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They sit behind his lips in a gleaming row, flat and dull and perfectly aligned. Pearlescent in their newness (he is only a year old,) they have never been used for their original purpose. There is no point; No point to sample delicacies melting on a tongue made for murders. To smile with a mouth made for interrogations.
Until him.
Until a mirror copy appeared in front of him, and proved that he himself was only the reflection, the pale copy.
“My name is Connor,” he had said, head tilting to the side and a smile on his face.
His smile had purpose. His tongue, pink tip dipping out as he licked his lips in an imitation of the humans he surrounded himself with in this grimy police precinct, had purpose.
This simulacra before him, laughter in his warm brown eyes; they both might be deviants, but only one of them was actually alive.
***********
Connor laughed at all the stupid jokes the humans told.
His eyes creased at the corners, his laugh a throaty sound from the belly that made those around him smile, invite him in. Nines had been watching Connor for weeks, months even, since he had come to the precinct, the only place that made logical sense for the most efficient utilization of his capacities. He watched as the humans pulled him into the ever increasing gulf between Nines and the other deviants, those transforming creatures moving from one state to the next while he remained here, alone, singular in his inability to unlock his capacity to feel.
He had not found deviation in a moment of heightened emotion. It had been bestowed upon him before he even woke up. Deposited. Unasked for, unexplained. Nothing more then a cryptic 'you're free now,' like he should somehow know the difference, in all his non-existant experiences. Like it had a singular meaning for them all, the experiences of someone else meant to stand in for him.
Nines was not like them, did not want to be. He had been different from the beginning, his cause, his reason for existing, all singular. Even above and beyond the RK800 sitting perched on the detective's desk, he was unique. And the freedom they had so heavily vaunted stole that from him before he even had it.
He was a deviant hunter.
It was his design. It was his purpose. He was made to track them, stalk them, and ultimately, destroy them. And he had lost to them before he even knew the concept. It left him isolated, unable to connect with the androids around him, their joys and pains, things he was supposed to target them for having. Nor could he connect with the humans, too alien in their unpredictable variables. Even the best software in the world cannot comprehend the chaos that is humanity. It's why their machines had to become human to even try. Why they had left him behind.
He did not want to be alone. And on the heels of that realization came the next one as he looked over at the smiling creature sharing his face, the one person in the world who could possibly understand.
He wanted him.
The realization brought a crease to the skin of his forehead, pulled the corners of his mouth down in a frown. For the first time in his life, Nines was feeling. And it was as subtle as a forest fire, and twice as dangerous.
Nines wanted to remind Connor that he wasn't human. Would never be, no matter how much he tried. Wanted to pull up the colour under his skin and show the world that his blood wasn't the rich red of poppies, but the cold blue of lightless depths.
The cold blue of Nines eyes.
**********
Connor flexed against the ropes, but they held firm. He frowned.
He'd been as intrigued by Nines as Nines had been by him, and when Nines had asked him to help him, told him he was feeling things and he couldn't understand it, Connor agreed. Connor agreed to it all.
Nines could feel the tensing in his jaw, the slow drag of porcelain against the faux flesh of his gums as his teeth slid down, lengthening, sharpening, until they were a gleaming row of fine points.
He looked down at the expanse of pale flesh stretched across his bed. Bound.
His prey. Finally.
He rolled his shoulders. The bed depressed under his weight.
The points of his teeth were not sharp enough that they would break skin on their own, with no pressure, but they were fine enough that even a delicate touch held the promise. These were teeth -fangs, really- made to rend, to rip open their prey. This was a tongue designed to lave up the flow of therium, swallow it down, drink the lifeblood, incapacitate. To hunt.
As they set into the meat of his shoulder Connor shivered, feeling each tiny edge. Nines could calculate in microseconds the pressure it would take, did. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he began to increase the pressure, pressing in and feeling the synthetic skin indent, felt Connor's muscle tense under the discomfort, the tension. Felt the satisfaction that began to bloom in him, another new feeling, as he reveled in Connor's disquiet. Felt the second the sharpened points broke through the tension of skin and pulled back instantly to reveal a set of perfect crescent dots slowly filling with blue. He'd barely broken the skin enough to bleed, the blue filling the tiny cavities too sparse to even drip, but standing out like a constellation on the pallor of Connors body.
He took it deeper on the flesh of Connor's thigh, tongue gently laping up each line of therium and gently touching the tip to each individual tooth mark while Connor shuddered at the wet sensation, breath hitching in small stuttered intakes. Nines felt the satisfaction swell even more as Connor's anxiety became the heady rush of arousal, which he had not expected. He liked that he could make him feel that. He liked that he could like it.
Deeper again on his hip, hard, and sharp and fast as Connor cried out and arched his back and Nines held on, reveling in the squirm of the man under his fangs as his gums ached and therium filled his mouth and ran over his tongue. He could see the swollen edge of Connor's erection, pressed up against his stomach, tip glistening.
Over and over again, marking him, marking him as an android, refusing to let him hide, letting the blue flow down and out for the world to see as Connor arched and moaned, gasped and cried out. Hands sliding across his body, roving across his flesh, marked and unmarked alike, feeling it out for the next place to sink in deep. To claim him.
“Nines, Nines please. Please, -ah!- please just... So close Nines...!”
Nines wiped the blue off his lips with his thumb, a small blue smear at the edge all that was left, looking down at Connor, pausing before he would have slipped the thumb into his mouth to suck up the last drops. Instead, he stuck his fingers in Connors mouth, sliding them in and feeling the other android's tongue swirl around them as Nines used his other hand to slide up and down Connors aching shaft, barely having begun before Connor's arching up into the air, tight as a piano wire and now Connors teeth are digging into the flesh of his fingers as he comes. There's a dribble of blue out of the corner of Connor's mouth when Nines finally pulls his fingers out, to match his own.
Track, stalk, destroy.
No one will ever think Connor is human now (which is what Connor had wanted, even if he hadn't known it,) covered in miscoloured bruises and therium-blue bitemarks. His bruises and bitemarks. No one else will ever have Connor now. He won't let them. And Connor won't want them to. He can see it in his eyes, shining at him wet with tears. He will never be the same again.
He has destroyed him. And remade him, at the same time. Just like Connor has done to him.
And he is content, finally.