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josh-washington-wants-pizza · 6 years

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Imagine Hank Romance

Important notes: NSFW material is closer to the end of the story! It’s a bit tame but if that’s not your thing then please be advised! Alcohol is used in unhealthy consumption but resulting in non-violent demonstrations.

Meeting Hank was by sheer accident. Better rephrase that. The two of you were accidents waiting to happen. Perhaps even the aftermath of one.

You had met Hank after getting fired from a job you most certainly had been distinguished in up until now. At least, that's what you thought about all the notoriety that had been kept from you, personally. In truth, you hated it there. The people, the way things were run. The boss that tried to convince you that overwhelming yourself was all part of the program. "Group effort!" He would say, patting your back like you had a chance at promotion. Meanwhile, he would skim through your ideas and be off on another vacation with his second mistress. Forgetting all about your propositions for the company when he came back. Complete with a new tan and a rejuvenating spirit that towered over your sleepless bearing. It was no wonder that the computer at your desk ended up mangled on the floor with two weeks worth of paperwork and overly caffeinated coffee. When Mr. Protein Shake suggested working a third night overtime for a blonde with one hand in his slacks and the other anywhere she wanted. So long as she kept it there. At approximately six in the evening, you were escorted off of the premises, from a place you had been trapped in for nearly eight years. It was a lot different from having first walked through the extensive glass doors, wide-eyed and new. A lot different.

That's when you decided to hit a bar tucked behind a series of buildings and into the void itself. Away from the main streets and from anyone who dared seek you out with any condolences. You sat next to a man with grey hair, loose clothing and a sozzled stare. Half hidden face behind an arm he reclined against, and an occasional tumbling of ice when he raised his glass to drink. Then you realized the short, soft grunts from under his breath weren't exactly ebrious stupor but rather the result of a losing basketball team. "Detroit sucks." You had taken a sip and placed your glass down, shifting the weight of the liquid from side to side in a hopeless sentiment. The man turned to face you with a slightly bothered sneer that looked more in disbelief than with upset. "This damn city." You rephrased, putting the glass to your lips again. "Yeah." The man spoke gruffly and returned his head back into position with a gruntled nod.

You watched as the man called for another drink and then another after that. "Wanna slow down there?" Perhaps it wasn't the wisest thing to say in a place like this but you were too tipsy and sombre to care and it slipped. "An intoxicated hypocrite." He answered, glancing over at your side of the countertop that lined your own set of empty glassware. "I'm not drunk." "Congratulations." He raised a Jack in your honour. You were, however, flushed with warmth and your head was indeed a bit swimmy but you felt fantastic. Great, in fact! And? And bitter. The grey-haired man looked over at you when the silence fell. He saw a familiarity in the way you had retreated into yourself. The two of you simply got caught up in conversation and you laughed to yourself on the irony. Here you were in a back-ally notch of the world, lowest point of your life. Where this retro-dressed man with unorganized thoughts was giving you his ear until closing hour. When your own family couldn't bother to call.

You had left with a better perspective from what were the depths of despair itself. Not remembering to catch the man's name whatsoever. It was the same for him. He walked, weaving to his own car and sat in the passenger's seat for only a second and fell fast asleep. You gave a chuckle at the oddity of it and hoped that he at least locked the door.

Throughout the day, after resting, you tried to put yourself together but all you hit was a sensation that made you feel numb. You couldn't figure out if you were supposed to feel liberated or disappointed in yourself, so you sat down and flipped through the television. One channel, another, another. You didn't care what was on. Off it went. By nightfall, you felt a curiosity rise in you that made you restless. From your bed, you looked up at the ceiling and your body moved before your mind had time to catch up with it. Dressed in something casual and back to that shabby bar in the corner of the cosmos.

