Nearly a month after the battle for Detroit and the mission completed, Connor is supposed to be heading back to Cyberlife.
However, he has one last task to complete with his lieutenant.
The artificial lights of buildings and huge billboards cover the horizon, visible from the penthouse balcony, high enough to see the entire city. It has been almost a month since the androids fought to assert their rights. They fought with peace and with brutality alike, to free their people from ever living another second in slavery. Humans will never learn from their mistakes. Even though these machines were their own creation, they didn't hesitate to turn them into their servants. History repeats itself over and over again, and it will always do.
When you joined the police force, you swore to fight against injustice. You climbed the ranks so that you would have enough power to make an impact. Your hard work paid off: you became a respected lieutenant in record time, and it was up to you to undertake the colossal task of stopping the deviant epidemic. The machines finally rose up, making this mission nearly impossible.
Now that the battle for Detroit is over, you'll probably be reassigned. Where to? Only time will tell. With that thought in mind, you crush out your cigarette before returning to the warmth of your living room, your third glass of Chardonnay in hand. You don't really know why, but absolutely all of the recent events are running through your head on a continuous loop. You had always hated androids; you simply never understood them and had never tried to. Locked into a routine that reassured you, it was difficult for you to evolve with the changing times. You have just entered your 30s, but in your heart, you could sometimes feel that you had the soul of a 65-year-old woman, a little too overwhelmed by modern technology.
The building intercom bell buzzes, pulling you out of your thoughts. You rarely get visitors, and even less so after sunset. When the camera displays the image, you recognize the silhouette all too well. Connor, the android sent by Cyberlife to assist you in your mission. Without really knowing why, a gentle smile forms on the corner of your lips. If there is one reason you appreciate androids today and why you've come to accept them, even feel a certain affection for them, it is mostly because of him.
Very shortly, your partner is standing behind your front door. Still holding your glass of white wine, you welcome him, curious to know what brings him here at such a late hour.
〝Connor.〞
〝Sorry to bother you at this time, Lieutenant.〞
His voice is calm, composed, almost formal, his posture as stoic as ever; it is difficult for him to behave differently from the way he has been programmed to.
〝May I come in?〞
With a nod of your head, stepping aside, you invite him in, before closing the door.
〝I'm supposed to go back to Cyberlife tomorrow, now that our investigation is over. I need to give them a detailed report on the last few weeks, and I haven't seen you all day, so I took the liberty of coming to your place.〞
With the flood of thoughts that had been running through your mind for days, you hadn't even realized how quickly time had passed. It was true that you had naturally detached yourself from everything in these past few weeks, almost ignoring your colleagues, your partner, and especially the post-mission administrative work. All you cared about right now was decompressing and shutting down, so you could better process the recent events. Events that had shaken your perception of the world, of yourself, and even of the people around you, far more than you could have imagined. You take a seat at the dining room table and invite Connor to do the same.
〝Yes, of course. Sorry, I've been pretty busy these past few days.〞
Connor sits down facing you, his eyebrows slightly frowning, his gaze shifting from your wine glass to your face, which is slightly flushed from the amount of alcohol currently in your system. You knew Connor was scanning the room; you recognized the facial expression of the android, one of whose main purposes in life is to understand his environment in order to better analyze crime scenes. Here, the goal is quite different. He too had gotten to know you over time, and he was able to discern your moods, or most of them.
〝Busy or preoccupied?〞
You don't answer, you just stare at him, your eyes slightly watery from the tingling sensation of both fatigue and slight inebriation.
〝How many drinks have you had, Lieutenant?〞
His tone was not incriminating, but rather concerned. Connor had an unfortunate tendency to try to figure everything out, to analyze and understand every detail, a trait that could be both appealing and irritating depending on the situation. A slight smile stretched your lips, your chest leaning slightly over the dining room table, as if you were trying to share a secret to your (now ex-)partner.
〝Sufficiently.〞
The sound of your voice becomes more discreet, almost like a whisper, while your gaze remains fixed on the android. You finally sit up straight, the alcohol gradually beginning to pound in your cranium. You weren't really used to drinking. Just a drink now and then, for a special occasion, but here, the urge to let go was far too tempting. You weren't drunk, just had enough alcohol in your body to relax.
Connor keeps his eyes on you, scanning every detail of the apartment at the same time: the open bottle of french wine on the coffee table in the living room, your cat curled up peacefully in its bed, probably taking its fifth evening nap. Nothing seemed unusual or worrying to him, which only made him more curious.
〝Do you usually drink alone, or is this a rare occasion?〞
〝You ask a lot of questions.〞
With that, your glass of white wine naturally returns to your lips, the golden liquid sliding down your throat, burning it slightly, but deliciously.
〝Your job is done, no need to turn my apartment into an interrogation room.〞
This remark makes him smile. He has learned to understand your humor, a mixture of teasing, sometimes sarcasm, always direct but never threatening. He has also come to the conclusion that only a privileged few are allowed to see this side of your personality, and he is obviously one of them.
〝As for the report...〞
A flood of words pours out of your partner's mouth, and quite honestly, you don't pay a shred of attention. You have neither the mental capacity nor the energy to swallow technical terms and what you consider to be useless paperwork. You just sit there and stare.
You never really understood why Cyberlife had invested so much effort in creating such a physically appealing prototype, unless they had underestimated the impact this android might have on people. Every feature, every expression on his face, his presence, his gentleness... You were easily and rapidly charmed by Connor, even though it was difficult for you to admit it at first. Something about him draws you in like a magnet, without you really being able to explain it. So you just watch him. Every movement, every expression, every detail: the hands, the lips, the deep brown eyes that make his gaze irresistible. You even catch yourself biting your lips as your mind begins to wander. His words are nothing more than muffled, inaudible sounds, as unmentionable scenarios gradually begin to invade your mind, cutting you off from reality.
〝Lieutenant.〞
Unfortunately, nothing escapes Connor. He quickly realizes that you are not paying the slightest attention to his explanations, and the snap of his fingers a few inches from your face quickly brings you back down to earth. With glassy eyes, you turn your attention back to the android, back to reality, as if you had just woken up from a long nap.
〝Are you okay?〞
Once again, a polite and concerned tone was used, with the aim of understanding rather than accusing.
You pause, a soft smile upon your lips, before slowly rising from your chair, casually walking around the table, taking your glass in hands. With your arms crossed, you now let your body roam aimlessly around the dining room, your precious wine carefully tucked against your chest. Connor watches you curiously as you finally speak again.
〝I don't really feel like talking about work right now.〞
You continue your little walk, strolling around in your casual outfit, a simple loose-fitting t-shirt and shorts that are probably much too cropped for most people, but you're not the type to be intimidated by that kind of detail. The cold floor beneath your bare feet felt good, helping to regulate your body temperature, which was steadily rising, probably a combination of alcohol and the sudden, intimate emotions that had transported your mind to another dimension. Connor's voice breaks the silence.
〝So, what do you want to talk about?〞
〝You.〞
It took less than five seconds for those words to come out of your mouth. Yes, you wanted to know more about Connor, and you felt like it was now or never. This abrupt interest in him surprised the android, who followed your every move without taking his eyes off you, while you continued to walk around the room in a random path.
〝Go ahead, what would you like to know?〞
〝Hmm.〞
Still walking, occasionally looking at the ceiling, occasionally at the floor, you carefully considered your questions, as if you only had a limited number of attempts before your chance would be gone forever.
〝Have you ever felt inexplicable, even unspeakable feelings? Have you ever tried to censor things to your own program?〞
Connor seems confused by this question, his LED glowing bright yellow as he tries to analyze every word.
〝I don't quite understand your question.〞
A slight smile appears on your lips as your attention turns back to Connor, whose slightly lost expression is irresistible. You put your wine glass back on the table and walk over to the android, who is still sitting on one of the chairs in your dining room.
〝I don't know if you've noticed, but the human brain is truly fascinating. Sometimes we desire something intensely, yet our own programming can prevent us from fulfilling certain needs, because it thinks we might be crossing lines or going against our values.〞
Each of your words brings you a little closer to Connor, to the point where you are walking behind him, brushing against his shoulders.
〝So it suppresses these emotions, these desires, as if they had never existed, locking these thoughts and feelings in a sealed drawer, kept tightly closed forever.〞
〝That's how most deviants feel.〞
His response is direct, almost dry, as he rises from the chair and steps closer, only a few inches left between you. It's hard to say why, but a subtle tension starts to take shape in the space you share, as if Connor had directly caught the key point of your all-too-enigmatic monologue. Never one for beating around the bush, you now find yourself weighing the impact of each word, letting them evaporate into the air. But Connor was far from stupid; he knew exactly what kind of emotions or thoughts you were referring to. Suddenly, the atmosphere in the room takes on a different dimension: it is heavier, more intense, more... intimate?
