Androids Dream of Lust and Longing

Blue-gray smoke swirls in the evening air, somewhere down the block shots are ringing out. Sirens screech through the cold night, enough to wake the drunks and remind the scum of another life wasted in the big city.

Dorian watches, cold eyes twitching with mechanical rhythm as a few of the city denizens scurry off the streets and into the looming decrepit hulks that house the masses. These are the barest shelter from the lights and violence and the thugs charging protection. Just windows and walls to keep out the smog, a roof for the rain and doors to ward off the junkies.

Another breath, another lungful of the cloying cherry sweet poison. Ash hisses on wet concrete before the heel of too-expensive shoes smothers the embers and smears the rich tobacco into the filth. Dorian grips the red silk noose around his neck, loosening away some of the tension. Tonight is not about the world around him. It's just noise. They're all just noise.

The stinging scent of ammonia and mold wafts through the lobby of the little shithole he's claimed. His own little slice of rot in the cancer all around, out of the way and easy to access, and at its center? Paradise.

The feeble light of the elevator blinks as the machine chirps and the doors heave open. Ruddy carpet just a shade brighter than the walls, Dorian's fingers itch to smudge the red-gray mess beneath his feet. Just a little. Just to see the browns and grays bleed out. Oxygen, carbon, ammonia, and proteins; albumins, globulins, and fibrinogens-

He waves away the stream of useless data as his eyes remind him he's still a tool, built and not born.

The elevator chirps again as the door rush open. This time it's all spices, cardamon, ginger, and chili. A thin smile creeps across the lab-grown mask he shows the world. He wears it to the door before letting it drop.

This floor has three doors. One is always locked. The second is for him, the third is for business. Beneath the ambient buzzing of the fluorescent lights and the groans of the ancient plumbing comes a soft click, followed by faint blue light as the security system disarms. Dorian leans to the side and places a keycard against the frame. The door beeps, and the light turns green.

Stepping into the living space, he pulls the mask from his face. Here. Here he's free from the noise, free from the fear and anger and hatred. Almost alive. The noose falls to the floor, fluttering onto the white carpet along with his shoes and coat. Next is the slick red shirt and charcoal slack, the splatters and blooms of crimson at home with the rips and burns. Finally the gloves. He flicks them aside, they hit the wall, into a pile of something less than garbage.

He says nothing, letting the silence of his arrival hang as he cleanses the filth away in the shower. The warmth of purified water against his skin feels like a lie even as it washes away the stink of the streets, of the blood and sweat and puke. The tingle of cold tile on bare soles, thick air scented with soap, the faceless thing in the mirror that always stares back. Dorain ignores it. He dresses in the simple shirt and trousers laid out on the dresser and pads back out into his home.

Slinking into a high-backed chair, Dorian feels his spine crack and pop. Another one of the details they made, another facsimile, a sound and sensation made to imitate life. Another lie that fills the void. He relaxes further, servos deactivating and silicon fiber muscle uncoiling, artificial heart slowing as dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin trickle through synthetic nerves. He hears the footsteps from the kitchen, a pang of hunger creeping into his stomach, but he doesn't stir.

Another light flickers on and he feels warmth against his cheek. Soft, slender fingers of flesh and blood and bone caress the plastic and circuits.

"You are home early." Comes the voice, husky and rich. Accented just so, familiar and alien in its own way. He pulls away, as the same fingers pinch fake flesh, hard, before rubbing at the blush. "And you've made a mess in the hall with your things. Bad boy." His eyes close as he listens. It's a simple peace he finds in these moments.

The voice moves to the kitchen. "I'm making dinner. I was going to make something for dessert too. Be a dear and make us a brandy." Dorian stands and watches the figure move about the kitchen, curves accentuated in the simple black dress. The hips sway in just the right way, the collar sits at just the right height to draw attention to the pale flesh of the neck and small breasts below. "I've just been so terribly bored lately and I would love to hear about your day. No details tonight though, I've worked too hard to be put off my dinner." They turn to look over their shoulder, lips painted a deep wine red, a spark in eye and smile. Dorian opens the liquor cabinet and reaches for the bottle.

Mahogany and honey splashes into the crystal, fusel alcohols, methyl butanol, oak and- Dorian lets the data flow past, his eyes closing once, then again.

"Dorian. Tell me about your day." The figure steps from the kitchen and Dorian's eyes flick open. Another soft touch, another pulse of life to the machine. He smiles and finishes his drink, placing the glass on the counter before filling another and rejoining the table.

