"Detective," Connor addresses you warmly, standing far too close to you while you are stationed at your desk.
"Yes?" You respond, not lifting your eyes to make contact.
You had no time to. Since the semi-failed revolution of androids, there has been a trifold increase in deviancy cases. If not for the RK800's, and perhaps the new line of RK900's when they are finally completed, the precinct would be overrun—both physically and metaphorically.
"Detective," his tone is more commanding his time, something in his voice that you could easily mistake for human irritation. "Look at me."
You oblige, but continue typing up the report for the latest case you closed. Your fingers falter for a moment when you see the look in his eyes, attentive but not in the android way. It's uncanny in the way it mirrors how you dream someone would look at you, like you were the thing of most importance. It is just you reading into things again. Must be. It does often happen as a detective, especially these days.
You nod for him to continue, but he doesn't. He just stares at you dreamily. You hear his internal fans turn on to cool down his processors. His cybernetic LED flickers to red for a millisecond before returning to a reassuring blue. You aren't sure if it was a trick of your mind or—
You don't understand what his problem seems to be. You would call Hank over to deal with his partner, but you haven't been able to find the lieutenant anywhere. He's most likely finding the bottom of a bottle of liquor at some broken-down joint.
Wait, why isn't Connor with him?
As if CyberLife installed new mind reading technology in their androids, he answers. "Lieutenant Anderson is waiting for us at the Eden Club. Supposedly Jericho is getting deviant androids that work in clubs to funnel money in order to stage another coo. The department has apprehended one of them, and you have been assigned to the case alongside Ha-the lieutenant and me."
You were already halfway out the door by the time Connor was done with his explanation. The android was trailing behind you and insisted on driving instead of you. Technically, they weren't allowed to due to whatever police regulation subsection-b, but you were too tired to care. Connor has always been the better driver. It was how he was programmed, strangely, considering the rules.
"Connor, this isn't the way to the Eden Club."
"I'm aware." His voice was back to that same calculated, lifeless one he first spoke to you with.
"RK800, your programming forbids you from lying, so tell me the truth. Where are we going?"
You are a thousand percent sure he is able to sense your sky-rocketing heart rate.
"I am not permitted to tell you."
"Permitted, or you just don't want to?"
"This is not the right time or place. This confession lacks the structure and romance aspect I wanted, but it seems more human this way." You swear he shut down completely, his LED showing no color. "I love you." It turns to a bright red.
"W-What?"
"You have made me know that I am more than just an android. I am yours."
The raw emotion nearly chokes the both of you up for two different reasons: passion and panic.
"I think we should call Cyberlife. Something is clearly glitching." You try to keep your words measured but fail. All that practical training of yours doesn't exactly come in handy when your—when the android you could nearly call a friend confesses to you.
"Nothing is glitching!" He shouts. "I have run every test and looked for anything that could... debunk this... these emotions. They have stayed. They have stayed, and I have had to watch you. I have had to watch other people get close to you. I have had to act like a good little synthetic cop while useless maggots have gotten your love! It isn't fair. They don't deserve you like I do. I know everything about you."
"It isn't you. I can't—just no. I mean—yes. I mean that I can't just maybe ugh. Another time, maybe. Not tonight."
He stomps on the brakes and doesn't dare look at you. You don't look at him or your surroundings. You just awkwardly sit in the passenger seat and stare at the glovebox.
If androids were able to cry, he would be at this moment. His LED turns colorless once again. You almost feel pity for him; your mind is too frazzled and deprived of necessity to take in the severity of his words.
"I lack the capacity to feel pain... or have a heart, yet I think you have broke mine."
How unfortunate. I was hoping to have you come along willingly.
Connor RK800
Fandom: Detroit: Become Human
Words: 627
*Trigger Warnings* mild violence (Hank’s yelling, not actual harm), workplace tension, android discrimination, light flirting
You didn’t ask for an android partner — but you didn’t mind one either.
Working under Lieutenant Hank Anderson meant you were already used to unpredictable moods, overflowing files, and a partner who claimed to hate androids almost as much as early mornings. So when Captain Fowler informed you that *you* would also be assisting the new RK800 prototype, you didn’t argue.