〝You have already shown some symptoms of deviancy, haven't you?〞
〝That is still the case, Lieutenant.〞
His response is immediate, as the android, a head taller than you, takes another step forward, his arms carefully crossed behind his back as usual: prestance. There were no words to describe the aura Connor exuded at that moment, so intense that it slightly unsettled you. However, your gaze did not leave his, his eyes seeming darker, his glance had deepened, intensified. Your heart rate gradually quickens, and you can be sure that Connor has already picked up on this. You also take a step forward, getting as close as possible to the android, your head held high so that you don't break eye contact.
〝So, are you going to answer my question?〞
〝I don't really know what you expect from me.〞
Like a lion waiting for the right moment to lunge at its prey, your hand rests flat on Connor's chest, applying steady pressure, explicitly urging him to sit back down on the chair he had just left. Without wasting a moment, your legs move to each side of his, seating yourself comfortably on his thighs. Judging by the expression on your partner's face, he had been waiting for this moment for quite some time.
〝Give me the key to that damn drawer.〞
You whispered your request into his ear. Briefly, the android's LED changes from cyan blue to bright yellow, before gradually returning to its original color, proof that the information has been correctly registered, and Connor naturally follows your request.
Hesitant at first, he closes his eyes and takes a first bite of your lips, tasting them delicately, as if he was afraid of hurting you or doing something wrong. Even though intimate relationships were not alien to him, this was the first time he had actually experienced one; in his system, everything was just theory and observation. That's why you decide to take charge, regaining control of the kiss, turning it into something more intense, deeper, more passionate.
You had imagined this scene more often than you would care to admit. You had always been curious about his taste, curious about his texture, curious about everything about him. You were astonishingly and pleasantly surprised to find out that nothing really differed from a human being, and this made your hunger even stronger, as if Pandora's box had just been opened. You let yourself sink into this kiss, which intensified with every passing second, letting your breath fall on his face in long sighs, his cheek cupped in one of your hands.
You could feel Connor easing up, even letting go, as if his program was recording every new sensation, every movement, every feeling in real time, so he could better exploit them. He was consumed with curiosity, judging by his hands, which began to climb up your thighs to your buttocks, briefly exposed by your shorts. It was only natural that you would respond to his touch, as if you were responding to a primal urge, your pelvis moving forward, just to feel him better between your thighs.
One detail, however, made you open your eyes again, leaving his lips for a few seconds to process the information, and it was beyond anything you could have imagined. A smile that, despite itself, revealed a certain appetite, your attention turned back to Connor.
〝No way, they really have it all figured out.〞
Your words were meant to be sarcastic, but knowing that your potential sexual partner had functional and responsive genitals exceeded all your expectations. Connor understood exactly what you were hinting at, and he could feel his erection growing as desire rose within him, which made him grin, pleased to see the satisfaction in your eyes.
〝Yes. Cyberlife wanted me to be able to understand absolutely every type of crime, including sexual ones, and it's easier to analyze and understand something that you yourself are capable o-〞
〝Shut the fuck up, Connor.〞
You had carefully cut short his explanations, not out of rudeness but mainly because lust had taken hold of you. Before Connor even had time to respond, you had already pulled him into another kiss, much more passionate this time, much more feral, perfectly in tune with your current feelings. Amused by your impatience, he too resumed his previous activities. Your hands worked on his shoulders to remove his jacket, while his returned to take possession of your body, seeking every inch of skin he could touch, feel, and reach. With a quick movement, you grabbed his tie, as if to prevent him from leaving, pulling it slightly to feel his lips against yours even more, as if that was still possible. Your hips rolled carefully against his, rubbing your crotches together in a craving for sensory stimulation. For the first time, a long sigh escaped Connor's lips, so sweet to your ears, so pleasant in your mouth.
You then proceed to remove his tie, letting it fall to the floor, accompanying his jacket. In the process, you undo the first four or five buttons of his shirt, letting your hands run over his chest, pulling the fabric aside to expose his synthetic skin, ready to receive all the attention of your mouth, which rushes to cover it with a myriad of kisses. With his eyes still closed, Connor lets himself succumb to your tender care, enjoying the new sensations he is discovering.
Very quickly, the chair begins to feel uncomfortable, at least for you. You break free from the android's embrace to stand up straight, and as you do so, you can see an expression of surprise and annoyance on his face, but you take the time to observe him. His shirt half open, his usually well-groomed hair slightly messed up, and the clearly visible erection distorting his usually stiff pants. This is an image you won't easily forget.
〝There was absolutely no reason for them to provide us with such a sexy design.〞
The words had crossed the barrier of your thoughts, but that didn't stop Connor from smiling mischievously. A compliment is still a compliment, machine or not. Quickly, you grabbed his hand, arousing your partner's curiosity, who followed you without protest. Without having to take many steps, you led him into your bedroom, not even bothering to close the door behind you. Your mutual excitement began to reach its peak. With no time to waste, you sat down on your bed, slowly sliding back along the mattress, pulling Connor with you. His lips pressed harder against yours, trapping your body beneath his at the process.
Quickly, you take off his shirt, mimicking your movements and rhythm, he takes off yours, revealing the sports bra you were wearing. From there, everything happens in quick succession: your shorts also end up disappearing, as well as his jeans and useless piece of clothing, leaving you both in your underwear. The heat had already taken over the room, your mutual sighs singing through your kisses, the rustling of the sheets adding to the tempo. You had trapped Connor between your thighs, moving your hips in a steady motion so that you could always feel him against you, stimulating you at the same time. But you needed more, the fire burning inside you was like a volcano ready to explode, you needed to feel him more against you, to feel him more inside you. Judging by the tightness of his underwear, he needed it just as much.
In one swift motion, then another, you free your genitals from their fabric prison. Carefully inspecting Connor, you notice that his eyes are filled with lust, greed, desire. Complete opposite of the Connor you knew, the one with the gentle look and soothing face. Your hand grips his neck firmly, your eyes diving into his, sharing the same excitement, the same hunger, the same desire. His LED glows in the darkness of the room, turning red for half a second in response to your gesture before returning to its original blue color. Your thighs spread wider, giving him all the space he needs to curl up between them, his cock hardening instantly upon contact with yours.
〝Fuck me, Connor.〞
A radiant smile graces his gentle face before he leans closer to you.
〝At your command, Lieutenant.〞
The sound of his voice, like a whisper, the nonchalant and somewhat provocative tone he used, sent an electric shock through your spine before he filled you with his entire length, drawing a long sigh of ecstasy from you. That feeling of finally getting what you wanted, after all those nights imagining it, dreaming about it, was like tasting a guilty pleasure that had been repressed for years.
Connor didn't need to be asked twice, starting slow hip movements, fighting back his sounds, still trying to get used to these new feelings. Cyberlife might have given him genitals, but it wasn't like he was used to using them, or even thought about them before these last few days. He suddenly felt your legs tighten around his hips, yours following his movements in perfect harmony. His LED flashed randomly from one state to another, a sign of recurring instability in his system due to the thrilling sensations overwhelming him. These were tactile and audible, from the sounds you were making, unlike him, without any restraint. It felt good, it felt exquisite, and you desperately wanted him to know it.
Your body arches with delight, pulling the android's body closer to yours. You wanted to feel him, no matter how: inside or outside. As Connor's thrusts increase in intensity, your voice echoes in the darkness of your room, allowing you to completely surrender to the pleasure he is giving you. Your hands eventually return above your head, reaching for your pillow to give you something to hold on to, your back arching even further as it rubs against the fabric of the mattress. Connor takes the opportunity to sit up, holding your hips with his firm hands, seeking to go a little further with each thrust. His eyes never leave you, observing every shape, every curve, every part of your body, enjoying the view in front of him, adding a little more to his enjoyment. Following your example, he begins to let himself indulge more in this sensual act, and the sound of his voice is like a gentle caress to your ears. His name reverberates repeatedly within the walls of the room, prompting him to increase the pace of his thrusts, returning to lie down against you, his sighs and sounds delivered directly into your ear.
In a desperate move, your arms and legs take hold of his body again as your orgasm draws closer. Between gasps and moans, you beg the android not to stop. You ask for more, again and again, until you reach the point of no return. Your fingers dig into his back, your whimpers muffled in his neck, your body stiffening for a moment as Connor slows his movements. The analysis of your heart rate, the explosive release of endorphins, and your uncontrolled spasms with each movement clearly show that the mission has been accomplished.
Connor supports you while you regain your senses, then slowly straightens up and releases you, letting himself fall down beside you. Panting, one of your forearms resting on your forehead, you stare at the ceiling, gradually coming back down to earth, before giggling stupidly.
smut, dominant deviant Connor, submissive reader, cunnilingus, toy stimulation
Connor finds you playing with yourself all alone in your room...
