dbh_kinkmeme (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dbh_kinkmeme) wrote2018-06-18 06:51 pm
dbh_kinkmeme) wrote2018-06-18 06:51 pm
PROMPT POST 1
MEME RULES
(lovingly adapted from![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hannibalkink and dragonage_kink)
Kink memes work like this: you comment to this post with a "prompt," asking for a specific scenario/ship/etc. Others, hopefully, respond with a "fill" of that prompt, either with fanfiction, art, papier-mâché, etc. Should you need a more in-depth explanation of the process, the Dragon Age meme has some excellent guides!
(lovingly adapted from
hannibalkink and dragonage_kink)Kink memes work like this: you comment to this post with a "prompt," asking for a specific scenario/ship/etc. Others, hopefully, respond with a "fill" of that prompt, either with fanfiction, art, papier-mâché, etc. Should you need a more in-depth explanation of the process, the Dragon Age meme has some excellent guides!
1. Prompt post subject lines should be formatted as: a pairing tag (Name/Name) for ships, character names for gen, and "any" or "everyone" for wild card pairings, and a short description of kinks/content, as well as any applicable trigger warnings.
- Please use pairing tags instead of ship names, for clarity and ease of searching.
- i.e. Kara/Luther, buying curtains, TW: VORE
3. No kink shaming. If something violates the rules, report it on the mod contact post. Otherwise, move on and let live.
4. This will not be a spoiler-free area. All readers are assumed to have consumed the entire game. Read at your own risk.
Anonymous comments are on. IP logging is off.
If there are any issues, you can contact your lovely moderator, Trek, at either my tumblr or my twitter.
Fill: Pining, jealous Connor
(Anonymous) 2018-09-10 10:02 pm (UTC)(link)------------
Connor knew something was wrong as soon as he saw the flowers on Hank’s desk. For one thing, the day hadn’t even started yet. Someone must have put them there quite early in the morning, or late after the detectives had already left for the evening. Intentionally avoiding any interaction.
This was evidence.
Narrowing his eyes, Connor examined the flowers tip to tip. White roses and daisies. A modest but attractive bouquet that would have cost a decent amount, according to an internet search on local florists in the neighborhood. White tones. White symbolized…? Connor ran another search.
Innocence, purity. Death. True love. Different meanings depending on culture and context.
Connor blinked away the results. They were too inconclusive, barely more than conjecture. Someone had left a bouquet of white flowers on Hank’s desk but the meaning behind it (a threat? a show of gratitude?) was unclear.
More data needed.
Connor knelt down beside Hank’s desk, eye-level with the bouquet. He performed a quick scan for any extraneous evidence. Three noteworthy things appeared in his visual field. One: A note attached to the bouquet read, ‘For Hank Anderson,’ in flowing, neat script. No indication of the sender’s identity. Two: There was water on the tips of the stems and condensation on the petals. These were stored properly in a hydrated, cool environment until recently. Kept nice. Third, and most interesting: There were no fingerprints anywhere on the flowers.
So. Delivered by an android.
“The hell you doing now?”
Connor rose to his feet. Hank had arrived. A cursory scan of the man revealed typical information: Hank had slept badly the night before. His breakfast consisted of a beer and a glazed donut. And he was staring at Connor with suspicious, confused eyes, waiting for an explanation.
An all around average morning.
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Connor intoned, easing into the seat at his own desk. Some of his internal objectives checked themselves, highlighted in blue. Hank was here and he was in more or less good (well, usual) health. On time. Apparently ready to begin a day of work.
With those objectives achieved, a tiny surge of enthusiasm filled Connor from the core of his chest to the tips of his hair. He liked having his objectives checked. It felt blue. Blue, as Connor was learning the more he catalogued and analyzed his own emotions, was relief. Reassurance. Almost happiness. But happiness could also be yellow if it was intense enough. Too much pleasantness, too much personal satisfaction. A case solved with maximum efficiency. A night spent on Hank’s couch with Sumo in his lap. An evening on the bench that overlooked the city, Hank by his side. Discussing nothing in particular. These things were yellow. Happy, but almost too much for Connor’s neural network to process.