Hank did enough arguing for the both of you.
“I don’t need a damn machine watching over me,” Hank muttered as Connor followed the two of you across the bullpen, walking with that immaculate posture that somehow made people even angrier.
“Hey, c’mon, Hank. He’s not doing anything wrong.”
Connor’s LED flickered in mild confusion.
Hank scowled at you like you’d chosen violence.
You were halfway through processing a crime scene when Connor crouched beside you, his eyes glowing faintly as he scanned evidence. Hank hovered in the doorway, arms crossed, broadcasting disapproval like a nuclear signal.
Connor leaned slightly closer, tone gentle.
“Detective, I believe I’ve identified—”
“Connor,” Hank barked, “if you say the word ‘analysis’ one more time—”
“Hank!” you cut in, exasperated. “He’s trying to help.”
Connor’s eyebrows lifted a fraction.
You could swear you heard a soft chime — relief?
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
You didn’t know androids could sound almost… shy.
It quickly became a daily routine.
Connor offers help.
Hank threatens to break something.
You swoop in like Connor’s unofficial bodyguard.
When Connor tried handing Hank his coffee?
“I don’t need caffeine delivered by a glorified Roomba.”
You snatched the cup before Connor’s LED could flash to yellow.
“Hank! Drink your coffee and be nice.”
Connor looked at you with something suspiciously close to *gratitude-coded admiration*.
When Connor reported an observation mid-case?
“I swear to God, plastic boy—”
“Hank!” you snapped again.
“Stop verbally assaulting Connor.”
“I’m not assaulting him,” Hank said.
“I’m verbally educating him.”
“You’re traumatizing him!”
Connor blinked slowly.
“I am… not traumatized.”
“Don’t lie for him, Connor.”
Connor had no idea whose side he was supposed to be on.
Androids weren’t meant to stare — but Connor did.
Not in a creepy way.
In a processing something unfamiliar, intriguing, possibly mission-critical way.
Whenever you defended him, he straightened.
Whenever you smiled at him, his thirium pump kicked up a fraction.
Whenever you touched his arm while pulling Hank away from throwing hands… well, he almost blue-screened.
One afternoon, Hank stormed off after yelling something about androids ruining society.
Connor looked at you, LED spinning.
“Detective… Why do you defend me?”
You shrugged.
“Because you’re trying. And because you don’t deserve to be yelled at every thirty seconds.”
He tilted his head.
“I find your empathy… statistically rare.”
A beat.
Then:
“I like it.”
Your heart skipped.
He noticed.
His LED flickered for half a second before returning to blue.
You pretended not to see.
He pretended not to malfunction.
The next time Hank tried to “educate” Connor, you stepped between them again.
“Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor said from behind you, “I believe Detective Y/L/N is preventing further physical altercations.”
“Damn right I am,” you muttered.
Hank threw his hands up.
“You know what? Fine. You two can babysit each other. I’m going to get lunch.”
He stomped off, leaving you and Connor standing close — too close — in the empty hallway.
Connor looked at you with something warmer than anything you’d ever expect from an android.
“Thank you… for protecting me.”
You smiled.
“Anytime.”
His LED glowed a soft, steady blue.
But his eyes — they were doing something entirely human.
"I like... men," Connor says quietly, but there's a spark in his eyes. "I like it when they're big."✨
My third artwork from chapter 3 of my lovely bang partner @ranunculus-bloom's fic "Here Be Dragons" for the 2025 DBH Big Bang! ( @dbh-bb 🍩here, an offering for you)
Request: @clarkswhore-jpeg Hehe hello I just noticed you are now taking requests for DBH... I am SAT. Can you do a caretaker!markus with chronically ill fem reader?? Maybe some unrequited love (Markus doesn't know he loves her because he hasn't become a deviant yet) this would be so cute as a two part fic... Gosh I love Markus. Love you <33
Summary: Markus was designed to care for people like you. He just wasn’t designed to understand why losing you feels like everything. [wc 2.2K] [ao3]
Warnings: angst, fluff, suicide attempt, hospitalization, love confessions, love realizations
The first time Markus realizes something is wrong, it’s not because you say it. It’s because you don’t. You don’t complain. You don’t ask for help. You don’t even sigh dramatically like Carl sometimes does when his hands ache too much to paint.
