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kinascum · 2 months ago

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you ask I deliver teehe😜

ZIP-TIEDᯓ★

Hank Thompson x PoliceOfficer!Reader (sorry)

wc: 3.1k | summary: oh you won't confess? alight ill make you talk, pretty boy. | nav ♡ taglist

18+ MDNI. DUBCON. interrogation. coercion. sexual content. explicit language. power dynamics. authority abuse. dark themes. talk of crime, stealing. talk of sickness. violence. restraints while engaging in sexual activities.

A/N: thanks m girl @aust-een for fueling this idea lmao

You stand outside the interrogation room, watching through the one-way mirror as Hank Thompson slumps in the chair, his eyes hollow, his jaw tight. The room is stark, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead casting an unflinching glow on the cold metal table and the two chairs. The air is thick with tension, a palpable silence that seems to hum with anticipation. You know he's the one—the infamous thief that's been taunting the city for months. The bookstore heist was just the latest in a string of burglaries, each more brazen than the last. But here he is, caught red-handed.

As you enter the room, the door swings shut with a heavy thud that echoes off the concrete walls. You don't bother with pleasantries or the reading of rights. He knows why he's here. You've studied his file, watched the security footage—his graceful moves and calculated precision. His reputation precedes him, and so does your resolve to get answers.

"No cameras," you say firmly, looking him in the eye. "No microphones. Just you and me."

He smirks, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for a brief second before dropping back to the floor. "What makes you think I'll talk?"

You lean against the wall, crossing your arms. "You will. One way or another."

He chuckles darkly, the sound barely audible in the stark room. "Is that a promise or a threat?"

You don't answer, instead you start pacing the floor, the soles of your shoes squeaking on the clean tiles. The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. You can almost feel the tension coiling around him, tightening with every step you take.

After a moment, you stop, your eyes locking onto his. "Look, Hank. We can do this the easy way or the hard way." You let the words hang in the air, a silent ultimatum.

He remains unmoved, his gaze unwavering. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

You take a deep breath, then cross the room to stand directly in front of him. You lean in close, your voice low and measured. "It means I'll get the answers I need, whether you give them to me now, or I have to... coax them out of you."

You can see the doubt flicker in his eyes, the beginnings of fear. Good. It's time to turn the heat up.

You start with simple questions, a dance of words meant to unravel his defenses. His replies are monosyllabic, gruff, but they come. You press on, your tone even, your gaze never leaving his. The room feels smaller with each question you ask, the air thickening like the plot of a noir thriller. The silence stretches taut between you, a tightrope of anticipation.

You decide to change tactics. You pull out a chair and sit down across from him, your eyes never leaving his. The chair scrapes against the floor, a jarring sound in the quiet room. You lean forward, your elbows resting on the table, your fingers steepled. "Hank," you say, your voice softer now, "why don't you tell me about the bookstore?"

He snorts, his eyes flashing with annoyance. "What's there to say?"

You lean back, your chair creaking under the weight of your frustration. You've seen his type before—slick, smug, thinking he's smarter than everyone else. But you're smarter. You've read his file, studied his patterns. You know he's hiding something. So you wait, watching the play of emotions across his face. And when he doesn't speak, you stand up, your movements deliberate, and pull the zip tie from your pocket.

You circle the chair, his eyes following you as you do. His breath hitches as you pull his arms behind his back, the plastic biting into his wrists as you secure them to the chair. He tries to jerk away, but you're stronger, more determined. "What the hell are you doing?" he snarls.

"Just making sure you don't go anywhere," you reply, your voice calm, almost casual. "You see, Hank, I've got all night."

He struggles against the restraints, his face reddening with rage. "You can't do this!" he spits.

You lean down so your face is inches from his. "Oh, but I can," you murmur. "And I will."

You start with the basics again, asking about the bookstore. His responses are still defiant, but the edge of fear is there now, sharper than before. You can see it in the way his eyes dart around the room, searching for an escape. But there isn't one. You're in control here.

You lean back in your chair, watching him squirm under the plastic. His breathing has become shallower, faster. The tension is palpable, a living thing in the room with you. "Let's try this again, Hank. What can you tell me about the bookstore?"

He clenches his jaw, his eyes narrowing. "Nothing."