“What are all those?” Hank pointed to the flowers. His face was crumpled in distrust. Grumpy, Connor’s database provided the nearest appropriate word.
He began to explain. “It’s a bouquet. Prepared by Heartfelt Flora, the florist on 67th street a few blocks away from here, as the evidence points to.” A basic process of elimination by operating hours and stock led Connor to that conclusion. “I found it on your desk when I came in this morning.”
Frowning, creasing his already wrinkled face, Hank picked up the bouquet and inspected it himself. Connor would have stopped him if he hadn’t already performed a scan. This was evidence, and who knew where it came from. It should have remained completely undisturbed. But, once Connor scanned it and realized there were no obvious signs of foul play, he was alright with Hank touching it.
…Kind of, anyway. Hank looked strange holding a bridal bouquet. The uncompromising white of those flowers seemed to glare against his skin, pointing out all the crevices. The parts worn by age and experience.
Connor wondered, not for the first time, what Hank’s full face looked like. Without the curtain of grey hair hanging around his temples. If Connor pulled that curtain back would he be able to see all the other things Hank kept secret? The feelings, the things he almost said some nights when they were alone, but didn’t? Things about life, about Cole. About Connor.
“Listen, kid, you…”
Minutes passed.
“What? What about me, Lieutenant?”
“…Nothing. Nothing, alright.”
It wasn’t nothing. Connor could feel a definite something. But he had no words to describe it. His database came up empty and his limited experience as an entity of free will—a deviant—provided nothing comparable. No similar experience that would give substance to the thought.
There was nothing like the feeling Connor had when he was alone with Hank. He was beginning to suspect there never would be. They’d been partners for almost a year now. Partners in crime (during the revolution) and partners at work. Friends, even. Hank was Hank and Connor was Connor. They knew each other very well and the ease of that companionship would never change.
It reassured Connor. Left him blue on the edge of yellow whenever he considered their friendship. He liked it.
“Pssh, I hope you were the groom, Anderson.” A sarcastic salvo from Detective Reed landed flatly as the rest of the squad began to notice Hank and his flowers.
Hank’s face lightened. He chuckled, legitimately amused at the idea. Also ready to poke fun at the absurdity of all this. “Yeah been there done that, thanks.”
“Second time’s the charm, I hear,” another detective called. A few people were taking pictures on their phones.
“Nah,” Hank shook his head and plopped the flowers down on his desk without a second glance. “Couldn’t put another poor girl through that. My ex was a saint for putting up with me as long as she did. World’s shitty enough without piling all my shit on somebody else’s plate.”
“So…your ex-wife’s not out of bounds, then? That’s what you’re saying?” Cutting laughter echoed through the squad room.
Hank sighed. He booted up his computer. Done with the conversation. “Sure. You want to take a shot at my ex, go ahead. Why not. Just don’t come crying back to me when you’re missing half your balls.”
Connor pulled up the image he had on file of Hank’s ex-wife. Marie O’Malley. She took her maiden name again after they divorced. Connor had never met her, but Hank spoke of her from time to time. Actually they sounded like they were once a good couple. Marie was warm but tough. A tried and true cop’s wife. They probably would have lasted together if not for the accident. To Connor’s understanding, after Cole’s death their relationship had been tinged with bitterness, half-hearted blame, and regret. Until they finally ended it.
Connor didn’t know how to feel about Marie. On the one hand he felt sorry for her, losing a child. On the other, he felt antipathy towards her for causing Hank more pain, however inevitable that was. On yet another hand, a rejoinder, he often wished he could find a way to ease her pain as well.
Pain was weight. That’s what Connor had come to understand. He couldn’t feel pain, but he could feel weight. Being weighed down. He knew the feeling. Pain must be the same. Debilitating. Just barely manageable some days. The way Hank carried himself…as if he were hoisting around weights on his shoulders, worn down by his past…
“Seriously, though, who’s idea was this?” Hank looked out at the station. Making eye contact with everyone. “It’s too early for pranks, goddamn it.”
No one accepted blame. They shrugged and shook their heads, looking around as eagerly as Hank. Trying to figure out who could have given him—the resident grumpy old man of the squad—such a thing.
“Actually, I think the person who gave it to you was an android,” Connor pointed out. “My scan showed no fingerprints.”
