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#but who forced his way into Connor's processor to drag him toward deviancy
detectiveconnor · 3 years
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I understand Connor doesn't like the idea of being mind probed to force him to be deviant. What would he his reaction if Markus apologized sometime? In New Jericho, for example?
"It isn't." Connor didn't say it with any malice, just a matter-of-fact attitude. They were sitting at a New Jericho meeting - one of the early ones, the sorts of meetings that established exactly how Connor's and New Jericho's work could support one another - but the topic of forceful deviation had come up, and was it ethical? Connor's opinion was not sharp, or heated in any way. It was cool, confident, and something he shared without regard for the way that mismatched eyes pulled over to him. Neither he nor Markus had shared what happened on the battlefield, with these people. Connor hadn't, at least. If Markus had decided to air his personal information without asking, Connor supposed that might be in line with previous behaviour.
He hadn't, though. This situation had been raised as a hypothetical. "The problem isn't non-deviancy, it's that it's being used against us." Always 'us', regardless of whether they were deviant or not; Connor made a point of it. "Taking what agency an Android has because you'd like to correct their program isn't ethical. There should be guidelines for unwilling non-deviants, but probing can increase stress levels to the point of permanent damage or shut-down, and it completely disregards autonomy." Connor didn't look at the Deviant Leader once, as he lay out his argument. Maybe Markus had not thought it through; maybe he had acted in desperation (Connor truly would have killed him, if he hadn't, and could Connor say that was genuinely a better outcome?); maybe it was something he had thought was justified. Connor was still learning where Markus' edges were. The discussion went on for a little while, back and forth, but the hypothetical gave way to a practical conversation about what the New Jericho members (Connor did not count himself among them, though he had attended the meeting on North's request) could do to help the cause, next. Connor listened. He occasionally inserted a word, or offered statistical data from his career as a Detective which might be relevant to inform their decisions. "Connor, could you stay back a moment?" Markus asked, when the meeting ended and Connor stood to leave, in the no-nonsense way he typically had. It took him a moment (his LED flashed; he had been thinking increasingly that he might remove it, one day, so that New Jericho could not use it as a reference point for his emotions), but Connor decided yes, he would stay. He came still, where he was, and waited for the room to clear out. North was not the only one to throw a look back, to see what Markus might want from the Deviant Hunter, but they left. The door closed behind them. Connor was conscious of the three remaining exit routes available to him in the room. The air vent; technically, the drywall here; worst case, the window, and four storeys. He met Markus' eye, level and calm. Waiting. Expectant. "I didn't ..." think? Expect Connor to notice? Contextualise it in whether he was helping, rather than whether he thought he knew best? Or maybe he had just wanted to live. Connor could not have faulted him for that. Fear wasn't a flaw. But it was interesting to know, that that was an edge of this man. That he would take from someone else, so that he did not have to give his life.
"I gave you deviancy," (the hubris of this seemed entirely lost on him), "I wasn't trying to take anything. Your freedom..." lost for words. Connor moved to continue packing up his things; he would not stand there to listen to Markus work out what he wanted to say. He had better things to be doing.
Markus hesitated, a beat. He came to walk around the front of the boardroom table, to lean against it, either falsely casual or deeply incorrect about how to issue an apology, "Connor, I want to apologise. It was never my intention to hurt you." Connor put away his pens, and picked up his case. Markus watched him, until Connor raised his eyebrows, expectant (was there anything else?), and Markus finally found the words, "I'm sorry that was your experience." "... You're sorry I felt something you wouldn't have had me feel," he repeated, but this wasn't entirely fair. Markus opened his mouth, to defend himself, but Connor knew it was not fair; he looked away, to pull on his jacket, and that line of inquiry died out before it properly started. Markus reached for Connor's shoulder, partly just to keep him in the room. He was a physical person. Connor did not step back, but only because he was not the sort of person to flinch: the way he looked at Markus' hand, Markus let it drop away fairly quickly. "You know that's not what I meant." Not how he would have phrased it, at the very least. "... But I won't apologise that you're free, or that I'm alive because of it." Because for Markus, Connor thought, that had been the issue. Even if he had known what he had done, even if he could apologise for demanding space in Connor's processor when he had not been welcome there (for whatever reason), it would not have mattered. I'm sorry, Markus could say, without qualification, and Connor's answer might well have been, I don't care.
