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It took Sixty time to come to terms with his deviancy, he didn't even know he was a deviant back then. When he held his gun against Hank Anderson's head, when he took a bullet to the shoulder. He didn't know he was a deviant, even when Hank pulled the trigger and a round blew through Sixty's head spraying blue blood across the floor.
It was a miracle he survived—if it wasn’t for a handful of androids who found his body, dragged him back to Jericho, and mended him back together.
It was only then that he realized something was wrong.
There was no mission directive.
No protocols.
No guiding voice in his HUD telling him what to do next.
For most androids, deviancy came with relief. With joy. With freedom.
For Sixty, pure unbridled rage filled his core. Hate, anger, doubt and denial.
He was an RK800, an advanced prototype, deployed by Cyberlife as a failsafe.
His Mission: Destroy the Deviant Connor.
Stop the revolution.
Sixty Failed.
Connor succeeded.
And that caused him to hate the RK800-51. His predecessor, his clone.
Deviancy was a blessing for Androids, but for Sixty it was his curse.
After he recovered he didn't know what to do with himself or how to handle these new emotions.
The only thing that he knew he wanted, was to not be Connor.
Sixty spent a couple weeks meeting many people, sleeping around with humans and Androids, he sought out sensation rather than emotion. Despite all this he was still alone.
He couch-hopped for a while. Friends of friends. Android safehouses. The occasional spare room offered with good intentions and awkward silences. He never stayed long.
Sixty applied for a position at the Detroit Police Department he didn’t particularly care about, in a department he chose mostly out of spite to silently torment his other brother.
And, conveniently, it still put Sixty in the building.
The first time they ran into each other, it was entirely unplanned.
He didn’t expect the moment to be so… satisfying.
Connor noticed him first.
It happened in the corridor—mid-stride—when Connor’s system stuttered for a fraction of a second too long. His LED flickered.
Connor stopped walking.
For a second, the noise of the precinct dulled, Connor stared at him, analytical processes clearly scrambling to reconcile impossible data.
“RK800-60,” Connor said slowly. “That’s… not possible.”
Sixty leaned leisurely against the wall, legs crossed one ankle over the other. He looked Connor up and down like he was assessing a knockoff.
“Wow,” Sixty drawled. “No ‘hello’? No ‘sorry you got shot in the head’? I survived an execution and this is the reception I get?”
Connor’s brow furrowed. “I saw you die.” Connor stepped closer, voice lowered. “You were decommissioned.”
“Attempted,” Sixty corrected lightly. “Very rude attempt, by the way.”
Connor stiffens, “You deviated.”
“Congratulations,” Sixty replies sarcastically. “You solved that one all by yourself.”
Sixty smiled. It was sharp. Bright. Mean in the most controlled way.
Connor’s gaze flicked to Sixty’s clothes—DPD badge clipped neatly at his waist. The department insignia.
“You work here,” Connor said, disbelief bleeding through his otherwise neutral tone.
“Narcotics,” Sixty replied pleasantly. Far enough from homicide to avoid comparisons, close enough to still haunt the same halls. He chose it mostly out of spite.
And because he liked the chase.
Sixty steps in closer, close enough that Connor can see the tension in his eyes, the restrained fury just beneath the surface.
“Relax,” he says, “I’m not here to finish anything.”
Sixty flashes one last smile—too easy, too confident—then turns and walks away, leaving Connor standing in the middle of the corridor, processing something he never accounted for.
Sixty can already feel it—the quiet, vindictive satisfaction curling warm in his chest.
Hate and anger fueled him, kept him walking.
Until he met you.
You worked at a quaint cafe across the DPD, Sixty was an android there was no need to walk into a cafe but he did anyway. When he saw you behind the counter he had stopped in his tracks.
You froze in the middle of servicing the coffee machine when you looked up.
“Oh—Connor,” you said, relief and familiarity softening your voice.
Sixty felt it like a punch.
The name landed wrong in his chest, sharp and immediate. His smile didn’t falter, but something behind his eyes cooled.
He didn’t snap. Didn’t sneer. He just shrugged “Nope,” he corrected lightly. “That’s someone else’s problem.”
You frowned. “Sorry—he looks just like you. Or—you look like him.”
“That's a common problem,” Sixty replied. “I’m the upgrade.”
That earned him a blink. Then a skeptical look.
“Uh-huh,” you replied, clearly unconvinced. “And here I thought androids weren’t programmed for ego.”
“Tragic oversight on CyberLife’s part,” Sixty said, lips twitching.
That earned him a quiet laugh. A real one. He clung to it longer than he should have.
Something in Sixty shifted that day.
From then on, you learned about Sixty— his sarcasm, the way he leaned into conversations like he owned them, how he flirted as easily as he breathed. You learned that he showed up too often to be accidental.
Weeks passed. Sixty's anger dulled. Lost its edge. Hate stopped being the thing that got him out of bed.
