“We should go home soon, Detective.”
Connor hums, ignoring the android behind him as he keeps typing his report.
“You’ve been working for almost fourteen hours, Detective.”
Connor hums again. He sends the report and opens another one.
“I know you haven’t stopped to eat since yesterday morning, Detective.”
“So? I’m not hungry.” He’s lying, his stomach is hollow and he can feel the ache in his ribs, but he has to get these reports done, he can’t waste time on food when there’s so much more he can be doing. He can feel Hank’s judgemental look over his shoulder, but ignores it.
Hank lets him type on for a few more minutes, likely thinking of a new approach. Large hands come to rest on Connor’s shoulders and he stops typing, back straightening. A lock of Hank’s hair brushes Connor’s ear as the android leans in close.
“If we go home now, I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for a week.”
Connor’s dick twitches in his pants. He quickly saves the document, shutting down his terminal and grabbing his bag and keys. When he turns his chair around to stand, Hank’s smirking at him in triumph. Connor blushes, realizing how easily Hank got him to crack. “You’re the worst. Let’s go.”
“Are you done yet?” Connor asks from the couch as Hank bustles around the kitchen. “I told you I wasn’t hungry, and you said you’d fuck me.” The smell of Hank’s cooking is starting to make his mouth water, and just the thought of it makes shame bubble up in Connor’s throat.
“Ten more minutes.” Hank pokes his head around the corner. “Then you will eat, and then I will fuck you.”
Connor groans, his head hitting the back of the couch. “Fine.”
When Hank finally calls him for dinner, the only thing on the table is a salad.
“You made me wait an hour and a half for that? I could’ve gotten so much done.”
Hank’s blue eyes narrow at him. “Just sit your scrawny ass down and eat.”
It’s takes everything in him for Connor not to moan when takes his seat. The kitchen chair pushes the plug in his ass against his prostate, and he shifts a little to avoid the direct stimulation as Hank sits in the chair beside him.
“Since you haven’t eaten in nearly two days, and who knows how long before that,” he starts in an accusatory tone, “I’m starting you off with something simple.” Hank picks up the fork before Connor has a chance to, spearing some of the leaves. He brings it up to Connor’s mouth. “Now, to make sure you eat everything, I’m going to be feeding it to you.”
Connor’s chest tightens in a brief moment of panic. “Hank-”
“I know,” he says, rest his other hand on Connor’s knee. “But if you need me to stop, you know your safewords. Repeat them to me.”
“Green for good, yellow to stop and asses, red to end the scene,” Connor recites.
“Good. What are you right now?”
Hank pats his knee and raises the fork again. “Open up, Con.”
Connor lets Hank put the first forkful in his mouth. He chews slowly, and his stomach gurgles at the prospect of being filled. Swallowing, however, is difficult. It’s only been a few days since his last binge, he knows he can go another day or two with a cup of coffee and maybe a protein bar. When he does swallow, his throat is tight, fighting the lettuce the whole way down. He takes a deep breath and looks up at Hank. “I’m okay. I just… need a second.”
When he’s ready, he opens his mouth again. Hank gives him more and it goes down much easier. His stomach and brain finally connect, the need for food becoming overwhelming. Before Connor knows it, the salad is gone and Hank is bringing out the next dish.
It’s another more simple one, skinless grilled chicken with a side of green beans. Connor practically moans when he takes the first bite Hank offers him. It doesn’t taste like much but is heaven to his neglected stomach. He finishes it quickly, eager now to see what else there is.
“Next one’s gonna be richer,” Hank warns. “You ready for that?”
Connor’s mouth is watering. “Oh, fuck yeah. Give it to me.”
Hank sets down a plate of ravioli, covered in a thick, creamy sauce. A mouthful of it is lifted, and Connor takes it all. He moans, rich flavor exploding over his tongue. “Holy shit, what is this?”
“Pumpkin Alfredo.” Hank shrugs. “Found the recipe online, thought you’d like it.” He feeds Connor a second bite of it, waiting for him to chew and swallow. Connor reaches for the fork, wants more, wants to just shove it in his mouth, but Hank pulls it out of reach. “Now, Connor, how did I say this was going to go?”
