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The circle of light cast by the hovering lightbulb only extends so far. Its murky yellow doesn’t quite reach the dark corners of the room, it creates a dramatic shadowy stage-set-like appearance over the whole place. Below it, Hank and Gavin are strung together by thick ropes, tied into various chunky knots and twisting bows. They lean back-to-back, each man trading insults and witty remarks to stave off the bubbling frustration for having gotten into this mess in the first place. The dreaded phrase ‘team bonding’ was uttered a week ago during a meeting with Captain Fowler. It was an attempt to clear up the near-constant arguments between Gavin and Hank that came up every time they came into contact with one another.
Hank knows damn well this is Connor’s fault. The fucker has been trying to push Gavin and Hank together for a while now. It wouldn’t be shocking if Connor was the mastermind behind all this, probably buttered up Captain Fowler with that dumb smile of his. This investigation should be over by now, they’ve got the arrest warrant and enough evidence to convict the guy. But things are never that easy. If there’s a god out there he’s probably been gleefully watching Hank and Gavin struggle for a while now, with a bowl of holy popcorn balanced on his lap, along with a swirly-strawed soda. The guy they were supposed to arrest tricked them into coming down to the basement. It was stupidly easy for him to shove them in the cellar, locking and barricading the door behind them before running off.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Hank punctuates each word with a swift kick, the cement floor remains undamaged. This is the last place Hank wants to be on a Friday night. He should be home right now, watching the game, with Sumo in the corner slobbering on rib bones leftover from a takeout order. Hank glares down at the ground, briefly catching a glance at a rather weak looking knot. He shrugs around the rope, twisting awkwardly to try and reach it. Gavin complains under his breath but Hank ignores him. Finally, he manages to dig his nail into the rope and ease it loose. Now he’s able to wiggle out just enough to slip his arms through. He unties them both then stands.
“Took you long enough,” Gavin says.
“You should be thanking me right now for saving your ass, Reed,”
“Fuck you,”
They split up. Hank goes towards the door and Gavin goes to look in the dark corners. Upon closer inspection, they realize they have been locked in an old brewery. Kegs line the walls on either side, bottles, boxes, and other random things are strewn around on the ground. Hank tries slamming his whole body into the door but the most it does is shutter slightly and creak like a crow choking on garbage. He kicks the door handle and his escape attempt is again unsuccessful. He gives up and stomps across the room to see what Gavin is up to.
The ceiling is raised high above their heads, crisscrossed by support beams that smell like rotting wood and curly green moss. On the far right is a ladder resting against one of the walls. Gavin is standing on the near highest rung, his shitty balance making him sway from side to side as he tries to tap the edge of a cardboard box above him. Gavin’s disappointing stature has never been more apparent. He glances at his short arms, glaring so hard that they might just miraculously grow. Reality is disappointing. Gavin keeps his grip firm as he turns his head around the room like an owl, searching for something to flick the box with. The rungs on the ladder squeak and buckle under him.
Thinking fast, Hank hooks an arm around Gavin’s waist, bringing his body flush against his own before he can hit the floor. Gavin stumbles slightly but rights himself by grabbing Hank’s chest, in the process tearing his shirt right down the middle, exposing a large dark tattoo and some springy silver hair. They both freeze then share awkward eye contact. Gavin gathers his thoughts and shoves Hank away, cringing and wiping his hands down his pants like he just touched something gross. Hank rolls his eyes then flips him off, already exhausted with his bitch-ass partner. At least Connor knows how to be polite. Maybe later Hank should try to convince him to give Gavin a lesson in manners.
“So now what? We’ve got no key and you can’t open the door unless you break your back,” Gavin’s voice lowers to a barely coherent mumble. “fuckin’ wrinkly old bastard,”
Hank knows he should hold his tongue. He’s been a lieutenant for years now and he’s had plenty of practice keeping his cool. But something about Gavin ticks him off more than anyone else. Maybe it’s that smug grin he’s always got plastered on his scarred lips, or maybe it’s his holier-than-thou attitude. Either way, Hank has had enough. He holds his breath for a few seconds then releases it through a loud sigh. “We wait here for Connor to come get us when he realizes we’ve been gone for too long,” Hank says.