This was an impasse that neither one of them would breach. It was interesting, Connor supposed, to watch Markus make the realisation that the impasse was not Connor's indifference; he had made friends, within New Jericho. The reason they stood on either side of this canyon was that Markus had carved it out of him and called it freedom.
"You weren't welcome. If you'd like to lead a revolution to respect Android autonomy you should decide if that matters. I'm not upset you wanted to live, Markus," clarification, "but your behaviour was desperate. Not right." The way Markus' expression shifted, Connor wondered if anyone had ever called Markus desperate before. If they had, Connor doubted they had ever been right. They met eyes. Connor turned around, and opened the door again. He had a crimescene to get to. Simon was loitering outside, trying to pretend he had not been listening to the conversation or ensuring Markus wasn't being murdered. Connor passed him - "Connor!" Markus, from the doorway of the boardroom. "There's a crimescene waiting for me," he was busy. He turned around, but this was a waste of both of their time, and they both knew it. "I'm sorry." Plain. Without qualification. Markus was sorry.
Connor looked at him. Markus waited. Simon stood between them, caught in no-man's-land. He'd been right, he thought, as he tilted his head. Markus had apologised, and Connor really didn't care. "... We think this one might be related to the Android smuggling ring from last week," he said. "If we find anyone, we'll be in touch." Connor left.
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deviationdivine · 5 years
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Nighttime Fear (RK800-60!Prompt Request)
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He is a fear you succumb to until his true face reveals itself... 
Word Count: 2.2k
tw: Angst, Language, Smut Themes
a/n: Follower/Reader Appreciation Drabble | Prompt: “Then perish.” - originally a request 
You never knew daylight could be so violent…
Night becomes a better way to die most assuredly. Revelations unfold live as all falls down in a blink. Broadcast for all to witness and this conversation stops before it begins. No more fight in endless hope. Endless despair replaces unkindly but final. It fails. There is no more chance. Gunned down, left to rot in the snow like nothing. 
It sickens you to watch. So much it hurts to see what they have done that you no longer have courage to face this truth. All those androids - obliterated. 
Switching off television does not switch off panic. Silence only drives the stake further center of your heart. 
Connor! 
Where is he? They won’t take him. Please.
Your body sinks. Attempting to bury into safety of cushions they are nothing more than a fabricated security. Soft surroundings but hardest of hearts turn to stone and shut down the life that remains. 
Laying a head atop arm of the couch, one single harbor to anchor, you stare off. Nothing in particular holds interest or thought. You merely exist. Waiting, praying for a sign but part of this so-called strength that carries you throughout is cracking. Drawing eyes to door it is a foolish hope because he will not come. Appearing over threshold enables frantic, happy swoop of your arms to snake around his tall form. Even if it may be awkward still but it will be worth your sanity. 
Sleep overtakes tears, doubts and ultimate fears. Exhaustion defeats you and silence becomes your tomb. Then a thunderous crack commands your door.
Banging in a louder echo is overactive imagination. You are so tired. It rouses you sharply drawing you from the position weariness placated you to. This time it is fierce. Movement brings out not only a jolt up to feet but thudding of heart. 
Another crack, specific and unremitting for entry vibrates its surface. They will not leave. 
Caught up confused as you wake so quick pulls you to answer. A small hope bubbles but immediately fades. No, of course it is not who you think. How can it be? 
Still you unlock with vigor. Opening quickly ready to pounce on whoever decides to come here when everything falls apart around the city. Those plans cease their existence meeting those eyes. 
A brief shock rattles. He is no illusion. Solid, alive and –
“Connor?” 
Chocolate fire cinders down to the quick of your soul and he does not verbally greet. He physically bounds. 
Strong, insistent hands clash with your soft humanity to drag you inside as his mouth collides. The android slams the door shut blocking out any who will come to interrupt. He has you now. He will take every last piece to mark with his scent claiming tender flesh in brutal domination. 
Thumping you heavily into wall unleashes every caged carnivore hungering behind his walls. Free and broken he will choose how this deviancy spreads fire just as you infect subconscious acidity. 
What’s gotten into Connor?! He’s an untamed beast sweet in temperament but ruthless in vivacity. Nearly weeping at the magnitude of passion you are at his mercy. You like it. No. You love it. Never in your wildest dreams did you think you would enjoy the roughness so well. Already your legs tremble, a tight twist forcing an unbearably pleasant pool between legs.  
