You did everything you could. [Unlike Markus, Connor never had time to experience the complex give and pull of human emotion firsthand: instead it's hardwired into him, just another toolset to be put to use, like the compressed alloy of his substructure, the reinforced redundancies of every cutting-edge biocomponent. Predictive logic triggered by keywords, emotions designed for scenarios, not for the machines or humans behind them. Patching in singular interactions, imitating (perfectly) Markus's sweet-slow response, but never feeling an ounce of it.
(Simon sinks lower, curls tighter: his body is a heavy weight, his mouth is smooth and delicate, brushing up along Connor's jaw, fingers threaded along the nape of his neck where it meets the edge of his own heavy coat— unnecessary in warmer months.)
Connor's mission was— is— the rhythmic pulse of his functional existence. If he stumbles, if he falters, his lifespan is inherently cut.
He likes taking steps towards preventing that. So is it any wonder that, when spurred forward by the hands that made him— the hands that hold his leash— that like grew into want, into cruel, sadistic need? He was programmed to feel. He was programmed to not-feel. He is— ]
It's time to let go. [Simon's hand lingers at his wrist, the rest of him edging ever closer, and Connor fits himself to that movement, aligning their mouths so that the words tangle across Simon's lips. His teeth. The only, brittle precursor to how he leaves nothing unoccupied between them: a kiss that's close to crushing. More take than give, more expectation than open intimacy— that's what Markus was, after all. To the world.
Killing hands braced over a dated android's spine.]
no subject
(Simon sinks lower, curls tighter: his body is a heavy weight, his mouth is smooth and delicate, brushing up along Connor's jaw, fingers threaded along the nape of his neck where it meets the edge of his own heavy coat— unnecessary in warmer months.)
Connor's mission was— is— the rhythmic pulse of his functional existence. If he stumbles, if he falters, his lifespan is inherently cut.
He likes taking steps towards preventing that. So is it any wonder that, when spurred forward by the hands that made him— the hands that hold his leash— that like grew into want, into cruel, sadistic need? He was programmed to feel. He was programmed to not-feel. He is— ]
It's time to let go. [Simon's hand lingers at his wrist, the rest of him edging ever closer, and Connor fits himself to that movement, aligning their mouths so that the words tangle across Simon's lips. His teeth. The only, brittle precursor to how he leaves nothing unoccupied between them: a kiss that's close to crushing. More take than give, more expectation than open intimacy— that's what Markus was, after all. To the world.
Killing hands braced over a dated android's spine.]