Work Text:
This is the second time I made a poster like this, and the second time I made a random guy get freaky with someone in a container. Enjoy!
(P.S. I kinda lied in the cover title, it's about pounding the tank's butt, not getting pounded in the butt by the tank. Next time, I promise!)
It’s a quiet day for the Firebreak Initiative. Only one emergency, and today’s crew have already returned after sorting it out, with barely an incident. After an emergency, the volunteers like to hang out by the lockers or by the couch. When they get back early though, they tend to head off on their merry way to celebrate privately. Today is no exception. After a brief chat, Firebreak team Epsilon decide to go home together, leaving Jerry truly alone with Hank.
Jerry usually sorts out the summary reports and forms, but given it’s only one emergency tonight, he gets them done quick. After he finishes filing out the forms, he finds himself without anything to really do. The clock above says he’s still a few hours left.
It’s the first time in a long while that Jerry’s had nothing to do.
He doesn’t like having nothing to do while at work, especially here. Because every time without fail, his mind goes back to Hank. And when his mind goes back to Hank, it takes the next logical leap towards their relationship, and when he thinks about their relationship, his face inevitably heats up like a firepit.
No one who knows Jerry intimately would’ve been surprised he developed feelings for Hank Flowers, so it’s a good thing none of those people are here in the Oldest House. Even without a face to the name, Hank is just his type. Sweet, funny, caring, a people’s person, an optimist and a realist. On first meeting, Jerry knew he’d fall for Hank. The question was never why, or how, but when. That answer was, perhaps too soon.
Jerry tried to ignore these feelings for a while. It’s not his first work crush, and in his experience they come and go. The honeymoon phase with Hank will go away and they can go back to being coworkers, and maybe even friends. Except that phase never went away. The more he witnesses of Hank, the more he sees the good the bad and the ugly, the harder Jerry falls for him and the more he wants to do…something.
But he really shouldn’t entertain the idea. Forget the obvious physical restrictions, Jerry is married. Granted, it was a loveless marriage even before the lockdown, but it is a marriage nevertheless, and he can’t cheat on his wife, let alone deprive his kids of a mother and father. And the age difference between him and Hank is by a few decades, so there’s no way Hank will entertain a relationship with him.
Every logical fibre of his being tells him to keep his distance.
But every time he tries to summon the will to move on, he looks at Hank’s containment tank and remembers what Hank had said in the heat of the moment a few months ago. They were spoken to a volunteer, not him, and with a harsh undercurrent. But Jerry had heard those words, and everything changed.
“You’re a dirty, filthy coward, boy.”
Even the thought sends a shiver down his spine.
A clock ticks nearby. Jerry stops drumming his 2B pencil. Five minutes have passed. Still a few more hours.
“Hey, Jerry, looks like we’ve got time to kill today.”
“Y-yeah,” Jerry sighs. “Some time to ourselves, too. I don’t even have any forms to fill out—I’ve done them all already.”
“Well, if you ever wanna have an early night, you’re more than welcome. You earned it,” Hank says.
“Thanks, Hank, but I’ll stick around. Just in case something comes up.” The thought suddenly strikes him. He opens one of his desk drawers and pulls out a bag of potato chips. “Oh! I just remembered, I was able to barter those strange batteries with Research for some chips. If you’re interested.”
“Well, I’ll be, Jer, bring it over. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought you were buttering me up.”
Before Jerry can entertain the idea of actually buttering Hank up, the phone on Jerry’s desk starts ringing. There’s only one person who calls Jerry first and not Hank. And if he’s calling Jerry first, it’s not an emergency.
Hank is already grumbling.
Jerry sighs as he takes the phone. “Standish here. How may I help you, Arish?”
“More like how we can help you. We got a shipment of crates and I sent one to every department—including yours. I’ll have some of the Rangers deliver it to your store room any minute now.”
“W-wow, sir, that’s an honour. What’s…what’s in the box? Food supplies? Armour? Weaponry?”
“They’re…well…” Arish sounds embarrassed. He never sounds embarrassed.
Jerry can hear Hank roll his eyes even inside that tank.