Connor’s face heats up and he drops his hand. “You’re gonna feed me.”
“Damn right I am, every last bite.” He gives Connor another, this time a smaller portion, as though he’s teasing. “Didn’t expect you to want it so bad, though. I thought you weren’t hungry.”
That familiar shame rushes through Connor as Hank repeats his own words back to him. Now that he’s been given a break, his stomach protests at the thought of another bite. He’s full, as full as he can be with his piss-poor eating habits, but he’s still got half a plate and who knows how much more.
He finishes the ravioli more slowly, each bite a new struggle as he fights himself. He pushes through, though. Hank wants him to eat? Fine, he’ll eat. He eats every last bit of the next dish, pan-cooked potatoes, ground beef, tomatoes, and cheese layered on top of each other like a sort of hamburger lasagna, despite the increasing pressure on his stomach. Hank clears away the dish when it’s empty but doesn’t come back right away with the next one.
Hank hums. “Just gotta dish up the last one, Con, had to make sure it was still warm.” He turns to look at Connor, who’s leaned back slightly in his chair. “You okay? Need to stop?”
Connor shakes his head. “I’m okay. Can I have some water?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” Hank brings him a large glass of ice water, and Connor sips at it until it’s half gone. The cold liquid is sweet relief on his heavy stomach, even though it adds to the weight.
He finally sets the last dish down in front of Connor. It’s a large bowl, filled halfway with a hearty stew, big chunks of beef and carrots swimming in broth, and what look to be dumplings resting on top. Steam curls up from the bowl, bringing with it an amazing smell. Connor’s stomach rolls. He doesn’t even get halfway through Hank feeding him this one before his throat starts tightening up. He’s barely able to swallow what’s in his mouth, tears welling up in his eyes. He’s had too much, his stomach is too full.
“We’re almost done, Con,” Hank reassures him. “You’ve been doing so good for me. Look.” Hank leans over, running his hand over Connor’s shirt. It covers the span of Connor’s stomach, but that’s not what makes Connor gasp. When Hank’s hand presses his t-shirt down, there’s a bump where Connor’s usually flat stomach should be. It isn’t a large bump, but it’s still noticeable, and Connor can definitely feel it.
Hank presses down on his stomach a little more, and Connor moans. He feels like he’s going to burst, but it’s so good, his stomach is never this full, he never treats himself this well. Hank keeps rubbing his stomach and Connor squirms, dick starting to harden, plug shifting in his ass. He needs Hank to fuck him now . Connor opens his mouth, lets Hank feed him spoonful after spoonful. Every few bites, Hank gives him one of the dumplings, and Connor groans around it, the fat melting on his tongue.
When the bowl is empty, Hank slides Connor’s water closer to him before whisking away the dishes. “Finish that,” he orders and Connor doesn’t hesitate to obey. He chugs the second half of the glass, setting it down and leaning back when he’s done. Curiously, he runs his hand over his stomach, fascinated by how firm it is for only being filled by food. He presses down the same way Hank had and surprises himself when he lets out a low moan. He glances up, and when he sees that Hank isn’t paying attention to him, he moves his hand lower.
Connor follows the swell of his stomach down, past his abdomen to his dick. He palms himself through his leggings, squeezing lightly to give himself some relief. He rocks down on the plug as he presses near the head of his dick, and this time he does moan, loud. Hank’s head whips around from the stove. “Did I say you could touch?”
Connor rocks again, letting out a softer moan. “You said you would fuck me.” He glares at Hank. “You said that hours ago and I still haven’t had your dick in me yet.” Hank stalks over to Connor, one impossibly strong hand snatching Connor’s bony wrist and yanking it away from his dick.
“You’re absolutely right, Detective. I did say I would fuck you, but I also said after you ate.” Piercing blue eyes meet Connor’s, and he squirms again. “I cooked an amazing meal just for you, but you’re such a goddamn slut that you can’t even take a moment to appreciate it.” Connor yelps when Hank pulls his arm, dragging him out of his chair, and heaves Connor over his shoulder. The pressure of the android’s shoulder digging into his stomach makes him groan. It hurts, it feels good, he’s gonna be sick, he doesn’t know why he likes it but he does.
