The cruiser's AC wheezed like an asthmatic bear, barely cutting through the Georgia humidity clinging to Deputy Hank Rawlins' uniform. At forty-five, his frame filled the driver's seat—thick forearms resting on the wheel, buzz-cut salt-and-pepper hair damp at the temples. Beside him, Deputy Roy "Bull" Henderson cracked his knuckles, the sound like snapping twigs. Bull's neck spilled over his collar, a roadmap of veins running down to hands that could palm a basketball.
"Third damn noise complaint at the Miller place this week," Hank grumbled, turning onto Elm Street. The radio crackled — domestic disturbance two blocks over.
Bull sighed, rubbing the scar bisecting his eyebrow. "Bet it's Dale again. Drunk off his ass before noon."
They found Dale Wilkins swaying on his porch, shirtless, screaming at a mangy tabby cat. Hank approached slow, hands loose at his sides. "Easy, Dale. Cat steal your lunch again?"
Bull circled wide, boots crunching gravel. His shadow swallowed Dale whole. "Time for a cool-down, buddy."
Dale swung. Bull caught the fist like catching a toddler's toss, pinning Dale's arm behind his back with a grunt. "Christ, Dale. You reek of cheap whiskey."
Hank cuffed him, the metal clicking tight. "Always the hard way."
Back in the cruiser, Dale slumped against the partition, snoring. Bull wiped sweat from his neck with a bandana. "Gonna need a shower after this."
Hank eyed him — the way Bull's bicep strained the sleeve, the dark stubble along his jaw. "Missed breakfast. Waffle House after shift?"
Bull's chuckle rumbled deep. "Only if you're buyin', Rawlins."
The silence that followed thrummed louder than the engine. Hank focused on the road, knuckles white on the wheel. Bull stared out the window, but his reflection showed teeth worrying his lower lip.
At the station, they hauled Dale into holding. Sergeant Mackey waved a stack of forms. "Paperwork's piling up, boys."
Bull snatched the clipboard. "On it, Sarge."
Hank lingered by the coffee machine, watching Bull's shoulders flex beneath the tan fabric. Twenty years on the force together — backing each other in bar fights, dodging meth-heads' knives, sharing lukewarm diner coffee at 3 AM. Lately, Hank noticed things. The way Bull’s laugh lines deepened. How he’d linger a second too long handing Hank his coffee.
Bull returned, handing Hank a mug. Their fingers brushed — calloused skin against calloused skin. Hank cleared his throat. "Thanks." The coffee tasted like burnt tires, but he drank it anyway, watching Bull lean against the filing cabinet. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting shadows under Bull’s eyes.
Outside, rain started — a sudden summer downpour hammering the station roof. Hank shuffled papers, acutely aware of Bull’s presence filling the cramped space. Bull shifted his weight, knuckles rapping the metal cabinet. "Remember that stakeout at the old sawmill? When you fell asleep snoring like a chainsaw?"
Hank grinned despite himself. "You dumped cold coffee down my collar."
"Woke you up, didn’t I?" Bull’s smile faded slightly. He scratched his jaw, stubble rasping. "Been thinking …"
The phone rang — dispatch reporting a fender bender on Route 9. Bull pushed off the cabinet, shoulders squaring. "Duty calls."
At Waffle House, rain streaked the windows. They slid into a sticky vinyl booth. Hank ordered waffles; Bull got steak and eggs, extra hash browns. The waitress eyed Bull’s biceps as she poured coffee. Hank stirred sugar into his cup, watching Bull tear open a sugar packet with his teeth.
"You ever get tired of it?" Bull asked abruptly, fork hovering over his eggs. "The domestics. The drunks. Same shit, different Tuesday."
Hank studied the steam rising from his coffee. "Sometimes."
Bull’s gaze locked onto him. "What keeps you here, then?"
The question hung between them, charged as a live wire. Hank’s pulse thudded in his ears. Outside, lightning flashed, bleaching Bull’s face white for an instant.