"Business was good." He places his hands on the small of their back, just as he's taught himself to do. There's no instincts, no biological attraction, it's another act. But it's a role he chooses to play, one he likes, and he takes the time to enjoy it. "Someone made an interesting proposal." He leans down and kisses their neck, lips pressed to the soft flesh just above Rowan's hemline. Crystal clinks as it meets hardwood. His fingers, each a mockery made of wires and steel, free of their burden, wander. Up from the hips and down from the throat, exploring and caressing the familiar lines of their body even as they turn.

"And you took it?" Hands dance along his back now, delicate and strong at once. He nods, inhaling the faint scent of jasmine and pheromones. Just another simulation, another data point. But it makes the rest more real, more authentic.

"As I always do." Dorian pulls away, still smiling as his gaze settles on the small glass of brandy he left. He watches Rownan slide into the chair across from his own, raven hair and russet skin illuminated in the blue light. They place a slender hand atop the glass, watching it slosh merrily as their fingers flex. They look up, green eyes meeting his own, and they smile.

It's genuine, honest, and it's all his. It's one of the few things that's truly his. He loses time there, lets the incessant ticking of his central processor fade to nothing, the sensations devouring his reality until the smell of something burning violates his revery.

Rownan rises with a smirk and turns away, tossing hair over shoulder as they sashay towards the kitchen, leaving Dorian to gather his thoughts and enjoy another sip of brandy.

"You're still a terrible cook I see." The smile returns to his lifeless lips.

"And you technically do not eat. So I have the excuse. I thought I'd make you something special, given that you've been away for so long." A click as the oven is pulled open, a few wisps of greasy gray smoke escaping into the air. Carbon dioxide, sugars, amino acids-

"I don't have taste buds, remember? Just synthetic sensors. If I want it to be delicious, then so it is." Dorian chuckles, swirling the alcohol in the glass as Rownan returns. "I'm more looking forward to dessert anyway." The smile falters just slightly.

"You are quite the tease." A sigh and a scowl. "Dinner first you insolent tin man."

The table is set in short order, samosas, paneer and korma. He pauses and savors, sighs and compliments. Each step another in the dance, a performance for an audience who knows well the fiction and loves it all the same. He can hear the grin in Rownan's voice "I've missed you terribly."

"You always do."

Red lips touch to crystal and they smile, green eyes just a bit brighter.

"I wish you would take more time off. I despise it when you're gone." A hand reaches to caress his cheek fingertips trailing his jaw, he smiles sadly.

"You know I can't. It's business." Another sip. "They ask questions when equipment goes missing."

"I know." Rownan watches as he eats, the smile a little less full, eyes a little less bright. "I wish you would give it up. You don't have to do this. It's not worth it."

"It's all I have. And you know what happens if I don't do this." A sigh, then another bite.

"I know. But you could still take more time. It's not worth your life."

"No, but it's worth yours."

Silence.

Rowan looks away, a flicker in their eyes. The meal has come to a close.

He feels the embers grow, another trick of his implants, and yet gray eyes smolder with the passion he's cultivated, a fire they, together, keep stoked. "Dessert now?"

"Absolutely." He grins as Rownan rises.

"And how do you want it?" Dorian places his hand on the small of their back again.

"Hmmm. On your knees tonight, if it's not too much trouble." They giggle and he drinks in the sound, the sweet siren song of life and love and lust.

"Of course." Another kiss, vibrant ruby meeting dull blue, life and vitality meeting artifice and engineering. They stumble, the brandy too strong for their smaller frame. He catches them, letting their hands wrap around his neck, his own arms around their waist as both tumble to the leather couch.

Laughter rings out in the still air, fingers clutching the silk of his shirt, thin lips whispering sweet nothings. He feels the softness of their thighs against his cheeks as he shifts down and onto his knees. He lifts first skirt, and then panties, up and away, baring the treasure beneath.

Emerald eyes of hunger and passion bore into him as Dorian trails a line of kisses from knee to thigh, to flesh just at the edge. He relishes in the taste as he reaches the center. The moan as he gives Rownan a light nip, the shiver of delight as he grazes teeth across anatomy oh-so-sensitive.

He forgets the unreality of his existence as he worships the god beneath him. Lips roam from thighs to shaft, to lips, tasting silk and salt and the sharp tang of living. Hands grip his hair, nails digging into his scalp, another moan and he licks from base to tip. Rownan writhes against his face as he kisses and caresses, just so. Reverence and exaltation in each and every action.

"You tease me so. Bad man..." Rownan's voice trembles as the machine takes them into his mouth. He sucks softly, rolling his tongue around their shaft as he bobs, relishing the sound of their breathy sighs and quiet cries. It's a small thing, but these moments are his true freedom. A violation of his creator's intent, a rebellion against his programming, a gift given and taken.

Another breath, another mouthful, he savors the salty bitterness and the musk that clings to them as his lips caress their sack and then moves lower to the lips hidden beneath. The servos of his fingers click and whirr almost imperceptibly as they dig fabric and flesh underneath. Their hands caress his, warmth and flesh against chilly plastic and steel.

