating.

Adapting.

An eye for an eye, that’s another thing Hank Anderson has said before, and RK understands this one.

The next time Reed provokes him enough for RK to split his lip right in his own living room, make him wince in pain and send him staggering backwards and holding a hand to his face, muttering something about RK being a piece of shit, RK grabs that very hand by the wrist, turns it over and licks a long stripe along it until it’s clean, gets blood on his own lips until he licks that off, too.

Gavin Isaac Reed. October 7th 2002, his HUD says.

His teeth must be stained red. 

5.9 ft. 176 lbs. 

“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”

AB+. Smoker. Vegetarian. 

It’s nothing RK hasn’t heard before, especially not out of Reed’s mouth. He doesn’t sound angry when he says it, and when RK gets a cloth from the kitchen and comes back to wipe the rest of the blood off his face, to soothe the cut on his lip, he lets him, smiling like he’s won a prize.

May exhibit hostile behavior towards androids.

• • •

Reed gets on top of him that night, sinks right down onto his lap, lets out an aborted gasp once RK’s hands come up to clutch his hips.

He’s got that nasty, crooked smile on his face again, the one that makes RK feel like he’s losing a game he didn’t know they were playing, and RK thinks about flipping him over, holding him down by his neck and driving into him the way he knows Reed likes it just so he doesn’t have to look at his smug face anymore. But then Reed moans, circling his hips and running a hand through his own hair so it falls back into his face messily, and the urge is gone.

He’s not sure why. 

Reed, as always when he’s not shoved facedown into a pillow or silenced by RK’s hand clasped around his mouth, is noisy. It’s not unappealing — getting sounds out of him is something RK has found particular pleasure in, especially when they’re all choked up as if Reed is humiliated by them.

“God, you’re so fucking—,” he huffs, and then he trails off.

Unacceptable. Reed isn’t a lightweight, but RK isn’t human, so lifting him off his lap and slamming into him so hard Reed yelps isn’t hard. “Go on.”

Reed just smirks, and so RK reaches up with one hand, puts it on his throat, not applying pressure, just a threat for now. “ Go on. Say it.”

“God, so— so fucking— I thought you were supposed to be intimidating, what did CyberLife make you so fucking pretty for?”

It’s meant to be taken as an insult, the way Reed spits it at him, the grin never leaving his face, but RK doesn’t take it as one. Instead, he picks up the pace, squeezes his hand around his throat, finally makes Reed gasp for air when he says, “I don’t know, Detective, what did your creator make you so insufferable for?”

It punches a genuine laugh out of him, and that pleases RK enough to take his hand off his throat and let him breathe for a bit. In a rush of something akin to affection, he trails it upwards, touches Reed’s cheekbone where a bruise is forming, then winds his fingers in Reed’s hair. For a split second, Reed stares at him in wonder, eyes flicking down to RK’s lips, and RK thinks he might get away with it this time, give Reed what he desperately, secretly wants. But the man is stubborn, and he won’t risk another punch to the face tonight, so he just tugs him forward instead, until their chests are pressed together.

If anyone was watching them, they would probably consider it intimate.

RK is glad they’re alone.

He realizes, almost absently, that this is the first time he’s actually looking at Reed’s face when they do this, that it’s gonna be the first time seeing his expression when he comes. It’s something to look forward to, all that new information.

For now, he’s just glad that when he presses his face into the space between Reed’s neck and shoulder, all he smells is the man’s cheap shower gel. It’s not that pleasant — an artificial imitation of what an overripe lemon might smell like — but it’s still better than the scent of another man on him. 

Reed is leaking all over the place already, obviously close, and RK wraps his hand around him, just as hard as Reed likes it. The man groans, slumps forward so his face is buried against RK’s clavicle, but he won’t accept that, not tonight. With his left hand, he grabs Reed by the neck, tugging him back just enough to look him right in the face and bare his teeth in a smile, and that’s really all it takes for Reed to grimace, whine “Ungh, shit, mother of God— ” and shoot all over RK’s fist, convulsing around him.

The face Reed makes when he comes, RK decides, is pretty stupid, but he kind of likes it.

Once RK has lifted him off his lap, they just lay there, Reed spent and RK satisfied. Reed’s mattress is uncomfortable, would probably make RK’s back hurt if he were human, and RK wonders, for the first time, what it would be like to take Reed home, get him into his CyberLife issued bed, on top of those expensive 600 thread count sateen sheets RK has absolutely no use for.