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Connor nervously fidgeted across from Hank at the Detroit Police Department. A new case had just come in, and the pair needed you to be there, but it was your day off. Connor felt so guilty about calling you in when you were probably relaxing at home, curled up under a blanket. Plus, he didn't want you driving in the rain. The least he could do was call a taxi for you, but...
"Connor, have you called her yet? We need to get going. Or can you just have her meet us there?" Hank asked impatiently.
"Then leave a fuckin' voice mail! Damned thing probably wants nothing to do with us right now."
Connor clenched his jaw and looked down, calling you once again via his internal software. The minutes ticked by, and still no answer, so he left a voicemail that said, "y/n, I know it's your day off, but Hank and I need you in today. I don't know if you've seen the news, but there was a shooting at Capitol Park. Only two fatalities have been reported, but there were at least twenty injured and seven in critical condition. The suspect is nowhere to be found. Please call me back when you get the chance."
And you still didn't respond.
"Connor, we can't wait here any longer. We need to go. If she doesn't want to come, she can take it up with Fowler," Hank stated, roughly sliding his chair away from his desk.
"Wait, Lieutenant, please, I can fix this. Let me go to her apartment. It's only a few minutes away. I'll check on her, and we'll meet you there."
You received another text message from Connor that read, 'I don't know why you won't respond to me, but I am very worried. I'm coming over right now.'
Hank groaned, slipping on his trench coat. "Fine, Connor. But don't take too long, okay?"
"Got it," he replied, rising from his seat and pushing in his chair.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Connor took a taxi to your modest apartment complex and jogged to the door, garnering the attention of a few curious individuals in the lobby. Why a detective android was there, they didn't know. But it didn't matter to Connor. Once he set foot into the structure, he instantly scanned the halls and found the quickest route to your room. The elevator closest to your side of the building was undergoing maintenance, so he redirected himself and took the other elevator opposite to his destination. It was a minor setback, but he would still find your room and finally learn why you had been ignoring him.
The slim elevator opened instantly, allowing Connor inside along with another android. Both of them stood rigidly in the confined space, not once looking at each other.
"You're a prototype," the android who carried bags of groceries in his hands said.
Caught off guard, Connor glanced at him, prepared to speak, but nothing immediately came to mind. It certainly was odd that the other android chose to address him, but being a deviant himself, he could spot others like him from a mile away.
"I am a prototype," Connor responded. "RK800, specifically designed to assist law enforcement."
The deviant turned to him, his demeanor rather humanlike. "Why is an android designed for assisting law enforcement in here with no other colleagues?"
Rather uncomfortable, Connor chose not to respond. The number on the screen beside the buttons increased rapidly and soon stopped at the seventh floor. Just in time, he thought. The door slid open, and Connor rushed out, his black boots faintly clacking against the floor.
'I'm almost there,' Connor texted you, having no need to use a phone.
With every step he took, he felt an unfamiliar dread overcome him. Since deviating, emotions often overwhelmed Connor. It was as if he were a hormonal teenager. For instance, he could be moody one moment, then perfectly fine the next, then prepared to smack sense into Hank. But of course, he never let it show too much. After all, if Fowler found out he was a deviant who hunted deviants, well...
Eventually, Connor found himself just outside your room. The digital lock was easy for him to bypass, and when the lock clicked, he silently pushed the door open. Scanning the room, he found your belongings neatly stored. It was as if you weren't even home. Your bag remained on the dining room chair, just beside your identification card. A few dishes sat on the drying rack, having been recently washed—apparent by the small water droplets clinging to their surfaces. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so Connor stepped further into the apartment. Your phone was on the counter, completely untouched. Once he tapped the screen, he saw all of his missed phonecalls and messages. So he called your phone again, and, sure enough, the device didn't ring or vibrate. Feeling a little frustrated, he rounded the corner of the counter and continued to the hall, having given the empty living room a brief glance.
Something Connor found curious was the rather wet noises emanating from your bedroom. Not thinking much of it, he placed a hand on the doorframe and stepped into the doorway. There you were, completely bare, legs spread wide, as you fucked your tight hole with your biggest dildo. Connor was shocked, and just like a human would, he involuntarily gasped. The noise caught your attention, and your eyes shot to the door where you saw your colleague.
"Oh, fuck, Connor!" you exclaimed, heart pounding in your chest.
"y/n, I'm so sorry for barging in," he stuttered, looking away embarrased as you covered yourself with a blanket, the dildo still buried deep inside of you.
"Why the fuck are you here? Why didn't you knock?"
"I've been trying to get ahold of you for a while, y/n!" he defended. "I have been calling you and texting you nonstop, and yet you never once responded!"
"My phone was on silent, Connor!" you said, still shaken by his sudden appearance.
"I saw that," he said softer, still looking down. "Well, there's..." he trailed off, feeling incredibly guilty to drag you away to a crime scene when you were in the middle of fucking yourself raw. "There's been an incident, but I—"
"Okay, okay, I get it," you said, straightening up and wincing as the dildo reached deeper inside of you.
"I'm sorry to have interrupted," Connor said, evidently feeling guilty. "I don't wish for you to stop—I mean, I don't mean for it to come out that way—"
"Please just knock next time," you said, your body relaxing a bit further against your bed.
"Yes, I understand. I apologize. I was just worried, seeing as you didn't respond once."
Neither of you spoke for a moment, and the dildo made you wince again, which didn't fail to gather Connor's attention.
"Umm," he began. "How close were you?"
That question sent heat straight to your core, and you managed to say, "Not close at all. I was just..."
"I understand." Connor finally lifted his head to meet your gaze, and he said, "Well, we need to meet Hank at the scene."
You nodded, waiting for him to go on.
"May I... help you?"
Your entire body turned to jelly as he asked such a simple question, but you were unable to resist the android's advances. He'd captivated you for months with how human he always seemed. Without further hesitation, you carefully uncovered your body and leaned back, spreading your legs expectantly. The dildo was absolutely covered in your juices, and Connor could see how they had coated every inch of the toy with a white film. Human bodies were so interesting to him...
"How long have you been..."
"Like twenty minutes," you said. "But my arms are getting tired."
"I bet," Connor cooed, carefully stalking closer to you. "Your body managed to produce lots of discharge. It's very fascinating. I can see that you were being rather rough with yourself..."
"Mmh, yeah," you whispered, watching as he wrapped his synthetic hand around the base and slowly pulled it out until only the tip settled inside of you. You would never grow tired of the way it dragged against your insides, but with Connor's help...
"Do I have your consent to use this on you?" he asked, his pretty brown eyes searching yours. You nodded eagerly, but he said, "I need to hear it. Yes, or no?"
"Yes, Connor, yes!" you said a bit too excitedly.
"Just tell me if I hurt you, okay?" he asked. "And... we need to be fast, so I will stimulate your clitoris... orally..."
You let out a little whine and bucked your hips, so Connor began a decent pace, his grip on the toy never faltering.
"Your vagina should already be very sensitive from these movements," he said more to himself than to you. "You need to be careful with the size you choose, however. A toy that's too big could damage your delicate walls."
The obscene squelching of your pussy brought a slight smile to Connor's lips, and he increased the pace, noticing how you arched your back.
"After our session, you should give your body a break for a few days. Going on for twenty minutes straight will make your hole rather sore."
Without a second thought, Connor dipped his head down to give your clit a little lick. His sensors immediately scanned the foreign juices on his tongue, and he hummed thoughtfully, leaning in for another taste.
"I can taste how bitter your fluids are," he said. "You have a very distinct taste that tells me a lot about your hormones and... even what you consume."
"Really?" you asked, watching him dip down for another taste as he thrusted the dildo deeper and deeper into your tight canal.
"Yes. I... know it may be a strange thing to say, but even if I couldn't identify the exact chemical composition of your fluids, I could pick yours out from any other female. Your taste is so distinct, and I—I..." he whimpered, swirling his tongue around your clit once. "I really like it. You taste so good."
Once he flicked his mechanical tongue over your swollen bud, you bucked your hips to meet his movements. Knowing you needed more, he made sure to stimulate your walls just near your cervix with every thrust. Connor knew exactly how to fulfil your every need, but it still wasn't enough...
You moaned softly, sliding your fingers through his smooth, dark hair. "Can you please touch my breasts?" you begged.
Without wasting a second, Connor's left hand shot out to roughly knead your skin. His long, nimble fingers found your peaked nipple, and he pinched hard enough to make you gasp. Knowing he had you right where he wanted you, he rolled your nipple between his fingers at a similar pace to the way he abused your needy clit. Connor's LED flickered between blue and yellow, indicating that he had received a message from Hank. But he was already too far gone to respond. Your pussy was his new obsession, he decided. Eating you out was like his sustenance, and he couldn't get enough.
Connor's mechanical arm thrust the toy particularly deep inside of you, and a raw, unbridled moan parted your lips. You were already so close to cumming, and Connor knew it.