“Shit.” Gavin curses. “Shit. Shit. Shit. What a load of bullshit! I can’t believe I’m stuck here with you of all people,”
“What? You think I like this any better? I bet you wish Nines was here instead. He’d keep your mouth busy with his cock I’m sure. That’s gotta be the only way he knows how to handle you,” Yeah, maybe that was a bit unprofessional of Hank to say, but his patience can only last so long.
“Oh, fuck you! You just wish I was gone so that you can drink all the kegs to nothing, you goddamn washed-up alcoholic,”
“Low blow, Reed.”
“Low blow? Ha! That’s funny, you sure you’re not the slut here?” The half joke half insult falls flat. Neither laughs and if anything it only adds to the tension in the room.
Without thinking, Hank selects a bottle of whiskey off the shelf and pops the lid using a tool he found on the nearby shelf. He throws his head back and swallows down half of it, a feat that is both impressive and worrying. Gavin avoids eye contact, suddenly coming to the creeping realization that he fucked up big time. Hank grabs him by the hair and bends him over a pile of crates. Startled, Gavin falls onto his forearms, his legs parting slightly as Hank stands between them. Gavin’s breathing halts and he stops for a moment and closes his eyes, too shocked to do anything else. Hank digs his face into the rough wood grain and whispers into his ear, “I’ll show you who’s the slut,”
A pathetic whimper races up from Gavin’s throat. Warm wet heat soaks into his jeans, darkening the denim to a shade that looks black under the low lights. The scent arrives shortly after, alerting them both to the fact that he pissed himself. Gavin opens his eyes, uncomfortably aware of how glassy they’ve gotten. His skin burns with shame, he can practically feel it radiating off his cheeks. Morbid curiosity takes over and Gavin cranes his head around to see Hank’s reaction, staring up at him through unshed tears. He doesn’t actually flinch, but something twitches in his expression and he forgets to breathe for a few seconds.
“Goddammit, Reed. What the hell are you doing to me?”
Hank’s pants bulge in the crotch area, more than usual. He’s a big guy but even Gavin can’t deny the obvious display of arousal. It’s hard to look away. Hank follows his line of sight then smirks, confidence wafting from his person so strongly that it makes Gavin shy away.
Hank laughs. “If you wanna keep going then bend over and pull down your pants. Let’s see if your ass is any cuter than Connor’s,”
Gavin’s mouth dries up and he swallows thickly, his heartbeat is rapid in his chest and in his ears, it sounds like a drum. His mind starts to actually piece things together. Hank wants to fuck him. Shit. Gavin is used to people throwing him around. Hell, everyone wants to put him in his place, but never like this. He holds eye contact for a few long seconds, then he forces himself to turn back around. The walls of the cellar are dull and discoloured. Gavin pats his hips then pulls the waistband of his jeans down slightly, still not facing Hank. The piss-soaked fabric clings to his skin, cooling fast. He whines, eager to get out of them.
“Fuckin’ lazy slut. Do I have to do everything myself?” Hank mutters to himself. His tone is cruel but he’s got an undeniable grin on his face. He squeezes Gavin’s jeans, emphasizing how wet they are then yanks them down to his ankles.
The palm of Hank’s hand is huge in comparison to Gavin’s ass. He squeezes both cheeks then pulls them apart to get a closer look. Hank spits then slips a finger inside, watching as his hole twitches and tightens around the intrusion. Then he pulls his finger out, satisfied. Hank hasn’t forgotten about Gavin’s shitty attitude from earlier. As his superior, he should take charge and show Gavin that he won’t tolerate it anymore. Hank raises his hand then brings it down across his backside in three quick slaps. The pudgy flesh jiggles then lights up pink. Gavin cries out, squirming with an urgency to get away. Hank leans forward, pressing his weight down so that he can’t move. Then he spanks Gavin, the blows back-to-back with no breaks in between. By the time he reaches twenty, Gavin is sobbing.