There were more people tonight and the thought crossed your mind to turn around and leave. That this was crazy. There in the back, at a curved booth, was the man you had previously and shamelessly confessed your life to the other night. He was busy cracking open peanuts and reading from a notebook. Cup of liquor to the side. "Have a nice nap in your car earlier?" You helped yourself to the seat across from him. He looked up in distraction at first and popped another peanut into his mouth. "The hell are you doing here?" "I thought that with how drunk you were you wouldn't be coming back here so soon." "I live here." He responded bluntly. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name." The sound of your voice was clumsy and you felt abashed in your need to know. "Hank…" He closed the notebook, analytical of your request. It wasn't exactly a frequent probe from women. It wasn't exactly intermittent, either. In fact, it was almost never. You gave your name but the questions on his face still remained. "Look, I'm not sure what you want." He began, meaning to add more but he was too perplexed to go on. "I liked the conversation we had. Maybe I'm over-reaching but I could use a friend right now. And who knows, maybe you do too?" You took a napkin from the table and wrote your number on it. God, the whole thing felt awkward. Part of you deemed yourself censurable for using a drunkard to vent on. That his judgment of you would be limited to himself. You slid the number across the amber stained oak table with what you thought were selfish fingers. Hank grabbed his glass and took a drink, somewhat uninterested in the fragile piece of cloth.

It had been a long time since anyone offered him their friendship. Even longer since someone of your demeanour approached him with the idea of it. Who on earth would want a person with his type of baggage around?

You both looked at one another in a discrepancy of self-insecurity. In reality, you both saw something that needed fixing and it was as simple and as generous as that. You were not selfish for finding kindness in an alcoholic you hardly knew. He was not problematic for unhealed wounds that cut so deeply they left him feeling abandoned. It was okay to get tangled up in each other. Your worlds were ending anyway.

To Hank, the idea felt exhausting. He spent the majority of his life having made a significant decision on becoming a husband and a father. Two things he was stripped of by the malicious and cold nature of life. Would he really want to let someone in, all over? Spend the days, weeks, months on them only to have them say goodbye in the end? Check off the list of likes and dislikes, hobbies and his depth of character for them to examine and criticize and split when they were done being curious. It all sounded tiring to him.

It took Hank three days to ring you up and you were somewhat glad. He didn't get the wrong impression after all. He wasn't in a hurry to take you to his place or ask what you were wearing.

The two of you offhandedly met for coffee at the start. A basketball game here and there, Jazz clubs. Hank was actually quite talkative and clever and you were judicious and ardent. Surprising each other for sure. Maybe this thing could work after all? What thing, precisely? Hank fixed himself up a little more each time and let's face it. You went back and forth between wanting to choose something nice to wear before meeting him. For some unknown reason, you told yourself but your subconscious was rolling its eyes.

One night, about two months later. You both met for dinner, it was Hank's suggestion. Highly unusual of him but neither of you had been predictable and that was part of the thrill. He ordered champagne, why not. Although, he didn't touch it as much. He spent the time trying to figure you out, musing over your presence. Likewise, you sat back wondering what it was you were thoroughly drawn to and cared about deeply enough to nourish. It might have been the smooth music in the backdrop and dim lights that set the atmosphere but that night you both noticed something different.

After dinner, the two of you followed a string of lights leading to the beach. Hank's coat whipped in the wind in front of you as he led the way to the shoreline. Looking out at the water he had managed to talk about Cole. Something he only briefly mentioned before. He had felt comfortable enough to converse with you about him and that sunk profoundly into you. You took his hand without much reflection. What a silly thing you prompted to yourself. You were tired of thinking too much and doing too little. Shrinking away from impulses like they were unnatural and inhuman wishes. Until they would burst into what if’s and could have been’s in the night. Hank traced a thumb over your knuckles. His hand was much larger than yours, rough but tender. The smoothness of your skin was tempting and there was no use beating back anymore denial. When the cold picked up you slipped your arms inside of his coat, latching around his waist, before he could offer it to you. It was just an embrace. He was warm, his stomach was marginally ample, cosy. He wrapped around you with the effort of keeping you warm. A little bodily sway here and there as the waves crashed to shore and receded. What a moment of lucidity. The two of you met hoping to watch each other collide with self-destruction and not have had it been one big lonely mess. Instead, you both fought back one another's fears.