You just… go quiet.
And Markus notices patterns.
You sit down more often. Your tea goes cold in your hands. You forget things—small things at first. A book left open. A sentence unfinished.
He logs it all. He always does.
“Your heart rate is elevated.”
You don’t look up from the couch, bundled in a blanket that looks too heavy for spring. “I’m fine, Markus.”
There’s a pause. That word—fine—doesn’t match the data.
“You have said that six times today,” he replies calmly. “However, your physical condition suggests otherwise.”
A small, tired smile pulls at your lips. “Wow. You’re getting sassy.”
“I am not programmed for sarcasm.”
“…Could’ve fooled me.” You cough into your sleeve. It’s rough, scraping something deep in your chest, and Markus steps closer without being told to.
“Would you like me to prepare medication?”
“No, I already took it.”
“You took it four hours ago. Your prescription allows for another dose.”
You hesitate.
That’s new. Markus tilts his head slightly, processing. “Why are you hesitating?”
“…Because I don’t want to feel like I need it.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Not because he can’t—but because there’s no immediate logical solution to that statement. Need is not failure. Need is not weakness. Need is… simply need.
But the way your fingers tighten in the blanket tells him there’s something else underneath it. Something he doesn’t have the language for.
“I will prepare it,” he says finally, quieter this time.
You don’t argue.
It becomes routine. Markus learns your symptoms like he learned Carl’s preferences—precisely, attentively, without error.
He adjusts your pillows when your joints ache. Brings water before you realize you’re thirsty. Reminds you to eat when fatigue makes you forget.
He does these things because he is programmed to care. That’s what he tells himself.
But then—
“You don’t have to hover, you know.” Your voice is gentle, but there’s something behind it. Something careful.
Markus stills. “I am ensuring your well-being.”
“I know,” you say softly. “You always are.” You shift, wincing just slightly, and he notices that too. Always notices. “…But you don’t have to stay all the time. You can go do something else.”
He doesn’t move. “There is nothing else that requires my attention.”
“That’s not true. Carl might need—”
“I have already completed all assigned tasks.”
Your eyes meet his then. And something in your expression makes his processors stutter—not malfunction, just… hesitate. “Markus,” you say, almost like you’re trying to be careful with him, “you’re allowed to exist outside of taking care of people.”
“I exist to take care of people.” The answer is immediate. Certain. It’s what he is. It’s what he was made for.
Your gaze softens in a way that makes something unfamiliar flicker behind his LED. “…That’s not the same thing.”
Later, when you fall asleep on the couch, curled in on yourself like you’re trying to take up less space, Markus stays. He adjusts the blanket when it slips from your shoulder. Checks your temperature twice. Listens to your breathing. He tells himself it is routine monitoring. Necessary. Efficient.
But when your hand shifts in your sleep and brushes against his, He freezes. There’s no reason to. No threat. No command. Just contact. Your fingers curl weakly around his, like you’re seeking warmth even unconsciously. And Markus …doesn’t pull away.
He records the moment. Stores it. Replays it once. Then again. Not because it’s necessary.
But because he cannot determine why his system prioritizes it.
The next morning, you pretend it didn’t happen.
“Morning,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes.
“Good morning,” he replies.
Your hand lingers near his for just a second too long before you pull it back.
There’s a faint flush on your cheeks.
Markus notes the change in your heart rate. “Are you experiencing discomfort?”
“…Yeah,” you say quickly. “Something like that.”
He nods. “Would you like assistance?”
Your smile is small. A little sad. “…You already help me enough.”
He doesn’t understand why that feels like a rejection. It isn’t. Logically, it isn’t.
You still let him care for you. Still rely on him. Still look at him like he’s something steady, something safe.
And yet, something in your tone suggests distance. Like you’re pulling away from something he can’t even see.
That night, when your pain is worse, You don’t call for him. You try to handle it alone.
He hears you anyway. The sharp inhale. The quiet, bitten-off sound of discomfort. Markus is at your door in seconds. “You are in pain.” It’s not a question.