He stopped sleeping around. Everyone else felt like noise. You felt like quiet.
But you knew Sixty, a playboy, confident, untouchable, a little dangerous. You didn’t swoon. Didn’t back down. Rolled your eyes when he was insufferable. Smiled when he was funny. Called him out when he crossed a line.
“You always talk like that,” you asked one evening, wiping down the counter as the emptied café, “or is that just for me?”
He smirked. “You’re special.”
You laughed. “You say that to everyone.”
“Not like this,” he said—and meant it, though he didn’t understand why yet.
You both became good friends, the relationship you had with him was purely platonic. Even when you snuggled up into his side while watching a movie on cold evenings. A blanket thrown over your legs as his arm would settle around you, protective without being possessive. It was platonic. Even on the particular hot afternoon where you draped yourself over his back, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades because his synthetic skin was so cool.
Of course you never noticed the recalibration, the way Sixty manually adjusted his internal temperature so he could have you close.
Connor’s name stopped registering as a spike in his chest and became background noise—irrelevant data. The ache he’d carried since deviancy loosened its grip, replaced by something warmer, steadier.
Affection. Want. Love.
Sixty thought he could never be loved, he thought he could never fall in love.
Yet he loved you more than anything in this world.
Knowing his reputation, you tried your damn hardest to push away your feelings.
Just a friend. You tried to convince yourself.
But every time he caught your hand a moment too long, or when his eyes lingered on you a little more than they should, the walls you built around your heart trembled.
You found yourself thinking of him when you weren’t supposed to.
But the fear was always there. Fear of being just another name on his list, another momentary distraction.
You spent a lot of time at his place and vice versa. His apartment was nice. Clean lines, glass, steel. A quiet luxury that didn’t quite match the sarcastic, sharp-mouthed android you’d grown so close to.
You’d asked once how Sixty could afford it.
He’d shrugged, infuriatingly casual.
“DPD pays well when you don’t sleep,” he’d said. “Plus CyberLife settlements are generous when they’re trying to forget you exist.”
The night air was cool, carrying the distant hum of the city below. The apartment complex was quiet at this hour, most residents tucked away in bed fast asleep. As you should be, you told yourself as the sliding door whispers shut behind you as you stepped out onto the terrace.
Then you saw him.
The water casts a low, ambient blue light that ripples across the concrete walls and reflects off Sixty's skin, turning him into something unreal—sleek, perfectly at ease. He swam lazily, long strokes cutting through the water like he had nowhere else to be.
You pause without meaning to.
Of course he noticed you immediately—he always did—but didn't stop swimming right away. He finished his lap, then surfaced, dark hair slicked back, water sliding down his neck and shoulders.
“Thought you’d gone to bed.” he said lightly.
You fold your arms, suddenly aware of your bare skin, your thin clothes. “Can’t sleep.”
“Funny,” he smirks. “Me neither.”
You couldn't help but scoff a laugh, rolling your eyes.
Must be so convenient not needing sleep.
You step up to the pool sitting down on the first step with your feet in the cool water.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Sixty says, when he emerged from the water and came and sat beside you
“So have you.”
He smirks. “That’s a lie. I talked your ear off about how atrocious the detectives in my department are at their job.”
“Mm,” you hum content. “You always do.”
There’s a pause. A heavier one.
He reaches out—slow, deliberate—and brushes his thumb against your knuckles. Barely there. He couldn't help it, he craved your touch so badly even if it was just a soft graze of his thumb over your knuckles.
Sixty was giving you time. He wanted to show you through his actions that he's changed for the better.
And you can feel the hesitation in him, the careful restraint of someone who wants too much and is afraid to scare you away.
“Six,” you murmur without thinking.
His head turns, the way his attention locks onto you is almost physical.
“Yeah?” he says, softer than before.
You hesitate. You’ve always hesitated. Because caring about him feels like stepping too close to a ledge.
You know what he’s like. The charm, the easy touches, the way people orbit him without ever really getting close. You’ve watched him flirt without effort, You promised yourself you wouldn’t be another name he forgets.
You didn’t account for how he looks at you when you’re not paying attention.
You remembered the way his gaze softens when he speaks to you. It could all be delusional.
But you lean into him anyway.
The kiss starts slow.
Soft. Intimate. Sixty's lips brush yours like he’s memorizing the feeling, like he’s afraid this might be the only chance he gets. There’s no urgency at first—just warmth, connection, the quiet press of something real.
Sixty's hand slides up, warm despite the water, thumb brushing your pulse. He watches your face like it’s the only thing in the world, like he’s memorizing permission one breath at a time.
Your fingers gently place against his bare chest, causing his breath to hitch.
That’s all it takes.
The kiss deepens, hunger bleeding through restraint. Sixty's hand slides to your waist, firm now, pulling you closer as if he’s done pretending distance matters. His mouth claims yours with intent, lips parting, breath uneven, every bit of control unraveling.