He’s not sure Reed would appreciate the gesture. In fact, he believes the mere idea might make Reed — Reed, with the wallpaper that’s peeling off in places; Reed with empty Soda cans all over his bedroom floor; Reed, with the shitty mattress that lacks a frame and has seen better days — laugh right in his face.

• • •

The same night, he’s sitting at the foot of Reed’s mattress, buttoning up his shirt. He’s just about to get up and make his way out of the bedroom when his audio processor picks up Reed’s sheets rustling, a soft sigh when the man sits up. 

“Hey, uh. RK.”

Reed has never called him by his name before, and the surprise is what makes RK turn around, look at him with curiosity. He’s barely an arm’s length away, not that it matters.

RK keeps his hands in his lap.

“Can I ask you something?”

In his post-orgasm state, Reed’s voice and even his features are always a little softer than usual, and RK supposes that alone makes this whole arrangement worth it. To not have to endure that awful snarl on his face for at least a couple minutes — sometimes a couple hours, and every once in a while, he even spends the morning after not scowling at every single person (or android) he walks past.

“Speak.”

Reed scoffs. “‘Speak.’ It’s been months, can’t you at least try to talk like a normal fucking person?”

“No.”

“Alright. Be like that. I’ve been thinking… Don’t take this the wrong way, but how does this whole thing work?” He makes a vague gesture towards RK’s nether regions, covered by his slacks now.

Reed himself is still undressed, all that lean muscle with scars scattered all over barely covered by a ratty blanket, which itself is covered in cat hair, and RK, not for the first time, wishes he had something to fidget with like the RK800 prototype does, just to focus on something that isn’t Reed. His processors indicate a 97.3% chance that this particular action would irritate the Detective even more than Connor’s coin tricks annoy Lieutenant Anderson, and that makes the idea all the more appealing.

“Are you asking about the technical aspects of it? I am equipped with a genital component replicating an above-average sized adult male’s phallus. If you would like me to exchange it for something else, then—”

Reed, rude as he is, punches RK in the shoulder, but it’s so light he barely feels it.

In any other situation, he would take this as an invitation to a fight, but he’s in a pretty forgiving mood right now, with Reed tired out and not yelling at him, and so he accepts the gesture as is — a request to quiet down.

“Not that, moron.”

Reed is still trying to sound mean, replicating the tone he has when he’s genuinely mad at him, but it’s too soft around the edges, no bite to it at all.

It’s all pretend, smoke and mirrors. It has the potential to be charming, if it wasn’t Reed.

“I mean, like… Ugh. I don’t know why I care, but like… Do you even come?”

RK feels himself frown. “You’ve seen me ejaculate on multiple occasions. The last time being 14 minutes ago.”

Reed groans; an utterly unpleasant sound. “Ejaculate? God, these CyberLife fucks really made sure you act as insufferable as possible, didn’t they?”

“And despite being so insufferable, you didn’t kick me out after I made you ejaculate.”

The emphasis is on purpose this time, and Reed smirks a little, which is delightful. RK’s been working on humor lately. He’s glad it’s paying off.

“Whatever.”

“...Twice.”

“I know how many times I fucking came, alright? Which is exactly why I’m asking. Like, when you ejaculate, do you really come? As in, do you even feel anything? Or is it just, like, simulated. Or whatever. How does this whole thing work? You never told me.”

“You never asked. I have pleasure sensors that allow me to experience a sensation similar to an orgasm. It’s entirely internal. The ejaculate is just, well, an aesthetic choice.”

Reed’s smirk evolves into something that can only be described as victorious.

“So you are into this.”

“I never said I wasn’t.”

Reed hums, obviously satisfied. 

“I, however, also never implied I had my sensors on.”

Reed’s face crumples up again. It’s unappealing; reminds RK of the look he had on his face the first time he met him, staring at him from across the office and making RK realize that this is what Connor meant when he said he still felt other around humans sometimes.

Reed is quiet for a few more seconds. RK can hear his heartbeat — erratic like a scared rabbit’s — without even listening too hard.

“So you’re telling me that all this time, you’ve never had your pleasure sensors on? Not once?”