Back in the cruiser later, silence settled thick and heavy. Rain drummed the roof. Hank gripped the wheel, knuckles pale. At a red light, Bull turned to him. "Pull over."
Hank eased onto a deserted service road behind the closed-down Piggly Wiggly. The engine idled. Rain blurred the windshield. Bull unbuckled his seatbelt, the click loud in the stillness.
"Twenty years," Bull said, voice rough. "Twenty years of you having my back." He reached across, calloused fingers brushing Hank’s wrist. Hank froze. Bull’s hand slid up his forearm, warm and solid.
Hank turned. Bull’s eyes were dark, intense. Rainwater dripped from Bull’s hairline onto his collar. Hank’s breath hitched. Bull leaned in — slow, deliberate. Hank didn’t pull away.
Their mouths met — awkward at first, then urgent. Bull tasted of coffee and salt. Hank fisted Bull’s shirt, pulling him closer. The gearshift dug into Hank’s thigh. Bull’s hand slid to Hank’s neck, thumb stroking his pulse point.
A groan escaped Bull, low and hungry. Hank bit Bull’s lower lip, earning a sharp inhale. Outside, the rain roared. Inside, heat coiled tight in Hank’s gut. Bull’s other hand gripped Hank’s belt buckle, tugging. Metal clinked.
The radio crackled to life — dispatch calling their unit. They jerked apart, breathing ragged. Bull rested his forehead against Hank’s, eyes shut. Hank’s heart hammered against his ribs. Outside, the world kept turning. But here, in the cruiser’s dim cab, everything had changed.
Hank drove them back to the station in silence, knuckles tight on the wheel. Bull stared straight ahead, jaw clenched. The rain had eased to a drizzle, slicking the asphalt under the streetlights. When Hank killed the engine in the parking lot, Bull didn’t move. "My place," he said, voice gravel. "Tonight. After shift." It wasn’t a question.
Hank nodded once. "Yeah."
The locker room was empty when they changed out of their uniforms. Hank kept his eyes on his boots, acutely aware of Bull stripping off his sweat-damp shirt three lockers down. The scent of stale coffee and gun oil hung thick. Bull’s shoulder brushed Hank’s as he reached for his civvies — a deliberate, lingering touch that sparked heat low in Hank’s belly. Neither spoke. The fluorescent lights buzzed like hornets.
Bull’s house sat at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by pines. A single porch light cut through the darkness. Hank parked behind Bull’s pickup, engine ticking as it cooled. The front door opened before he reached the steps. Bull stood silhouetted, barefoot in jeans, a faded Lynyrd Skynyrd tee stretched across his chest. He didn’t smile. Just stepped aside.
Inside, the air smelled of woodsmoke and leather. Bull closed the door, the click echoing in the stillness. Hank turned, and Bull was there — crowding him against the wall, hands rough on Hank’s hips. No hesitation this time. Bull’s mouth crashed into his, all heat and demand. Hank groaned, fingers tangling in Bull’s hair, pulling him closer. They stumbled toward the bedroom, shedding shirts, Bull’s calloused palms sliding up Hank’s back.
On the edge of the unmade bed, Bull shoved Hank down, kneeling between his thighs. His eyes were dark, hungry. He unbuckled Hank’s belt with practiced efficiency, yanking jeans and boxers down in one motion. Cool air hit Hank’s skin; then Bull’s hot mouth enveloped him. Hank arched off the mattress, a curse tearing from his throat. Bull worked him relentlessly — deep, wet sucks, tongue swirling the head, one hand gripping Hank’s hip hard enough to bruise. When Hank came, shuddering, Bull swallowed every drop, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gaze locked on Hank’s. "My turn," he rasped.
Bull flipped Hank onto his stomach, knees forcing Hank’s legs apart. Hank heard the tear of foil — a packet of lube — then slick sounds. Bull’s blunt fingers pressed inside him, stretching, burning. Hank buried his face in the pillow, muffling a groan. "Easy, goddammit —"
Bull leaned over him, teeth scraping Hank’s shoulder. "Relax." He pushed in slow, agonizingly thick, until Hank felt full to bursting. Bull stilled, breath hot on Hank’s neck. "Okay?"