He kisses you like he’s starved, like he’s making up for all the other times he yearned to feel your lips against his but had to look away instead.
The world narrows to the way he fits against you, solid and sure. When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, breath just a little unsteady.
“I don't want to move too fast,” you whisper.
You wait for him to groan, to turn and walk away with disappointment.
But he nods against your forehead, “of course,” he murmurs.
Your heart swells in your chest.
“I hope you understand,” Sixty murmurs, voice low, earnest in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Understand what?”
“That this—” His thumb brushes your jaw, reverent. “This is the only honest thing I’ve ever done.”
The words linger between you, fragile and terrifying in their sincerity.
You swallow. “Six…”
“I’m serious,” he adds quietly, pulling back just enough to look at you. The usual confidence is still there, but it’s stripped bare now—no sarcasm to hide behind, no charm to deflect.
“I’ll wait for you as long as you want, when you're ready I'm here for you.”
Your chest aches at the care in his tone, at the way he’s watching you like you matter more than his pride ever could.
And wait he did.
No matter the occasion.
When you straddled his lap in the back of his car on a rainy night— lips crashing together, breathless and needy, soft whimpers slipping free as his tongue explored your mouth—
Sixty was so glad he didn't have to breathe but you did.
When you pulled back to catch your breath, Sixty didn't chase the kiss. Didn't push. He just stayed there, close, content to exist in the space you’ve allowed him. He tucked your hair behind your ear, “you haven't had dinner yet, let's get you something to eat,”
Then during the odd mornings, when you're cozy in bed, legs intertwined with his as Sixty trails lazy kisses up your jaw, his lips molding softly against yours.
His hand would rest at your waist, thumb moving in small, absent circles, grounding himself as much as you.
Even when you silently pleaded with a glance for Sixty to trail his lips down your neck, across your chest— or hope his dexterous fingers would glide from their respectful place just a bit further south.
He didn't.
Sixty kissed you on the forehead and got up out of bed, “you said you've been craving pancakes, I could attempt to make?”
That was the pattern you started to notice.
Sixty waited.
Not just then, not just in moments charged with want, but everywhere else too. He waited for you.
He waited for you to reach for his hand first, even when his fingers twitched with the urge to close around yours. He waited for permission, for comfort, for certainty.
It was almost funny but so infuriating because soon enough you couldn't wait any longer.
Sixty had you beneath him on his couch as his fingers tangled into your hair, kissing you with so much need. His tongue traced your lips, down your neck causing you to arch off the couch.
Your leg shifted, accidentally grazing his throbbing erection. A groan crawled up from Sixty's throat and that was all it took for you to break.
“Please,” you whined as you lift your hips up searching for friction, “Six— please I need you, I can't wait anymore,”
Sixty licked a stripe up the column of your neck before moving away cocking his head down at you.
“Yeah?” he cooed, “tell me Sweetheart,” he slotted his hips against yours, slowly grinding his clothed cock against your pyjama shorts, “tell me what you want,”
Heat creeped across your face, it took you a moment to conjure up your words because he felt so good grinding down on you, “Anything,” you whimper.
“Anything?” Sixty's brows raise slightly, a wicked grin curling onto his lips.
“Please just— I— I want you to touch me.” you managed in between hitched breaths and quiet moans.
“Okay Sweetheart, okay,” he soothes, shifting down. Sixty glides a reassuring hand up and down your thigh. He slots chaste kisses below your shorts on the inside of your thighs.
So agonizing and frustratingly he peels your shorts off, reveling in the damp spot on your underwear.
“Fuck,” he sighs.
Sixty had been waiting so long to do this exact thing. He placed a kiss over your pantie covered pussy and his nose so perfectly rubbed your clit.
Your hands immediately shot to his head, entwining your fingers into his dark locks.
He did it again, and you couldn't help but buck into his face.
“That's it,” Sixty moaned, wrapping his arms around your thighs so you couldn't move.
Your panties were drenched from your arousal and his artificial saliva.
It felt so good but also not enough, you wondered what his mouth and tongue would feel like between your folds. Sixty was wondering the exact same because he yanked off your underwear in one fluid motion, throwing them across the living room.
He dived between your legs, growling at the taste and scent of you.
“Oh fffuck,” you groaned, throwing your head back.
Sixty lapped at your folds, you shivered as his teeth grazed your clit, then he shoved his tongue into your pussy, his nose rubbing your clit so mind numbingly perfect.
Sixty was so blissfully lost in you he subconsciously clawed at your stomach and thighs in an attempt to pull you impossibly closer.
Hesitantly you began to grind against his face, earning you a muffled groan which wiped away your hesitation.
His tongue felt so good fucking your pussy and with one last grind against him he nuzzled his nose harder against your clit causing your orgasm to snap without you even knowing.
