Work Header

Hope He Changes This Time

Work Text:

Despite letting Bishop get away and getting shot in the same goddamned leg as eight months ago, Jake was feeling pretty fucking good about himself when he limped out of that frozen forest, Iris’s words of praise ringing sweetly in his ears. Triumphant, even.

That lasted right up until Lieutenant John Atkins from Internal Affairs paid him a visit at the hospital.

Atkins had a pot belly and a bad combover, and he wore a raincoat in fucking January. The kind of cockroach that tended to breed in IA. For a bunch of cops who were supposed to keep other cops honest, they were an unpleasant crowd at the best of times.

“Lot of unanswered questions about New Year, Sergeant,” Atkins said without so much as a how you doin’, how’s the fucking leg?

Jake found himself at a disadvantage, what with his leg being up in harness and him dressed in one of those hospital gowns designed to make it hard to escape. He shrugged as best he could, flat on his back.

Atkins flipped open a binder thicker than Jake’s pancake of a pillow. “Forensics from Precinct 13 are a mess, even without the fire damage. Even so, we know with certainty that slugs from your service weapon were recovered from two bodies inside, in addition to that of Captain Duvall out in the woods.”

Jake played it cool. “You got my statement. Everyone we on the inside dropped, was in self-defense against bad odds.”

Atkins stared at him. “Officer Michael Mendoza was shot execution-style, in the back of the head, with your weapon.”

“He was going to shoot Iris in cold blood. And Bishop.” It occurred to Jake that saying he’d put down a cop – even a corrupt shit-stain like Mendoza – in part to save Bishop might not be a point in his favor.

Atkins didn’t seem to think even saving Iris justified the kill. “Yes, Miss Ferry has been singing your praises to anyone who’ll listen and many who are not inclined to cut you any slack. She’s even found excuses for your letting Dr. Sabean leave the precinct in the company of a known criminal, sending them right into a trap. We also have Officer Capra’s sworn testimony about your threatening to execute him, holding a gun to his head, and handcuffing him during your escape. All on the word of Marion Bishop.” Atkins flipped pages. “Coupled with the pharmacopeia in your bloodstream and your BAC upon admission to this hospital, I’ll be frank with you, Sergeant Roenick: it’s not looking good.”

Jake rolled his head on his pillow, laughed. “You know what? I don’t give a fuck. You should be looking into Duvall’s crew and how deep the rot runs in this department. But I guess focusing on my fuckups is easier all-around, huh?” He thought about the bunch of dead skells he’d failed to protect, and Doc Sabean, and even Jasper, goddamn his traitorous hide. And Tony and Coral. And Marty Mann back in Kuwait. Fuck.

Atkins closed his binder without meeting Jake’s eye again. “You should retain the services of a lawyer, if you haven’t already, and contact your union rep. We’ll be in touch, Sergeant.”

Jake flipped him the bird while Atkins walked out, leaving him with the dull ache in his leg and Jeopardy! with no sound on the busted old TV bolted to the ceiling.




At least Butch was happy to see him when they finally discharged him to convalesce at home. Jake couldn’t handle walks just yet, so he paid the neighbor’s kid who’d taken care of Butch in his absence to keep taking the Rottweiler to the little, grassless, dogshit-strewn square of park in the shadow of electricity pylons twice a day, and set about trying to stay clean.

He’d gone through detox at the hospital, but now he was home without supervision or anything to do all day. He’d have killed for that desk job at Precinct 21 right about then, to keep him occupied for at least part of the day and tire him out so maybe he could sleep for at least part of the night, but he was on paid leave while IA’s gears ground slowly and the story about the corrupt cops shooting up a decommissioned precinct dropped off the local news.

Paid leave was every cop’s dream. It made Jake want to scratch his way out of his skin, or maybe that was just the withdrawal.

He hop-paced around the house on crutches – eight hop-steps to cross the living room, five more from the door of the empty downstairs bedroom to the window overlooking the street (he fucking hated that room, his old man had died in that room, and even if Jake’s leg couldn’t take going up and down the fourteen stairs to his bedroom, he wouldn’t sleep in it now), seventeen steps in total if he took in the kitchen too on his way back.

He watched TV till he thought he might’ve just shot himself, since booze and pills were no longer an option, just to take the edge off gameshows and soap reruns. He didn’t like to think that IA had done him a favor when they’d taken his gun away.

He turned his shirt and fleece inside out when they started to stink. Little trick he learned in Kuwait – how to make clothes last longer. On further reflection, he did the same with his boxers.

He gave Butch all the ear scratches the Rottweiler could take, and he could take a lot.

When his shirt and fleece started to really stink, he washed standing up at the kitchen sink, leaning his good thigh against the cabinet for balance, and limped around naked till the shirt and fleece and underwear he’d scrubbed in the sink with dish detergent finished drying over a kitchen chair. Getting fresh clothes would have required going upstairs, and while he was off the crutches by then, the very sight of those fourteen stairs made him keep putting off tackling them for another day.