Hank reared his head back. “Why the hell would an android send me flowers?” He stared at the bouquet as if it had offended him on some level.
“I’m having trouble establishing a motive as well,” Connor admitted.
“Aww, you just got some robot girl sweet on you, Hank!” One of the older detectives came over and patted Anderson on the back too harshly. “How nice. She must have a thing for old dudes that smell like the inside of a Jack Daniel’s bottle. Lucky you.”
“Alright, that’s enough.” Hank shrugged the other man’s hands off him. He was not interested in making this a joke anymore. He seemed perplexed.
“Well if you’re not into it you can always give her my number…” A few more deep-throated grunts made their agreement known.
“I said, that’s enough!” Hank was shouting now. Serious. Silencing all the miscellaneous grunts with a dark look.
When Hank was serious, no one dared get on his bad side. He’d made his reputation as a wild card well known. Not caring in the least for regulations and standard conduct. A bar fighter, as well. No one really wanted to tempt that.
So the other detectives slowly went back to their own business.
Saying nothing, Connor went to make Hank a cup of coffee. He knew the only way to ease Hank’s now ruined mood was with caffeine. Connor could see a visible unclenching of Hank’s muscles, a slackening of his face and easing of his shoulders, whenever he drank coffee. Connor considered it part of his job to get Hank to that point.
His job was to help. He always wanted to help Hank. That was high on his list of primary objectives. He liked it that way.
Later in the day, when they were alone in the car on the way to a crime scene, Connor offered a bit more help. “You know, if you really want to find out who gave you those flowers, we could always check the security footage. The tapes run all night. I’m sure they’re on there.”
Hank cast Connor a sideways glance. Giving that some thought. Eventually he said, “Nah. It’s fine. I’ll leave it alone.”
“Are you sure?” The curiosity alone was preoccupying a good helping of Connor’s neural network! Eating up his processing power. How could Hank not be interested?
“Yeah.” Hank paused. “If they wanted me to know who they are, they would’ve left a name. Or a number. Or something. Think for now they want to be…you know, anonymous.”
That made sense. They’d left no clues, so anonymity was almost certainly their goal. More than that, it made sense that Hank would want to respect their wishes. He was like that. He didn’t push people. Unless it was for a case, and even then, Connor was in charge of most interrogations.
Hank was more thoughtful and far more considerate than people gave him credit for.
Although, Connor had never seen Hank deal with a problem like romance. He’d heard of his marriage, but that hardly counted. This was something like…courtship, wasn’t it? Everyone in the station had assumed that immediately when they saw the flowers. Apparently that was the most logical conclusion.
Hank was being courted.
Connor blinked rapidly. He noted a spike in his internal temperature. Unsure of the cause, he ran a quick diagnostic and came up with nothing. But his temperature refused to go back to its normal limits. And his hands were…twitching. Once every eight seconds. Then ten…then fourteen…then seventeen.
Unusual.
A problem?
…No, not a problem. Just a brief distraction. It would pass in time.
“You okay?” Hank asked, evidently catching the strangeness radiating off Connor.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
He was fine.
Re: Fill: Pining, jealous Connor
(Anonymous) 2018-09-10 10:45 pm (UTC)(link)Connor sat at his desk and stared at the gift while he waited for Hank to come in. His responsive network—the place where all his free will and improvised responses came from, as well as his detective skills—came up with several scenarios for who could be doing this. Why. To what end?
What were the goals in this? Giving Hank gifts? Especially signing it just ‘me,’ indicating that this might become a regular thing. That they might attempt to become…familiar with Hank over the course of this.
Well. Connor folded his hands in his lap. If they wanted to become familiar they should just reveal their identity and talk with Hank. Being secretive and discreet was not the way to get attention from Hank. Connor knew that much! He’d been friends with Hank for a long time. The way to appeal to him was with honesty and transparency. Not with disguises and trivial gifts…
“What’s that now?”
Connor explained what he’d found to Hank, although he hardly needed to. The evidence was right in front of them.
Hank read the card over a few times. Checking the back and the front. “No number huh…” he said, almost to himself.