“Just…just use them as you see fit. We needed to distribute materials to everyone.”
“Wait, what materials—?”
“Thanks again. Arish out.”
The phone hangs up before Jerry can even mutter a goodbye. Seconds later, a pair of Rangers come in with a trolley and a large wooden crate. Just two signatures here, one for himself and one for Hank as co-Heads (Hank has a stamp specifically for deliveries), and the Rangers go on and put the crate down in the storage room with about as much care as Jerry expects. That is, not all that much.
Jerry sighs to himself as they leave. He grabs the crowbar he left near the volunteer lockers—someone forgot to put it back to the workshop—and gets to work opening the crate.
“Goddamn Rangers,” Hank grunts from the next room. “Never treating our stuff with care.”
“I know, Hank. Let’s hope it’s something good this time. Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’s food.”
“Long as it’s not mouthwash.”
“It did help our splash kit volunteers. The Hiss doesn’t seem to like it.”
“Until you have to clean the nozzles out afterwards.”
With some force, Jerry gets the crate open and slides the lid away. He looks inside. The white packaging with the black descriptor is what he expects, but the size of the boxes and the words…
Jerry takes one and walks back to the office, a little dazed and embarrassed. From this angle, he’s out of view of Hank’s port hole, and yet Hank always seems to know when he’s staring.
The people in Research are always talking about how the mind is strong here.
God, did he manifest this somehow?
“You got something, Jer?”
Jerry glances again at the copy of the form he just wrote the signatures for, one that now sits on his desk. Next to this form is an old copy of Hank’s ID card, burned beyond recognition, not even a face or name surviving the Incident. Hank claimed once that the Incident has changed him drastically from when he first came in, so even if the ID escaped intact, it wouldn’t be accurate, but Jerry still likes to imagine what Hank looks like. Bulging muscles, a tightly manicured moustache that is probably a little longer than normal, a soft belly, and maybe strong thighs. A man like that will never entertain anything with a man like Jerry. Not even—
“Jerry?”
He blinks. “Oh! Ahem. I, uh, I promise this is relevant so bear with me but, do you, uh…get lonely in there?”
“Sure I do. But you gotta take the good with the bad. And it sure don’t feel lonely with good people nearby.”
Jerry tries not to smile at that. It always fails. “Not like that. I mean…companionship. Relationships.”
“Well, that’s a man’s private business.” Even through the tank, Jerry seems to know when Hank is staring directly at him. “Why you askin’? What’s in the crate?”
“I was, uh. This is going to sound weird, but um. Arish, he sent us a crate of…of, uh, prophylactics.”
“Prophy-what now?”
“Condoms, Hank,” Jerry says. “We got a shipment of condoms.”
“Now why in the goddamn hell would upstairs send condoms over when we need equipment?”
“From what Arish told me over the phone, it’s every department, not just us. I guess maybe the reason they sent it over is to encourage everyone to, uh, stay safe?”
“And what, you want the volunteers to play hooky?”
“Not exactly, but thinking about it, maybe it would be good for morale. Put some in a bowl, let them choose if they want to take some after a job well done?”
Even to his ears, it sound ridiculous. But Hank just sighs. “Doin’ some crazy shit for your volunteer satisfaction charts, ya know?” He doesn’t say anything else, which in Jerry’s experience means Hank approves. That means getting the paperwork approved to get such an initiative done before Hank changes his mind.
Fortunately, Jerry has the correct forms, and he remembers where he kept both of them. Right here, in his middle desk drawer, Form 132-B: redistribution of Bureau assets, and Form 68-D: Bonus schemes—other items. The forms are self-explanatory and honestly just a solid piece of paperwork that neatly explains what their purpose are. Just a few signatures, correct date, and wham bam thank you ma’am they’re finished.
Except he keeps tapping his pen. Like every form that comes to Firebreak, two signatures are required: one from Department Head and one for signatory.