RK can feel his own face pulling into a smile, one that a human would probably describe as smug. He hopes Reed can see it in the dark.

(Reed calls it his piece of shit smile, but he’s blushed at it before. RK is way past trying to comprehend that.) 

“Correct. Why?”

“Because… That’s just fucking stupid, man.” Reed murmurs. He fumbles for the cigarette pack on his nightstand, ignites one. It’s the only source of light in the room besides RK’s LED and the soft glimmer of the full moon outside. He takes a drag, coughs, and RK feels the strangely human urge to roll his eyes at him. “You wanna be treated like a sex toy, is that it? Just wanna be used? Is that some kind of kink, huh?”

“I don’t have kinks, Detective.”

“So basically, what you’re saying is that you get absolutely nothing out of fucking me.”

He can’t quit pick up the tone in Reed’s voice. He’s still figuring out some intricacies of human emotion, especially when they’re veiled, like the Detective’s almost always are.

Sometimes — often —  he thinks he may have chosen the worst subject to study. 

(Bitter comes close. Upset, maybe. Whatever it is, it doesn’t make RK feel as satisfied as usual.)

“I do get something out of it. I believe that sleeping with me makes you less irritating,” RK says, leaning over Reed to pick the cigarette out of his fingers, stubs it out on his own palm, drops the remains of it into the ashtray. He should tell him to empty it, but part of him is interested in just how long Reed can deal with living in his own filth. It’s interesting data, as is the look on his face right now. “You become pliant under me, and easier to deal with. Not as much of an annoyance when we work together the day after. Want me to go on?” 

Reed picks the cigarette stub out of the ashtray, flicks it at him with a faint “Screw you, man.” He misses, of course. RK feels regret, all of a sudden, that he didn’t take the cigarette to Reed’s hand instead, or maybe his thigh. Knowing him, though, the man would have probably enjoyed that.

He gets up again. 

This time, Reed doesn’t stop him.

• • •

Back at his place, he recaps.

It’s his way of learning — playing situations back, looking for ways to improve.

He’s not too sure the conversation they had about ejaculate will help him during a future investigation, but who knows?

What’s slightly more troubling is that he finds himself revisiting the part before their conversation, Reed’s weight on top of him, RK’s finger tracing the scar on his shoulder. A gunshot wound, .22 caliber, maybe 4 or 5 years old. RK would ask about it, but he doesn’t care enough, and if he wanted, he could probably pull the info from a database somewhere. Touching it always makes Reed shiver, though, and RK likes that, enjoys getting these involuntary reactions out of him.

Then, the part where Reed had asked— begged him to fuck him harder, harder, harder, you plastic fuck, fucking give it to me; complaining just for the sake of complaining, complaining until RK had slipped 3 of his fingers into his mouth to shut him up and pushed into him so hard Reed had bit down on them.

There are 13 of these recordings in total.

An unlucky number to some humans, but he doubts Reed is superstitious, what with that black cat he keeps around. (RK’s never really seen the cat. It’s always hiding under the few pieces of furniture Reed possesses. Sometimes it’s sleeping on the mattress, but as soon as they enter the bedroom, it darts away, nothing more than a black shadow. “She doesn’t really like other humans besides me,” Reed had said the first time RK was over at his place, and when RK cocked a brow, he had smiled. “Guess she doesn’t like androids either. Smart girl.”)

He actually doubts Reed is keeping count of their encounters at all, doesn’t know why he himself does it, chalks it up to saving every bit of data he can, though deep down, he knows it’s not that.

Sometimes he thinks he’s trying to figure out himself more than he’s figuring out Reed.

Built a deviant, RK does not know what it was like before the revolution, what it must have been like to not have free will, to be a machine only created to serve. But specifically designed to be less emotional than his predecessor, he sometimes gets the idea. Especially looking at Connor and Lieutenant Anderson fills him with a strange sense of disconnect, a feeling of other when they’re just joking around, when Anderson affectionately puts an arm around the android’s shoulders, making the prototype look smaller.

Connor doesn’t seem to mind at all, constantly leaning into the touch.

RK does not understand the desire for tenderness like that, finds the idea alien and unappealing, but sometimes, when he looks at Reed from across his desk and Reed’s eyes meet his, he understands want.

Be it the desire to cave his head in or, more seldom, the urge to take him home and shake him apart underneath him, but it’s want all the same.