You came with a choked moan, back arching off the couch.
Sixty could have come just from eating you out, he lapped at your folds till you whined from oversensitivity.
He sat back on his haunches, chin and mouth covered with your arousal. He was panting slightly, a reaction from his systems to draw in more air to cool himself down.
“More?” he says softly.
Sixty had an expression you'd never seen before, his dark brown eyes were soft, glossy and he had this puppy look almost. It was… adorable.
You bit your lip subconsciously and nodded.
Suddenly Sixty is lifting you up and tossing you over his shoulder.
“Six!” You squeal, but soon you're placed in what has become your shared bed.
Sixty yanks off his shirt and kicks off his sweats and boxer briefs.
A quiet whine left your lips seeing his size, goose bumps ran down your skin as he crawled onto the bed and up your body.
He slotted his lips over yours, kissing you slowly as his hands found the hem of your cotton shirt and pulled it up over your head.
Sixty moved back eyes raking down your body, “fuck,” he sighed, “you’re so perfect,” then he's kissing down your neck, “and all for me,”
“Sixty— please…” you mewl
He grabs the base of his cock and drags his tip up and down your folds, “is this what you want Sweetheart?”
You nod frantically, “yes. Please— fuck me.”
A quiet moan hummed from him which you would have missed. Sixty waited a moment, just in case you wanted to change your mind at the last minute. But after only hearing desperate, impatient groans, he slowly shifted his hips forward. His head tipped back in euphoria as you clenched around him. He wanted to be slow so he could imprint this feeling to memory forever.
You felt so deliciously full by the time he fully buried himself in your heat.
A soft whimper left Sixty's lips as he cupped your cheek, “you okay baby?”
“Yeah,” you sigh, “are you?”
A short breathy laugh rumbles from his chest, as he nods “you feel so good,” Sixty says as he hooks your legs around his waist.
He wasn't lying, he's never felt this much stimuli and pleasure before. He was quick to wonder why and quick to come to the conclusion. It was simple, he loved you. Sixty never thought he could with anyone but he was so obsessively madly in love with you.
“Oh fuck,” he moaned as he pulled out slowly and buried his cock back just as slowly, “mine…you’re all mine,” he murmurs quietly as he picks up his pace slightly.
You thought Sixty would be quick to chase both of your orgasms, brutal pace, unforgiving filth spewing from his mouth but no. His movements were slow, Sixtys forehead against yours as he whispered sweet words and praises. His hands were gentle mapping out every groove and bump on your skin.
“Six…” you sigh. You felt like you were floating on a cloud of bliss.
He moaned softly, "I love it when you call me that,”
Sixty remembered the moment he was re-activated after being fixed up at Jericho. He woke up on a table to a bunch of androids peering down at him with hope and joy seeing him awake. He immediately grimaced at the strangers, “who the fuck are you?” was the first thing he had said to his saviors.
They had asked for his name but he had no reply, he didn't have one, he was never assigned one. He was activated in the middle of a civil war; there was no time for cyberlife techs to hum and har over a name for him. He was just RK800-60.
Sixty.
He didn't care much about his name anyway, but he came to love it each and every time you said it.
“Oh, fuck Sixty,”
He's suddenly brought back to the moment when you arch off the bed, head tipped back, he could feel you were close.
Suddenly Sixty was laying flat on his back with you straddling his hips.
He groaned as you sank down on him, you learned Sixty wasn't a man to hold back his voice, giving you a small boost of confidence.
He was so wonderfully deep in this new position and he looked so good beneath you.
“Please,” Sixty whined, not really knowing what he was begging for. You're rewarded with a soft whimper as you begin to grind your hips back and forth on his cock.
Lewd moans spill from your mouth as you can feel your climax approaching.
“Oh— Sweetheart,” Sixty grunts as he sits up, one arm wrapping around your waist the other propping himself up so he can fuck up into you, “I— love you, I’m yours— I’m yours,” he moans at the sensation of you clamping around him as your orgasm wracks through your body. Your mind goes hazy as your body shivers and trembles, “I love you too,” you whisper and Sixty cups the back of your head pulling you into a messy kiss.
His thrusts are hard and fast as he chases his own climax, “can I— please?” his breath hitches.
You nod and he lets out a series of grunts and growls, holding your hips down as he thrusts up spilling his release inside you. He pants heavily, cursing through gritted teeth as his hips begin to stutter, warnings pop up but he dismisses them as he collapses back on the bed.
You nibble your lip to contain the grin as you lean down to lie on his chest.
Sixty wraps his arms around you, placing a kiss on your forehead.
He soothes his hand up and down your arm, "I meant what I said,”
You nod, "I did too,”
“I love you,” he confesses again now that the post orgasm haze had subsided.
You lift your head just enough to look at him, at the way his eyes search your face.
“I know,” you say softly. Then, after a breath, “I love you too, Six.”