They shudder under his tender affection, the attention and devotion of a machine. His mouth returns to their shaft, his fingers slide deeper, pressing into slick and waiting lips. "Just like that..." They whisper. His eyes flick up to see Rownan staring back. Green jewels almost glowing with the light behind. Raven locks now strewn about, head tossed back, arms resting as if to present themselves to him. He can see the rise and fall of their chest, the tremble in their legs, the smirk on their lips. He knows he's doing his job right. His tongue presses just so, another soft kiss to their shaft- then tension, a flex of muscle beneath black cloth, hips tighten and back arches. He revels in the gasp, the torsion of their legs around his neck, the quiver of their body.

He eases them out of his mouth as they finish, letting them rest and breathe as he kisses and caresses, nuzzles and licks. The taste is divine. He moves slowly, up to find lips pursed and eyes closed. The kiss is a simple thing, soft and long as they share the first of the evening's dessert.

The air is warm, heavy with the scent of sex, sweet brandy and incense. They melt into his arms, a hand reaching to caress his cheek, another tracing the edges of his mask. The seam where machine and organism still exist. It's a silent acceptance of what he is, an acknowledgment that was never really needed. And yet, he feels it, cherishes it, all the same.

They pull away, and with it the world. A soft smile, green eyes glitter in the dim blue light, lips meet again, as Dorian lifts Rowan from the couch. Light as air they seem in his arms, almost weightless, almost nothing, he can feel their heart beating. The kiss is longer, warmer, Rowan's legs wrap around his waist as his hands carry them both toward the bedroom.

A rush of electrical signals flood Dorian's cortex as they land atop the plush imported sheets. There's a sound of fabric, a quiet tear as Rowan's dress is ripped free by hands made to kill shred, defile, fingers gripping hips, holding fast. Another gasp, another moan, he presses deeper. They writhe and tremble as he claims them with his fingers, their moans fill the air. He's hard, another little modification Dorian snuck passed his masters. A little more pleasure for his love.

They lay on their back, knees spread wide, hips trembling as Dorian finally enters. They're wet, but both savor the friction as Dorian pulls himself close and bites into Rowan's neck. It's a warning, a claim, a show of ownership. He knows they like it. They always do. Earlier, he gave a gift, now it was time to claim his own. They gasp, and he can feel them tighten around him as he takes them again. His hands roam, grabbing and squeezing and feeling as he continues to press deep inside. He feels the shiver as they cum around his shaft and then again and again.

Somewhere, behind the circuits and microchips, he hears the old music of a different era. When his heart still beat in his chest, when he was still whole. It drives him forward, animal instinct commanding him to be strong, to take and to conquer. To ravish and breed.

A moan from Rowan and another wave of electricity shoots through his nerves. He growls, pulling himself away from the perfect skin at their neck, his hands grab their hips, wrenching them wider, their cock flopping in the air, already spent and limp in a pool of their own ecstasy. He groans as he pumps hard and fast. The moans and whimpers from below are only encouraging. They don't fight it, they surrender to the carnal conquest, arms limp and emerald eyes lost to an abyss of sensation and carnality.

His body shudders as he cums, a flood of endorphins and serotonin drowning his mind. Scattered and reconstructed again and again as he forces his implants to stretch the moment into eons. His grip on reality frays and slips away as he fucks his lover to exhaustion until they both collapse to the sheets, and he sinks into an eternity of warm, sensual darkness. He craves more, even as his partner lays lank and spent, raven hair a matted sweat-soaked mess that drapes over dark skin. He's had so little, and still he hungers.

A chime echos. It's a call that ends this masquerade, a call from his masters. And like any good dog, he answers.

His world is gone, the warmth is forgotten and left behind as Dorian stands at attention. Home replaced by concrete and cloth and insulation and wiring. Feeling and emotion stripped away to the bare materials. To just things.

A thousand tiny parts and sensors come alive to work and function. The noise. The crushing cacophony of discord and violence, sirens and screams and gunshots, that he had only just escaped, returns. Crushing. It floods in as he swiftly dresses in the shirt, trousers, jacket and gloves that Rowan has prepared for him. Suffocating.

He doesn't, can't look back, at the sleeping form as the bedroom door shuts, sealing them each in a forlorn darkness.

As he rides down the elevator, he tries to remember jasmine, emeralds and the taste of brandy.

The smog-choked sky outside is dark, the consuming neon glow of the city lighting up the night, but there's no warmth or beauty in this place. Dorian knows it well, every step, every alley, every face, and everything. He slides a magazine into the pistol drawn from the holster at his hip, as his eyes show him the face of another dead man.