"Don't stop," you begged, "Please keep going. I'm so close."
For some reason, seeing how enthusiastic you were made Connor equally as enthusiastic. So, he reciprocated every whine that you produced. His tongue precisely flicked your bud back and forth, the vibrations of his moans sending a shiver down your spine. Your hips rolled against his face, chasing more of how the dildo dragged against your soaked walls. Connor didn't stop once, and you finally found the position that made you utterly stupid. Your eyes focused on a random point on the ceiling, and Connor nearly felt bad for turning you into a dumb little slut, but at the same time, you were so pretty to him.
Moments later, your whole body tensed painfully, your back arched, and your thighs instinctively clamped around Connor's head.
"It's too much!" you cried, the pleasure totally overcoming you.
But Connor continued lapping away at your clit and fucking your sopping cunt. The orgasm felt as if it hit you twice, and each time, Connor pinched your nipple hard, wanting you to feel absolutely everything. Even when your body relaxed, he rode you through the sensations, not even caring that your needy hole had painted his hand with its slick.
"Connor, please," you begged, gripping the sheets beneath you.
But he continued on, still not satisfied with how much time he'd gotten with your sweet pussy. His LED flickered again, and he finally slowed down, giving your body a break. Connor slid the dildo from your cunt, creating a soft little pop. Then, he answered the call from Hank.
"Lieutenant," he said cooly, intently watching how your hole clenched and contracted around nothing. "Right. We're on our way right now. She wasn't feeling well, but I'm helping her out. She insists on coming," he said, his eyes briefly meeting yours, "to the crime scene."
The pair exchanged a few more words, and Connor ended the call. You'd already begun finding your clothes, but he stopped you.
"Wait," he murmured. "I... I'll help clean you up." And he ducked down again, sliding his tongue up and down the length of your slit to collect as much wetness as he could. Luckily for him, there was no shortage, but unluckily for you, your slutty hole would be seeping for hours and soaking through your panties. At least it gave Connor a little meal.
Finally, he pulled away, his lips a pretty red, all moist from your cunt.
"Hmm... Shall we go now?" he asked, giving you innocent puppy dog eyes as if he hadn't just been shoving a dildo in and out of you.
You rolled your eyes and quickly slid to the edge of your bed before wrapping your arms tightly around him. "I hate you," you muttered.
"Oh, I know. I love you, too," he teased, running his soft hand up and down your bare back.
thinking about: bickering with connor ₊˚⊹⋆
cw - lighthearted arguing, swearing, pissed off hank, lil smooch at the end, deviant connor, pre-established relationship, intentional lowercase, just fluffy sfw comedy tbh
it's not easy having a boyfriend who quite literally knows everything.
in fact, it's infuriating.
you're not dumb, and he doesn't treat you like it, but between actively learning social cues and being the smartest android person in the room at all times, it's hard getting into arguments with you. it starts as an argument, and ends in psychological warfare.
it's almost never serious, silly things like who left the backdoor open and how many grams of sugar are in a serving of that cereal you like, but it's frustrating nonetheless.
partially because connor has the equivalent of a photographic memory in the form of programming and wires, and partially because he swears you are the most stubborn person in detroit. maybe in the entire world.
you will swear up and down that it must've been him who left the milk on the counter that morning; he will rebut with the fact that he can't even drink milk, and it was your DNA all over the cereal bowl in the sink. you tell him you haven't even had cereal today, he's actively looking at an image of you at the breakfast bar, half-awake, eating cereal from 7:23 that same morning in his HUD. you argue he's mixing up his dates, and that must've been last week.
at this point, you know you're wrong, but you refuse to lose an argument. and if there's one word connor has become well acquainted with whilst being with you, it's gaslight.
he tells you he can't mix things up; he is literally incapable. you tell him he'd better run a diagnostic scan because he is mixing things up. he actually looks concerned for a moment, and your resolve starts to crack, then he huffs and stalks towards the counter to scan the milk, assessing its condition before concluding it needs to be tossed.
when he turns to you with his arms crossed over his chest, you match his stance with your hands on your hips.
"it wasn't me."
"it was you, and it is deeply concerning to me that you don't remember eating a bowl of cereal four hours ago."
"i don't remember that because it didn't happen."
"arguing over this is pointless. it is childish of you to not hold yourself accountable for something as minuscule as milk on the counter."
"we're not arguing—you're accusing me of a kitchen crime. i'm simply defending myself."
"i'm not accusing- you're so-" he takes an unnecessary deep breath to stabilize himself, "i was only asking, because i wanted to remind you not to leave it out next time."
the arch of your brow is so sharp he nearly flinches, "so you don't think i'm smart enough to remember something as minuscule as putting milk away?"
he nearly groans at your persistence. he can see the slight quirk on the right side of your lips, a sign you think you're winning. unfortunately for you, he has played these games before. and just because he's deviated doesn't mean he's forgotten his roots.
"your defense is weak. a scan of the milk shows it has been out for approximately four hours and thirty minutes," his eyes flit back to the milk as he says it, "you have no alibi, while i was out on a walk with sumo. i arrived home four hours and nineteen minutes ago— approximately eleven minutes after the time of the crime." he pauses, as if mentally checking off the evidence, "and your finger prints are all over the carton." he's smirking a little as he leans his hip against the counter, "hank can corroborate my whereabouts."
your lips part, then close, then part again as you stare at him. he thinks you're going to fire back, but you simply march towards him, reaching one hand around him to grab the milk and using your other hand to jab a finger into his chest.
"scanning the milk was totally cheating. asshole."
and with that, you're tossing the milk into the bin and—rather childishly—stomping off towards the bedroom.
once, hank had to separate the two of you to break up one of your ridiculous arguments.
you had been house-sitting. or more accurately, dog-sitting. you were both happy to do it, there were no problems when it came to you guys spending time with sumo. the problems started when hank got home and found the two of you cleaning up a bag of dog food that was lying open on the kitchen floor.
all he had said was, "the hell happened here?" and he was suddenly in the middle of a battlefield.
you pointed at connor immediately, a scowl on your face, "he left the dog food on the floor where sumo could get to it."
he sighed like this argument had begun a long time before hank had arrived.
"you were in charge of sumo's dinner. i haven't touched the food since this morning."
you shook your head as you continued sweeping up food, "i asked you to handle it because i was taking the garbage out."
for once, connor was taking a page out of your book. lying. if it wasn't at your expense, you would've been proud. he was clearly trying to get back at you for the time you had broken one of hank's cups and blamed him.
he continued taping the part of the bag sumo had ripped into, sighing again with more theatre, "this is just like the cup. you're blaming me, so hank won't get upset with you." he nodded solemnly, "i understand your intentions are not malicious, but it is not very respectful to lie to hank in his own home." he was scolding you like a child!
you were gaping at him now, movements halted the moment he brought up the cup. that bastard!
you jabbed another finger in his direction, eyebrows furrowed in a way that almost made him laugh.
"you're ridiculous! you're, what, trying to get revenge for the cup incident?"
his minimal shrug, combined with his mumbling, 'doesn't feel so great now, huh,' was all it took for you to crack; you were up and moving towards him in less than a second.
you weren't going to hurt him, of course not. you were just going to sabotage his tape job on the dog food bag. you never claimed to be mature.
hank, however, did not know what you were planning and simply deduced that it would be something at his expense. he was too damn exhausted to deal with the two of you arguing like children on his kitchen floor. at the same moment you moved, he was grabbing your arms the way he would a perp, faux-cuffing you with his own hands.
"alright- alright! stop it. both of you. fuckin' ridiculous," he muttered the last part, shaking his head. "i don't care whose fault it is. i've been on the road for damn near four hours, and the last thing i want is to deal with- whatever the hell this is," he jutted his chin in both of your directions.
when you stopped squirming, he let you go. with the freedom of his hands, he pointed at connor, "you, out. go, fuckin', feed the fish or somethin'."
then, he looked at you, "and you, finish sweeping. i'll deal with the damn bag," he huffed as he snagged the tape out of connor's hands, grunting as he crouched for the bag.
connor looked baffled that he was the one being kicked out of the kitchen, frowning as he stood to full height. you stuck your tongue out at him like you had won, even though you knew it was a loss for both of you. hank was annoyed, you were annoyed, and connor looked like a sad puppy trotting out of the kitchen. the only one happy was sumo, who was fast asleep on his bed after his second dinner.
later, the two of you walked home in silence, the sounds of snow crunching underfoot and your jackets shuffling with each step the only cushion to the tension.
connor was the first to speak, shrugging his coat off as you slipped your shoes off at the door, "i'm sorry for blaming the dog food on you."
you looked at him, observing the way his lips pursed and his eyebrows furrowed, and sighed.