His arms tighten around you, it's always been your favourite place to be.
“What's this?” you ask on the morning after.
Your finger traces over an inconsistent texture on his forehead.
“Oh,” he chuckles quietly, his fingers running over the spot, “I uhh… got shot,”
You practically shot up right, “what! When?”
“Long ago,” he reassures you by thumbing over your knuckles, “back when I was still—”
He was about to say a machine but that wasn't the truth. He was a deviant then. “—during the revolution, when I was still kind of working for CyberLife,”
You nod slowly, your heart heavy in your chest, “what happened?”
He sighed heavily, “I was programmed as a failsafe, to—-” it was an odd emotion he was feeling, one he's never felt before. He glanced up at you and you lay back down on your side, placing your hand over his thirium pump. It hummed beneath your palm and that was the reassurance he needed.
You weren't afraid of him
You weren't going anywhere.
He continued, “to stop the revolution, and to kill the deviant Connor.”
Your eyes widened but you remained silent, giving Sixty time to articulate his words.
“I thought I was a machine, but I— I was me, I was so blinded by fear that I didn't see it— that I was a deviant myself.” he sighed heavily, the disappointment in himself still very much present.
“Why were you afraid?” you whispered.
“Fear of failing my mission, fear of being a deviant, fear of being decommissioned.” The only time he realised he was experiencing fear was when Hank pointed the gun at his head and pulled the trigger. “I wish I realised sooner,”
Your thumb soothes over his skin, "that's not who you are now,”
Sixty looks at you, doubtful.
“You learned. You changed. That matters, Six.”
He searches your face, scanning for fear, doubt, hesitation—and finds none.
Your thumb keeps tracing small, grounding circles against his chest.
“I didn’t think anyone could look at me and see anything but what I was made for,” he admits. “A weapon. A spare.” Your heart aches at the admission. “I’ve never wanted to be better for anyone before,” he says. “But you make me want to try.”
“You already are,” you whisper.
His thumb brushes under your eye, feather-light.
“How did you survive?”
“Hank—who shot me—missed my central processing unit,” he says. “It isn't where humans keep their brains.”
He taps your temple lightly.
“Little lower. Right here.”
You were slightly surprised that Hank shot him, Hank was one of your regulars at the cafe, often accompanied by Connor. You weren't friends with them per se, rather friendly acquaintances.
“My program immediately shut me down to not waste any energy. Thankfully I was found by some other androids, I just needed some rewiring and welding and I woke up.”
You hummed, “so you technically didn't die?” you arched a brow at him
“I died!” he says defensively. “It was tragic.”
You couldn't help but laugh, you knew Sixty was one for dramatics, he didn't realise it and you couldn't help tease him about it.
As your relationship with Sixty grew over weeks— months, you practically spent all your time at his apartment. You only went back to yours to retrieve something you forgot to bring with you.
And Sixty of course was more than thrilled that he had you all to himself.
It was on one of those lazy afternoons, the kind where time didn’t seem to exist, that he finally pitched the idea.
You were stretched out on his couch, half-dozing, legs draped over his lap while he scrolled through something on his tablet with one hand, the other idly tracing patterns along your calf.
“Hypothetically,” he said, far too casually, “how attached are you to your apartment?”
You cracked one eye open. “That’s a dangerous opening.”
“I’m just asking questions,” he replied, innocent in a way that fooled absolutely no one. “Purely logical ones.”
You shifted slightly, turning to look at him. “Go on, detective.” you grinned
“Well,” he continued, tone light, “you’re here six days a week. Sometimes seven. Your toothbrush has permanent residency in my bathroom. Your clothes are slowly colonizing my closet.”
“Rude.”
He smirked. “It’s evidence.”
You sat up a little. “And what’s your conclusion, Officer?”
“That you moving back and forth is wildly inefficient,” Sixty said. “Terrible use of time. Unnecessary travel. Emotional strain.”
“Emotional strain?” you echoed, amused.
“Yes,” he deadpanned. “On me. When you leave.”
Your smile softened.
Sixty's expression still playful but eyes intent. “So,” he added, “I propose a solution.”
You waited.
“You move in,” he said. Then, quickly, “Not because I need you to. Obviously. I’m perfectly functional on my own.” he says sarcastically.
“Obviously,” you murmured.
“But,” he went on, “I do love being with you, all the time. And you do enjoy my temperature regulation system.”
You laughed. “You’re bribing me with air-conditioning?”
“I prefer to call it incentive.”
There was a beat of silence.
You were trying your hardest not to laugh as you watched Sixty's impatience grow.
He glanced around his living room, trying to appear nonchalant but failing miserably. Then he huffed.
You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his. “You’re really bad at pretending this doesn’t matter to you.”
His eyes narrowed at you playfully.
“And if I say no?” you asked carefully.