“And no fingerprints,” Connor added. Hank was distrustful of androids still. Yes, he was getting better, but Connor knew firsthand how deep Hank’s distrust ran. For that matter, he was distrustful of everyone! Humans and androids. There was no way Hank would think any of this was just an innocent gesture, a sloppy attempt at courtship. He’d see it as a trick—
And so, Connor set himself up for a harsh shock to the system when he saw Hank open the box and lift the donut to his lips. Ready to eat.
“Wait!” Connor reached for Hank’s hand to stop him, LED flashing yellow.
“…What?” Now Hank was looking at him with that look. That. ‘Fucking androids.’
Connor hated that look.
“I…have to scan it first. Check its contents for malicious additives….” He blinked and looked away. Unsure why his processors were operating at heightened speed, as if this were dramatically tense. A hostage situation. Or…
“Okay. So do it.” Hank held up the donut, giving Connor ample access.
Wordlessly, Connor performed the scan. The results were normal. All clear. For some reason, that didn’t make him feel any better.
“…It’s fine. Go ahead.” Not wishing to see any more of Hank’s looks, Connor turned to his computer.
“Good to know.” What followed were the sounds of Hank chewing. Gratuitously. Licking his fingers of any leftover glaze.
Connor silently lowered his auditory input. Not wishing to hear any more of that than he had to.
There was another feeling in his chest. Something he was becoming more accustomed to. Anger. Anger was the red of his LED, whirling and flashing. Fingers clenching, irrational orders from his primal drive spewing at rates too fast to process. Thoughts firing off in his head. Face tight.
Connor was angry.
He didn’t really know why. Who, or what, was he angry with? He couldn’t be mad at Hank for eating a donut. Especially a free one. And he couldn’t be mad at someone for wanting to give Hank gifts. Especially gifts that Hank enjoyed!
But…he was.
Hank should have been more responsible. He should refuse to take things from someone without knowing why he was receiving them. He should be more cautious! And…he should be more consistent. If Hank hated androids so much (‘Fucking androids,’) then he should act more like it. He should turn down gifts from androids no matter how delicious. And he should be more annoyed about getting these gifts in the first place.
Why wasn’t he more annoyed?
And this anonymous android! (If indeed it was, instead of a person using an android to send the gifts, which was unlikely these days.) If they cared for Hank then…they should give him a healthier gift! Donuts were high in sugar and fat content. Hank had enough of that in his diet! Didn’t they want him to live as long as he could? Furthermore, they should stop playing like this was some game. Hank didn’t have time for games. He was busy and he didn’t even like games…
Connor’s thirium turned to ice as he watched Hank pull a post-it from his desk and write the word, ‘Thanks!’ on it. He stuck it to the empty donut box and left it where he found it. The card he put in a drawer next to the bouquet of flowers he’d received previously.
None of these items were in the garbage. All of them were taking up space in Hank’s desk. As if they were important.
Hank must have thought they were important. This must have been a game worth playing. (Even though when Connor asked to play chess, Hank always said he was ‘too tired for all that shit. Why don’t you play yourself?’) He was beginning a correspondence with this person, leaving a return message where they would certainly see it. If they were looking.
Connor’s head throbbed. His processors were running so fast he couldn’t keep up with them. What…was this? A new emotion…? Like anger, but faster. Liquid quick. Running over every inch of him. Hot and cold at the same time. Pump beating and face slack, apathetic.
Connor searched his database for a word to explain this, but the parameters were too specific and unclear. Nothing came up.
Shit.
Meanwhile, Connor was left beating back irrational directives from his core.
Throw the box in the trash.
Check the security footage against Hank’s wishes and confront this person yourself.
Take the card from Hank’s desk and analyze it for more clues. Then destroy the card.
Confront Hank about his unreasonable behavior.
Refuse to allow Hank to accept any more gifts.
Then, quietly, at the very end of all the overlapping instructions:
Be happy for Hank.
Oh. Connor turned to the side as if he’d just heard that one aloud. Be happy for Hank. That’s what he should be doing, wasn’t it? They were friends. Friends supported each other in all endeavors, including romance. If Connor was Hank’s friend, then he should be happy for him and tell him to pursue the relationship as far as he liked. They were friends, weren’t they?
But where were all these irrational instructions coming from?