Hank and Jerry. Jerry and Hank. Signing off on utilising condoms. Condoms that Arish received somehow, for some reason. What can they even use the condoms for aside from the obvious? Hank always likes to make use of everything that comes his way. He’s created so many gadgets, surely he could use some of those condoms for something the volunteers could use. Maybe Hank might want to keep some for his own personal use, but can he even use condoms anymore? Is Hank even capable of intercourse? Maybe if someone joins him in the tank. Hank can leave. Jerry knows he’s capable of leaving because Hank keeps leaving food on the couch, but it’s always when Jerry isn’t there. Maybe he just can’t be around people at all outside his tank. That will make sex difficult, but maybe some other forms of protection are required, like hazard-safe uniforms? And what about self-pleasure? Does Hank still retain his functions within the tank? Can he touch himself? Can he make a mess of himself? Will he grunt or will he moan, only one word escaping the tank, Jerry, Jerry—
“Jerry,” Hank snaps.
The pen slips from his sweaty hand. Hank lets out a sigh.
“Jerry, what is it now? You’ve been staring at the forms again. If you got something to say, either spit it out, or act on it.”
He swallows tightly. “I-I…I’m not sure if I should,” Jerry breathes.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Jerry, they’re condoms. We ain’t kids. People know what to do with condoms.”
“Right. You’re right.” Jerry lets out a breath and steels himself. He heads for the crate, grabs the nearby crowbar and pops open the lid. Like everything the condoms are in generic white box packaging with the word CONDOMS in big black lettering. He takes one of the boxes, strides up to the little chute on the side of Hank’s tank (small, circular, about the size and width of an outstretched hand), and thrusts the condoms in.
His fingers slip through the little plastic net, a necessity to hand over a small package. There’s a little button on the inside that Hank can press to open the chute on his end. Jerry hears the button being pressed. Feels the air shift around his fingers. It feels warm inside the tank. Not an unpleasant warmth either.
He feels the box being tugged away. Before Jerry can retreat, he feels the brush of a finger against his pinky, then the zap of electricity. It goes through his hand, up his arm then down his spine.
Hank’s finger, Jerry thinks. It feels bigger than his own. And why does it feel so…tingly?
Why does this one touch excite him?
“Jerry?”
He pulls away sharply. He stammers, “Oh look at the time, I’m heading off to rest, Hank, phew I’m beat!”
“Wait—”
“Good night, Hank.”
Before Hank can even give a goodbye, Jerry hurriedly cleans everything up and leaves. He speed walks away, heads for the staff elevator, and groans. As the doors close him in, Jerry raps his head in penance.
“Dirty, filthy coward,” he hisses at himself. “What are you doing?”
“Jer?”
That’s the first thing Jerry hears when he returns to Hank’s office. Jer. Not Jerry. That’s usually a good sign. But this is also Hank, and the tone isn’t said in any sort of affectionate manner. In fact, it sounds more curious than anything.
“H-hi, Hank,” Jerry mumbles as he settles himself at the desk next to Hank. A quick glance confirms Hank was out and about when Jerry left last night. The condom crate is half empty, and the bowl out front where the volunteers usually hang out is now filled with said condom boxes. Hank’s even handwritten a note. For jobs well done ONLY.
Has Jerry done a job well done?
“Now why’d you hand me a pack of condoms yesterday anyway?” Hank says. “Had to get my chips myself.”
Of course Hank starts with this. At least Jerry spent last night mentally preparing himself for this scenario. “I, uh, figured you may need them. The condoms. So you can see what they look like.”
“Uh huh,” Hank says, unconvinced. “I need them. The man trapped in the tank without anybody else around.”
“So you can check they’re not corrupted? Altered?” Jerry suggests with a nervous smile.
It doesn’t seem to work. Hank grunts and for a few seconds, all Jerry can hear is the blood pooling in his ears.
It’s torturous, sitting here like a naughty school boy. He’s trapped in the red glow of Hank’s vision, a one-way mirror, seen and unable to look back. Jerry feels the urge to prostrate himself in front of Hank’s tank, to beg for forgiveness. He feels the electricity in the air, the way it crackles in his lungs, sparking behind his neck.
Jerry’s hands slide down in front of his crotch.