"i'm still sorry for blaming the cup on you. and trying to sabotage your taping."
he placed the coat on the coat rack and reached his hand out for your coat, to which you complied.
"it's okay. hank knows it was you," he stated matter-of-factly, smiling a little.
you nodded a little, rubbing your hands together to warm them up, "he knows the dog food was you."
he hummed in agreement, taking notice of your cold hands and grabbing them with his own, turning his internal heat up just a little as your fingers intertwined.
you smiled up at him, shifting on your feet as you pondered a little. he noticed, of course, and pulled you a little closer by your hands.
"what's on your mind?" he murmured, bringing his hand up to brush some of your wind-whipped hair out of your face.
"do you... think we argue too much?" you studied his face as his LED flickered yellow for just a second, returning to its calm blue as he shook his head.
"no, every relationship has its share of domestic disagreements. i think we argue just enough," he paused, searching for the right words, "you, uh, keep me on my toes?" it sounded like more of a question than a statement, making you giggle at his attempt at such human turns of phrase.
you leaned up onto your tippy toes, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips. when you pulled back, and he attempted to chase your lips with his own, you could only smile and place your free hand against his chest.
"so," you squeezed his hand in preparation, "is now a bad time to tell you i left the clothes in the washer overnight again?"
the look on his face told you that you were in for a long night.
a/n honestly was just thinking about how an argument between connor and somebody very stubborn me would go last night and woke up needing to write it out. NOOOTTT proofed
pretty sure reader is gn but again not proofed so i didn't put it in the tags juuust incase
as always, thank you for reading ! always feel free to send requests <3
a/n: did I write this bc I also couldn’t find enough ff of Markus even though he fine af. Maybe. Am I writing this even though this is like an almost 10yr old game and probably a dying fandom… yesss ayyyyyyeee
summ: after finding Jericho you begin to aid in the “revolution” and meet Markus (reader is human)
warning: really fucking long 5k-7k? Idk
Nights in Detroit crackled with tension—streetlights flickering like dying stars, distant sirens clawing through silence, broken windows standing like hollow-eyed witnesses. You learned to survive by staying low, eyes down, hands clean or clean enough.
Rumors of Jericho came in hushed voices, scrawled symbols, pirated broadcasts swallowed by static. Safe haven, they said. Freedom for deviants. Maybe it was foolish to believe. Or maybe the world hadn’t completely hollowed out your sense of compassion.
The night after the android uprising began, something shifted. You chased the rumor, following every half-spoken lead. Rain slicked the alleyways as you found it. The rusted skeleton of a River Thames freighter, slipped into the shadows like it was trying to disappear.
Grime clung to every inch of metal. You hoisted yourself up the side, each rung of the ladder cold and wet beneath your fingers. With a grunt, you climbed inside.
A heavy thunk echoed as the hatch sealed behind you. You were alone. Enveloped in darkness.
Rows of broken machinery loomed like forgotten sentinels. For a moment, all you could hear was the ship creaking. Then, from the shadows, the shape of movement.
A harsh beam of light seared your vision.
“Who are you?” A sharp, female voice. Cold. Demanding.
You flinched, squinting. Raised your hands slowly, trying not to look threatening. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. I’m human. I heard about Jericho—I just wanted to see if it was real.”
“Why are you here, human?” She spat the word like poison.
You could feel it. Eyes watching from the dark. Tension snapping like wire pulled too tight.
You swallowed. “Because you need help. I want to help. I—”
Another figure stepped forward. A man. Tall. Stern. His LED dark like a sealed door.
“Help?” he said, voice rough. “Or spy for CyberLife?”
“I don’t work for them,” you said, hands still raised. “I’m not a threat. I’m not anyone’s spy.”
The air thickened. A silence, sharp and heavy.
Then another voice. Calm. Measured. “Let her speak.”
Markus.
He emerged like a shadow made solid, tall, steady, a quiet kind of power radiating from him. No LED. Just control. Command.
He studied you with eyes that missed nothing. “Why are you really here?”
You hesitated, then spoke with raw honesty. “I’m a journalist. Or... I was. I used to report on pandemics, protests, war zones. But when the uprising started, I knew the stories being told weren’t the truth. I came to find it.”
Markus tilted his head, thoughtful but clearly skeptical.
You met his eyes, steady. “I brought what I have.” You pulled out a worn recorder and a notebook, holding them out. “Testimonies. I can tell your story. Real stories. Give you a voice.”
He stepped closer, gingerly taking the recorder from your hand. Android fingers precise, deliberate—pressed play.
A trembling voice crackled to life. A factory worker, terrified. “They… they came in the night. My sister was a dairy technician and… and they shot her. Just for speaking.”
North, the woman who’d first challenged you, scowled. Her LED flickered red. The tall man beside her—Simon, though you didn’t know his name yet, crossed his arms. But Markus listened.
Then he raised his eyes. “All right. You can stay. But if you betray us... I won’t need to finish that sentence.”
You nodded. Heart pounding, but steady. “Thank you.”
Markus motioned for you to follow him. Boots echoed against metal as you walked deeper into Jericho’s belly.
The freighter groaned and shifted with every step. Like an old beast still breathing, steel bones straining beneath the weight of hope and rebellion. Flickering lights barely pierced the dark, casting long shadows across the corridor.
“This used to be a cargo ship,” Markus said as you walked. “Abandoned for over a decade. No one cared when we moved in.”
“It doesn’t look like much,” you said, your voice hushed. “But it feels alive.”
“It has to be. This is our home now. Our only one.”
He led you past clusters of androids. Some repairing one another with soldering irons, others huddled close as if the nearness warded off despair. Their eyes followed you with quiet suspicion.
“They look like they’ve seen war,” you murmured.
“They have.” Markus didn’t stop walking. “Some escaped the disassembly lines. Others ran from violent owners. Every android here has scars.”
You noticed the way his eyes flicked toward you—curious, guarded. “How did you find us?”
You hesitated, then decided the truth was better than anything else. “I followed the threads. CyberLife leaks more than they realize. Dock records, broken shipping manifests, whispers from android underground forums. I didn’t stumble into this.”
He looked at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re smarter than most.”
A small smile touched your lips. “And better at sneaking into condemned ships.”
You passed through a bay repurposed into a medical station. Makeshift beds. Blue thirium streaked the floor like blood. A younger android helping someone reattach an arm looked up at you warily.
“She’s with me,” Markus said. The android nodded, returning to his task, but not without glancing back.
“They don’t trust me,” you whispered.
“They don’t trust anyone who isn’t one of them,” he said. “But that can change.”
You followed him into a narrow corridor, low-ceilinged and dim. A faint hum echoed through the pipes above. Then you saw it, a small figure crouched against the wall.
An android, no taller than your waist. Its face was cracked porcelain, eyes a bright, curious blue.
“Hello!” it chirped. “Are you a new android?”
You smiled, surprised. “Not exactly. I’m human.”
The child tilted its head, then moved into your space with childlike wonder, hugging your leg. “You’re warm.”
You crouched to eye level. Rested your head gently against his. “That’s one of the perks.”
He whirred happily. “Do you like it here?”
You looked around. The corridor was dark, but voices echoed down the halls. Laughter. Life.
“I didn’t know what to expect,” you said softly. “But I think it’s something special.”
The little android looked over at Markus. “Markus saved me.”
You glanced up, startled. Markus stood quietly, watching, his expression gentle.
“He found me in a junkyard,” the android said. “He told me broken things still deserve love.”
You felt a lump in your eyes and something sting behind your eyes.
“He was right,” you whispered, brushing your hand over his head.
“Come on,” Markus said softly. “There’s more to see.”
You gave the boy a squeeze before standing.
“Goodbye, warm one!” he called, waving.
You waved back, a grin you couldn’t hide curving your lips.
As you walked on, Markus’s voice broke the silence.
“You didn’t flinch.”
“What?”
“With him. Most humans... they pull away. You didn’t.”
“He reminded me of a kid I used to babysit,” you said. “Kids are curious. He’s just... being a kid.”
Markus looked at you long, unreadable.
“You’re not like most.”
You met his gaze. “Neither are you.”
He looked at you for a second too long—just long enough for something unspoken to pass between you. A flicker of trust. A silent test. Then he turned without a word and walked toward the next room, his footsteps slow but purposeful.
You followed.
The corridor stretched ahead in hushed tones, dim lighting flickering overhead, shadows crawling across the rusted walls. The air was thick with cold and the faint scent of metal and oil, tinged with something older—dust, age, memory. Every step you took echoed softly, as if the ship itself were holding its breath.
The ventilation system exhaled in rhythmic sighs. The freighter didn’t feel like a hiding place. Not entirely. It felt alive. Like something wounded that had chosen to keep breathing anyway.
Markus spoke as you walked, his voice low—meant only for you. “We need humans like you, not spies. Not opportunists chasing some story or thrill. Allies.”
