[ for a moment, he is concerned that connor will gouge out his eyes. it would be just like him, after all. a wicked, cruel machine with the sensibilities of a human encoded into the fiber of his being - a mimicry of social interactions at his beck and call, and simon doesn't even pretend to think that he can outpace, outrun or outrank this cutting-edge creature. he's as close to perfected as could be, and it fills simon with dread for the future of his people ( their people; the remnants of jericho ) to think that the base model of cyberlife's hound will be advanced upon.
improved.
made more lethal.
he feels the way that connor pulls his shirt away from his body, markus's ruined coat still heavy as a crown, heavy as the mantle of leadership. the mouth that glides along his neck simulates softness, warmth. the voice is markus's, and he sags into it with another vulnerable sound, knowing - at any given moment - connor might turn those teeth on his throat and bite it out. he does the next best thing, short of jumping the gun: he curls into himself. tucks his chin into that exposed line of synthetic flesh, though it presses his mouth to the angle of connor's jaw. as one would a lover, a friend.
instead of allowing that mouth, those teeth, at his throat, he glides into connor's space. one hand remains on his wrist. the other touches the small hairs ( markus had no hair, only the soft brush of stubble ) at the base of connor's skull. he whispers: ] What do I do, Markus? Where do I go from here?
[ tighter, softer. he aligns himself with connor. noses along his cheek, not with affection - but something blind and hungry, weaponizing his grief and his turmoil against a superior machine. there's not a threat in the lax way he holds himself, the way he angles himself against cyberlife's hound. the way he calls him 'markus', voice thick in his throat and pained. ]
no subject
improved.
made more lethal.
he feels the way that connor pulls his shirt away from his body, markus's ruined coat still heavy as a crown, heavy as the mantle of leadership. the mouth that glides along his neck simulates softness, warmth. the voice is markus's, and he sags into it with another vulnerable sound, knowing - at any given moment - connor might turn those teeth on his throat and bite it out. he does the next best thing, short of jumping the gun: he curls into himself. tucks his chin into that exposed line of synthetic flesh, though it presses his mouth to the angle of connor's jaw. as one would a lover, a friend.
instead of allowing that mouth, those teeth, at his throat, he glides into connor's space. one hand remains on his wrist. the other touches the small hairs ( markus had no hair, only the soft brush of stubble ) at the base of connor's skull. he whispers: ] What do I do, Markus? Where do I go from here?
[ tighter, softer. he aligns himself with connor. noses along his cheek, not with affection - but something blind and hungry, weaponizing his grief and his turmoil against a superior machine. there's not a threat in the lax way he holds himself, the way he angles himself against cyberlife's hound. the way he calls him 'markus', voice thick in his throat and pained. ]
Tell me what you want.
[ just a little more... ]