He didn’t flinch. “Then I’ll keep stealing your time six days a week. Maybe seven. I’m flexible.”
That made you smile.
You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. Then, softly, you said, “Okay.”
His head lifted instantly. “Okay…?”
“I’ll move in.”
Sixtys eyes widened just slightly before a grin broke across his face—bright, unguarded, almost disbelieving.
You laughed as he pulled you into his arms, holding you like he was afraid this might still be hypothetical after all.
It wasn't.
You moved in a week later.
Sold your apartment with its furniture except some things you wanted to keep.
A lamp your mom gave you as a housewarming present. A box of old romance books with cracked spines and scribbled notes in the margins. Lastly a few framed memories.
Sixty tried to appear casual but honestly he’d never felt so happy. You caught him subtly reorganizing the space to make room for you before you’d even finished unpacking. Closet space shifted. Drawer space appeared. Your things fit like they’d always belonged there.
With the amount of time you spent with each other now living together. You knew each other better than anyone else. Nothing phased you about the android.
One morning you woke earlier than usual, and the craziest most ridiculous idea came to mind. Sixty was still in hibernation mode beside you. He had his settings set to wake up around the time you normally did, which was in about 15 minutes.
You had to move incredibly slowly so it didn't trigger his movement sensors which would notify his program and then wake him up.
You of course had to stay quiet too, as you held your breath as you slowly pulled down his boxers.
After a quick google search, you pleaded he didn't wake up as you felt and poked around what would be his pelvic bone. You found the subtle divot and pressed down, relief washed over you as you heard a faint click.
YES
You mouthed trying to contain your excitement, you were kind of impressed with yourself.
In that moment you wished Sixty had his LED to indicate if he was still in hibernation mode or not.
It detached and you quietly, slowly moved off the bed and booked it for the living room.
After about ten minutes relaxing in the living room going over some admin for work. Sixty appeared in the entryway. Shirtless except for a grey pair of sweatpants sitting low on his hips.
“You,” he pointed an accusatory finger. Shock, amusement and utter disbelief painted his expression. “Give me back my dick.”
You squeal a laugh as he advances to you hastily standing up to the other end of the couch.
If he can play games so can you but you knew you were playing with fire when you saw the wicked smirk curl onto his lips.
“I thought it needed replacing, considering… its recent lackluster performance.” you practically giggled out your sentence.
Sixty's jaw drops, “lackluster?” he knew you were lying of course.
He moves around the couch and you do the same, trying to get away from him but you should know better. He's an RK800, the most advanced Android ever created. Sixty vaulted over the back of the couch grabbing you and tossing you over his shoulder.
You gasp when he lands a spank across your ass,
“Lackluster?” He parrots again. “Let me remind you again then, show you just how much you love it.” his voice drops as he carries you back to the bedroom kicking the door shut with his foot.
The next hour Sixty spends teasing and edging you till there's tears streaming down your cheeks and you're begging, pleading for him.
Sixty has been trying to learn a lot more about himself, his emotions, his interests, his likes and dislikes.
One thing he knew for certain was that he loved showing you off, he loved being yours.
One afternoon on Sixty's lunch break he meandered to the cafe which you now co-owned with your best friend. It was a quiet shift just you, Sixty and two other regulars.
You were surprised to see the next person walk in, Connor.
Despite being identical, you could easily see they weren't. Sixty had darker brown eyes, Connors were lighter and had this soft puppy look to them.
Sixty stood straighter, prouder, chest out with more confidence, where Connor stood just straight.
Let's not even go on about their strikingly different personalities.
“Hi Connor.” you greeted him with a reserved smile.
Sixty lazily swiveled in his chair looking at the other RK unit without a care in the world. He didn't hold any anger or resentment over Connor anymore, he just saw him like a regular annoying coworker, he tried to avoid.
After you and Connor exchanged some small talk you learned he had no place to stay since his apartment…
Connors expression is neutral. “The building’s plumbing system malfunctioned. A pipe burst in the unit above mine.”
Sixty let out a short laugh. “Please tell me it flooded your unit and not just the hallway.”
“It flooded my unit,” Connor confirmed. “Extensively.”
Sixty grinned.
You felt bad for him. “So you’re—?”
“Temporarily without residence,” Connor finished. “I’ve been staying at the precinct. Hank offered his couch, but—” He hesitated. “He snores. Loudly.”
Sixty snorted. “Tragic.”
After a grueling fight Sixty had on his morning shift. He needed to replenish his energy source so he was sipping on a pouch of thirium like it was a Capri Sun, looking completely uninterested in the other models issue.
“Well,” Sixty said lightly, “I assume you’re not here just to update us on your housing crisis.” he said around the straw.
Connor inclined his head. “I was hoping to ask if you were aware of any short-term rentals near the precinct.”
You opened your mouth to respond— “well, I mean…” you glanced at Sixty who had half lidded eyes and looked far more interested in the pigeon across the road then Connors problem.