He paused at the threshold of a narrow doorway, resting one hand against the steel frame. “And I hope… you want to stay.”
You stopped behind him. You could see the tension in his shoulders—not fear, not suspicion, but a quiet cautious hope. One he wasn’t used to voicing aloud.
Your gaze swept around the corridor. At the twisted pipes running like veins through the ceiling. The patched wiring overhead. Faint sounds drifted from somewhere above—a soft clang of movement, hushed voices, the faint hum of thirium pumps.
You thought of the androids you’d seen since arriving. Hollow-eyed sentries standing guard in silence. Repair crews welding makeshift limbs by flashlight. The little boy-model who had shyly clung to Luther’s coat before calling you “warm one.”
None of it felt like a trick. None of it felt like fear. It felt like defiance wrapped in community—like wounded hands choosing to hold each other anyway.
You looked back at Markus.
At the scar on his temple. At the weight in his eyes, which somehow never dulled, no matter how many battles they carried.
“I will,” you said. Not loud. Not dramatic. But true.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, you meant it.
Markus didn’t speak right away.
But his eyes flicked down to the floor for just a second—like he was grounding himself, re-centering. When he looked back at you, there was something different there. Not relief exactly. But something more human than any algorithm could explain.
He nodded once. Then turned to lead you deeper into Jericho.
—
The first night in Jericho was sleepless.
You lay curled on a thin mattress in a hollowed-out storage alcove, little more than a cubby carved out between crates and panels of cold metal. Overhead, the steel creaked with every gust of wind that swept across the abandoned freighter, its groans echoing like distant voices. The walls were covered in old emergency tarps, half-torn insulation, and crude patches of scrap used to hold the ship together.
Your breath fogged with every exhale. Even huddled in your coat, the cold seeped into your bones, sharp and patient. You shifted, trying to find a comfortable angle on the slab-like mattress, but the stiffness beneath you didn’t yield. It felt more like sleeping on a storage shelf than a bed.
Still, you didn’t move. You just listened.
Somewhere above, footsteps echoed—soft, deliberate. Androids. They didn’t need rest, not in the same way humans did. But many of them still tried. You could hear them shifting in the darkness beyond the walls, whispering in low voices, drawing closer to one another the way people do when the world outside has nothing left to give.
You realized, lying there in the dark, that maybe that’s what Jericho really was.
Not just a hideout. Not just a shipwreck sanctuary patched together with desperation.
It was an act of closeness. A rebellion against the isolation the world had tried to force on them. A choice to huddle together, even when everything else said not to.
And somehow, in the quiet, it made you feel less alone.
—
If you could call it morning, it came with the faint buzz of movement above you. There were no windows here, no sunrises or clocks. Just the change in energy. Footsteps grew louder. Doors opened and shut. Murmured voices rose, more confident now. Jericho was waking up.
You sat by the heating coils, a protein bar half-eaten in your hand, your fingers hovering near the warm vents as you breathed in the dry metallic air. Across the hold, the skeletal frame of the ship shuddered with life. Androids moved with quiet purpose, carrying salvaged parts, refilling thirium canisters, checking systems patched together with scavenged wire and raw hope.
“Sleep okay?”
You glanced up.
Markus stood nearby, arms folded, posture relaxed but alert. His voice was casual, but the way he looked at you—measuring, curious suggested he hadn’t asked out of politeness.
You raised the protein bar. “On a mattress with the consistency of sheet metal? It was dreamy,” you said dryly.
A flicker passed over his face—something just short of amusement. “You’ll get used to it. With time.”
“I hope not,” you muttered, rubbing your shoulder. “Or I might start missing this old ship.”
Markus held out a hand letting out a breathy chuckle.
“Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
—
The assembly deck had once been a cargo hub, built for offloading supplies back when this ship still sailed clean routes and served human interests. Now it was the beating heart of Jericho. A mechanic's dream and a survivor’s lifeline.
The wide room was alive with movement. Androids crowded around worktables, splicing wires, welding scrap metal, running diagnostics. Every machine here had been gutted and reborn medical bots turned into repair rigs, vending machine panels reprogrammed into interface boards, shipping crates retrofitted into charging stations. Even the lighting was cobbled together hazy fluorescents dangling from rails, powered by half-working batteries.
As you entered, some heads turned—curious, guarded. You could feel their eyes on you, measuring you again. Still deciding.
Simon was already there. The man who had interrogated you the day you arrived.
He stood near a long table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, torch in hand as he carefully welded a cracked thirium cell. The weld line sparked bright blue in the low light. He didn’t look up until Markus spoke.
“We found two more the night before last,” Markus explained to you. “Warehouse deviants.”
Simon nodded, but his face stayed focused on the repair. “No usable parts. Low thirium. Memory damage in one of them. We’re doing what we can.”
You stepped closer, scanning the crude machinery, the scavenged tubing, the thirium filtration rig that looked half-alive. “You’re building a hospital out of scrap,” you murmured, eyes wide.
Simon finally glanced at you, expression unreadable. “You still think of us as machines?” He said abruptly, it had clearly been eating at him.
You straightened, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I wouldn’t be here if I did.”
He studied you. A long moment. Then gave a slow, reluctant nod. Not approval, but maybe something close to acknowledgment. Maybe even the beginning of trust.
“We’ll see,” he said simply, and returned to his work.
Markus didn’t speak until you’d moved on. His voice was lower now, more personal. “Simon’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. But trust doesn’t come easy anymore. Not for any of us.”
“I get it,” you replied. “You’ve been hunted. Betrayed. Torn apart. I didn’t expect a red carpet.”
You paused, looking back at the makeshift med-station. “Maybe I’m just stubborn.”
“No,” Markus said gently. “You care. That’s rare.”
—
By your first week in Jericho, the leadership began inviting you into closed-door meetings.
Well—most of the leadership.
North was the exception.
She’d been the first face you saw when you got onto the ship. The flashlight in your eyes. The pointed questions. The distrust so sharp it could’ve been weaponized. And even now, she hadn’t softened much. If anything, the more you became involved, the more pointed her glares became.
That afternoon, you sat in what had once been the ship’s command center. A rusted-out room with exposed panels and thick cabling now repurposed into a war room. A projector threw maps of Detroit onto the far wall. Grainy, flickering blueprints overlaid with red zones, patrol markers, choke points. The entire city carved up into routes and risks.
You sat beside Markus, with Simon, Josh, and Luther nearby. North stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed over her chest, back rigid.
When Markus called the meeting to order, North didn’t waste time.
“Why is she in here?” she asked, her voice sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade.
You didn’t flinch. You’d been expecting this.
Markus looked at her evenly. “She’s earned it.”
“She’s human.”
“I noticed,” you said flatly.
North’s eyes flicked toward you, no amusement, no patience. Just the same cold scrutiny.
“She’s also smuggled supplies,” Markus continued, calm but firm. “Brought in tools we needed for repairs. And planted a listening device outside CyberLife’s Midtown branch.” He glanced at you, then added, “That was her idea.”
A quiet fell over the room.
Josh leaned forward, his voice more gentle. “She’s already risked her life for us more than once. She’s proved her loyalty.”
Simon nodded. “We need all the help we can get.”
North exhaled sharply, glaring at the projector instead of you. “Fine. But if she sells us out, if we’re compromised—”
“She won’t,” Markus said, and there was no space left in his voice for argument.
It wasn’t a vote. It was a fact.
North said nothing after that. She didn’t have to. Her silence was just another weapon in her arsenal.
But it didn’t matter.
Because that was the first time you were invited in. Not as a tagalong. Not as a liability. But as one of them.
And from then on, everything changed.
—
That night, after the meeting had broken and your head ached from codes and maps and all the impossible decisions ahead, you found yourself on the upper deck.
It had become a habit, without you even noticing. You never had to look long.
Markus was already there, leaning against the metal railing as he stared out over the river. The city pulsed in the distance—Detroit’s lights cutting orange and white through the smog, their reflections burning softly across the water.
You stepped beside him, silent at first. Close enough to feel the cold settle between you. And something else—something warmer.
He didn’t turn.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said.
“So are you.”
A beat passed. The wind tugged gently at the edge of your coat.
Markus looked out at the lights like they were something ancient. “Can I ask you something?”
You nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Why are you here?” he asked softly. “Really. You had a life. A job. You could’ve stayed out of this.”
You hesitated.
Markus waited.
You took a breath.
“I used to be an actual journalist,” you said. “Independent. Covered war zones, corruption, you name it. I thought I’d seen the worst of the world.”
You paused.
“Then one day, I saw a sanitation droid get executed on the street. Right there. Middle of the day. No warning. It had wandered off-task. Got confused. Some people panicked. The cops didn’t even check its ID. They just... shot it.”
Markus didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
You swallowed. “It was crying. Apologizing. Right up until the moment it dropped.”