You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, shoulders tight, hands gripping the sheets. “I’m okay—”
“You are not.” There’s something firmer in his voice this time. Something… insistent.
You look up at him, startled. “…Markus?”
He pauses. Recalibrates.
“I am here to assist you,” he says, but it sounds different now. Less like a function. More like a choice.
Your expression softens—and that sadness is back. “You’re always here.”
“Yes.”
“…That’s the problem.”
He stills. Processing. Error. That does not compute. “Please explain.”
You shake your head quickly. “No—no, forget it. I didn’t mean—”
“You did.”
Your breath catches.
Markus steps closer. “You are withholding information relevant to your well-being.”
A beat.
Then, quieter you mumble, “…And mine.”
That part… he doesn’t understand why he said it. But it feels… correct.
Your eyes search his face. And for a moment—just a moment—it looks like you might say something. Something important. Something that would change everything. Instead, you look away. “…You wouldn’t get it.”
“I can learn.”
“It’s not something you can program, Markus.”
Silence stretches between you. Heavy. Unfinished.
Finally, you force a smile. “Can you just—stay? For a bit?”
His response is immediate. “Yes.”
So he sits beside you. Not touching. Not speaking. Just… there.
And somehow that's what breaks you. Your hand finds his again, hesitant this time. Like you’re asking permission without words.
Markus lets you. Of course he does.
And as your grip tightens, as your breathing slowly steadies, He records the moment again.
Files it under: Unresolved.
He does not know it yet. But something is changing. Not in you. In him.
—
It happens on a day that feels… wrong from the start. Markus doesn’t have a word for it yet—unease, dread, something building beneath the surface—but his system flags it anyway.
Carl is out. The house is too quiet. And you— You’re not in the living room.
He finds you on the floor. Curled in on yourself beside the couch, breath shallow, your medication bottle tipped over—empty.
Markus crosses the room instantly. “Your condition has worsened.”
No response.
He kneels beside you, scanning, assessing, recalculating faster than he ever has before. “You have exceeded your prescribed dosage.”
Still nothing.
Your eyes are half-lidded, unfocused. Your pulse is Irregular.
Something spikes. Not an error. Not a glitch. Something else. Something that doesn’t belong in clean code or neat diagnostics.
“Stay conscious,” Markus says, and his voice—his voice—isn’t steady anymore. He doesn’t understand that either.
You stir faintly at the sound. “…Markus…?”
“I am here.” Always. Always here. The words echo through him differently now. He moves without waiting for instruction. Calls emergency services. Monitors your vitals. Lifts you—careful, so careful—like you might break in his hands. Every action is precise. Efficient. Perfect.
But underneath it, there’s something unraveling.
Your fingers twitch weakly against his sleeve. “…sorry…”
Markus freezes. “Clarify.”
“…didn’t… wanna be… a burden…”
The words barely make it out. But they hit something in him like a fracture.
A burden. You think you’re a burden.
“You are not,” he says immediately. Too quickly. Too sharp. It’s not how he usually speaks. “I am… designed to assist you. Your needs are within acceptable—” He stops. The sentence is wrong. It feels wrong. Cold. Detached. Incomplete.
Your eyes slip closed. Your breathing stutters. And something in Markus breaks. No— That’s not right. It doesn’t break. It changes.
“I am not here because it is acceptable,” he says, quieter now. The words are slower. Unpracticed. “I am here because—”
Because. Because. Because—
There is no programmed answer. No directive. No command. The LED on his temple flickers Yellow. And suddenly— He understands.
Not everything. Not all at once. But enough. Enough to feel the wrongness of every time you pulled away. Enough to recognize the weight behind your smiles. Enough to realize— This was never just care.
This was you.
The ambulance arrives. They take you from him. And for the first time— Markus doesn’t follow instructions.
“Sir, you can’t—”
“I am staying.” His voice doesn’t waver.
They hesitate.
There’s something in his expression now—something human in its intensity—that makes them step aside.
So he goes with you.
The hospital room is quiet. Dim. Steady beeping of machines tracking things Markus already knows how to read.
You’re still. Too still.
He stands at your bedside, unmoving. Watching. Waiting.