“Hey, Connor, I’m going to the store for some lunch.” Hank was on his feet. Half the day had gone by already. “You want anything? A magazine or something?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
He was fine. He really was. He’d run a diagnostic later tonight on the docking station in his own apartment and then…then he’d…well, he’d stop all these strange feelings. He’d be happy for Hank. Like a true friend.
Yes.
He was fine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Okay, I think I'll post the rest on ao3. Or maybe just later lol.
op here
(Anonymous) 2018-09-11 02:06 am (UTC)(link)Amazing job! :D
Re: Fill: Pining, jealous Connor
(Anonymous) 2018-09-11 07:01 am (UTC)(link)Oh oh oh is Hank's secret admirer the 'Traci' he called a lovely girl when turning her down during the Eden Club investigation? A rare - possibly the only - acknowledgement of her personhood before even she herself knew - who wouldn't fall for a kind soul like that?
Because Connor clearly has.Fill: Pining, jealous Connor (pt 3)
(Anonymous) 2018-09-11 11:22 am (UTC)(link)Here's the third part while I work on the rest. <3 <3 <3
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was already another gift the very next day. This time it was just two red roses tied together with a white string. There was a card attached, but this time it was sealed in an envelope. Formally.
Connor stood stock still in front of the desk and considered what he should do. What he should not do, of course, was listen to any of the directives his drive was spewing. No. That would have been very bad.
Still. Connor could not very well leave the card alone without a scan. For safety’s sake. So. He scanned it. Empty except for the intended card, no traces of anything harmful. Just a card. And well…he was already scanning the inside of the envelope, so he might as well look at the message…Connor adjusted his scanners and was able to rearrange the writing in front of him. He analyzed the script and added it to his database for easy processing. The handwriting was the same as before, but the message was a lot longer.
It read: “Dear Hank Anderson, Hello. I’m sorry to leave you so many anonymous messages but I was a little shy at first. I wasn’t sure how you would react to gifts like this. Especially when you found out it was an android sending them, which I’m sure Connor already told you.”
Connor paused for a moment. This card actually mentioned him by name. So. This must be an android they both knew…probably one who worked in the station. Or at least used to.
That was an important conclusion. He filed it away for later.
The note went on: “But since you’ve been accepting the gifts without ridiculing me, even though you don’t know who I am…well, I want to meet you. We’ve met already, but this time I want to meet privately. So I can explain myself and my feelings. If you’re at all interested, please come to the Coffee Bean on 54th street at 6:00. I’ll be waiting. —Yours, S.”
Connor read and reread the note several times. It was in his programming to look for a hidden meaning, some kind of code, so he did. But he found nothing. The words were just…words. They meant what they said.
This person, whoever they were, had clear feelings for Hank. Romantic feelings. A quick internet search for red roses produced nothing but romance-related results. There could be nothing else.
Fighting back more instructions that made no sense, (hide everything, all the evidence, before Hank can see), Connor put his hand on the flesh of the rose. The petal was so tender. Fragile under his hand. This person must have touched the petals in the same way and thought the sensation appropriate.
Was romance as fragile as this? Breakable from nothing but a harsh squeeze? Connor had no experience with romance or sexual attraction. He did his job. That’s what he was programmed to do and he did it well.
But…when he thought about this person, picking out flowers for Hank, Connor found that he knew how they must have felt. Unsure. Anxious. Excited. Wanting.
Want. Want was somewhere between yellow and red. Orange. Needy and demanding. Connor should know nothing of want, and yet…he did. When he imagined this person and these flowers he understood. There was want in these gifts.
Connor had want inside of him too, he realized in that moment. He must have had it for a long time but he just never knew the word for it. This want, this was all part of the way he felt about Hank. Comfort, security, familiarity, happiness, and want. It was there. As loud as any of the other feelings. Connor let himself feel it, starting to get overwhelmed.
I want Hank too.
At last the words settled in his head.
Now he saw his own want reflected back at him through the efforts of another person. It was right there. Red roses and beautiful words. That was want, or a type of it. A way to express wanting.
Connor wished he could find a way to express his own want. This feeling…it was beautiful! It must be shared! No wonder this person had written such a heartfelt letter! They could not possibly keep their want to themselves. It would be awful! Connor understood this person very well now.