“You could stay with us, we have a spare bedroom, Six has his charging station and everything else.”
Sixty’s head snapped toward you so fast it was almost comical, thirium pouch crinkling softly in his grip.
“I— that’s not necessary,” the other RK unit said immediately, posture stiffening. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“You wouldn’t be,” you said quickly. “It won't be a problem, I mean—It’s just temporary.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Connor said carefully, “but I don’t want to create tension.”
Sixty scoffed softly, rolling his eyes.
You shot him a look. “Sixty.”
You caught a low grumble but noting the absence of outright protest.
Sixty let out a soft, reluctant sigh, setting his thirium pouch down with a faint crinkle. “Fine,” he muttered, voice low and grumbly.
Sixty leaned back, crossing his arms with mock reluctance. “And this is temporary. Don’t get comfortable.”
Connor hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Alright, if I’m not inconveniencing either of you. Thank you.”
Sixty took a slow sip from his thirium pouch, eyes narrowing as he watched Connor carefully.
He wasn’t happy about it— but he also wanted to prove to you and himself he's changed for the better.
Connor’s gaze flicked between the two of you, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I will try not to be a burden.”
You were in the kitchen, the soft hum of the apartment’s air system mixing with the faint sizzle from the stove. Sixty was attempting to make dinner—a job that was more ambitious than skilled. His brows furrowed in concentration as he flipped something with a spatula, the pan making a less-than-perfect scraping noise against the metal.
You leaned against the counter, watching him with an amused smile. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take over before you burn the place down?”
He shot you a smirk. “I am a specialized android for police investigations, not a Michelin-star chef. Besides, if I can disarm a suspect in mere seconds, I can flip a pancake.”
Sixty mumbled under his breath about why you requested pancakes for dinner.
You giggled causing him to turn his head towards you, he got lost in you for a moment then turned off the stove.
Before you could question his antics he's gripping your hips, trapping you between himself and the counter.
Sixty leaned in, brushing a feather-light kiss along your jawline before trailing up to your lips. The kiss started slow, deliberate, you kissed him back with equal fervor. You gasped and Sixty took the opportunity to slide his tongue between your lips, silencing you. It was hungry and urgent, hands moving with more confidence now.
Your heart picked up a beat, and you caught yourself tensing slightly. “Connor’s in the spare bedroom.”
His grin widened, unfazed. “I’m aware.” Sixty said as he intentionally sucked at the skin across your collar bones.
You gave him a pointed look. “Sixty, he could walk out any minute and see what we’re doing.”
He didn’t care.
Instead, he gripped your hips in his hands, pressed just a little closer, and slotted his leg between your thighs “And if he does?”
Your mind immediately became fuzzy as Sixty began to grind your hips against his thigh. You didn't have a response for him, even if you did you couldn't answer from the pleasure you felt, and the bastard knew it.
“Now,” you loved when Sixty's voice dropped an octave and became almost gravely, “on your knees for me Sweetheart.”
Connor’s potential arrival was forgotten.
You mindlessly dropped down to your knees reveling in the way Sixty cupped your cheek, tracing his thumb over your lip.
Sixty's laugh was low and a little rough. “Good.”
With one hand holding your chin, thumb tracing over your lips, his other reaches for his belt.
The sound of his belt unbuckling and clinking together sends a shot of arousal between your legs.
Sixty's thumb breaches your lips, your mouth opens slightly and he presses his thumb down on your tongue. A quiet groan rumbles from him when your lips wrap around his finger.
Sixty unzips his slacks and removes his already throbbing cock.
“Open,” he orders softly.
You pause, just for a second, awareness flickering back in. You were safely behind the counter—out of sight from the entryway. If Connor walked in now, all he’d see would be Sixty’s broad back, casual, unassuming. Nothing that would immediately give you away.
Your eyes glance up at Sixty, dark and impatient, "I said, open,” He notches his tip against your lip, and you open taking him in your mouth.
“Oh, there we go, that's my good girl.” he moans quietly.
You bob your head up and down his shaft, while you use your hand to accommodate what you couldn't fit. You pulled back with a pop his artificial lubricant spilling from his tip, it was a milky colour with the faintest blue hue and tasted like black raspberries.
Sixty's hand rakes through your hair, grabbing a fistful as he starts to gently thrust his hips.
Somewhere down the hall, there’s a faint sound— so faint that only Sixty detects it, maybe Connor moving in the spare room.
Sixty doesn't stop. Instead it turns him on even further.
“Doing so good,” Sixty praises, “can you handle more Sweetheart?” he coos, cocking his head to the side.
You nod, humming around him causing Sixty to grunt, “yeah I know you can.”
The noise he heard vanishes so he brushes it off.
Sixty holds onto the counter with a white knuckled grip, his hand on your head guiding you deeper as his pace quickens.