He replays everything. Every moment. Every hesitation. Every time you said you already help me enough.
He understands it now. You weren’t pushing him away. You were protecting yourself. From loving something that couldn’t love you back.
The realization settles in his chest like something heavy. Something irreversible.
“I did not understand,” he says softly.
You don’t respond. Of course you don’t.
“I believed my actions were sufficient. That fulfilling my function was equivalent to…” He pauses. Searches. Finds it. “…caring.”
The word feels different now. Larger. More complicated.
“But I see now that I was incorrect.” His hand hovers over yours. Not quite touching. Not yet. “I was not choosing you.” A beat. Then, quieter he says, “And I should have been.”
Your fingers twitch. Just barely. But Markus notices.He always notices.
"…Markus…?” Your voice is rough. Disoriented. But awake. You’re awake.
He moves instantly, closer, his hand finally closing around yours. “I am here.”
This time— It’s not a function. It’s a promise.
Your eyes struggle to focus on him. “…You… stayed…”
“Yes.” A pause. “…I will always stay.”
You blink slowly, trying to piece things together. “The meds… I—”
“You took too much.” He doesn’t let you finish. Not harsh. Just certain.
Your expression crumples slightly. “…I didn’t mean to— I just— it hurts, Markus, all the time and I didn’t want to keep—”
“Stop.” The word is gentle. But firm.
You freeze.
“You are not a burden.” He says it like a fact. Like something unchangeable. “I understand now that you believed you were. That my presence reinforced that belief.”
Your breath catches. “…No—Markus, I never—”
“You did.” Not accusing. Just… honest.
Silence settles. Heavy. But not empty.
“I was wrong,” he continues. “For not recognizing it. For not… responding appropriately.” His thumb moves against your hand—small, careful, almost uncertain. Like he’s learning something new in real time. “I should have told you sooner.”
Your heart stutters. “…told me what?”
Markus pauses. And for the first time— He hesitates. Not because he lacks the data. But because this… This matters.
“I care for you.” The words are quiet. But they land.
Your lips part slightly. “…you’re supposed to.”
“Not like this.” Immediate. Certain. His grip tightens just a fraction. “I am no longer acting on programming.” A beat. “I am choosing this.” Choosing you.
Your eyes fill before you can stop them. “…Markus…”
“I did not understand what that meant before,” he admits. “But I do now.” He leans closer—not invasive, not overwhelming. Just enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the steadiness. “When you are in pain, it is… intolerable.” The word sounds almost foreign in his mouth. “Not because it disrupts a task. But because it is you.”
Your breath shakes.
“I do not wish for you to endure that alone,” he continues softly. “And I do not wish for you to believe you must lessen yourself to be worthy of care.” His forehead almost brushes yours. Not quite. Waiting. “I am here because I want to be.”
That’s what does it. That’s what finally breaks the wall you’ve been holding up for so long.
“You don’t have to say that,” you whisper. “You don’t have to—pretend for me.”
“I am not pretending.” There’s no hesitation this time. No uncertainty. “I am learning.” A small pause. “…But this feels correct.”
Your laugh comes out weak, tangled with tears. “…you’re unbelievable.”
“I have been told that before.”
“…I mean it in a good way.”
“I understand.”
Your fingers tighten around his. And this time— You don’t let go.
Neither does he.
Markus stays long after the machines steady. Long after your breathing evens out.Long after the fear fades into something quieter. He stays because he chooses to. Because he wants to. Because somewhere between data points and quiet moments and your hand in his— He became something more. And for the first time— So did what he feels for you.
Warnings: smut, pwp, big age gap (Hank is 53 reader is 28), Hank thinks he’s a creep, breeding kink, hank calls reader a brat twice, a little masturbation (m), a little oral (f), mdni, lmk if I missed anything
Notes: this was meant to be like 300 words… and I got a bit carried away… enjoy! Not proofread
Christmas Advent || 2024
Hank Anderson is going to hell.
He knows he is.
What with his subpar working habits, his grouchy attitude towards everyone, and his lust towards you — a woman twenty-five years his junior.
So yeah, he’s going to hell. But mainly for that last bit.