“You feel like respecting me now, Reed? I can do this all day you know,”
Hank pulls Gavin up by his hair to look him in the face. His cheeks are just as red as his ass. He’s sniffling and making a mess of himself. He hiccups twice and groans from pain.
“Y-yes. I’m sorry, Lieutenant Anderson,” That’s probably the first time Gavin has ever called him by his title since he first joined the DPD. It has a whole new meaning now. Hank decides he likes the way it sounds, he makes Gavin repeat his words twice.
Needing to touch more, Hank yanks Gavin’s shirt up so that it bunches up by his shoulders, then he slides his hands across naked skin. He trails open-mouthed kisses along his spine, then sucks a hickey into his shoulder blades. Gavin collapses against the crates, swaying slightly as he melts under Hank’s soothing touch. Beside him, Hank selects another bottle off the shelf and chugs some of it. His warm breath blows over Gavin’s ear, and he exaggerates a pleased moan in response to the flavour. Gavin whimpers, ducking his head, tousling his sweaty hair across his forehead. A devilish idea forms in Hank’s mind.
“You wanna get drunk?” Hank asks him. Not thinking of the consequences, Gavin nods.
Hank licks the neck of the bottle, layering it with his salvia until it’s slippery. Then he grabs one of Gavin’s cheeks, fondling the softness and pulling it to one side to make space for the bottle. He drives it in as deep as he can manage, twisting it around and screwing it inside. The wide part of the bottle catches his rim and some of the whisky sloshes around, pouring right into Gavin’s body. Gavin grips the crates under him and arches his back upwards. His body quivers, tears running down his cheeks, and he repeats as many curses as he can think of. Hank tilts the bottle up to get rid of the last few drops of whiskey, then he pulls the bottle out, watching in satisfaction as whiskey trickles steadily down Gavin’s thighs. Hank drags his tongue across the area, tasting whatever he can reach.
There is no rational thinking available to Gavin. His mind is thick with cotton. His thoughts are drowning in the whiskey now running freely in his body. One arm is being used as a pillow, cradling his head while he floats in and out of consciousness. From far away, he hears Hank shuffling around him, dirty talking in a low tone. He smacks Gavin’s ass again then digs two fingers inside, exploring curiously while also on the hunt for his prostate. Gavin startles from his daze, crying out beautifully as he comes. White ejaculate marks up the crates, evidence of the fact that he got off on bottle fucking. If he wasn’t drunk he’d be embarrassed enough to hide away forever.
The weight of Hank’s body covers Gavin’s back as he leans over. His long silvery hair tickles Gavin’s nape, the beard scratches his jawline in a similar fashion. Then something far thicker than a bottle tries tearing into his ass. It stretches his rim until it’s puffy from the strain. His lower body burns horribly but Hank chases away the pain by littering his neck with hickies. After a few minutes, he begins to move. All Gavin can do is hug the crates and close his eyes tightly, and let Hank wreck his ass. It’s a rhythm, a dance that lasts at least an hour. Hank pulls out all the way so that Gavin’s ass can relax, then he thrusts back inside, his mushroom head dick carving a place for itself.
Sweaty and covered with sticky alcohol, they both orgasm together. Hank spurts his cum across Gavin’s swollen hole, along his rosy cheeks, and up across his lower back. He looks debauched under him. Gavin can’t even open his eyes all the way. He groans quietly, too exhausted to move. Hank helps lower him to the ground where he proceeds to pass out. Somewhere in Hank’s alcohol bloated mind, he wonders what Connor and Nines would think about all this. But he doesn’t wait for the answer. Using Gavin’s thigh as a pillow, he drifts off to sleep.