Detroit: Become Human - Connor RK800 One Shots

#12 - 500 Miles [Partial Request]

Hey, I'm back! I suddenly caught an inspiration again! Here's my excuses once again for not updating in a while:

Firstly, school assessments; again. Secondly, a nationwide lockdown because of Covid-19. Thirdly, damn writer's block. And lastly, I got back into another fandom and I started a one shot book for that too. Heh, whoops... I need to set my priorities straight. But I promise this book - more importantly requests - will be my primary focus, even though updates are slow. I promise I am working on them just not having as much motivation as I would've liked. So, this is another short filler chapter for you all (to make it look like I did something aha). But now to explain what sparked the inspiration for this one shot!

So, I just finished watching a show called Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist (it's really good, I recommend it) and there's this character who's name is Max and he sings the most sweetest song to the main character, Zoey. I won't get into too much detail about the show but that's essentially the base of this. So I posted the song's link on my activity (on Q) because I was melting over it and was low key giving me Connor vibes. A friend of mine replied saying the same thing without me mentioning Connor in the post. I said I might want to make it into a one shot but I had no plot! She said:

"I think it would make a really good soft boi Connor moment where he's trying to convince (Y/N) that he won't abandon her."

With that and the love of music, I decided to write this! So I give credit to her for the idea, thanks hehe x

(That was a long rant... oops. Don't mind me, I finished this at 2 am because I refused to sleep until it was done.)

It's funny how dull and colourless life can feel sometimes, how every day can just pass by without you accomplishing anything. You had been feeling like this for almost two weeks now, at your apartment with no motivation, this void that ate away at you every day. Connor hadn't visited in exactly two weeks, and counting. When you texted him three days ago, his reasoning was work. The same excuse you received two days before that last text. You checked your phone for the billionth time that day and groaned, flopping your head back onto your pillow. You hardly moved from that spot on your bed, except for the essentials. Each day you chose to brood in some way. Today, you were mumbling to yourself.

"You really fucked up this time, (Y/N). 'Aww Connor, even though you're busy most of the time and you're an android but I love you.'" A simple mockery that stung a little more than it should have, a sudden aching in your chest to pay the price of your verbal abuse. "What were you thinking? He'd love you back? There's no way he'll want to see you again," you convinced yourself, remembering how profound you were with the gesture. He hadn't visited you since that day and you were hating yourself for it. The last thing he did was briefly hug you and run off, another clear sign you screwed up. You wished you hadn't said anything, that you'd just shut your mouth and kept the peaceful friendship you had with Connor. But no, of course you had to blurt out something you meant one-hundred percent and not think about the consequences afterwards. It haunted you, the way he stared into your eyes like you were about to drop off the Golden Gate Bridge. Fear, you would have sworn it to be fear that was in his zircon eyes at that moment. An identical sense of fear that had very much been struck into you as he bolted out of your house. You thought that scenario over a thousand times and you concluded that you had scared the poor deviant away. You shifted your head to stare at the bedroom door, only to stop yourself in the motion.

"He's not coming back, he never will. Just pretend he's dead, it worked yesterday." The weak reassurance didn't lift the restrictions of your mood drop and you felt yourself plummeting deeper into this rift in space and time that you created. You buried your head into your pillow, catching a hint of your own body odour. You recoiled, turning onto your back, eyes burning in the image of your bland, white ceiling. Your gaze switched to the stain that remained on its surface, residue of mould that you had to remove a month ago. Its faded beige lines paralysed you, got you to focus on its infectious curves rather than the dark-haired android you were still grieving and simultaneously drooling over. Your lazy mind wandered without a purpose, the off-cream coloured lines of the mould spot began to twist and contort, your imagination booting up, dragging you into an even more negative headspace than before. Imagination edited the lines, beginning to define features you wouldn't have thought were possible. Your eyes captured the image: it was him. Even your imagination refused to set the memory of him free.