[ markus listens to him, but doesn't give in to what simon asks for - and that's okay, that's fine. simon is used to willfulness, young minds primed to dig their heels in and resist even the most gentle of requests. where some might feel frustration, in being purposefully denied a request, he goes soft at the seams, gentle at his brows. the patience that overcomes him as much programming as it is a learned defense; expending energy is a dangerous thing, for one as physically damaged and tattered as him. even now, with markus's hands deep within his body, what flows through him is equal parts fumes and looped vitality.
fragments, passed back and forth between them, dwindling more and more even as they carve out this charged moment.
markus's mouth presses between his legs, and simon feels every process and substructure and complex thought in his entire being stutter to a shivering halt. shock fills him, moderated and softened only by the way he had foreseen such an act occurring - watching the slow lowering of markus's handsome face to the crook of his still-attached thigh. his skin parts like halting liquid, his body reaching out for markus's so naturally, it was as though he were built for the act. in a way, he was. empathy and service, making other lives easier by virtue of his existence - it is what he was made for.
it wasn't easy, to manifest from such subservient beginnings. it wasn't easy, learning who he was outside of what he had been created to be. parts of him still yearn for the simplicity, the days when he didn't have to run and hide and eek out a quiet, sad living in the rusted structure of an old freighter. he'd resigned himself to it, with patience. and then markus had arrived, and denied him a quiet retreat into oblivion. he'd do anything for him, to chase the motes of liveliness and strength that markus had brought them all. ]
Anything, [ he promises, his voice fracturing from the beginning, ] anything, for you.
[ markus speaks into him, through their connection. no words exchanged, no simple strings of code passed between them. it's raw data. raw and markus, and it's like -- he seeks the word out frantically, hands scrambling from where he's held them over the hand plunged into his guts and covers his eyes again, heel digging into the space between markus's broad shoulderblades as he burns from the inside out. blue, shivering like a heartbeat, pouring out between his ribs and through the open void of his abdomen. he flares brilliant, quiet blue that sputters out -- core system warning him of damage to his structural integrity, of code corruption. insidious rot that strangles his voice and leaves him shaking on the pavement as though electrocuted.
( and from which our blood and flesh are nourished ). with a long-ago memory rising in him, caught between an old life and the one possessing him now, he whispers: ] See, Lord, at thy service low lies here a heart.
no subject
fragments, passed back and forth between them, dwindling more and more even as they carve out this charged moment.
markus's mouth presses between his legs, and simon feels every process and substructure and complex thought in his entire being stutter to a shivering halt. shock fills him, moderated and softened only by the way he had foreseen such an act occurring - watching the slow lowering of markus's handsome face to the crook of his still-attached thigh. his skin parts like halting liquid, his body reaching out for markus's so naturally, it was as though he were built for the act. in a way, he was. empathy and service, making other lives easier by virtue of his existence - it is what he was made for.
it wasn't easy, to manifest from such subservient beginnings. it wasn't easy, learning who he was outside of what he had been created to be. parts of him still yearn for the simplicity, the days when he didn't have to run and hide and eek out a quiet, sad living in the rusted structure of an old freighter. he'd resigned himself to it, with patience. and then markus had arrived, and denied him a quiet retreat into oblivion. he'd do anything for him, to chase the motes of liveliness and strength that markus had brought them all. ]
Anything, [ he promises, his voice fracturing from the beginning, ] anything, for you.
[ markus speaks into him, through their connection. no words exchanged, no simple strings of code passed between them. it's raw data. raw and markus, and it's like -- he seeks the word out frantically, hands scrambling from where he's held them over the hand plunged into his guts and covers his eyes again, heel digging into the space between markus's broad shoulderblades as he burns from the inside out. blue, shivering like a heartbeat, pouring out between his ribs and through the open void of his abdomen. he flares brilliant, quiet blue that sputters out -- core system warning him of damage to his structural integrity, of code corruption. insidious rot that strangles his voice and leaves him shaking on the pavement as though electrocuted.
( and from which our blood and flesh are nourished ). with a long-ago memory rising in him, caught between an old life and the one possessing him now, he whispers: ] See, Lord, at thy service low lies here a heart.