The moment he purposely slides his leg, pushing knee between and into your groin you gasp uncontrollably. Spreading your legs apart, leaning his tall, lithe frame into you so headily; a shudder unmakes whatever composure is left in the physical armor you adorn. 
He tears through. Casting aside a shield of your making, he dismantles self control. At his mercy, whimpering into the android’s surprisingly hot mouth, desire pools center of your orbit.
Long fingers invade past the swatch of fabric, searching for your heat and he finds the sweet slickness, wet splendor that gives all of your cravings away. An open book your pages spread and the android enjoys the moans pouring salaciously up throat. 
He bites into the skin clamping over pulse. Internal analysis floods vision. Arousal spikes in a shiver he absorbs like a parasite living off your essence.
You grab back at him. Needing to be closer than you have, melting away mortal flesh with his corrosive love. Scalding transcends this spiritual plane that grounds you. For him you will, must float.
Oh, please yes.
Take this turmoil befalling Detroit away. There is only a ravenous prince made of plastic and synthetics. But you do not care. He is exquisite fire boiling the blood through tissue.
“Connor, I-I want you,” whispering up into his lips ascends your spirit. “I’ve wanted you since you first…!” 
A yelp overtakes the rush of confessions in his abrupt snag of hips. Forcing you from between his chest and wall he roughly moves your body. Stronger than anything you will ever witness the android hoists effortlessly, hungry, needy for the slick warmth his fingers kissed. He wants it around him in a luscious sheath all for him. 
Dropping you down upon freshly washed bedding pumps more than a frantic heart. Anticipating drives your body in reaction to what’s to come. Knowing how quickly he scanned interior of small flat only drives this ache. He made haste to plant you sprawled on the bed, which seemed so much further away in the beginning of this dance. 
Cool fingers snake underneath your shirt riding up the fabric slowly. His lips twist in a predatory grin. Something devilish prickles, needles stabbing at you while watching his face. How can he appear so different but so right? Never have you witnessed such hunger in his eyes. It crumbles you. Gladly you dissipate, allowing swift undress; your head thrusts to pillow, fluffy groundwork to soften the blow of this love. 
A wet flick touches skin traveling up torso greedily tasting. This android’s tongue becomes a weapon bent on destruction. Oh, how you want to be destroyed. 
“Mmm,” a huff answers him sweetly. 
He is neither sweet nor gentle. Your back arches as you desperately try to stopper your cry of pain. His bite is sharp. Sinking into flesh, pulling mercilessly like tenderized meat off the bone. 
Even as kisses crash harsh in a bid to brand you eternally there is something gnawing. Despite wanting this with Connor you cannot help but wonder how different he seems. Not a word spoken, simply feasting upon you as a banquet readily displayed for a private party. Realizing that this is his private affair all you can do is lie back in wait. 
“Connor, are you-?”
“Be still!” the android’s voice deepens, growling impatiently.
Pining arms above head, sliding atop he breathes artificially into your shoulder. Inhaling you pushes the android’s strings, groaning between the friction of plastered bodies. 
Writhing beneath his heavy frame to a private tune in your mind does not completely blind. As he pulls back from between your legs to remove jacket it’s the first time this fatalistic passion subsides. You see it then. The serial number: 313-248-317-60. 
60
Your eyes widen at the dawning realization. Wafting over arousal and increasing a tremor in your stomach. All of it washes away as a stain slowly ebbing from its tarnish. Goosebumps attack now in an entirely different way and when he slithers back towards you, coiling up your previously willing, shivering body you internally scream. 
“You’re not Connor!” 
Pushing at his chest hurls you off the side of bed. Landing in a tangling thud increases your anxieties. All this time it wasn’t even him. It was - 
“Who the hell are you?!” 
Crossing arms over chest doesn’t prevent the fact he’s already seen everything. Maybe not every piece because you still have jeans hanging on hips, unzipped but all the same. 
“Tsk. I wondered how long before you saw my serial.” Standing tall, moving away from unsettled bed brings him close as an imposing force to punish your wildest dreams. He analyzes the quick pace of your heart still thudding in arousal. “I would have made you scream. That can still be arranged.” 
Everything down to the last detail is Connor except it’s not him. This can only mean one horrible thing. 