He’s dragged out of his thoughts when Hank tosses him none too gently on his bed. He pulls Connor’s shirt over his head and throws it aside. Connor can see his stomach bulging in all it’s pale glory now, extending out beneath his countable ribs. Hank pushes Connor onto his back, running his big hands over Connor’s chest. Hank tweaks his nipples, drags his fingertips over each and every one of Connor’s ribs, and his hands come to rest on Connor’s stomach.
“See this, Connor? Feel this?” He presses down, and Connor moans and writhes beneath him. “I did this to you. I did this for you. Look how pretty you are when you take care of yourself.” Hank leans down to kiss Connor, just above his belly button.
“C’mon, Hank, please fuck me,” Connor whines, shoving his hips up as best as he can. Hank doesn’t waste any more time, ripping Connor’s leggings down and off his legs. Connor cries out, dick bouncing up and slapping his stomach.
Hank flips Connor over, pulling his hips back so his ass is in the air. “Oh, baby, look at you all plugged up and ready for me.” He presses the plug in further, digging it into Connor’s prostate, and Connor swears he’s going to cry if he doesn’t get Hank’s dick inside him right this second-
Hank works the plug out more gently than Connor expects, so he’s pleasantly surprised when it’s roughly replaced with two thick fingers. They push in roughly, a half-assed form of prep that Connor doesn’t need. “I’m ready, please, Hank,” Connor moans, reaching back and batting at Hank’s hand.
“If you insist.”
Then Connor is empty, stretched out hole fluttering, desperate to be filled again. Without warning, Hank thrusts into him, bottoming out in one smooth motion. It burns a little, and maybe Connor wasn’t as prepared as he’d led Hank to believe but he doesn’t care, just arches his back and tries to match Hank’s punishing pace. Connor’s hands scramble for purchase in the sheets as he gasps for breath, Hank’s perfect fucking android dick punching the air out of him.
Hank wraps an arm around Connor’s chest, pulling him upright so his back is against Hank’s solid chest. He pistons his hips up harder, and Connor screams, dropping his head onto Hank’s shoulder. Hank’s other hand comes up to push on Connor’s stomach. “Look. At. You,” Hank grunts against him. “So fuckin’ full, even with everything I gave you.” Hank takes his hand off Connor’s stomach to grab his hair, forcing him to look down.
Connor nearly comes right then. With every thrust, he can see the outline of Hank’s dick pressing against him, even through the fullness from dinner. It’s so incredibly hot. “Oh fuck, fuck, more, c’mon,” Connor babbles. It only takes a few more thrusts for Connor to come untouched, spilling over the sheets. Hank fucks him through it, doesn’t even slow down to allow him to catch his breath. Connor keens, oversensitive, full, so full, too much, keep going, keep going, please, Hank!
Hank doesn’t stop until he fills Connor further, the artificial semen leaking out of Connor where they’re connected. Hank strokes Connor’s dick until he comes again, crying and aching. He gently pulls Connor off of him, more come spilling out of his abused hole. Hank lays Connor down near the head of the bed, stripping off the soiled blanket and using it to wipe Connor down. Connor is choking out sobs, curled in a ball clutching his stomach.
It hurts, everything hurts and it’s so overwhelming. Connor wants to throw up, wants to get everything inside of him out, can’t take it, too full. His throat is tight, from crying, from hating himself. The bed dips and Hank adjusts Connor so that Hank is spooning him. He mutters soft praises, telling Connor how good he was, how proud Hank is, all the while rubbing Connor’s belly. Connor’s crying dies down some as they lay there, and he manages to roll over in Hank’s arms, burying his face in Hank’s chest.
“You gonna be okay?”
Connor sniffles. “Yeah.” His voice is small, barely audible. “Thank you. For cooking.”
Hank presses a kiss to the top of Connor’s head. “Of course, Connor.”