The chair squeaks.
“Jer, are you lonely?”
It feels like the world stops. Jerry also prepared for this question. Mumbled it aloud in his bed, or what counts as one here during lockdown, even as his dreams took those words in the most fanciful direction, where Hank takes Jerry’s silence as permission to force him down on his knees, a rough hand with that thick pinky on Jerry’s head, as Hank promises to make Jerry not that lonely anymore.
Silence in the fantasy got force, so why is he still quiet now? Does he want Hank to act like that? Even if that’s something they both wanted (or needed, or desired, or craved), the containment protocols are strict, and they’re serious enough that even Hank follows them to a T. Hank can boss him around inside the tank, but there won’t be a hand on his head. No words whispered into the shell of his ear. No touch to his curve of his spine or the musculature of his thigh or anywhere in between.
Jerry swallows once. He averts his gaze down to the desk.
In the real world, or as real as it gets in the Oldest House, Hank sighs. “I see what it is now. You mentioned you got yourself some kids, but never a wife.”
“Even if I was still married, I don’t think that matters anymore,” Jerry says, weakly.
“But you are married, right?”
“Yes,” Jerry admits. “But I…I don’t think it’s going to work anymore. After this many years, well…if she doesn’t think I’m dead, then I’m good as divorced now.
“And you never found yourself a lady here?”
“Haven’t found anyone, no.”
Hank grumbles something in his tank. His voice doesn’t sound that steady. “…Never found yourself a man?”
Jerry flinches. It’s not something he keeps a secret—not out in the real world, anyway. But this is still work, and you don’t reveal your private life to the Bureau, even if the circumstances have changed. It’s not something he should admit, and it’s not something he should entertain.
But god, it’s Hank.
“I…haven’t found a man either,” Jerry squeaks.
“I see,” Hank utters, in a solemn tone that makes Jerry’s neck hairs stand on end. “So you’re one of those types after all.”
“What type?”
“The kind of man that has needs. Real needs. Urges.” Before Jerry can stumble out an answer, Hank adds, “I get it, Jer. Not much privacy here in the Bureau.”
“I-it’s nothing like that.” But even hearing his own words, that sounds like a lie. He does have urges, but he could never act on them. He could never cheat on his wife, never. It’s unforgivable. Inexcusable.
But then…is it really cheating if it’s impossible for him to touch the other person? It’s been six years…
“Look. Just sayin’, I worked in the oil rigs before and I seen some shit,” Hank continues. “I know what so-called straight men did when they got real lonely. If you need your privacy, office’s yours long as you keep it clean.”
Jerry doesn’t know whether Hank’s serious or not, but he wants to believe it’s real. His voice is too sincere, too gentle. That sweet dulcet tone, mixed with the filthiest words, can take any man apart, and there is nothing Jerry wants more than to be exposed. To prove he’s not a coward.
“And what about you, Hank?” Jerry asks, a little breathless. “What about your…urges? Being stuck in there, I, uh, can’t imagine they’re easy to fulfill. Not exactly like you can just…take a break outside.”
Hank grumbles lightly under his breath. “Don’t matter about me. You’re the spring chicken of the two of us. What do you need?”
What he needs is to stick his dick somewhere that isn’t his own hand. What he needs is Hank out of that tank and out here, screw the protocols, and then screw him for good measure. Make him forget he has a family outside and the responsibilities that come with it. Make him gasp and plead and beg. Make him realise it’s all one big mistake and everything can go back to normal without this stupid attraction in the way.
Jerry of course doesn’t say that. He just summarises it all down. “I need to get laid.”
Hank doesn’t respond to that, not even to make a comment. Jerry feels his back muscles shiver as he presses himself against the chair’s back. It’s bad enough not knowing how Hank feels, there’s still the tank. Jerry has to be the one to run away. Hank is stuck here, having to compute all this. So why aren’t his feet moving? Why does he keep encouraging this psychosexual nonsense? He has a family. Hank will never feel the same. Hank will never look at him this way. Hank will never—
“The chute,” Hank says finally, interrupting Jerry’s thoughts. He’s quiet. “You know, the one where you hand me my stuff. You can use it.”