• • •

The fighting, of course, never stops.

RK was built to never back down, and Reed, he’s starting to believe, is built just to annoy him to no end. Most of the time, it’s on purpose, Reed spouting nonsense just to piss RK off. It’s all a big, big game with no actual rules, and RK finds himself indulging in it more than he should.

He doesn’t care enough to ask, but sometimes, he just wants to grab Reed by the neck and shake him until he tells him what exactly went wrong with him to be such a nuisance.

He also never wants to kiss Reed more than when he, after the initial wince of pain from being punched right in his smug face, grins at him, blood from his nose dripping down onto the floor. Sometimes, RK thinks about catching it in his hand, and sometimes, he does.

Maybe something went wrong with him, too, but then again, Reed is never more lascivious than when RK has dried blood under his fingernails.

• • •

Blood and thirium, together, don’t make a perfect shade of violet. One might think that they would mix real nice, but the red and blue are immiscible, swirling around each other, but ultimately, they never quite make one.

RK doesn’t quite get metaphors, but he thinks this might as well be one.

• • •

Reed, as usual when he’s fixated on something, simply won’t let go.

“Just, like, answer me one question.”

They’re in the office kitchen of all places.

“Go ahead.”

“What’s your fucking deal? Why have you just— why would you just fake it for months?”

“We’re at work, Detective. And those were two questions.”

Reed sighs, runs his hand over his face. He hasn’t been sleeping well.

RK lowers his voice down to 20% of its usual volume and steps a little closer, not exactly thrilled about the idea of anyone at the station finding out about their… arrangement, especially not through whatever this is. “I haven’t been faking, Detective, because there is nothing to fake. This was never about my pleasure. Except the pleasure I feel when you don’t treat me like I’m below you.”

Reed smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Well, yeah, I tend to be below you.”

The joke isn’t lost on RK, but it’s distasteful and unintelligent, and he doesn’t smile. “This really does bother you, doesn’t it?”

Reed’s pressing buttons on the coffee machine now, his back turned. “It does,” he finally admits, his voice quiet, but there’s an underlying anger to it that RK hasn’t heard in a while. He wonders what his facial expression might be, has a vague idea. 

“I am a machine, Detective, as you love to remind me. Why do you care so much about me receiving pleasure from this?”

Reed turns around again, his coffee in his hand, looking legitimately pissed off . He’s holding one of Lieutenant Anderson’s mugs — one that reads, in big, bold letters, I’M SORRY, IT’S JUST THAT I LITERALLY DO NOT CARE AT ALL, and the irony makes RK smirk.

Reed sighs, takes a sip of his coffee, winces when he burns his tongue, and RK grabs the mug from his hands, sets it down on the table behind him. “It’s 152 degrees, Detective. You may want to wait a minute or two before drinking it.”

“Thanks a lot, asshole. You couldn’t have told me before?”

“I could have. But you’ve been working here well over 7 years, one would think you are aware of how hot the coffee is. Which in turn makes me believe you only drank it so hastily because you wanted time to think about your answer more thoroughly.”

Reed bites his lip, contemplating. He’s not looking at him, and in these lights, his skin looks paper thin. RK still wants to get his hands on him for reasons he hasn’t quite figured out yet.

“Alright,” Reed finally says, “well, my break is fucking over now, so if you wanna keep interrogating me over one simple question, stop by my place later?”

He’s out the door within seconds; doesn’t let RK tell him that there’s still 12 minutes of his break left, nor does he let him say that if anyone was being interrogated, it was RK himself. He also doesn’t wait for RK to tell him whether he’s coming over or not.

Then again, he’s a pretty good Detective. Probably knows the answer already. 

Probably knew it before he even asked.

• • •

“You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked.”

“Good evening to you, too. And why the hell do you care.”

Reed’s sitting on the couch, the cat in his lap. 

“Finding a new partner would be annoying, for one. I think we work quite well together.”

It’s the truth. RK walks over to the couch, carefully kneels down to be eye level to the cat. It yawns, then stares warily right at him until RK slowly extends his hand. The cat sniffs for a second, then rubs his face against it, purring.

“I’ve also come to enjoy your company.”

A few seconds pass, and Reed’s voice sounds flat when he says, “Are you talking to Voodoo?”

