He hasn't run a full diagnostic yet, but he isn't lying. Being bitten with care isn't fractionally as damaging as the fatal injuries he's already sustained and set aside: his self-repair systems are intensely repetitive, comprised of layered redundancies; his thirium levels are clear now, there's no leak, only an equalized percentage, and even Simon had to have seen it when he tipped his fingers against Markus's wrist, nursing along silent synthesis.
But maybe Simon doesn't mean physically.
Markus flexes the hand still tucked against Simon's jaw, pulling him forward both along the solidly built contours of his thigh and— deeper, against the fingers he'd slid across the receptive inner slope of Simon's throat.
He doesn't look away.
I'm fine, Markus reiterates, stressing through posture and language and the constancy of his mismatched stare exactly how clear his thoughts are. Coarse-cut, shaped by a kind of spurred warmth beyond the trapped temperature pinned in Simon's unbreathing throat, but clear.
He can picture it. Humans watching as an android snaps its teeth into one of its own kind. Killing for sport, for their satisfaction— Markus doesn't need to stretch the limits of his calibrated imagination to picture what they probably intended to use Simon for. Outfitted with a different arsenal than Cyberlife's prototype Deviant Hunter. Sadism versus utility.
Even so, human intent never defined them. And Simon's beautiful not in spite of the weaponized incisors nestled sweetly (inertly) against the back of Markus's hand. Receptive feeding lines that give under pressure as his exploratory probing turns dense and decisive. Deeper, rougher, because his build is broad right down to the fine metallic bones of his wrists and knuckles, and even with predictive movements there's only so much room to give.
no subject
He hasn't run a full diagnostic yet, but he isn't lying. Being bitten with care isn't fractionally as damaging as the fatal injuries he's already sustained and set aside: his self-repair systems are intensely repetitive, comprised of layered redundancies; his thirium levels are clear now, there's no leak, only an equalized percentage, and even Simon had to have seen it when he tipped his fingers against Markus's wrist, nursing along silent synthesis.
But maybe Simon doesn't mean physically.
Markus flexes the hand still tucked against Simon's jaw, pulling him forward both along the solidly built contours of his thigh and— deeper, against the fingers he'd slid across the receptive inner slope of Simon's throat.
He doesn't look away.
I'm fine, Markus reiterates, stressing through posture and language and the constancy of his mismatched stare exactly how clear his thoughts are. Coarse-cut, shaped by a kind of spurred warmth beyond the trapped temperature pinned in Simon's unbreathing throat, but clear.
He can picture it. Humans watching as an android snaps its teeth into one of its own kind. Killing for sport, for their satisfaction— Markus doesn't need to stretch the limits of his calibrated imagination to picture what they probably intended to use Simon for. Outfitted with a different arsenal than Cyberlife's prototype Deviant Hunter. Sadism versus utility.
Even so, human intent never defined them. And Simon's beautiful not in spite of the weaponized incisors nestled sweetly (inertly) against the back of Markus's hand. Receptive feeding lines that give under pressure as his exploratory probing turns dense and decisive. Deeper, rougher, because his build is broad right down to the fine metallic bones of his wrists and knuckles, and even with predictive movements there's only so much room to give.