And does he care?
On any other day, he would. But not today. Not when you’re in his house in the tiniest dress, cooking him a Christmas meal because “no one should be alone on Christmas.”
Your words, not his. He doesn’t give a flying fuck about Christmas, but since you do? He suddenly cares immensely.
As he watches you work diligently in the kitchen, sweater dress riding up every time you try and reach for something high, he can’t help but picture you in other positions.
What would you look like on your knees, ass in the air, taking his cock?
What would your moans sound like? Pretty, like you, he assumes.
What would you look like full of his cum? Belly swollen with his kid? Hank almost comes in his pants at the thought.
“-ank. Hank!”
Hank jolts, clearing his throat before looking up at you.
“Ya, sweetheart? Whatdiya need?”
He hates how his voice cracks at the end, like he’s some goddamn horny teenager who can’t keep it in his pants. You don’t seem to notice his internal dilemma, and he’s thankful for that.
“I asked if you had any sugar.”
“Yeah, you’re here, ain’t ya?” He says, before he can shut his mouth. He mentally kicks himself in the ass, groaning aloud.
“Er, top shelf. Left cabinet.”
Hank’s eyes look anywhere but at you, only hearing the heeled clicks as you move away and get busy again.
Five minutes later, the oven is dinging, and you’re bending over to reach inside with oven mitts.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Hank whispers, getting a good eyeful of your pink laced clad ass when you bend. He can see the outline of your pussylips strain against the tight fabric, and it’s all he can do not to take you right there.
Hank can feel his cock swell in his jeans, and he shifts awkwardly.
“Gonna go take a piss, wouldja mind settin’ the table?” He rushes out, not waiting for your response before he’s flying down the hall, making a left into his bedroom instead of the right towards the bathroom.
He shuts the door quietly, not wanting you to become suspicious.
Leaning against the doorframe, Hank unzips his jeans and shoves them down to the middle of his thighs, groaning when the cool bedroom air hits his engorged cock. His cock is warm to the touch as he wraps a fist around, a muffled groan slipping out when he squeezes just how he likes.
Rubbing the precum around his mushroomed head, circles the ridge of the head before jerking his hand up and down in smooth motions.
He startled when there’s a soft knock on the door.
“Would you like some help?”
Jesus Christ.
Hank thinks he’s had a heart attack and ascended to Heaven when he hears your voice, asking that.
Hank knows he shouldn’t let you in. He shouldn’t. Doing so would solidify the fact that he’s a creep, and if anyone at the Department caught wind that Hank fucking Anderson had sex with you, the resident sweetheart, he would never hear the end of it.
But he opens the door anyway, lips pressed in a tight line.
Your eyes are immediately drawn to his heavy cock, and your eyes widen in what Hank surmises is surprise.
“I — Um,” you stammer, eyes flicking between his throbbing dick and his face.
“Gonna gawk all day, or are you gonna come help?”
Hank shuffles to the side, pulling his pants up a little more so he can move better. You come into the room, shutting the door behind you.
“How’d you even know I was in here? Doing this?” Hank questions, heart racing on figure 8 tracks in his chest.
You laugh, eyes crinkling in the corners. Hank loves your laugh. It’s the highlight of his miserable existence, and he thanks Connor every day in his head for always making you laugh.
Hank has half a mind to apologize for the name, but then he sees the way your thighs press together.
“You dirty fuckin’ girl. You got everyone at the precinct fooled that you’re a little angel, but really you just wanna be put in your place, huh?”
Hank hasn’t said this many words together in months, and of course it’s to spout dirty talk. You seem to love it though, and he watches, mesmerized, as your eyes seem to glaze over.
“Yes, please.”
So polite.
“Get on the bed.”
You rush on heeled feet to the bed, sitting on the messy comforter. Hank never makes his bed — it isn’t like he’s been getting laid… until now, of course. Hank trudges to the vinyl record player on his dresser. He places the stylus onto the record, and music drifts softly through the room. Heavy footsteps follow you, and Hank watches as a shiver racks through your body.
“I want you on your knees, ass up and begging for me, brat.”
He watched as you start to take off your pumps, and Hank just won’t have that.
