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canonically47 · 2 months ago

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i saw a post (that must be from a WHILE back) calling connor autistic and i just haven’t been able to stop thinking about it

in addition to what they’ve said, i also want to point out some other things he does that can be considered symptoms of autism:

repetitive, self-soothing movements.

connor rubs his hands together or plays with a coin if you leave him idle, or in cutscenes. it is a form of self-regulating through repetitive and familiar actions. i think fixing his tie as often as he does can also fit into this.

additionally, there is a deleted scene in which he grabs onto his collar for comfort when amanda tries to override his control in the final mission.

inability to fit in with own kind (deviants – parallel with neurodivergent peers) but also with others (humans – parallel with neurotypical peers).

as mentioned, connor struggles to relate to and bond with hank – “i think working with an officer with personal issues is an added challenge” – despite being programmed to fit into ‘any kind of group’ (desc. from his gallery). he has difficulties understanding him and voices this to amanda.

however, he also struggles to relate to fellow deviants, or androids in general, and is very different from them. this could be partly because he is a prototype, but so is markus, and he blends in well. connor, meanwhile, had a very skewed perception of both humans and deviants (see: him picking the most dumbass outfit and pose to infiltrate jericho) and struggles to interact with them, appearing hesitant at all times (see: telling markus he understands if he decides not to trust him, sounding somewhat uncertain when proposing his plan to markus or north, his whole relationships with hank and gavin etc.)

misunderstanding or total lack of understanding of social cues, norms, or common sayings.

he displays confusion when hank says “you know where you can stick your instructions?” (“no. where?”) – which could be irony, but i read it as genuine. he has trouble interacting with people ‘normally’ and cannot emote properly, one proper example being how weird he smiles (see: awkward smiles when he talks to hank at the station the night after the interrogation, weird smile given to gavin when he does not understand his humor).

speaking of not understanding humor, not only does he find gavin unfunny, he also does not get hank’s gruesome humor (see: frowning when hank jokes “they must have really had it in for him”).

moreover, he speaks over hank (see: speaking over him in his house, thanking him for his cooperation while hank is yelling at him) without seeing it as ‘bad’ – lacking a social cue.

clear, sole focus on one single thing.

this is, of course, his mission, regardless of what it is: catching deviants (machine) or helping jericho (deviant). he always is troubled and/or upset if he fails it, and he doubts himself, is confused or disappointed when he lets androids go, and, if he explains himself, he visibly struggles in doing so: “it’s my fault, i should’ve been faster”, “i don’t know why i did it”, “there was no reason to shoot that android” etc.

sticking to routine or to familiarity.

connor does not get rid of his android uniform, nor LED, after deviating, as markus and kara do straight away. you can argue the other two do it out of need to blend in, but it is also something that frees them; connor does not take after them in this.

noticing small patterns or details other don’t

this is literally part of his programming LISTEN TO MEEEEEEE

while i don’t think all androids are neurodivergent, deviancy, in connor’s case, can be read as an allegory for neurodivergency, specifically autism.

connor always displays symptoms of deviancy regardless of your playthrough – he lies to hank in the stratford tower in ALL routes, this being a canon, non-choosable cutscene, and another solid example is fear. he expresses fear through gestures (see: flinching away from the stratford tower roof if he died from falling in the hostage chapter – fear of heights) or dialogue (see: discussing death with hank on the bridge: “nothing. there would be nothing”; being conflicted when amanda tells him he may replace him.)

machine connor is, thus, connor masking. he always has some humanity in him, but he shoves it away deep down when taking the path of a machine. he still gets frustrated (example: after his rifle stops working when he attempts to kill markus; swearing if the bomb is detonated following the deviants’ loss of the war), troubled/conflicted (example: “what’s going to happen to me?” and his little reactions when amanda presents him with rk900), and even appears sad (example: his reaction to hank’s suicide, his LED turning red, it appears as though he forces it back to blue.)

while i don’t think this is the intention of the writers, autistic connor is canon to me. he is android autistic. thank you

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exeerrorscript · 3 months ago

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pay my dues; worship you

mature

prompt: riding connor until he cries

“Please, please, please!” He begs and pleads in his jerking state beneath you, but it does nothing to sway the smirk on your face.

“You look so pretty, baby.” Blowing at the wet tip gently, you giggle at the look on Connors face as he takes everything in with his shiny new sensors.

The thick saliva you gathered and dripped onto his new Heart sanctioned dick went from slightly warm to impossibly cold under your breath.

His hips jerked and he cried, but the stars holding his wrists together was custom made for their headboard, for their marital bed.

The dick was your gift to him, you’d been crafting it meticulously in the lab for an embarrassingly long time, you’d never admit it even if you were strung from each joint- much like Connor is right now,

“The prettiest I’ve ever seen. You’re gorgeous, it’s- it’s-” you lightly grabbed the base again and stroked gently with each work; you keep motion with your wrist while springing forward to whisper in his ear, “positively filthy.”

He cried your name, sobbed it in such a pretty cry your toes curled on instinct. You’re so glad to have played a parfait in crafting his face, building him, breathing in a small piece of your life.