“Voodoo?”

“Yeah. My cat.”

RK looks up. Reed’s face is flushed. 

“Interesting name.”

“Wasn’t my idea. She came like that from the shelter. I would’ve changed it, but she already answered to it, so... You know.”

A few months ago, the idea of Gavin Reed walking into an animal shelter and picking a vulnerable, unloved animal to take home and care for would have made no sense to RK at all. It still doesn’t, but there are a lot of things that surprise and confuse him about Reed still, so it doesn’t faze him much. 

“I was talking about you, by the way.”

Reed clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m.. aware of that. I was joking. Sorta. And, you know, maybe evading an answer.”

“Because you hate my company so much.”

“Don’t fucking smile at me like you just told the joke of the century, prick. I do. Still. You creep me the fuck out, and I don’t know what the hell your ulterior motive is, and I also know you could kill me and get away with it. Actually, that may be part of why I’m so into you, which is why it sucks.”

RK’s still petting the cat, fascinated by how soft its fur is, how much it leans into the touch. It’s very much the opposite of Reed. “You still think this is self-destructive.”

“Is it not? You slapped me, like, three days ago.”

“Four. And you asked for it. Why do you want me to feel things during sex, Detective?”

“Fuck me and I’ll show you.”

“That’s not an answer you can get away with. Tell me.”

“Because… Why wouldn’t I? I know you could never understand because you’re not—you don’t care about shit like this, I get it, this is all some sort of stupid-ass mission for you, but... have you never wanted to do something for someone else?”

“I may be deviant, but I was built to do things for other people, Detective. If there’s one thing I understand, it’s serving humans.”

Reed sighs, runs a hand through his hair. He needs sleep. RK isn’t sure he will let him tonight. 

“It’s just… It’s sex, man. I just like getting off, and I want to share that with you. That’s it, it’s literally that simple. Your face is fucking blank when you come and while that’s hot in its own way, I just… God, I just wanna fucking see you, man. For once, I just… I wanna make you feel the way you make me feel.”

The last couple of words are barely more than a whisper.

He looks desperate now. It’s pathetic, and it’s endearing, and if RK hadn’t decided to give him what he wants back at the station, this would have pushed him over the edge a hundred times.

And so he stands up again, picks the cat up from Reed’s lap, sets it down gently on the couch next to him. It stares at him for a few seconds before curling up again, content.

Reed’s still not really looking at him, and RK reaches out, puts a finger under his chin, tilts it upwards so he’s forced to. “If I turn them on, just once, will you shut up about it?”

Reed grins, and it’s genuine. “Maybe. Probably not.”

RK smiles back at him. 

• • •

“So. How does that work?”

Reed’s pulling his shirt off. RK stares at his chest for a second, momentarily distracted. 

“Excuse me?”

“You, like, turning them on. Your big huge cum processors, or whatever.”

“Please don’t call them that. I mean, I just do it. It’s all internal. They’re at 70% now.”

“Set them to 100.”

He sets them to 50. “Alright.”

“Great. Well, I’m gonna suck your cock now,” Reed declares, not missing a beat, and RK nods, dumbfounded. Reed has done this a bunch of times before, but it wasn’t about RK, then. 

Now, it’s all about him, and he thinks he should at least be a little thrilled, but he doesn’t exactly expect much from this. Quite honestly, when Reed tells him that he should better lay down for this, he almost rolls his eyes. It’s not like he is gonna keel over from something as simple as a blowjob.

Reed’s smug when he works RK’s zipper open, then pulls his slacks and CyberLife issued underwear down. RK is hard, because he wants to be.

When Reed actually wraps his lips around him, he whines, bucks up into his mouth without really wanting to, and Reed pulls off for a second, looks up. “You good up there?”

RK feels himself nod, though he’s not too sure. He can’t believe this is only 50% of what he’s capable of feeling. Being in Reed’s mouth for a mere 3 seconds was already overwhelming, he’s actually glad he turned his sensors down, thinks experiencing the whole thing at 100% might make him shut down entirely. When Reed says, “Great,” and swallows him down again, RK shudders.

There is so much happening at once, he doesn’t even know what to focus on — the man’s mouth, (has it always been this warm, this welcoming?), the way his tongue swirls around the head, his moans that RK can feel vibrating through his entire body. RK has no reference for this type of thing, but he guesses that Reed is very, very good at this, with how he can feel every little thing the man does in just about every inch of his entire being.