He slept on the couch that night, like every night since he’d got out of the hospital, naked under a dusty old afghan of his mother’s, and woke just before dawn with a raging hard-on.

Well, that made for a refreshing change. The combination of uppers, downers, and booze had pretty much killed his libido over the past year. Even teasing Doc Sabean had been a matter of instinct and camouflage as much as the fact that she was objectively very fuckable. Or had been, god rest her soul.

Jake licked his palm and grabbed ahold of himself. Oh yeah, just like riding a bike. He closed his eyes to shut out the grey predawn shadows in the room and let his mind wander where it would. And where it would, was to a brand-new fantasy: Jake was being pressed up against a hard concrete wall by a man taller and broader than he. The man was breathing with something like amusement on Jake’s face while pummeling Jake’s dick in his big hand.

Jake picked up the pace, jacked himself harder, and rolled his balls in his other hand, hitching up his hips. The healing wound and the old wound sitting snug together in his leg throbbed in rhythm with his hurried breathing. That edge of pain just made him more frantic. He squeezed the leaking head, twisting his tight fingers and riding that wave, a deep groan of pure need issuing from his burning lungs, before he plunged his fist down to the hairy root of his dick and back up again, using the extra slick to hurry himself along to where he needed to get.

In his head, the man doing this for him licked up his neck, his tongue broad and wet and warm in the cold room. He bit Jake’s ear and whispered, “Hey, Sergeant.” A deep voice, Jake’s hair standing up on the back of his neck. Bishop was staring at him, on their knees in the snow and seconds away from dying. “Close your eyes,” Bishop mouthed, and Jake squeezed his eyes shut as he started to spurt, directing pent-up pumps of warm, sticky come over his chest and stomach and the old afghan, grunting like an unoiled engine in his release.

When it was done and just the last vestige of that good feeling sat trembling at the base of his spine, while Butch, who’d wandered in from the kitchen at the sounds Jake made, nudged Jake’s bare flank with his wet nose, Jake lay back on the couch, and scratched Butch’s ears with his dry hand while he got his breath back, and wondered just what the ever-loving fuck was wrong with him.




The phone call from Atkins came at the point when Jake was starting to wish they’d force him back into therapy, just so he could speak to another human being, take the high-speed pileup of his frustrations out on someone.

“Sergeant Roenick.” Again without preamble or any of the niceties. “Do you wish to try to salvage what’s left of your career with this police department?”

Jake cycled through half a dozen possible replies, all of which would have demonstrated too much faith in Atkins’s flexibility and sexual adventurousness. “Yep.”

“Then you may consider yourself on unofficial secondment to Internal Affairs. We need you to get in touch with Marion Bishop, get him to go on record about everything he knows about Captain Duvall’s team and any other…” Atkins paused, picked the lowest-hanging cliché, “… bad apples at the department. The chain of custody won’t be an issue this time, since we do not need any of the evidence to be admissible in court – we need it to force bad cops into retirement or resignation. Duvall didn’t keep detailed records of his activities, and given how the last time we arrested Bishop went, we’d rather offer him a deal. Detective Portnow’s murder will be struck from the very long list of charges against Mr. Bishop, if he delivers the information we need.”

“What makes you think I can find him?” Jake asked. He could feel the vein in his neck throbbing at this turn of events, whether in anger or something else, he couldn’t be fucked to decide. He’d wrung out his dick more than once since that first time on the couch, while in his head Bishop had done, shit, everything to him. He was almost certain that was not a part of the calculation that had Atkins saddling him with this assignment – Jake had plenty of practice covering his tracks, and he’d barely seen or spoken to a soul since the hospital. No reason for anyone to suspect Jake was so goddamn stupid as to let a skell like Bishop get under his skin.

He pointed out an additional flaw in Atkins’s master plan: “And what makes you think Bishop will give me anything, except maybe a bullet in the head?”

Not really helping Jake’s certainty that Atkins couldn’t read his mind, Atkins replied, “He didn’t kill you in that forest, Sergeant. As to how you will find him, your track record as an undercover detective speaks to a certain ingenuity under pressure. Deploy it now.”

Flipping off the receiver with the dial tone droning from it wasn’t very satisfying, Jake found. Still, having an assignment – having this assignment – even if it was off the books and more than likely a sign that Jake would get shitcanned once he’d served his purpose, lit a fire under him which he hadn’t been sure he could feel anymore. He heaved himself out of his armchair and limped upstairs to get in the shower and see if he had any clean street clothes.

He ended up shaving his head too. It made him feel more like his old self and would make it harder for anyone to grab him in a tussle.

Detroit wasn’t a very big city, despite its inflated ego, which made its criminal underbelly comparably easy to surveil. Marion Bishop had been a big fish by any reckoning, used to displace a lot of water in that relatively small pond. Hard to walk into any barbershop or dive bar or establishment offering homestyle cooking without finding at least a residual trace of something that had to do with something that was a part of one of Bishop’s operations.