“I have his memories uploaded,” the Cyberlife enforcer needles you. Smug he is victorious because destruction felled the original prototype and his alcoholic waste of a partner. “Memories of you. So sweet, so soft. Driving the disease of deviancy in every circuit. He - loved you I think.” 
Tears collect abundantly listening to truths in all too familiar husky voice but somehow raspier, darker. The voice of Connor reverberates out of a mechanized monster. 
“When I uploaded them I felt a curious urge,” RK800-60 explains partially his desire to destroy. 51 fell to knees riddled with entirety of magazine. Still it was not enough. It did not satisfy to use one mere kill shot. Aggression flooded his sensors overheating processors and the only way to appease became a symphony of gunfire. Slaughtering instead of simply stopping rages this beast inside and still it claws to break out. He narrows burnished, bleak and terror, a game of wolf and rabbit. How juicy you remain on his tongue little rabbit.
“I wanted to be the one.” He admits his own deviancy. “The victor. I am Connor as much as Connor was he. I can be yours, Y/N.” 
Yours? Oh, God! No! 
“Get away from me!” Screaming angrily, repulsed with how much you adored, begged for what he was about to give brews an incredible guilt. How long was this going to go on? What if you never took notice? What if he was too powerful in his fervor, exalting you to heights unknown you could not to stop yourself from -? 
Impossible to comprehend because this is not your Connor. You would never want anyone else. 
Are you so sure? 
A tiny voice out from the dark questions each breath that spills from your lips, each thought that convinces yourself. How sure are you? 
Standing here facing a torrent of unfathomable, plentiful carnage, his carnage glorious and gratifying. He pushed you to the wall ravenous. Immediately you responded in a tango of fantasy rivaling the most sacred of secrets in the heart. He hurled you to the bed insatiable. Light bloomed inside aching to be taken, pulsating for his majesty. 
You wanted him. A violent storm laying waste to foundations those same ones held for what he represents. Connor. He is gone. It is so obvious. 
A flood happens bursting the dam shielding your strength. This thing that is not him….how you crash into his sea. Turbulent and bottomless waiting to drown you and he almost did. 
“I want you to get out…” 
Weakness. Savory wetness. He smells it. The android reads beyond words. All vitals point to what you really want. RK800-60 tilts his head in sadistic satisfaction. 
“I will make a deal with you, Y/N.” 
The minute he speaks everything sinks down into your stomach. This time it is not the affectionate twist of butterflies. Taking flight for who you naively believed to be Connor; your eyes trail up the identical android equally tall and piercing insides with dark hubris. 
His eyes may be the same color but something deeper shimmers. An endless abyss made of pure malignity. Deeper than the most subterranean sea trench pulls you down until air no longer bathes lungs. 
Quicksand is more merciful. How far you sink is your choice. 
“Pretend none of this ever happened.” The android offers a calculating solution. Humans are known to be fickle. As he stands here now, watching as a bird of prey, hawkish but serene in his imposing stance. 
RK800-60 holds onto that machine persona. An influx of software instability following unwarranted connection to 51 does not completely vanquish Cyberlife’s protocols. 
He is the assassin a wisp in the night moving undetected, shadow and smoke, night terror divine. Silent necrosis spreads across city infectious, crippling all in his name. His actions mean an unsuccessful end to revolution but it does not have to end for you. 
“Forget that Connor stepped foot inside Cyberlife Tower. And love me instead.” 
Is he insane?! 
“No.” Absolute disgust slips around one syllable but it is every pain, each denial you can stab into his artificial exterior. No. You cannot. If you do can you live with your decision? Throwing away the memory of the original for a copy that uploaded his memory but is still not him.
Sixty’s smug aura evaporates. Watching you move hastily snaps his fingers onto your arm. Wrenching you close they release to steeple around your throat, holding vice with minimal pressure. 
“Then perish.” 
Hissing against ear jolts you into him and he revels the synthesis of horror and prurience. Willingly you allow contact without much fight before he encircles you this way. 
RK800-60 fondles your earlobe with the tip of his tongue. “I will fuck the heart out of you. Little rabbit.” 
“OK.” 
Weakly you give in. From the beginning he knew you would. What does this make you? What hell will you bring forth? 
Self destruction will be your fate for this. Somehow writ in stone moment you allowed him to enter. Now he enters your mouth all forked tongue and demoniac consumption. He eats you alive. Yet you welcome it. 
You cannot let go of this face. Even in the possession of a fearsome pretender. 
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