Jerry blinks. Blinks again. Blinks one more time, just in case he’s going insane. But no, he definitely heard that.
Inside the tank, Hank huffs. Outside, the red light flickers on. “I was just—”
Jerry jumps out of his seat a little too quick. His heart is jumping in his chest. His breathing is stuck in his throat. His pants feel just a little too tight. It takes all his effort to take the few steps forward and to the side to find Hank’s entry chute. It’s covered in some stickers from the volunteers. Warranty void if opened. Must Hank you a question. A sticker of a pickup truck with the words Good times are had in the trunk.
Jerry lifts his hand up and run his fingers over the edge of the little chute. Round, not all that wide, enough for a hand and some wiggle room. He sticks his hand through, just like he’s handing over a package, and after a few seconds, Hank opens the hatch from his side.
Jerry keeps his hand there, waiting, watching. The hatch door doesn’t close down on him.
For once in a long time, Jerry wants to do something incredibly stupid.
Stupid, but not cowardly.
“Hank,” he whispers, darker than he intends, filthier than he expects, “Have I done a job well done?”
He can hear Hank shrivel his eyebrows. “Of course you…” Then he trails off, leaving only the pounding in Jerry’s ears and the throb of his pants.
“Tell me when to stop,” he whispers, a final plea. A warning.
Hank says nothing. The scarlet window does not glow.
Jerry hastily unzips his pants, his hands clumsily hovering over his belt. Is it weirder to have the pants on or off? He doesn’t know, and that should scare him, but he feels desperate, and a little needy. Trying to embody that gung-ho attitude Hank always talks about with the volunteers. And well, isn’t Jerry himself a volunteer? The other volunteers get treats. Why can’t he?
It’s that thought that fuels him. He reaches through the hole of his pants and slowly eases out his cock. His one saving grace is that Hank can’t actually see him. Not without one of the helmets and not from this angle, opposite Hank’s viewing port. But that won’t mean Hank won’t see what really matters, once he sticks his dick into the chute and beyond the hatch door.
Hank is still unusually quiet. Not even the sound of his amplified breaths, like he’s holding it in. Jerry is too, sucking in deep through clenched teeth, eyes shut tight. He rests his forehead on the smooth metal tank walls, cooling his hot forehead.
It’s stupid. This is dangerous. He could seriously hurt his career, his working relationship with Hank, his marriage, his literal dick.
He can’t stop. No turning back. Don’t be a coward, Jerry.
With a shiver, Jerry slides his dick into Hank’s entry chute. It’s warm. Hot, even. The little flaps tickle his shaft and the air inside makes him feel all tingly. He closes his eyes and basks in the feeling, strange and sudden and new and dirty. His hips twitch, but otherwise he keeps himself still. He doesn’t know if he’s showing off or begging for permission.
Before Jerry can ask for Hank, a hand, big and thick and calloused, roughly slides a condom across his length from inside the tank. Jerry stifles a groan.
“Stay safe,” Hank whispers, so quiet he’s barely more audible than the sounds of the AC.
The last shred of sanity leaves Jerry’s brain as he begins to hump the goddamn tank.
It’s a chute, cool around his shaft, unfeeling, unflinching. A glory hole in utility. He doesn’t need to be gentle. Doesn’t need to be tender. Jerry doesn’t have to take it slower for his wife’s pleasure, because the only pleasure he’s chasing is his own, and maybe if he’s lucky, Hank’s too. So he fucks fast and brutal into the chute, treating it like a sex toy, something to get him to the edge, to get him close, a reward for not being a filthy little coward. Sometimes his hips bucks off against the bottom ring, but otherwise he is sliding against the smooth metal, relishing in the sensation of hot air and cold steel.
Jerry isn’t quiet, despite all efforts. He bites his finger to stave off his moans, and when that doesn’t work, he tries to bite into his hand, his sleeve, the straps of his HRA. When all that also doesn’t work, he smushes his open lips to the cleanest portion of Hank’s tank and breathes, sharp and shallow. He feels the tank rattle slightly from his masturbatory self-pleasure, or maybe something else is going on inside. He can’t tell. Hank is so goddamn quiet.
