The thing is, Dorian has trouble regulating his emotions. No one expects that of him; he’s a robot, after all. He shouldn’t even have emotions to regulate. But he does, because he’s a DRN, and because he didn’t get to “grow up” with his emotions like humans do, didn’t get to be told what to feel and not to feel in appropriate or inappropriate situations, didn’t get to weather the storms of puberty before reaching a dubious self-understanding.
He hasn’t learned how to cope with having emotions. He’s trying, but it’s difficult, and it’s especially difficult when it comes to John, because John matters to Dorian in ways that aren’t quantifiable or calculable, in ways that drive Dorian well-near mad.
John’s the only human Dorian’s felt this peculiar attachment to, a sense of his own survival somehow being literally, physically linked to John’s, which is both ridiculous and factually untrue. But it seems as though any harm that befalls John hurts Dorian instead, or at least hurts him more, and any threat to John makes Dorian feral and ferocious and willing to break the first law and kill.
John makes him forget his own programming. His own boundaries. John makes him feel human, as opposed to almost human, and that’s the most maddening thing of all.
And so when John shows interest in another human being - be it a man or a woman - Dorian both seethes with rage and quakes with terror, because what if John gets taken away? What if John chooses to spend his off-duty hours with someone else, touching them, fucking them, talking to them, instead of dropping by Dorian’s still-new apartment and having a beer while watching sports that Dorian can see no logical point of?
No matter what he tells himself, about John being an independent entity who has the free will to make his own decisions, Dorian can’t help but want to keep him, perhaps even control him enough to keep him, to make John a known factor in a pre-calculated equation instead of an unknown variable that could throw the entire graph of Dorian’s existence off-axis.
John’s like an asymptote, unreachable, but Dorian wants desperately to reach him, to reach him and capture him and have him, and so he does, one day, trapping John face-first against a wall in his apartment and keeping John there by a hand on the back of John’s neck.
When Dorian picks up on John’s speeding heartbeat and the spike in his pheromones, it almost isn’t a surprise - that John wants this, if not him - that John wants to be forced to submit.
So Dorian takes John’s submission, asking only once if John wants it, really wants it, and then Dorian loses his “virginity” by fucking John into that wall, fucking him hard enough that John can’t stand by the end of it, that the knee of his artificial leg buckles and Dorian has to hold him up, tightening his hand on John’s nape, enough that it must be leaving a bruise, but Dorian perversely wants to leave a bruise, even if it means hurting John a little, even if it means hurting himself.
And then, Dorian leans in and whispers a question into John’s flushed ear:
“Who do you belong to?”
John doesn’t answer, at first - panting, catching his breath, stinking of sweat and come - and his silence makes Dorian see red, because how dare John not answer this, how dare John not know the answer to this -
But then John rasps: “You,” and it’s so quiet that Dorian barely hears it, perhaps would not have heard it at all had he been human. It’s more a breath than a word, more a gasp than a breath, and there’s a hint of shock in it, like John didn’t expect himself to say that, doesn’t know what to do with that.
Dorian knows what to do - for perhaps the only time in his “life,” he knows, without confusion or uncertainty - and he tilts John’s head back to kiss him, with all the softness he hadn’t given to John earlier, with all the hungry tenderness Dorian’s been keeping at bay.
John sags against him, into him, and Dorian wraps his arms around John and half-carries him to bed.