Hank nodded, jaw clenched. "Move."
Bull set a brutal pace, hips slamming hard. Each thrust punched the air from Hank’s lungs. The bed-frame rattled against the wall. Bull gripped Hank’s hips, fingers digging into flesh. "Fuck, Hank —" Bull’s voice rough, breaking on Hank’s name. Hank reached back, grasping Bull’s thigh, pulling him deeper. Sweat stung his eyes. The slap of skin, Bull’s ragged breathing, the creak of springs — it drowned out everything. Bull’s hand slid under Hank, jerking him off in time with his thrusts. Pleasure coiled tight, white-hot. When Bull came, he bit Hank’s shoulder, a guttural groan vibrating against skin. Hank spilled his sperm over Bull’s fist moments later, his vision blurring.
Afterward, they lay tangled in damp sheets, Bull’s arm heavy across Hank’s chest. Rain tapped against the window. Bull traced the fresh bite mark on Hank’s shoulder. "Gonna bruise," he murmured.
Hank turned his head, catching Bull’s mouth in a slow, tired kiss. "Worth it." Bull’s chuckle rumbled against him. Outside, an owl hooted. Hank closed his eyes, listening to Bull’s heartbeat steady against his ribs. Everything felt raw, exposed. Real. Bull’s fingers laced through his. No words needed. Not yet.
The shower stall was narrow, steam fogging the cracked mirror. Bull stood under the spray, head bowed, water sluicing grime and sweat from his broad back. Hank stepped in behind him, pressing close. He took the soap, working slow circles over Bull’s shoulders, down the thick muscles of his spine. Bull leaned into the touch with a low hum. Hank’s hands lingered on Bull’s hips, thumbs digging into the dimples above his ass. Bull turned, water plastering his hair flat. He pulled Hank against him — skin slick, heat radiating. They kissed under the falling water, lazy and deep, hands sliding, exploring the new territory of each other’s bodies.
Hank soaped Bull’s chest, the coarse hair there, the scar above his nipple. Bull’s breath hitched. "Tickles," he lied, voice thick. Hank grinned, rinsing them both clean. The intimacy was quieter now, but no less electric.
They fell asleep wrapped around each other in Bull’s bed, the sheets still smelling of sex and pine resin drifting through the open window. Hank’s face was buried in the crook of Bull’s neck, one leg thrown possessively over Bull’s thigh. Bull slept deep, the exhaustion of shift and adrenaline crash pulling him under.
Bull woke to darkness and soft suction. Hank’s mouth was hot and wet around him, tongue swirling the head of his cock with practiced pressure. Bull groaned, hips lifting instinctively. "Jesus, Hank —" Hank took him deeper, throat working, one hand cupping Bull’s balls. Bull fisted the sheets, back arching. It built fast — a coil of heat tightening low in his gut. Hank sucked harder, hollowing his cheeks, and Bull came with a choked gasp, pulsing thickly down Hank’s throat. Hank swallowed, lips lingering at the base until Bull shuddered. Then he moved lower, kissing down Bull’s inner thigh.
Bull felt Hank’s hands spread him open. Warm breath ghosted over his hole before Hank’s tongue pressed flat against him. Bull jerked. "Fuck —" Hank licked slow, wet circles, teasing the rim before pushing the tip of his tongue inside. Bull bit his knuckle, hips rocking. Hank’s tongue worked deeper, relentless, until Bull was panting, cock already twitching back to life.
Then Hank lifted Bull’s legs, draping them over his shoulders. Bull felt slick fingers — cool from the lube Hank must’ve grabbed — pressing into him, stretching him wider. Hank leaned down, kissing Bull hard, letting him taste himself. "Ready?" Hank rasped.
Bull nodded, breathless. "Do it."
Hank lined himself up and pushed in slow, filling him completely. Bull groaned, wrapping his legs tighter around Hank’s waist. "Move."
Hank started shallow, rocking deep with each thrust. "God, you feel good," Hank murmured, hands gripping Bull’s hips.