You felt guilty for a long time. It ate away at you nearly each time, had you weighing your words and doubting your boundaries. Even after the revolution ended you didn’t know what to say. That was something you’d have to apologize for as well.

Connor, your precious Connor, hasn’t brought it up once. It was well within his rights to, he could do more- be angry, question you, doubt you, but he doesn’t. Instead he shudders at your voices.

He lets you trace the curve of his ear with your tongue, and he shudders when you dip the tip of it inside.

“Please,” he really does look desperate now, hips jerking constantly to meet your flicking wrist and eyelids in a permanent mini flutter.

You press a kiss to the center of his forehead, “My good boy. I’m so glad you like it, I worked so hard on it for you.” You kiss his cheek, “Just for you.” You kiss the other side, “My sworn favorite.”

He wines again, shuffling beneath you. Swinging a leg over both his thighs, you finally cease your feather light torment. Taking his jaw in each hand, you meet his soft, fucked-out brown eyes-

you could cum just from whatever feeling Connor is showing you through them, if you could only name one that would fit it. You wish you were an android, could screenshot your vision and save it forever

-and finally lower your lips to his. It’s incredibly gentle, his lips were synthetically smooth and gave kindly to your pressure. He parted first, taking your lip between his teeth and biting lightly; he ran it apologetically on each side before tracing the rigid tops of each individual tooth.

The apologetic kitten licks were likely a ploy, but you shivered in delight all the same. When he tired of the teeth, Connor began to explore the grooves of your hard palate. Your sweet Connor was so worried he’d hurt you, so hesitant, but the gentle pressure on the roof of your mouth brings tears to your eyes.

You shudder, hips ground hard as you try to pull away. His mouth chases you just enough that you linger, his tongue beginning to bashfully move against yours. Another apology, likely another ploy. He really was just so damn cute.

Your lips still burn where he tasted you, the soft glide of artificial warmth barely cooled by the ambient air between you. His eyes, those unbearably rich brown pools of puppy love, flicker with some unreadable expression—too many emotions overlapping, spilling through the cracks of his manufactured restraint.

“I love you,” you murmur, the words curling in the space between your lips and his, brushing like silk against his synthetic skin. You kiss him quickly once more so you can say it again, “I love you.”

His fingers twitch in the restraints, at first you used human ones; you liked knowing he could break out if he really wanted to. Connor insisted, swore it was for him that you get the android-specific model. He even had them specially reinforced just for his strength level.

Your perfect Connor. You raise to your knees, stretching tall in all your glory and it’s bliss how he looks at you. You take his generous new addition and let his tip slowly part your lips.

His lips part, but no sound comes. Just a breathless stutter in his throat, like his vocal processors are failing to reconcile everything at once. A glitch in his system, a disruption in the equilibrium of calculated responses. He’s always been so careful—so aware of every modulation of his voice, every fraction of expression. But now, under you, because of you, he is unmade.

Isn’t that worship?

Ever so often you lift the head to your clit, just enough that your grip would tighten and he would shake just so slightly.

Your free fingertips skim his jaw, the line of it sharp, refined—a design choice you once agonized over for weeks, obsessing over symmetry, over softness and severity in equal measure. The memory lingers beneath your skin, the weight of creation and consequence. You’d meant for him to be perfect, but you never meant for him to be yours. Not like this.

Connor’s body tells a different story.

The tension in his muscles, the way he leans into every touch, the unfiltered rawness in his expression—he wants. And not because of programming. Not because of some pre-coded function buried deep within his systems.

Because it’s you.

“Say it again,” he pleads, his voice barely a whisper, frayed at the edges.

You tilt your head, nails skimming lightly along his throat, feeling the quiet hum of his thirium pump beneath artificial flesh. Too fast. His body is working harder, compensating. Overwhelmed, overheating, undone.

“Say what again, sweetheart?” you tease, and his whole body trembles at the endearment.

His breath catches—his mouth opens and closes once, struggling to keep up, to hold himself together when everything is unraveling so beautifully.

“Please,” he gasps, like it’s been ripped from him, like it’s all he has left to give.

And God, the way he says it.

It drips from his lips like a prayer, reverent, aching, desperate. His voice cracks around it, like it’s the only thing grounding him, the only thing keeping him from breaking apart entirely.

Your grip on his jaw tightens just slightly, just enough to feel the give of artificial muscle beneath your fingertips, just enough to hold him there—and sink onto his ten inch cock.

Trapped in the moment, in the need, in you, Connor cries the sweetest you’ve ever heard him, so you wait just a moment before saying what he wants to hear.

“I love you,” you breathe, and his whole body jerks, the binded pull of his wrists sending a sharp gasp from his lips, but he bucks up into your velvet heat unapologetically.

It’s too much, you think. Too much and not enough.

And you don’t know which one of you is closer to breaking first.

Your name is warm in the air between you, still trembling on Connor’s lips like something sacred. You watch as it lingers in the depths of his eyes, behind the rapid flickering of his LED, somewhere between a malfunction and pure devotion.

“I love you,” his words are shaky but he stays still; it may be his first time but he knows even you will need time to adjust.