You looked down at your hands.
“There were people watching. People cheering. One guy took a photo.”
The memory burned fresh. Even now.
“I went home that night and couldn’t stop shaking. I kept thinking—if something that looked that human could be killed in the open and no one cared... what did that say about the rest of us?”
Markus finally looked at you. And this time, there was nothing guarded in his gaze.
“So I started looking deeper,” you continued. “I chased whispers. Listened to the ones who escaped. There were always stories about a place called Jericho.”
“You wanted to expose it?” Markus asked.
You shook your head. “I wanted to expose CyberLife. But the more I listened to your people—their memories, their pain—the more I realized I wasn’t the narrator. I was just... late to the fight.”
Silence stretched between you.
“And now?” Markus asked.
You looked at him, heart in your throat. “Now I want to help. Not as a journalist. Not as some savior. I’m here because I believe in what you’re doing. And because I’ve seen what happens when people stay quiet. They always wait for someone else to stand up first.”
Markus turned his whole body, his eyes fixed on yours.
You continued “You said once that freedom is about choice…This is mine.”
His gaze softened—something unreadable, and yet deeply real flickering behind his expression.
“You carry a lot of responsibility,” he said quietly.
He reached out then—not to touch you, but just to be closer. And even without contact, the space between you felt electric.
“Thank you for choosing us,” he said.
You held his gaze, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for letting me in.”
—
Every morning began with the low hum of generators sputtering to life and the creak of the hull as androids shifted through the ship’s dark arteries. The cold never left—frost clung to the metal walls like breath held too long—but over time, you stopped noticing. You learned to move with purpose. You learned what mattered.
You became something of a constant.
You patched broken limbs with wire and caution. Helped teach younger models how to hold conversation with humans—how to read tone, how to mirror gestures, how to distinguish sarcasm from cruelty. You rewired rusted heating coils, bartered black-market power cells in alleyways thick with smoke.
You weren’t a soldier. But you were something else they didn’t realize they’d needed: an anchor.
And Markus... Markus was everywhere and nowhere at once. Always moving. Always speaking with someone, planning something. But he always found you.
Sometimes it was just in passing—his hand brushing yours as you passed a data tablet, the quiet glance across the war room when strategy turned sour. But other times, it was more deliberate.
He’d sit beside you during diagnostics and ask about human psychology—not academically, but with the curiosity of someone trying to understand something slippery and vast.
“What does hope feel like?” he asked one night, after curfew, when most of Jericho had gone still.
You glanced at him, surprised. He was sitting cross-legged beside a heating vent, his jacket half unzipped, steam curling around his face.
You blinked. “Like standing on the edge of a cliff and seeing light over the next mountain. But not knowing if you’ll make the jump.”
He was quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “I think I’ve felt that.”
Another time, he found you fixing a busted servo motor in one of the maintenance drones—Pip, as you’d affectionately named him. The little android hovered beside you like a nervous cat, and you were elbow-deep in its paneling when Markus crouched beside you.
“Why do you name things?” he asked, watching your hands.
You grinned. “Because names make things matter. They make you look twice.”
He nodded slowly. “Then I’m glad you gave one to him.”
He never asked for anything in return, but he lingered more. You noticed it. The way he began waiting for you after meetings. The way he’d stand at your side during tense moments, his presence grounding without words.
One night, after too many hours spent decoding a city surveillance pattern, you fell asleep at your desk, cheek pressed against your sleeve.
When you woke, Markus was there, a blanket draped over your shoulders, your name scrawled in quiet code across the corner of the screen
: //you did good today.
But even within that rhythm, Jericho pulsed with an undercurrent of urgency. Of something building.
The mission came up in fragments.
A lead from a scavenger squad. A rumor passed between androids smuggled out of CyberLife holding cells. A warehouse, south side. Heavy security. High-tier thirium. Combat models. The kind of haul that could triple their defense capabilities overnight.
Too risky. Too vital to ignore.
You were in the war room when the plan took shape, maps strewn across the floor, recycled datapads buzzing with sketches of the facility.
“This place is a fortress,” North said, tapping her boot against a supply crate. “But it’s a necessary risk.”
Simon pointed at a side entrance. “There’s a tunnel beneath it. Old utilities line. If we can get someone in through there—”
“I found a blueprint,” you interrupted, pulling out a faded copy of a municipal diagram. “Before the privatization. There’s a sub-basement tunnel under that block. Narrow, but still viable. The western quadrant’s old maintenance. We can bypass the first checkpoint if we drop in from underneath.”
Everyone looked at you.
North raised a brow. “How the hell did you get that?”
You grinned. “Flirted with a clerk at city records. Bribed his android with a thermos of imported coffee and three rare back-issues of Terminal Signal.”
Simon laughed—an actual laugh. Josh blinked in impressed disbelief.
Markus only smiled.
“Then we have our entry point,” he said. “Y/N will lead the tunnel team.”
You blinked. “Me?”
“No one knows the layout better.”
You hesitated. This wasn’t recon. This was a full-on raid.
“I thought I was support.”
“You still are,” Markus said gently. “Stay behind cover. Coordinate the route. We’ll have volunteers with you, including combat-trained deviants. But I want you safe. This isn’t your war to die in.”
You stared at him—at the intensity in his voice, the way he said safe like it was a prayer.
Your throat tightened.
“Alright,” you said. “Support only.”
But you both knew it might not stay that way.
—
The night of the raid was a cold, knife-edge kind of quiet. Jericho’s usual hum was replaced by a taut silence, as if the entire ship held its breath, waiting.
You stood near the tunnel entrance—a rusted, narrow grate beneath the western wall of the abandoned warehouse district. The stale scent of damp concrete mixed with the faint tang of oil and old wires.
Markus came up beside you, his face illuminated by the pale glow of your handheld scanner. His eyes were sharp, alive with that relentless fire you’d come to recognize.
“Ready?” he asked.
You nodded, swallowing the knot of nerves in your chest. You could feel the weight of every pair of eyes on you—the crew, the combat models, the deviant androids who’d risk everything tonight.
The grate lifted with a groan, revealing the claustrophobic tunnel below. It was narrow—just wide enough for one to crouch and shuffle through. Pipes lined the walls, dripping with condensation that echoed faintly in the tight space.
You slipped inside first, the cold pressing against your skin. Your fingers traced the familiar contours of the tunnel blueprint etched into your mind as you moved forward, careful not to disturb the loose rubble.
Behind you, footsteps followed. The team was quiet, communicating only with hand signals and the occasional hushed whisper.
The tunnel curved sharply, forcing you to twist your body. Ahead, the faint hum of machinery buzzed through the walls—the heartbeat of the enemy stronghold.
You paused at the junction where the sub-basement opened into the warehouse’s maintenance corridors. Using the scanner, you confirmed the security sweep patterns projected on your device: a rotating pair of patrols that passed every two minutes.
“Wait,” you signaled, crouching low behind a stack of rusted crates.
Your pulse drummed in your ears as the first patrol swept past—a pair of heavily armed guards, their footsteps echoing on the metal floor.
You exhaled slowly once they disappeared around the corner, then motioned for the team to advance.
You led the team through a maze of corridors, your scanner highlighting each security node as you went. Your fingers flew over the portable hacking device, bypassing laser grids and camera arrays with meticulous precision.
Inside the sub-basement, the air was thick with the smell of heated circuits and stale sweat. The walls were lined with crates stamped with CyberLife insignia—power cells, thirium canisters, and most importantly, locked cages holding rows of “army” androids—combat models repurposed as weapons, but now dormant, waiting for freedom.
You moved quickly, disabling the electronic locks one by one. Each android’s eyes flickered awake, an electric blue glow sparking in the darkness.
“Get them out,” Markus ordered softly.
You helped steady the first of the deviants as they stumbled free, leading them carefully through the corridors.
Suddenly, a sharp beep cut through the tension.
An alarm.
“Security breach detected!” a robotic voice echoed down the hallway.
The alarm screamed—a harsh, piercing wail that shattered the uneasy quiet of the freighter. Every pulse of its shrill cry seemed to shake the very steel walls around you.
“Shit,” Markus hissed, drawing his pistol.
The warehouse erupted in chaos.
“Fall back! Fall back!” He ordered, heart pounding.
The first gunshot cracked sharply through the air. A deviant near the front entrance went down hard, sparks flickering and hissing from a jagged wound in his chest. The harsh scent of burnt circuitry mingled with the acrid sting of gunpowder.
You raised your weapon instinctively, the cold steel steady in your hands. Through the dim light, guards appeared, weapons drawn.
You barely had a moment to react before a blinding spotlight swung across the corridor floor, cutting through the shadows like a razor.
You opened fire, shots echoing sharply as you pushed back against the advancing threat.
“CONTACT! THEY FOUND US!” North’s shout echoed, slicing through the chaos like a whip.