You and Hank made it back to his car before an expeditious rainfall. He usually had music playing from old Jazz CD's that were lying around. Assuming his favourite heavy metal tracks were not to your liking. The rain fell against the windows instead and for a moment Hank was afraid. The calm had reminded him of old ghosts and here in the dark, he felt married again. Married to his grief, married to his abandonment. He was doubtful of something good happening to him. He needed to make sure you were real, sitting there with your attention drawn to the glittering streets. Reflecting the neon nightlife. He was almost choking with a quiet anxiety when you suddenly felt his fingers sidle over your resting hand, melting between yours. You drew your hand closed and took hold of them and when you turned to him you gently placed your free hand on top. Rubbing the back of his fist, down to his wrist. Hank felt as if he had a place in the world again, a place in the whole goddamn universe. It didn't matter how small the gesture was or how much time he thought he had before it slipped away. It hit him so terribly hard that he was on the edge of welling eyes.

He stopped in front of your apartment but you hardly budged. You looked up at the dark, lonesome complex with which you shared among four others on a floor. Delicate lightning painted the sky with her most generous colours of blue and white. You didn't want to be alone tonight and Hank wasn't sure if he was ready for anything too intimate. Nevertheless, he took you to his home on a good feeling and admired you for your sincere intent. He introduced you to Sumo, a content Saint Bernard that traded you a few licks to the chin for a good pet along the back. Then the two of you eased onto the couch to catch whatever was on television. Hank was embarrassed at the mess he had left behind but the house itself was astonishingly well managed. In fact, Hank was filled with all kinds of surprises. His sense of humour made you feel comfortable, the experience in his voice made him feel reliable. Under the surface of a heavily scarred man was a funny, loyal, deep-thinking person.

You leaned into him with a relaxing cuddle. He moved your hair to one side. So that he could rest his cheek against the top of your head without his beard getting tangled in it. His fingers flowed across the back of your neck in the process. You crept a hand onto his shoulder, pulling yourself in closer to the middle of his chest. Briefly rubbing his forearm in thanks as you did. Legs propped to the side, on the sofa. His arm around you but resting along the top of the couch. The sound of the television was low but the two of you weren't absorbed with what was on anyway. You were tired, he was tired and neither of you wanted to be alone. Hank was especially grateful. By now he would be sitting at the table with another cold one. The silent hour would swallow him whole and plague him with living nightmares that he had to drown away for relief. He found a cosiness here at last and accepted your body with a fatigued descent. You smiled at the concept of him falling asleep and getting some much-needed rest. So you motioned your fingers along the side of his arm and shoulder, just under the sleeve of his shirt. As lightly and nimbly as possible, in sweet strokes on his skin. Hank mumbled at how good it felt and then he was out.

You got up to get some water and only looked around, without touching much as you made your way to the kitchen. A picture of Cole, some vinyl records, dog toys for Sumo; who looked up at you with a tilt to his head. A mix of emotions beating in your chest. Your heart broke for the boy in the picture and you smiled at Sumo for being the only thing that kept him company within these haunting walls. You picked up a picture frame that was turned to face the corner of a bookshelf. It was Hank and his old police unit. His hair was short and neatly slicked back, his uniform was pressed and fit. The smile on his face was bright and authentic. With the photo back in the manner to which you had found it, you went to help move Hank into a more comfortable arrangement. You took him by the ankles, one and then the next. Stretching his legs out over the cushions. He mumbled and fell in and out of sleep. "You can take the bed if you want?" He said, coming more to his senses. You supported his back and gently pushed him down until he was lying flat and then you sat on your knees on the floor. Moving his hair away from his face, you spoke over him in an affable breathiness. "Got any extra blankets?" He smiled up at you drowsily and swore to himself that he had finally bit the bullet. He was surely dead and this kind person lingering above him was there to tell him he need not suffer anymore. "Hey…" you swept the backs of your fingers against his beard, putting any stray hairs in line. "Yeah, in the closet over there." He answered, pensively watching you rise and collect one that was both airy and soft. "You've got a mess in there." Hank ran his hands over his face, "Yeah… I know" he yawned reaching an arm out to take the blanket. You wrapped it behind you and climbed in. "Hey! What are ya doing?!" You aptly crawled on top. Your legs resting in-between his and you eased him back down to lay against his frame. Your head was lower on his torso and you brought the blanket up to cover both of you. "Don't worry Hank, I'm not here to take your virginity away from you." "Ha-ha." Sarcasm filled his face but he was also a bit flushed. Perhaps it was the scattering of colours from the television? You laughed listlessly and your smile stretched as far as it could in a moment of glee. He turned the television off and rubbed your upper back from the outside of the blanket. The motion from his breathing and the security of your body lulled each other to sleep.