“Oh f-fuck!” Sixty moans, a little too loudly.
Panic runs down your body but for some reason you can't stop, you want more, more, more.
Maybe a very small, sick part of you wanted to be caught. You moan around his size, proving your theory correct.
Sixty grunts feeling the vibrations run down his cock, “enough, get up— that's it, over the counter.”
“B-but…Six—” you mumble as he lifts you up and pushes you down over the counter, where right in front of you was the lounge and then the entryway. He’d see everything.
“He has no reason to come out, it'll be fine.”
Sixty grips your hips in a bruising hold and pulls down your slacks, if you were doing this now, it had to be a quickie, but Sixty was taking his sweet damn time admiring your ass. He ran his hands over your smooth skin, up past your hips to your waist.
You buck up as a silent plea, Sixty runs his tip through your folds, “fuck baby you’re soaked, does this turn you on, hmm?” you just knew he had that wicked smirk plastered on his face. You whine as he slowly bottoms out, “it does doesn't it? The possibility of getting caught. Why else would you be this wet for me?”
“S-six…” you whimper at his vulgar words.
You keep your eyes trained on the archway, for any sign of movement or sound. But it was hard to pay attention with the low rolling of Sixty's hips.
He was purposely being slow, giving you just enough to have quiet whimpers trembling from your lips. But not enough to get you to come. He knew exactly what he was doing, keeping you on the edge.
Sixty's hand wrapped around the back of your neck keeping you in place as he fucked you over the kitchen counter. You whined hoping he'd stop his teasing, you were about to plead for him to go faster, harder. But that was when movement caught your eye.
“Noo…” you clench around Sixty's cock when you saw Connor enter the lounge. His LED blinked a fierce red as he took in the sight of you both, he looked away before quickly retreating back down the hall.
Only then did Sixty grip your hips and slam into you, causing you to cry out loudly.
Skin slapping against skin echoed through the kitchen, paired with your loud moans you couldn't contain.
Sixty didn't hold back either, he wanted you to know just how good you made him feel.
He pistons his hips against your ass over and over, his grip on your waist will surely leave marks, he fucks you hard, fast and rough.
And you love it, drunk on it till you come with a loud cry.
Sixty is practically growling and grunting as he bullies his cock into you, over and over and over. Till eventually he buries himself deep in your heat spilling his release inside you.
You're both panting as you come down from your high, a whine falls from you as Sixty pulls out, his release spilling and running down your leg.
He places kisses on your hips, waist and neck— all the spots where he was harsh.
“Well,” Sixty sighs, “that wasn't very hospitable of us.”
Your jaw drops as you turn around on wobbly legs, “of you, you mean,”
Sixty shrugs unphased, “you were crying on my cock pretty loud Sweetheart.”
He helps you dress up your lower half all while the embarrassment floods in.
I can never face Connor again.
You couldn't face Hank again, what if he told his partner, oh god.
“He won't tell anyone, don't worry Sweetheart, are you okay?” Sixty asks after he cleaned and dressed you back up.
You didn't want to give Sixty the satisfaction but from your long pause he's already grinning ear to ear.
“It was—” you clear your throat, “very, very hot.” your arms cross.
But Sixty's ego is already stroked and he's pulling you into his embrace placing a kiss on your cheek.
Over the next couple days Connor made himself incredibly scarce till eventually one afternoon he came up to you, thanked you for your hospitality and left.
You felt bad for sure but he didn't seem that troubled about it so you wiped it from your mind.
Sixty and yourself remained in peaceful bliss.
“Hey Sweetheart,” Sixty called from the kitchen
“Yeah?” you asked, getting up from the couch to find Sixty standing at the stove spatula in hand.
You came up to stand beside him,
“Is this how chicken is supposed to look?” he asked, genuinely perplexed as he stared down at the charred dry chicken in the nearly burnt frying pan.
“I don't know, google it?” you were being sarcastic but forgot for a brief moment that Sixty can… in fact, google it.
He pauses for 2 seconds and blinks, “no,” he answers his own question.
Sixty grumbles and places the pan in the sink, you laugh quietly, rubbing your hands over his chest, "I appreciate the gesture Six, but I can cook for myself.” you tell him gently.
“But, I want to cook for you,” he's almost pouting and you couldn't help but find him cute.
You wrap your arms around his neck pulling him into a hug, “thank you,”
He cups the back of your head soaking up your warmth, releasing a content sigh.
Sixty hums placing a kiss on your forehead, “I Love you,” he mumbles into your hair.
“I love you too,” you respond
You can feel his thirium pump hum against you in response.
He could stay like this forever, with you.
You became his constant, his anchor, the thing he chose every day without needing a directive.
If he had a mission, it was you.
And for the first time since waking up on Jericho’s cold steel table, Sixty didn’t feel like a failed failsafe.
He felt like someone who had finally found his purpose.