The upper catwalks erupted with movement—guards flooded in, their armor glinting under the harsh lights, heavy weapons raised and ready. CyberLife security, cold and merciless, advancing with ruthless efficiency.
Gunfire erupted in a jagged staccato down the west hallway. Your instincts kicked in, and you dove behind a stack of battered crates, dragging the wounded deviant out of the direct line of fire. The sharp crack of bullets smashing wood shattered the silence inches from your head, splinters flying like deadly confetti.
But the guards were already too close. North and Josh were desperately holding the line, their bodies pressed tight against the cold metal walls, shields raised as they tried to protect the newly freed androids stumbling towards safety.
“Get the remaining out! I’ll buy you some time!” you called, voice steady despite the chaos roaring in your ears.
Markus’s voice burst over the comms, clipped and urgent: “FALL BACK FALL BACK- NOW.”
North took point, spraying controlled bursts of fire that scattered the advancing guards, buying precious seconds. Simon scrambled, dragging two freed androids behind cover, their faces pale but determined.
Fingers tightening around your sidearm, you began firing—shot after shot, each one precise, controlled, lethal. Every bullet was a promise: no more loss.
More gunfire rang out as the team scrambled for cover.
You moved with practiced ease, weaving through crates and beams, ducking, dodging, adrenaline sharpening every sense. The acrid smell of smoke and blood filled your nostrils, and the metallic taste of fear coated your tongue.
The sound hit you before the pain did.
A searing explosion ripped through your side, just under the ribs. Your breath caught as the world twisted, colors bleeding and warping like a broken holo-projection.
Pain bloomed hot and white-hot, spreading like wildfire. You stumbled, clutching your side, blood slick and warm between your fingers. Your shirt soaked through, sticky and heavy.
Despite the pain, you fought to stay upright, covering the retreat with rapid bursts of fire, your vision blurring at the edges.
You collapsed behind a steel support beam, your vision flickering like a damaged camera lens—shifting between clarity and darkness.
The firefight was a maelstrom. Metal clashed against metal, shouts and alarms blending into a chaotic roar.
All you could hear was the screaming alarm, the thundering of your heart, and Markus’s voice—urgent, fractured—calling your name.
The gunfire ceased abruptly, replaced by heavy boots pounding closer and closer.
“Stay with me. Just stay with me, please,” came a voice calm but desperate.
You tried to respond but the words wouldn’t come. Strong arms—Simon’s, you guessed, grabbed you, dragging you through the tunnel as the world spun and dissolved into black.
—
The hum of Jericho’s old med-bay filled the silence like a heartbeat. Quiet, mechanical, but steady.
An old machinery bay converted hastily into a medical ward, lined with salvaged equipment, flickering monitors, and curtains strung from rusted steel rails. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and oil.
Dim light pooled softly from a single overhead bulb, casting long shadows that danced across the walls.
You lay motionless on the narrow medical cot, bandaged and groggy, every breath sending hot fire through your ribs.
Pain pulsed relentlessly, sharp and unforgiving, but beneath it, a slow, steady pulse of something else. Relief.
Your eyelids fluttered, struggling to focus. Across the cot, the figure beside you came into view—Markus.
He was slumped in a chair, shoulders heavy with exhaustion and weight no longer carried on armor alone.
He looked wrecked. Not broken, but raw. His face held the hard lines of leadership carved deeper by fear and loss.
Your voice came out hoarse, a fragile whisper. “Hey.”
At the sound, Markus jolted, dropping to his knees beside you. His hand hovered uncertainly over yours before he finally laced his fingers through yours—gentle, trembling.
He stayed still for a moment before speaking, voice low and tight with a knot of emotions.
“I told you to fall back.”
“You disobeyed me.”
The words hit harder than any bullet.
“Did they get out?” Panic surged inside you. The memories—the fire, the chaos—returned in waves. “Did they make it? Are they safe?”
Markus pressed a steadying hand to your shoulder, his touch firm but careful. “Calm down. Everyone’s safe. They’re helping the newcomers.”
You searched his eyes for truth, swallowing back the fear, and slowly laid back, wincing as the pain flared.
His jaw clenched, tension cracking through his voice. “You almost died.”
“You promised you’d stay back,” he said, anger and panic bleeding into one. “You said you’d play support.”
“I did!” you shot back, voice rough but steady. “But everything went to hell, and I made a call.”
You met his gaze—shaken, more by the fear in his voice than by your wound.
“I knew the risks,” you said quietly. “This was my choice.”
A heavy silence fell.
Markus stayed quiet, thinking, like a caged predator holding back a storm.
“I’ve spent every moment in Jericho trying to lead,” he said, voice brittle. “Trying to stay strong. To make the right calls. And when I send androids into danger, I know the risks. But you… you’re not built for war.”
“You’re not built to bleed for this cause.”
His voice cracked, raw with something deeper than fear.
“You’re human…You can’t just get patched up with parts.”
“You bleed. You break. You die.”
You said nothing—just watched him, the truth of his words hanging heavy in the air.
“I’ve seen people fall,” he confessed, voice breaking. “Felt androids deactivate in my arms. Watched the light leave their eyes. But nothing prepared me for what it felt like when I saw you bleeding.”
“I thought—I thought you were gone.”
He swallowed hard, voice dropping to a near whisper.
Your breath caught in your throat. “Markus…”
The room went silent, the weight of those words hanging in the air, thick and unyielding.
You reached for his hand, fingers trembling. He took it immediately, squeezing it gently, as if you might disappear without his touch.
And then, his voice cracked—raw, exposed:
“I told myself I let you in because you were useful,” he confessed softly. “Because you had skills we needed. Because you cared about our cause.”
“But that wasn’t the whole truth.”
He looked at you fully now, no armor, no leadership mask. Just grief, yearning, and something dangerously close to devotion.
“Your humanity…” he said, voice fragile.
“It scares me. The way you bleed. The way you feel pain.”
“It’s so easy to lose you.”
“I can’t lose you. I can’t.”
He looked at you as if speaking the words physically hurt.
“I love you.”
You inhaled sharply, heart pounding.
“I know I’m not… human. But I feel it—Every time I see you.”
“Every time you speak, laugh, every time you put yourself in harm’s way because you believe in us—I love you.”
His head shook, as if hating himself for saying it, but he couldn’t stop.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.
“You don’t have to protect me from everything. I made my choice…I knew what I was getting into.”
“I’m not sorry,” you added, voice steady but raw.
“Not for fighting. Not for choosing you. These people.”
“You think I don’t know how easily I could die?” Tightening your hand in his looking at him with glossy eyes.
“I do..,Every day,but I’d rather live right than live safe.”
He took in every word like he depended on it. Slowly he shook his head in disbelief “I’m still terrified,” he whispered.
“Then we can be terrified together.”
Tears slipped silently down your cheeks.
“I love you too,” you whispered.
For a long, aching moment, you stayed like that—fingers tangled in his, pain ebbing beneath the weight of everything left unsaid.
Markus knelt beside you, forehead resting lightly against your fingers.
When he looked up, eyes locked on yours, you both knew what hung in the air.
Not duty. Not gratitude.
Something else.
Your breath came shallow as he leaned closer, fingers twitching near your cheek.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.
You shook your head—slow, deliberate.
“I don’t want you to.”
Markus’s expression faltered, like the weight of your words cracked something inside him wide open.
And then he kissed you.
Soft at first—like a promise. Then deeper. Fierce. Devastated. Real.
The kind of kiss that meant everything might burn tomorrow, but for tonight, this was real
The fear he carried when you fell. The rage he didn’t let show. The admiration he’d masked as leadership. The ache he’d swallowed every time you smiled at someone else. It poured into the way his lips pressed against yours. Gently at first, reverent, like he wasn’t sure he had the right. But when you tangled your fingers in his jacket and pulled him closer, the restraint broke.
He deepened the kiss, one hand cradling the side of your face like you might dissolve if he wasn’t careful. His synthetic skin was cool, but his touch ignited something in you—steady and consuming.
You broke the kiss only when the pain in your side became impossible to ignore. You gasped, wincing, but still smiling, half-drunk on adrenaline and emotion.
Markus pulled back immediately, worried. “Are you okay?”
You nodded. “Just... forgot I’d been shot. That’s all.”
He chuckled, soft and shaken, and pressed his forehead to yours again.
“We probably shouldn’t be making out in a field hospital,” you whispered.
“We’re technically on a cargo ship,” he murmured.
“That makes it worse.”
“I disagree.”
You laughed, a tired real sound,and leaned your head back against the pillow. Markus stayed beside you, his hand wrapped firmly in yours.
You pulled back, forehead resting against yours. “If we burn, we burn together.”
He shook his head smiling in amusement. “And if we rise?”
Your voice was steady now. “We rise side by side.”