There were several other nights like this. Sometimes, Hank fell into depression again and you did your best for him. He never wanted to involve you but you pushed your way in with thoughtfulness and care. He spent a lot of years building up walls, you understood that. You couldn't replace his family and that was okay. That was his history and you let him have it without making him feel like it was something to erase from himself. He dearly appreciated you for it. He helped you see things differently, more by the moment. Over time, you got to know him better and he was a good man. You played his records on a good Friday night and he watched you dance. He sang in the shower and you moved to his voice in a captivated tempo. You and he walked Sumo in the park. Letting him roam while you got lost in each other's lives and questions and views and meaningless rambles. He drank a little less. Sometimes fueled by your requests but mostly because he wanted to. One step at a time. You came across articles and self-help guides for alcoholism on his bookshelf. At times they were tucked away between other reading material out of humiliation. You were glad regardless and remarked on the results without too much invasiveness.

Hank felt the need to get rid of some useless collections he had no more requirement for. You helped him sort through the boxes and he offered you to take what you wanted. "Hmm, I thiiink I'll hold onto these." You said, teasingly. Bringing forth a few dirty movies. "I absolutely forgot those were in there." He seemed the least bit humiliated and took them from your hand with a curious face. "Huh, I was wondering where this one was." He joked and tossed them into the box that was marked for trash. "Maybe we could watch them?" You bantered back, shuffling through some old shirts. NOW, Hank was nervous. "Or, we could make our own? If that's what turns ya on." He left the room to look for anything else that needed tossing.

"Oh, wow. Bell-bottoms Hank?!" You shouted for him in the house. "It was a costume party!' He responded. "In what year!?" You pulled at the waistband, which was incredibly thin. "I can't even remember!" He laughed. When you were done you found him outside on the back steps. He was sweating from the heat, having gone through the garden shed. You took an extra hair band from around your wrist and gathered his hair into it. "Don't make me look like a fucking hipster." He did his best to keep the swearing to a minimum around you but occasionally the old habit got the better of him. "Hank, you are a fucking hipster." He pulled you down in amusement and held you in a loose embrace. The heat rose between your bodies and your skin was slick. Both of you smelled terrible and your clothes were somewhat dirty from cleaning. He moved with you in the sunlight, and he was sure that you and the brightness were the same entity. You drew closer and closer and your hands snuck under his shirt the moment you kissed. It was awful and attractive, simultaneously. You tasted the salt from his perspiration and he was tasting you too. Between heated breaths, your lips became moist and your skin was stained wet. Slippery. It made for satisfying touches. Hank slid his lips along your neck with a lubricious efficiency, he turned you around and searched your body from behind. Hands caressing over your breasts and rubbing between your legs. “Gonna put me in handcuffs, Lieutenant?” You tossed your head around as far as you could manage, kissing him several times more and holding his face against the palm of your hand. He slithered a hand into your pants and cupped you on the outside of your panties. You were wet and on this discovery, he slowly backed you into the house. “You, are a dirty woman.” He whispered in your ear. You led the way back inside. He forcefully shut the door behind and spun you around, pinning you against it. Wrestling with your tongue. You moaned as he put his strength into picking you up off the floor, legs wrapped around him.

He was primitive and sensual, rough and also slow and kind. Your sex life with him was phenomenal. Careful of each other's needs and body language. Definitely explorative. You had sex against the kitchen counter, on the carpet of his room, sustaining a strew of carpet burns. He took you sweetly against the sink in the bathroom and ate you out on the lounge chair in the backyard. He loved the way your naked body looked in the daylight and the wind that kissed your bodies. There were times he played it safe, even when you were both protected, and you took him in your arms for comfort. He was so afraid of having children again. He would sit at the edge of the bed when it was done and hoped that he had never gotten you pregnant. He would have felt utterly selfish if not for your understanding disposition. You would rub his shoulders and whisper beautiful things to him. It was going to be okay.

He supported your new career and you supported his clean slate, the progress at work. Things got even cosier when you moved in together.

#detroit become human #Lieutenant Hank Anderson #Hank Anderson #NSFW #video games #mature content #mature

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