Oh god, Hank, why is he so silent for once? He’s not telling Jerry off, not telling him no, not telling him how to move his hips or to speed up or to slow down. Jerry doesn’t even know if Hank is looking at him just that he must have seen his dick for as long as it takes to slide the condom on. The idea of Hank being so indifferent, so unimpressed with Jerry’s machinations, brings a darker haze to his clouded head as he fucks harder. Trying to put on a bigger show. Teasing the trembling, electric air on the interior of the tank. Showing Hank just how bad he can be.
“Tell me off,” Jerry moans against the tank walls. “Tell me to stop.”
“Jer,” Hank says, but he sounds so far away, so distant. Like he’s in another room altogether.
“Tell me! I’m naughty, Hank. I’m so…” The words leave Jerry’s head before he can speak them. All that’s left is Hank’s name, ringing inside his brain, pulsing in his veins.
“You’re not—“ Hank starts, then swallows. Is he breathing a little heavier? Jerry can’t tell because of that damn tank. Jerry can’t tell what Hank is doing, and he wishes he did. He doesn’t even need a body; just a silhouette, a shadow, the idea of a man who maybe feels a little bit horny too.
“If you’re not going to tell me to stop, then touch me,” Jerry pants.
“I can’t.”
“Please.”
“I can’t,” Hank growls. He’s so loud, his voice rings through the tank walls, right to where Jerry’s lips touch. It’s as if Hank is right there, also pressing himself against the tank walls from inside, their bodies separated by a thick layer of Black Rock-reinforced steel.
Jerry was never going slow, but now he’s going faster. No longer fiercely making love to the chute, he is now just fucking it, forceful and fast and desperate. God, he must look desperate from the other side. Jerry closes his eyes and imagines he is a camera inside Hank’s tank. In Jerry’s head, Hank’s hot and bothered, red and plump in the cheeks, staring down as Jerry thrusts his dick in and out of this glorified glory hole. He would have a soft belly but strong worker arms, and they are all pressing against the containment tank walls. But they should be on himself, or on Jerry’s dick. On something Jerry can hear reverberate through the walls into his bones. Any sign that he isn’t just using Hank’s kindness for his own filthy needs.
“Why not?” Jerry breathes. “Why can’t you touch me? Am I not worth it?”
Hank is making more noises. No words, just huffs and grunts. Jerry doesn’t know if they’re stifled moans or something else. His wife never used to be noisy for him. She always found it weird when Jerry ended up being the one panting over her, waiting for some audible response. At least she reacted physically. He’s got no idea how Hank is reacting, but god, he wants to find out. He wants to see Hank, feel Hank, but the best he gets is to hear him, and he’s still too quiet.
“Hank,” Jerry huffs. “Why not?”
More grunts. “I’m in a goddamn tank, Jer.”
“That didn’t stop you before.”
“I already risked enough as is,” Hank hisses.
“Since when did you become a dirty, filthy coward?”
“Jerry…” Hank is gasping now. He’s gasping, and he must hear it too.
Jerry groans, also a little louder than earlier. He didn’t mean to be so mean before, but if this is what will get Hank to do something, then he’ll give anything a try. “Damn it, Hank, spit it out or act on it.”
“Jerry,” Hank says, sharper but still so affected. Just one more push. Just a little more.
“Say it.”
“Stop.”
Jerry freezes mid-thrust, the tension snapping like a rubber band. He catches his breath, bracing himself against the tank. His head pounds to the beat of his slowing heartbeat. He can’t feel or hear anything inside the tank. But the chute hasn’t closed up on him yet.
“…Hank?” Jerry whispers.
Hank doesn’t say anything. He’s uncomfortably quiet again.
Jerry grimaces at himself. He should have known this would happen. He pushed this too far. He should apologise, pretend this never happened, go back to how things were, but even just thinking that has his throat clam up.
Even after all this, he’s still such a filthy, dirty coward where it counts.