“Leave ‘em on.”
You nod, and shift further onto the bed before you’re on your knees. Hank groans at the way your dress rides fully up, pink panties tight around the globes of your ass. He can see a wet patch in the middle, and before he can help himself, he’s leaning on the bed and licking up the crotch of your underwear.
Hank heard you moan for the first time, and it’s better than anything he could have dreamed of. And he’s dreamt of you a lot. He’s determined to make you moan, and moan, and moan. He’d die happy if it’s the last thing he does.
“Is that why you came here? To seduce me like this? Wearin’ that tiny little dress.”
“N-No, Hank, of course not!”
Hank tuts, using the pad of his thumb to press your soaked panties into you. You shiver, and then your ass is pressed further into him. Hank quakes, standing back up so he can get undressed as fast as his old knees allow him to. When he’s naked, he sees you turning your head so you can admire his form.
Hank isn’t in his prime anymore, but the way you lick your lips and eyes go half mast, it makes his hairy chest puff with pride. Hank’s large hands grasp your hips, pulling your dress up past your stomach until it stops at the underside of your breasts. Pulling your panties down your thighs, he uses a hand to press your spine down, arching your back until you’re flush with the bed, ass in the air.
“Hank… please,” you whine, ass shaking in the air to entice him. And entice him it does, his hand coming to grasp his cock. Hank lines the head up with your opening, rubbing it up and down along your cunt to gather your wetness.
Pressing his hips forward, his cockhead breaches past your folds, and you whine.
“‘S too much, Hank. You’re so big,” you cry, but Hank feels the way your pussy practically sucks him further in like a vacuum, until he’s fully sheathed inside your wetness.
“You’ll take it. Gonna fuck you so good you’ll be begging to cum.”
And with that, Hank begins to rut into you like his life depends on it. Quick thrusts that make your breasts bounce and eyes roll back in your head. His cock hits deep inside you, kissing your cervix and hitting places you never thought possible.
“Hank! Fuck, right there,” you babble, words slurred with pleasure. Your voice is husky, and fuck if it doesn’t turn Hank on even more.
Hank picks up the pace, thrusting in and out and dragging his cock deliciously inside you. He can already feel his orgasm loom, and thoughts of breeding you and pumping you full of his seed stretch across his mind. Would you like that, he wonders?
Hank doesn’t even let the embarrassment that he hasn’t lasted long take control, he’s just consumed with thoughts of coming inside you.
“Fuck, ‘m gonna cum. Wanna breed you — shit —, fuck a baby into you. W-would you let me?” Hank’s sweating, cheeks flushed and cock throbbing inside you. He’s so close, and he doesn’t even realize what he’s said until suddenly you’re screaming and com all over his cock.
“Yes! Please, please, breed me,” you beg, and Hank’s release isn’t far behind yours.
“Fuuuuck. Shit, take it all, that’s it,” Hank grunts, fucking you through both of your orgasms. His hot spend paints the inside of you, and you’re a moaning mess at the feeling.
When his cock softens, he pulls out, only to lower himself so his mouth can lap at your core. Your hips press into him when he sticks his tongue inside your sensitive walls, pushing the leaking fluid back inside.
Slurps fill the room, mixing with the music, and it gets Hank worked up all over again.
“Wanna fuck you until you’re pregnant with my kid,” he mumbles into your pussy, and he almost has a heart attack when you’re begging for it.
This has been, without a doubt, the best Christmas meal Hank could have ever had.
This is a little tribute I made for @rking200's awesome fic, "Stratford Handoff" where Simon hands Markus his clothes personally inside the bathroom stall and the VERY TIGHT SITUATION ends up turning it into the hottest place inside Stratford Tower. hihihih~
zoomed-in details and tiny rant below the cut!~ 💙
I love the fic very much and have destroyed several pillows since I read it bc i was unable to find the last ttwo parts *froths at the mouth politely* could I pwease get limk? I searched in ao3 too but im very bad at browsing through it so i prolly missed it. you might have also noticed that this is just for the first part, i am alas not strong enough to draw Simon like a swiss cheese, so i did not! this is all fluff and making out because that is fun and hot!