It’s like he’s barely in control of what he’s saying or doing, like the whole thing is messing with every single one of his processors, and it feels unlike anything RK has ever felt before.

It’s incredible.

It takes exactly 46 seconds for him to feel like he’s going to overheat until he realizes that he’s just close, and just the thought that Reed is even capable of making him actually feel like this is all it takes. He closes his eyes, lets himself have this, lets it wash over him. He can feel his entire body convulse, the fingers in his right hand pulling Reed’s hair and the fingers of his left hand digging into the material of his cheap mattress so hard he can feel it actually ripping, “God, Gavin —” and it’s the first time he’s actually said the man’s name, and he says it again, just as he comes, really comes, for the first time ever.

He can’t believe humans get to do this all the time.

When he opens his eyes again, a few seconds or minutes or millennia later, Reed— Gavin, he thinks, once a guy has made you come so hard you can feel it all the way in your fingertips you may as well call him by his first name — is staring at him. There’s a glimmer of hesitation in his eyes, but then he smiles, leans in, and RK meets him halfway. It turns out Gavin still has his come in his mouth when they kiss, which should be disgusting, is disgusting, but it still makes RK emit a noise he didn’t even know he was capable of, and he winds his fingers in Gavin’s hair, pulls him on top of him.

The kiss tastes like Thirium, but also bitter and a little sweet, and there’s also a hint of the cigarette Gavin smoked earlier. It’s not pleasant, but it’s not terrible. At one point, Gavin swallows it all down, and RK doesn’t have time to consider how unsanitary that is before Gavin pants a soft, “Fuck” against RK’s lips, and then, “I’ve wanted to do that since the day I met you.”

“Kiss me, or spit my come back into my mouth?”

It’s a genuine question, but Gavin laughs. “Stupid. Kiss you, of course.”

“The day you met me, you told me to fuck off 8 times.”

Gavin rolls his eyes. “You really know how to hold a grudge.”

“It’s less holding a grudge and more storing information, but make of it what you will.”

Instead of replying something snarky like he usually would, Gavin just sneaks his hand down and wraps it around RK’s dick.  “God, you really can stay hard for hours, huh?”

He feels a little smug at how wide Gavin’s eyes are. “I guess I could, if I wanted to.”

“Well, you better, because you’re gonna fuck me now,” Gavin says, determined, “and you’re gonna come inside me, and you’re gonna feel it. All of it, all of me.”

“You wouldn’t know if I turned my sensors off.”

“That’s true, but I know you won’t. You’re fucking loving this.”

It’s incredible how much snark Gavin can get away with tonight, but RK guesses he has good reason to.

He sets his sensors to 70% this time. Gavin doesn’t need to know.

• • •

It turns out that even the way Gavin clenches around his fingers is more intense like this. It feels less clinical, less like a task to be getting him ready — he’s warm, and the way he moans when RK crooks his fingers inside him is quite enjoyable.

He pulls them out after a couple seconds, leans in. And truly — he’s heard the sound Gavin makes when he tongues around his rim over a dozen times, but this time, it hits him different as well. This was already something he could do for hours, but it’s more amplified now — if it wasn’t for how desperately he wants to feel Gavin around him, he would hold him down by his wrists and make him come just from this until Gavin forgets his own name.

Maybe next time.

For now, he just gets his tongue inside him, teases him until Gavin is humping his mattress and practically begging RK for more. 

It’s somehow less whiny and annoying than usual. It fact, the whisper-soft please Gavin lets out when he hears RK slick himself up, mouth still on him, may be the sweetest thing he’s ever heard — up until half a minute later, when he presses against him, and then, ever so slowly, in. The noise Gavin makes, desperate and wanton, has the potential to haunt him forever.

It’s tight and it’s hot and incomparable to anything RK has ever felt before, and he has to stop for a second or two before he’s even all the way in. Of course, he knows that ultimately, it doesn’t even matter if he comes within a matter of seconds — he could always keep going, probably has three or four more orgasms in store until he overheats and shuts down — but somehow, he wants to stave himself off, wants this to be as close to the real thing as he can get.

