realtimeanalysis | (no subject)

[ The idea occurs to Connor early one evening when he's out jogging with Sumo. The sofa-sized dog still keeps refusing a full run, but even a lazy canter with his sized stride means Connor can't just walk to keep up with him. The sun is finally taking its time to set, the brisk spring night fresh with stubborn spurts of flurries for accenting the cold.

At a languid jog, Connor had been idly carding through a thousand thoughts, and in part, reflecting upon recent enjoyable sexual endeavors; as well as watching Sumo, the surrounding traffic, keeping his attention on thier tracked route, and a number of other sub-tasks.

When all of the sudden, a completely stray thought hits him out of left field.

Is this what inspiration is like for humans? Possession by a wild, feral idea that attacks you out of nowhere?

The notion feels... drastic? Dramatic? Outlandish? Fun? Connor connects his thought-to-text feed to Hank's phone, but for once his stream-of-consciousness communication appears only as a floating '...' for a long lingering moment. For once, he finds himself uncertain of how much to say. Certainly he needs to say something-- give Hank some small clue as to the suggested game afoot. But how much does he want to reveal? Connor's got zero problem with being frank and direct, he could simply ask: do you think it would be enjoyable to, for the sake of kinky fun, expand our shared daddy-kink and role play that you're my father?

He could, really and truly. But instead, those flickering marks of silence eventually give way to:

When I get home, would you like to play a game? ;)

The emoji is extremely important Connor decides, for tone. They're both very good detectives; Connor wonders how many breadcrumbs it will take before Hank understands what he's playing at? Conveniently, Hank can also ignore the android's shenanigans if he decides he doesn't quite enjoy this flavor of their games. There's an easy out, if Hank wants one. ]

I'm home! [ Through the front door, Connor calls out into the house, broadcasting a casual energy into his claim; another, tiny clue, not worth anything on its own, because Connor's still in the stage of waffling between calling this place home, and calling it Hank's.

Connor is quick to spot Hank on the couch and, after un-leashing the exhausted dog, strolls over at a measuredly relaxed pace; he all too easily deposits himself on the sofa next to its single occupant; typically he might take his partner's hand, or fold himself against the taller man's ribs, but today Connor props himself against Hank's side with playful awkwardness, as though trying to pester him with the dead-weight of his body. ]

Please tell me you've thought about food already?

[ He can't exactly ask what's for dinner; he doesn't eat. ]

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[Hank grunts at the mention of selling drugs. Of course Connor’s gotta play all coy like that — while Hank nudges him toward the so-called forbidden.]

Shouldn’t do what, sweetheart?

[Said with a smirk on his lips. That little nickname slipping through, too, but Hank hope it works midst their game.]

Of course it’d be an issue. [Hank lowers his voice for this; pushes pretend-anger into his words.] Nobody deserves you, Connor. Nobody is good enough for you.

[He reaches up to cup Connor’s face again. There’s a little frown on Hank’s lips, his brow drawn; the glimmer of sadness isn’t entirely feigned.

But for the purposes of their game, at least: no one should be able to touch Connor — no one but dad.]

You have been kissing, haven’t you? And more?

[Hank hmms, tilting Connor’s face up ever so slightly just to prove he can. As if he has any power on who his unruly son might be making out with.]

You ever lay in any of their laps like this?

You shouldn't... [ His false certainly seems to evaporate around him when he actually has to summon up the right words; he thinks they should stop, that doesn't necessarily mean he wants to, does it? His steely gaze goes glassy with uncertainty, the familiar pet-name spun in this new context making him acutely aware of the excess heat on his face. Blushing like a fawning coquette must ruin his play at 'genuine' defiance, but he clings to the attempt regardless. ] You just shouldn't.

You--I-- that isn't up to you

[ More tremulant uncertainty, a complaint barely half-hearted, like a leash with which to lead him into the forbidden. He's doing a very poor job hiding his outlandish, misplaced desires; he's not moving, practically puddy in Hank's hands. ]

That's-- that none of your business

[ Glassy, craven gaze on Hank's lips again, like Connor is haunted by the severity of all his disastrous desires. He moves with synthetic-shame-ridden willingness, swallowing a quiet whimper as his head is tipped like his fantasy-father is weighing exactly how many rules he's willing to break here. ]

I-- it's-- there's no competition

[ Connor's hand lifts with a very convincing quiver as it cups the side of Hank's face. His fingers trace, contrarian and coy, down his partner's face and his thumb sweeps, feather light, across Hank's lower lip. ]

We can't. Please. Don't ... don't stop

[ His twisted desire is making a trainwreck of his (false) bid for the brakes; not only has Connor failed to mention any unappetizing vegetables, he sounds far closer to begging Hank to keep going, than actually honestly bidding him stop. The way he wets his lips with a swift swipe of his pierced tongue betrays his pining anticipation for a contraband kiss. ]