With a sigh, Jerry tries to pull his hips away gently out of the chute. Before he can even move an inch, a hand—Hank’s hand—reaches out and surrounds his cock. Jerry grunts in shock as Hank tugs once, as if to make Jerry press his hips even tighter against the tank walls. Jerry almost trips on his pants as he is pulled in closer until his hips are flush against the cool tank walls. Hank’s touch is electric—almost literally. It barely feels like flesh, more like he’s being manhandled by a ball of static energy.
“H-Hank?” Jerry breathes.
But then the hand pulls away, thumping lightly against the inner tank walls. Before Jerry can ask Hank what’s going on, a pair of lips surround Jerry’s cock head with the lightest bit of pressure.
It’s already over before it’s over.
Jerry shouts, then clasps his hand over his lips, as Hank’s lips get to work teasing the head and the slit through the condom. His dexterous tongue lies flat, tasting the latex and maybe even Jerry’s desire. Hank’s mouth sparks somehow, zapping every now and then, and Jerry doesn’t know if this is Hank’s parautilitarian ability manifesting or some mass hallucination or if Hank’s just got some secret technique. Jerry wants to imagine what’s on the other side, but he can barely manage even that. Not with those lips, sucking ever so perfectly, and that tongue, flickering over the slit and the rim. He’s bracing for dear life.
And the noises. Finally he hears those delicious noises, of the slippery slide in and out of a willing mouth, the heave of a chest, the occasional thump of the tank walls. Jerry is breathing heavily, but so is Hank, if the occasional red glows from his viewports mean anything.
“Hank, oh god, oh god.”
Hank’s lips quiver. The vibrations travel all the way into Jerry’s groin. A suppressed moan, Jerry realises bluntly, and that has him bucking into Hank’s tongue, barely holding himself back from fucking deeper into Hank’s throat. Again. He needs that again. It’s getting him closer.
“Like that, vibrate for me like that.”
Jerry doesn’t know if he should be surprised that Hank obeys. Getting Hank to do anything for him he doesn’t want to feels like pulling out a tooth. So maybe he wants to do this? Maybe Hank wants to open his lips wider and breathe, Jerry’s cock still on his palate. Maybe Hank wants to make his lips rumble and make Jerry gasp. It’s a dangerous thought, provoking another quiver. It won’t be long.
Jerry tries to pull away, but Hank’s lips latch back down, keeping him firm and in position. Jerry groans. “H-Hank, I’m close.”
This time Hank groans, audibly, and Jerry almost loses it then and there. Hank pulls away to make grunting noises, then the sound of the wall thunking from a fist’s impact. It all sounds like gibberish, what escapes Hank’s lips. There’s a pause, and what remains of Jerry’s brain cells tell him that Hank is awaiting a response. The rest of them are too focused on how swollen and thick his cock is while inside the condom. How it must look to Hank from his perspective.
“W-what? Were you trying to…?”
There’s another groan, of frustration and desperation. Hank takes Jerry back into his electric lips and increases the suction. More noises escape Hank’s throat, rising in pitch and intensity. Just as Jerry realises Hank has been trying and failing to say something all this time, it’s too late. With a whine, Jerry pump his hips, and releases himself, filling the condom and the lower half of Hank’s mouth with his seed.
Jerry pulls himself away from the chute, only to trip on his pants and fall. He doesn’t hurt himself, but he does feel his pride get wounded a little. As he slowly pulls himself up, he finds himself face to face with the chute. It’s dark inside, but he just barely makes out the outline of a man’s hairy hip, peppered with salt grey wisps. There’s a curve for a belly, and a smaller curve for a backside.
The inner chute door closes.
Jerry cleans himself up with some nearby tissues and hastily puts his pants back on. He heads over to the couch, and withholds the urge to plop down. Instead, he heads for the fridge and grabs some nondescript cola in a can. He slides one can into Hank’s entry chute. After a second, the chute opens, just for a second to fall in, then rapidly closes.