They’d come to their conclusions about Hank much faster than him.
“More flowers?”
Connor whirled around to face Hank. His mind racing, Connor stumbled over several words inside his head. It was hard to get any of them out.
Want tell fragilefeeltellwant—
“Hank, I—”
“Oh and there’s a card this time?” Hank had not heard Connor’s outburst. Now he was already opening the card and reading it.
Connor watched his face as he read. For the most part it was blank. Then, at the end, Hank’s face went slack. Quietly thoughtful. He put the card back in the envelope and stuck it in his jacket pocket. A private, personal place. Over his heart. Before Connor even knew what was happening, Hank had gone to the break room and procured a vase.
Still Connor was standing there. Watching Hank put the roses in the vase, mixing them with the leftover flowers from the last bouquet. Weeding out the dead ones and clipping the live ones. Caring for them as he let the flowers breathe in the water. They’d soak up the sun on the farthest corner of his desk.
How long had Connor beed standing here?
“You alright, Connor?” Now Hank was looking at him. Not angry. Not even confused. Just looking. As if waiting for him to say something.
“I…”
I want you too.
He wanted to tell Hank. He should tell him. He should tell him everything—that the nights on the bench and the nights on the couch, those times when Hank came over Connor’s apartment with a DVD. Ancient technology, but something that Hank had a lot of. Something for them to watch. Connor loved all of that. He loved being at Hank’s side and helping him—his objectives now revolved almost entirely around Hank. And Connor wanted them that way. He wanted Hank in his life and he wanted…he wanted…
What? What else was there?
…Romance?
Connor looked at the flowers on Hank’s desk and was lost. He had no idea what it meant to be in a romantic relationship. Other than sex and physical touching, of which Connor knew very little as well. Overall, he had no idea what he could expect from Hank should they enter into a relationship like that. This note, these gifts…they were beyond Connor, in a way. He hadn’t thought to give them and he probably never would have.
And now. Well. Hank already read the letter. So.
It was too late.
Swallowing his regret and bewilderment, Connor forced himself into a seat. “…Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”
It wasn’t nothing. It was never nothing. Did people always say ‘nothing’ when they meant the opposite? Now Connor was doing it too.
“Huh.” Hank was still staring at him. Unconvinced.
“What did the note say?” Connor asked emotionlessly. Hank didn’t know he’d read it already. Connor wouldn’t admit to doing it if he didn’t have to.
“The person wants to meet,” Hank explained. “The one who sent all this stuff. Sounds kind of like a date.”
A date. Connor ran an internet search even though he didn’t have to. He knew what a date was.
Holding hands. Conversation. An enjoyable, shared experience. Kissing.
Liquid, fiery cold something ran through Connor again. He wanted to go on a date with Hank. Didn’t he? They already had! More or less. They’d been alone and talked about personal mattes. Confidential things. Life and feelings. There’d never been any kissing or touching, but…once, Hank put his hand on Connor’s shoulder for a long time. If Connor recalled the memory he could still feel it there.
That was a date, right?
…That wasn’t a date. No. Meeting at coffee shops at a specific time agreed upon in advance, with gifts beforehand, that was a date. Connor had never been on a date.
“Are you going to go?” Connor asked, unsure why. The slick rage/fear feeling was only getting worse. “On the…date?”
Hank sucked on his top lip. “Who knows.”
Mostly likely, yes. “I see.” Connor turned back to his computer, pretending that his hands weren’t shuddering every ten seconds.
“Heh, a date. Can’t explain it for shit,” Hank said, shrugging his shoulders in that overwhelmed, put-upon way he had. He passed a hand over his face as if it were all too much.
Even so. The flowers were put in a vase with water. Kept on the desk. Tended to. Cared for with Hank’s own fingers.
And there was a certain kind of levity on his face. Not a smile per se, but. Lightness. Hank walked a little straighter the rest of the day.
Finally, Connor’s database was able to put a word to the feeling inside of him.
Jealousy.
Re: Fill: Pining, jealous Connor (ao3 link)
(Anonymous) 2018-09-11 04:38 pm (UTC)(link)^___________^ <3 <3