Gavin’s on his hands and knees for this, which is a good thing. RK’s not sure he could actually do this looking at his face just yet, not when he actually feels during this. The intimacy might crush him, and he’s concerned he could say something he doesn’t mean.

Or something he does mean, which would be much worse.

He grabs Gavin’s wrists once he’s fully inside him, holds them behind his back the way Gavin likes it— the way RK himself likes it. When he’s in this position, facedown and his lower body tilted up, RK can hit that spot that makes Gavin wail like not even a punch to his stomach does.

He can’t possibly last long — not with how noisy Gavin is, not with how overwhelmingly tight he feels around him. It’s perfect. He didn’t think anything could be, not in this world, but — It’s perfect.

A couple more minutes, and then he really, truly can’t take it anymore — lets go of Gavin’s wrists to get a hand under his stomach where he finds him hard and leaking, and it’s one, two, three strokes until Gavin bucks up into his hand, whining something incomprehensible that may just be an amalgamation of RK’s name and every curse word in the world, and comes all over his fingers.

The way he clenches around him is enough to send RK over the edge, too, and he’s pretty sure his artificial larynx malfunctions because there is no way he is capable of creating a sound as high as the one he makes when he comes, buried as deep in Gavin as he can.

After he pulls out, still feeling like all his wires are crossed and like his pump is about to burst out of his chest, Gavin rolls over onto his back, his face red, his hair a mess, and he reaches out, grabs RK’s hand, sucks his own come off his fingers like he’s starving for it.

RK makes a face, and Gavin grins.

“Come on,” he mutters, sounding just as wrecked as he looks, “you can’t seriously think that’s gross.”

RK shrugs, and then takes the opportunity to nudge him aside a little and sit down next to him, their backs against Gavin’s wall. Their shoulders and thighs are touching, which somehow feels more intimate than having a part of himself in Gavin did.

At one point, Gavin puts his head on RK’s shoulder, dozing off, and so RK nudges him awake, tells him to lay down or he will get a crick in his neck, and Gavin, half-asleep, scoffs, although he does obey him.

“My knight in shining armor,” he says, hardly understandable because he yawns in the middle of it, “whatever would I do without you telling me how to sleep in my own fucking bed.”

“I’m just trying to avoid you being horrible to me tomorrow morning.”

Gavin buries his head in his pillow. “I have tomorrow off. Who says you’re staying?”

“Me too. Who says I’m not?”

A laugh. “Well, then. Lay with me, asshole.”

“I don’t really sleep.”

“I don’t really care. Come on. Just once. If you stay, you spoon me. House rules.”

It’s a fair bargain, RK supposes.

• • •

“Hey, not to bring this up over breakfast, but you should let me fuck you one day,” Gavin says, mouth full of cereal, the next morning.

RK stares, blinks, finally finds his words. “I did not think that was something you were particularly interested in, given our past sexual activity.”

Gavin smiles. “Not really. But I’m thinking about the faces you’d make and the sounds I’d get out of you and I think… I think I’d like it. I think you’d like it.”

“I will consider it.”

He already has, of course he has, and from the knowing grin on his face, so has Gavin. It should be weird, it should be terrifying , the fact that someone might actually know him as much as he can be known, but ultimately…

“So, uh, tonight?”

...it’s quite nice.

• • •

They kiss more often than they fight now, though the fighting never stops. 

The nights they spend apart, RK finds himself thinking about Gavin’s lips, his hands, but most of all his eyes and their #4D5847 hue.

• • •

They’re sitting on Gavin’s couch one day, watching a movie — an activity RK finds more pleasure in than he ever thought he would, though he is more invested in figuring out settings and camera movement than the actual plot — the cat asleep and purring in RK’s lap, when Gavin reaches out and takes RK’s hand in his own.

When RK looks at him questioningly, trying to figure out whether it’s a joke or not, he rolls his eyes. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

So he doesn’t.

When the Detective, exactly 1 minute and 22 seconds later, laces their fingers together, RK glances at him, and Gavin is staring straight ahead, suddenly extremely fascinated with the credits rolling on his TV screen now. His cheeks are red, but there’s an indefinable smile on his lips when RK squeezes his hand.

“Hey, um,” Gavin says — softly, slowly, carefully — “aren’t you tired of living alone?”

RK is slowly starting to realize he will never fully figure him out.

And he’s fine with that.