With a sigh, you stand up and walk around the table. He tries to lean away from you, but the chair is bolted to the floor. "You know, Hank," you murmur, your voice low and seductive, "I'm not a big fan of playing games."

You place your hand on his thigh, feeling the muscles tense beneath the fabric of his pants. He jerks at the sudden contact, his eyes snapping up to yours. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Your smile is cold, calculated. "I'm making sure you understand the gravity of the situation." You slide your hand up, your fingers brushing against the growing bulge in his crotch. His body responds despite his protests, his cock stiffening under your touch.

He bucks against the chair, trying to break free, but the zip ties hold firm. "You can't do this!"

You lean in close, your breath warm against his ear. "And what are you gonna do?"

Your hand starts to move in slow, torturous circles, your grip tightening just enough to keep him on the edge. His eyes roll back in his head, his teeth gritted as he fights the pleasure you're giving him. But you're in no rush. You've got all night.

You whisper in his ear, your voice a silky promise. "Every time you lie to me, I'll make it harder for you. But every time you tell the truth, I'll make it feel so good."

He grunts, his body straining against the restraints. "What do you want to know?"

You lean back, your hand still wrapped around his cock, stroking him with a maddening gentleness. "The truth, Hank. That's all I want."

He grits his teeth, his eyes squeezed shut. "Fuck you."

You increase the pressure slightly, watching as his body tenses. "The more you resist, the more you'll regret it."

You can feel him fighting it, his hips pushing against your hand, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His voice is strained, desperate. "What...what do you want to know?"

You lean in closer, your breath hot on his neck. "Everything."

You start with the night of the bookstore heist. Your hand moves in a steady rhythm, each stroke bringing him closer to the edge. He clenches his fists, his knuckles white. "What happened that night?"

He groans, his body betraying his resolve. "I...I went in...for the books."

You tighten your grip, slowing down. "And?"

He swallows hard, his voice hoarse. "I didn't mean to...to take the money."

You feel his cock pulse in your hand, but you don't let him finish. "Why did you do it, Hank?"

He pants, his eyes wild with need. "I needed it...for...for my sister's medication."

You ease up, his erection subsiding slightly. "Go on."

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I...I had no choice. She's sick."

You nod, your grip loosening slightly. "What did you do with the money?"

"I...I gave it to her," he gasps out, his voice strained. "I didn't keep a dime."

You resume the slow, torturous strokes, feeling him harden again. "What about the other jobs? The jewelry, the art?"

He shakes his head, his eyes pleading. "I don't know what you're talking about."

You squeeze harder, his hips bucking. "Don't lie to me, Hank."

He lets out a strangled cry. "Okay, okay! I did them. But...but it was always for a good cause. I never kept anything for myself."

You lean back, studying his face. The lies are coming easier now, his need for release overwhelming his pride. "Who did you sell the items to?"

His breath catches, his body trembling. "A...a fence. I don't know his name."

You don't buy it. You know he's holding out on you. You lean in, your voice a whisper. "Hank, I'm not going anywhere until you tell me everything."

He growls, his eyes flashing with anger and desperation, his release inching closer. "I don't know! I swear!"

You lean back, your hand leaving his crotch. He gasps, his eyes snapping open, his body rigid with unfulfilled need. "What?" he pants, the question a mix of disbelief and frustration.

You lean back in your chair, folding your arms. "I said I want the truth, Hank. No more games."

The room is silent for a long moment, the only sounds his ragged breaths and the distant murmur of the precinct. His eyes dart around the room, searching for something—anything—that might give him a way out of this. But there's nothing. Just the two of you and the truth that hangs heavy in the air.

"Please," he whispers, his voice cracking. "Please don't do this."

You stand, walking around the table to stand in front of him again. You lean down, your hand resting on the zip tie, ready to tighten it. "The fence's name, Hank."

He closes his eyes, his jaw clenched. "Vic," he says through gritted teeth. "Vic Castellanos."

You straighten, a flicker of satisfaction crossing your face. That's a name you recognize. A big fish in the city's criminal underbelly. But you don't let him see it. Instead, you lean down, your voice a seductive purr. "Good boy."

You run your hand along his thigh, your fingertips dancing up to his crotch again. He jerks, his body begging for release. But you stop just short, your hand hovering over him. "But that's not all I need to know."

He groans, his eyes pleading. "What...what else?"

