In which the Moon Knight alter system presents a unique opportunity to settle the nature versus nurture debate, once and for all...
Steven Grant/Marc Spector/Jake Lockley x afab!psychologist!reader
RATING: EXPLICIT (18+, mdni)
WARNINGS: SMUT (specific warnings in each chapter), questionable ethics/scientific practices, discussion of mental health, psychoanalysis, extensive descriptions of DID, fetishization of mental disorders (DID)
NOTES: this fic is really, really morally ambiguous and ireally honestly don't feel great about it. in real life, the contents of this story would be considered extremely unethical, deceptive, manipulative, and there are some serious conflicts of interest. that being said, as someone who is passionate about psychology, i have been wanting to write this for quite some time. if this might be triggering to you, or you feel uncomfortable with the sort of scientific gray area this presents, please don't read it.
DISCLAIMER: although i’m incredibly knowledgeable about psychology, i am NOT a professional. all psychoanalyses made throughout the course of this storyline are entirely my own, based on my own interpretations of the characters. in a similar vein, i am also not an expert on DID specifically (although i am well-read on mental disorders and diagnoses), so i apologize for any incorrect terminology or misrepresentation. don’t hesitate to call me out if i say something wrong!
Connor always told you that he was just a machine.
This is when he proves it to you.
Tags: Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Character Death, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex
Read here or on AO3.
“What’s more important to you, Conner?”
Elijah Kamski’s voice floats through your mind, disembodied, distant and disjointed past the thrumming in your ears. The pounding of your heart.
“That’s enough,” you say, try to spit out with as much venom as you can muster, but your voice wavers. You feel yourself shaking. Losing control.
“Your investigation?” he asks, and the little smile playing on his lips, the way he’s toying with Connor, makes your stomach churn. “Or the life of this android?”
You hate the way he says that word. The way he sneers it, like it’s so much less. Like she is so much less. Your glance back at the other two Chloe androids, and they look terrified, clinging to each other, covering their mouths with their hands.
Decide who you are.
Connor’s LED flickers, a constantly cycling amber. His eyebrows twitch, furrowing and unfurrowing, lips pressed into a firm line. But his arm remains steady, gun pointed squarely at Chloe’s forehead.
Kamski grabs his shoulder, voice lilting with sadistic glee. “Pull the trigger—”
“Conner—Don’t!”
“—and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Before you can open your mouth again, before you can raise your hand to stop him—
A splatter of thirum erupts from her forehead, and Chloe goes limp.
The room is spinning, a blur of gray and while and blue. Your ears are ringing, your eyes are burning—what the hell just happened? Everything is collapsing in on itself. You’re trembling, breaking in two.
How long, you wonder, until that gun is pointed at you?
You look back at the other two Chloes. Take in the way one stares straight at you, eyes wide, the way the other has buried her face in the shoulder of the other.
I’m sorry. You want to say, but you can’t find the words, can’t find the air. You feel like you can’t breathe, like all the air has been sucked out of the room and you are suffocating.
You turn to leave. Turn around and flee because you can’t bear to be in that room any longer.
Connor catches up with you just outside the front door. Grabs your wrist and keeps hold of it when you try to wrench it away.
You spin around to face him, scowl at him and pull again. “Let go of me!”
He looks taken aback. Confused. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” you shout, trying again to yank free of him. Rage boils in your chest, indignation and hatred and you feel like you are burning alive. “You shot her, Conner!”
“I shot a machine, Detective” he says. The steady ambivalence, the cool blue of his LED—it baffles you, infuriates you. “I did what I had to do to advance the investigation.”
“You killed her, Conner!” you yell, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You pointed the gun at her fucking skull and killed her!”
“And I would do it again if I had to.”
You laugh—a bitter, choking sound. “You don’t feel a fucking thing, do you? Do you?!” You pull on your wrist again, trying to pry his fingers off. “Let go of me!”
This time, he does, and you stagger backwards.
“You’re just a machine…” you whisper, blinking back tears, backing away from him, cradling your wrist against your chest. The wind whips around you, howling and shrieking.
“Of course I am,” he says, shouts over the wind, and it’s the angriest—the most anything—you’ve ever seen him. “What did you think I was?”
His question throws you off balance. It knocks the wind out of you. And all at once, the tears overflow. The anger, the disgust, the shame and disbelief, it burns in your lungs. “I thought… I-I thought…”
I thought you were different.
“Get it the car,” he says, closer now, voice back to its monotone coldness.
And you do, because there’s little else to do. He drives you home, doesn’t say another word to you, and follows you inside. Follows you into the kitchen where you go straight for the bourbon still out on the kitchen counter, taking solace in the bite and the burn.
Then his hand is wrapping around your own, lowering the bottle before it can do any real good. You glare at him, through teras you convince yourself are from the bourbon. You stare at his eyes, a brown so soft and warm, but so entirely devoid of warmth.
He steps closer, his other arm wrapping around your waist.
You press your palm flat against his chest. “What the hell are you doing?”
He leans close, pressing gentle kisses along the line of your jaw, down the column of your throat.
“Last time I touched you like this,” he says, taking the bottle from your trembling fingers and setting it on the counter behind him. “Your attitude towards me improved significantly,” his breath is hot against your collarbone, his fingers toying with the bottom of your shirt. “I’m simply seeking the same results.”
You let out a shaky exhale, and something inside you shatters.
It hurts—it hurts so fucking bad.
But you let him touch you. You let him tug your shirt over your head and kiss you against the counter. You let him cup your face and run his fingers through your hair. You let him drag his tongue against your own, let him lap up the tears that roll gently down your cheeks.
You let him lift you, let him carry you to your bedroom and lay you down on the mattress.
You let him peel off the rest of your clothes, let him lick at your center and sink his fingers into your heat. You grind against his hand, his face, keening at the curl of his fingers, the way he laps and sucks at your clit. It doesn’t take long—you want this. You want to lose yourself in the pleasure that surges through your veins like electricity, you want to lose yourself in the build, the burst, the feel of your fingers twisting in his hair.
He climbs over you, grabs your jaw and crushes his lips against yours, tongue delving deep into your mouth as soon as you let him in. He moans then—low and staticky—and then he’s pushing into you, hands hooked underneath your knees, pressing you back, pressing you open.
You let him stretch you open, let him drive the breath from your lungs with each thrust into your center, let him work you closer and closer. His head lulls forward, nose buried in your neck, fingers flexing against the sides of your knees.
He groans, exhaling a whisper of your name, fucking into you harder, faster. He bites down on your shoulder, sinks his teeth into your skin and you let him.
You wrap your legs around his hips, your arms around his torso and cling to him. You cum, walls clenching and fluttering around his cock. Breathless, you beg him to slow down, to be gentle and soft when he finishes inside you.
To let you pretend—just for a moment—that he loves you.
That he feels anything for you at all.
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