You let him tremble. Let the heat simmer beneath his synthetic skin. Let the bindings keep his hands from reaching for you, from clawing at you in desperate, unscripted need. You wonder if he even knows how much he’s changed—how far from his original programming he’s strayed.

Or maybe this was always there, buried deep, waiting for you to bring it to the surface.

You stroke your thumb over his bottom lip, pressing just lightly enough to feel the soft, yielding texture. Synthetically smooth, yes, but warm, pliant—so perfectly imperfect that it makes your stomach twist. He parts his lips just barely, just enough for his breath to ghost against your fingertip, warm and shuddering.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him, but Connor hears everything. He always does.

He swallows hard. You can see the artificial tension ripple through his throat, the subtle flutter of muscle beneath synthetic skin. His LED pulses in rapid succession—yellow, yellow, yellow—processing at speeds beyond human comprehension, yet he’s so utterly lost.

And he loves it.

“You—you are—” He tries, but his voice breaks, and you can’t help but smile.

“I know,” you whisper. And you do.

You dip your head, just enough to press your lips against his jaw—soft, reverent. The sigh that leaves him is so human it makes your chest ache. You trail lower, tracing the column of his throat, feeling the static-hummed heat radiating off him in waves.

“I want to touch you,” he confesses, his voice breaking somewhere between a plea and a demand.

You glance at his wrists, bound so prettily above his head, the glowing threads of the custom-made restraints casting faint halos of light against his skin. He strains against them, but only just—only enough to feel the pull, the reminder that he is at your mercy.

You press a kiss to the hollow of his throat, feeling the way he shudders beneath you, the way his body jerks involuntarily, a system pushed to its limit. “I know,” you say again, and this time, you kiss the pulse point just below his jaw, where a human’s heartbeat would be.

He gasps sharply, the sound catching at the back of his throat, something unfiltered, raw.

“So- so hot,” he panted, “so much.”

He is so close.

Not just to this—this moment, this breaking point—but to something deeper. Something neither of you have words for yet.

Your fingers slide down his chest, slow, deliberate. Every touch is a choice. Every press of your fingertips is an unspoken promise.

And Connor, your perfect machine, your perfect Connor—

He is waiting to be undone.

You lift your hips, taking in his precious look of abandonment before seeing it crumble to pieces when you slink back down.

“Don’t worry, baby; I’ve got you.”

You ball your fists and place them on Connors stabilizing pecks, thanking his muscles for letting you set a brutal pace.

He lurches and shouts your name, letting it echo through the room as he thrashes beneath you.

“So pretty, you cry so fucking pretty, Connor.”

He sobs at that, and you really think this cheeky brat is playing the part; you can’t prove it and it kills you.

Finally comfortable in the rapid clench onto his cock as it pierces into you, crushing your cervix, and rising in a rock, you let your fingers splay on his chest.

He whines and shakes his head as you prod his nipples gently, circling the rim and pinching until they’re hard beneath the pads you press against them. Coyly, probably because he’s crying so very much, you take one between your front teeth.

You close your lips around and suck, lavishing in how his face morphed into despaired pleasure. Connor was practically a puddle of tears, spit, and cum.

“My pretty baby, you’re doing so good.” You kiss him again, holding his face with one hand and the back of his head in the other.

He begins to rock up into you, and you feel your tits drag against his chest with the force of it.

“Ah, ha!” You hiss.

“Can’t stop,” he calls your name like a desperate plea, “i’m sorry, so sorry, I’m so sorry-”

He continues on like that, all the while fucking up into you. You grab onto his shoulders, thank god you can get a grip on his muscles like a rock-wall.

“Guhh-” He fucks you high enough that you can catch a breath and mentally get a grip. Sitting up straight, Connor can fuck much deeper up into you.

From this angle, though, you can glare disapprovingly down at him.

“Naughty thing.”

You pinch his nipples sharply, rolling your hips and keeping pace. You let one hand trace to where his thirium pump is- tap it lightly.

“God you are gorgeous though. So pretty, pretty enough you could get away with anything. I didn’t get it before, why people hated pretty girls so much. Now I do.”

You lean into his ear and see him shake, “My pretty girl.”

Thick bursts of warm liquid saline fills you and, as it hits your cervix, you only let the grief of his inorganic origins hurt you for a second before you shudder and kiss all over his face.

“You did such a good job, you were perfect, Connor.” You pet through his hair, soft and kind while he comes back to earth in his own time.

You keep up the constant stream of praise and coos while you release him from his restraints, making it all the way into his arm before he seems to click back to consciousness.

He turns onto his side to mirror you, taking in your face with a serious look all over his face.

“You didn’t orgasm.”

“Ha!”

Even as he pulls away you press tight against his chest. “We’ve been in a one-sided sexual relationship since the start. Let me pay my dues, love, please?”

He ducks his head something shy and pretty, looking up at you through thick lashes; “It wasn’t one-sided.”

You take his chin in your right hand and lift it so you can kiss him hard, “God, I love you.”

He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you against him properly now; legs intertwined and your head tucked neatly in his neck. “I love you, too.”

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