As he takes a big glug, Jerry looks up at the clock. His shift had only just technically started. He’s still got several lonely hours with Hank. He looks at the red view port, and swears Hank is staring right back at him. What his expression is still remains a mystery. At least now Jerry knows he’s got silver hair. And maybe, just maybe, a problem of his own.
He wouldn’t entertain this any other day, but being forward hasn’t gotten him killed yet.
“Hank,” Jerry starts, keeping his tone light but sensual. “Do you need some help with your…urges?”
Before Hank can respond, the pneumatic chute lets out a tinny signal, announcing the arrival of an emergency message. A single tube descends, and Jerry takes it, opens the lid, and puts the new message down flat on his desk, right where Hank can see.
Hank mutters something, then coughs loudly. His voice sounds a little rough when he says, “G-goddamn Research sector and their pink stuff. Khm, who we got on standby, Firebreak Moebius?
Jerry suppresses a frown. “Y-yeah…yeah, I think they should be on call.”
“Get them moving then. And tell them to put the goddamn crowbar back when they’re done with the mission already.”
The rest of the day is just like the others. Busy, with Hank giving instructions while Jerry handles the preparations. Just another day for the Firebreak Initiative.
“Jer?” Hank calls, same as yesterday.
Jerry takes in the office. Hank’s definitely done something after last night. There’s food on the couch again. The chute on the side of Hank’s tank has been cleaned thoroughly, rubbing away half of the truck sticker. The bowl filled with condoms at the front has been thoroughly cleaned out. Perhaps most surprising of all, however, are the forms. Or rather, what forms are missing.
He takes his seat at his desk and stares at Hank’s view port. A dull, uninterested red.
Jerry’s breathing comes out shallow. There’s no way…
“Hank,” he gasps. “Y-You sent my forms out for me?”
“You’re worried about the forms?” Before Jerry can reply, Hank adds, “I know how you get about not getting the forms filed, so I sent them out when you left. Never seen you forget to file forms, Jerry.”
“S-sorry…I was distracted. Uh, helping the volunteers set up. You know how it is.”
“I noticed,” Hank says. Is that amusement or disapproval in his voice? Jerry can’t tell.
“Right. And, uh…well, thank you, Hank. For thinking of me.”
Hank grumbles. “You’re welcome,” he says softly. A little louder, he then says, “And here I was thinking you wanna hash out last night. Didya get it out of your system?”
“Y-yeah…” Jerry cringes. “I, uh…I’m sorry for being a little…pushy.”
“Long as you don’t fret over it, no need to apologise. Good to get your urges dealt with, helps you think sharper. Clearer.”
“It did,” Jerry admits. He doesn’t feel so antsy today. He can look at Hank again and not feel the immediate urge to find out what he looks like. With a fresh head, he can finally, properly examine his relationship with Hank, and look at the pros and cons. Determine what he really wants.
The problem is: what he wants is something unattainable. A separation from his wife. Full custody of his kids. And Hank, out of that tank and in his arms, to kiss and touch, to growl and groan into the crook of an ear.
Last night should have been a lonely, desperate mistake. Now, it’s a mistake Jerry wants to repeat. Again and again, for as long as Hank’s groans still send shivers down his spine.
Guilt and desire have been warring in him since, like the devil and angel on his shoulders.
He wonders whether Hank has his own devil and angel on his shoulders.
“Good to hear,” Hank says. “Now you can help me put up some new recruiting posters. So many goddamn teams called in sick today. Probably taking care of their own urges.” He's probably rolling his eyes inside his tank.
“Speaking of,” Jerry starts, “what happens if my, uh, urges come back?”
“Well…” Hank sighs, long yet soft. “I already offered you the privacy of the office. I ain’t gonna back out of my word, long as you don’t start touting about it in your forms.”
“I won’t,” he breathes. This is one thing he is willing to turn a blind eye on. If this breaks out, it will destroy them both.
“I’d tell you only when you get your work done, but you damn near always do, so…I guess don’t make this a habit, y’hear?”
“Would you say I save my requests for…a job well done?”
Hank pauses, then chuckles. Bright and warm. “Yeah, Jer. For a job really well done.”
Jerry smiles back as a shiver runs down his spine.