You smile, a wicked glint in your eye. "Everything, Hank. Every detail."

With a flick of your wrist, you unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants. His cock springs free, hard and desperate. He tries to struggle again, but the chair holds him firmly in place. You take a moment to appreciate the view, the way his erection juts out, pulsing with the rhythm of his racing heart. Then, you wrap your hand around him, your grip firm but gentle.

You start to stroke, slow and deliberate. His eyes roll back in his head, a strangled sound escaping his throat. "The...the...other jobs," he gasps. "They were...for charity. For kids, for the homeless."

You keep your rhythm steady, your eyes never leaving his face. "Go on."

His breath comes in ragged pants now, his hips moving with your hand. "The...the diamonds," he whispers. "They...they were for a children's hospital."

You nod, your hand moving a little faster. "And the art?"

"A...a museum," he chokes out. "They needed...needed funding."

You lean in, your breath hot against his ear. "Why steal for them?"

He swallows hard, his body tight with need. "Because...because no one else would help."

Your hand speeds up, your grip tightening. "What about the people you hurt, Hank?"

He opens his eyes, the reality of his actions crashing over him. "They...they didn't matter."

You stop, your hand hovering just above his cock. "What makes you think they didn't matter?"

He looks up at you, his eyes filled with pain and desperation. "Because...because the ones I was helping mattered more."

You resume stroking, your touch a little softer now. "But they were just pawns in your game, weren't they?"

He nods, his eyes squeezed shut. "Yes," he whispers.

You lean back, watching him. His body is taut with tension, his breathing erratic. You know he's close, so close to the edge. But not yet. "Tell me about the last job, Hank. The one that went wrong."

He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "It...it was a mistake. I didn't mean to get caught."

You cock your head, your eyes gleaming. "And what did you take?"

He grits his teeth, the struggle clear on his face. "A...a necklace. For...for my sister."

You nod, your hand moving faster now. "And why did you choose that necklace?"

"It...it was her birthday," he gasps, his eyes filling with tears. "I wanted to make her happy."

You lean in, your voice a gentle caress. "What was so special about that necklace?"

Hank's body jerks as he fights back the sob that threatens to escape. "It...it was one like our mother's. She...she never got to wear it. I wanted her to have something of hers."

The room feels heavier with the weight of his confession, the air thick with unshed tears. But you don't let up. You need all the information he has. "Where is it now, Hank?"

He shakes his head, his eyes squeezed shut. "I...I don't know. I had to ditch it when you...you caught me."

You stroke him a little faster, his cock hardening in your grip. "Where did you hide it?"

He moans, his hips bucking involuntarily, a tear slipping from his eye. "In...in a locker at the bus station. Number 43."

You nod, your hand moving faster, your strokes now a blur. He's close, so close. You can see the sweat beading on his forehead, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. And then, with a strangled cry, he finally breaks, his body convulsing as he climaxes, hot cum spurting into the space between his stomach and the chair. You watch with a detached fascination, your hand still moving until the last tremor passes through him.

As he pants for breath, his body limp with exhaustion, you lean down and whisper in his ear, "Good boy." You give his cock one final squeeze before releasing it, watching as it goes soft again. You step back, your heart pounding in your chest. You've got what you wanted—his confession, the fence's name, the location of the necklace. But the game isn't over yet.

You pull a handkerchief from your pocket and offer it to him. He looks at it with a mix of disgust and gratitude, using it to clean himself up. You watch, your expression unreadable. "You know, Hank," you say, your voice low and calm, "you're not such a bad guy. Just...misplaced."

He glares up at you, his wrists still bound by the zip tie. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

You shrug, tucking the handkerchief back in your pocket. "You had a reason. A good one, even." You lean back against the wall, crossing your arms again. "But you're still a thief."

The anger in his eyes fades to something else—despair, maybe. "What are you going to do to me?"

You smile, a cold, hard smile that sends a shiver down his spine. "Oh, Hank. That's not for me to decide."

You leave him there, the room echoing with the sound of his labored breathing. You've got your answers, but the night is still young. And there's so much more to uncover about Hank, the man behind the mask. As you walk back to your office, you can't help but wonder what other secrets he's hiding. And how much more of himself he'll be willing to give up before the dawn breaks.

taglist! @baileysturns @joyouswonders @eternal-love

#daddyhank

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