Bull reached down, wrapping his fist around his own cock. "Harder," Bull demanded. Hank obeyed, driving deeper. The slap of Hank’s balls against Bull’s perineum echoed wetly in the quiet room. Bull stroked himself in rhythm with Hank’s thrusts. "Yeah… just like that…" Hank’s pace quickened, hips snapping faster. The slapping grew louder, frantic. Bull arched, meeting each thrust. "Fuck, Hank — right there!"
Hank’s breathing turned ragged. "Gonna cum," he warned, his balls drawing up tight against his body, the wet slaps ceasing.
Bull pumped his cock faster. "Me too — now!" Hank slammed deep, burying himself as he groaned Bull’s name. Bull’s back bowed off the bed as hot stripes of sperm painted his stomach. They shuddered together, Hank collapsing onto Bull’s chest, both slick with sweat.
After, Hank cleaned them with a damp towel. Bull traced the bite mark on Hank’s shoulder. "Breakfast?" Hank asked.
Bull nodded. "Eggs. Burned."
Hank laughed, low and warm. Dawn light crept through the curtains. Bull watched Hank pull on jeans — no shirt, the bite mark darkening on his shoulder. Twenty years of partnership, and this felt like the first real morning.
Outside, birds sang. Inside, the coffee pot gurgled. Bull leaned against the doorway. "Shift starts in three hours."
Hank turned, mug steaming in his hand. "Plenty of time." Their eyes met. Bull took the mug. Hank’s fingers brushed his. Simple. Solid. Like everything else between them. The radio in the cruiser crackled faintly from the driveway — a world waiting. But here, in Bull’s kitchen smelling of coffee and sex, time stretched slow and golden.
Hank set his mug down. Bull’s gaze followed him—the way Hank’s jeans rode low on his hips, the trail of dark hair below his navel. Bull closed the distance, pinning Hank against the counter. Hank’s breath hitched as Bull’s calloused hands slid under his waistband, cupping his ass.
"Again?" Hank rasped.
Bull’s teeth grazed Hank’s throat. "Need it." Hank’s jeans hit the floor. Bull spun him around, bending him over the laminate countertop. Cool surface against Hank’s chest. Bull’s spit-slicked fingers pushed into him, rough and urgent. Hank hissed, spreading his legs wider. Bull grunted, tearing the foil lube packet with his teeth. He slicked himself up and pressed the thick head against Hank’s entrance. Hank braced. Bull shoved in — one brutal thrust, balls slapping against Hank’s perineum. Hank groaned, knuckles white on the counter edge.
Bull gripped Hank’s hips, driving deep. Short, punishing strokes. The slap of flesh echoed — wet, rhythmic. Hank pushed back, meeting each thrust. Bull’s hand snaked around, jerking Hank’s cock in time. "Close," Hank gasped. Bull bit his shoulder — same spot — hard. Hank came with a shout, sperm streaking the cabinet door. Bull followed, hips stuttering, a guttural groan against Hank’s spine.
They stayed locked together, panting. Bull pulled out slowly. Hank turned, catching Bull’s mouth in a kiss tasting of salt and coffee.
The shower steamed the small bathroom. Bull scrubbed Hank’s back with a washcloth, rough fingers tracing the bite mark. Hank leaned into the touch. "Gonna need to cover that," Bull murmured.
Hank chuckled. "Or not." They dressed in silence — tan uniforms, heavy belts, badges catching the morning light. Bull handed Hank his hat. Their fingers brushed. No words. Outside, the cruiser waited. Bull slid into the driver’s seat. Hank adjusted his holster. The radio crackled — domestic disturbance on Sycamore.
Bull glanced at Hank. "Ready?"
Hank nodded, buckling up. "Always." The engine roared to life. Gravel spat under tires.
They pulled onto the main road, sunlight glinting off the hood. Two decades of routine. Everything the same. Everything different. Bull’s hand rested on the gearshift. Hank’s palm covered it. Solid. Warm. Real. The road stretched out before them.
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