A white guy like Jake walking into any of those places, asking obvious cop questions, caused a lot of ripples in the pond. By midday on the day Atkins phoned him, Jake had already been tossed out of two businesses fronting for Bishop and got into one brief fistfight (split lip, no big deal, he’d almost welcomed it after the weeks he’d spent going to seed at home). By sundown, he couldn’t even get through the front doors: his cover was blown forever after all the news reports about New Year’s Eve, and the bouncers and hoppers keeping watch had heard about him making a nuisance of himself all over the hood. Just as Jake had intended. He didn’t have time to waste or patience for bullshit games, and he figured if Bishop was stupid enough to still be within a thousand miles of Detroit, word would reach him quickly enough.

He was walking back to where he’d left his car, limping a little after a whole day on his feet, hunched inside his hoodie and jacket against the springtime chill which crept in as darkness fell, when a black town car slid up alongside him, overtook him, pulled up by the curb twenty yards ahead. Young black guy in new-model Nikes got out, held the back door open for Jake as he approached.

Jake’s heartrate picked up, but he couldn’t resist acting the asshole just a little bit. “What up, m’man?” he told the driver. “I didn’t order a car service.”


That voice. After all his jerkoff fantasies, the reality of it, its timbre and the heft with which it hung on the air, went right through Jake.

Bishop didn’t bother leaning out from the back seat to beckon Jake closer, so Jake couldn’t see him, but Bishop’s voice reached him low and clear. “Let’s not draw unnecessary attention with a pretend kidnapping.”

Jake grinned at the young guy giving him some serious stone-face and got in next to Bishop, who seemed to take up more than half the passenger compartment, wearing the same fancy cut and color of coat as on New Year, looking at ease and none the worse for wear from having been gut-shot.

“How’s the leg?” Bishop sounded amused as they peeled off.

Jake tracked the street signs from sheer habit, gave it up and turned to look at Bishop instead. If Bishop wanted him to disappear, he had gotten in the car of his own stupid volition. Bishop kept his eyes trained forward, like he had better things to watch out for than Jake’s presence.

“How’s the gut?” Jake replied.

Bishop chuckled. “Why are you going around playing the bull in all my china shops, Sergeant Jake Roenick? I thought I made myself clear about what would happen if you did that.”

Jake gave an exaggerated shrug, ignoring the weird feeling he got from Bishop saying his name. “Not here to bring you in. Got a message for you from the DPD.” He laid out IA’s offer.

Bishop was silent for several long moments after Jake finished. “Your bosses severely underestimate my interest in setting wrongs to rights,” he said at last, his eyes still on the lamplit street ahead.

“Nobody thinks you’ve grown a conscience, Bishop,” Jake said. “But how about payback for all your other rat-fuck associates who fucked you over and got Duvall to clean up their mess? Getting that cop-killing removed from the bill of what you owe…” Just talking about it left a sour taste in Jake’s mouth, despite everything that had happened. “It’s gotta be worth something, even to a man like you.”

Bishop turned his head and looked at Jake at last. “Even to a man like me,” he repeated softly.

Jake started to sweat a little. “What the fuck are you still doing in Detroit, anyway?” he asked for wont of something to say.

“A man builds a power base over a span of time, it can serve as a landing pad when times turn troubled. Everything I control, everything I could want, is here.”

Bishop was still holding his eye. Jake suppressed the urge to lick his dry lips. “We have a deal?”

Bishop raked his eyes over Jake sitting there, with his shorn head and dressed like a well-washed junkie, and seemed to gather into himself, growing taller and even broader in the process, nearly crowding Jake out of the still-moving car. “I’ll give it some thought and let you know. You have a good night, Sergeant.”

They pulled to a purring stop in a parking lot Jake recognized, Jake’s car visible where he’d left it that morning.

Jake grabbed the door handle, turned back, itching to say just one thing more. “This is still our shit on pause, you know. It sticks in my craw to be making deals with you. I need you to know that.”

Bishop favored him with another low chuckle. “Think of it like this, Sergeant: there comes a time in every life when you just gotta suck a little dick.”

Jake knew he was taking too long to come up with a reply. He hadn’t played this game in a long time, and never with someone like Bishop. They were still staring at each other when Bishop’s driver yanked the door handle out of Jake’s grip opening the door for him, and cold air rushed inside to urge him the fuck out of the town car.




Butch’s barking woke Jake just after dawn. Staying clean had the unfortunate side effect of making him a light sleeper. He threw off the covers, grabbed a baseball bat since they’d confiscated his gun after New Year, and was just in time to see another black car pull away down his street, heading toward the city. On his welcome mat lay a yellow envelope, and in it, a key to a locker at Amtrak Station. Inside the locker was the last breadcrumb: a CD-ROM. Jake allowed himself to feel amused at Bishop keeping the originals of whatever documents, photos, or audio clips he had, and only supplying the DPD with copies. In his shoes, Jake would have done no different. The deal he’d delivered to Bishop wasn’t that good.

Jake called Atkins after enough hours had passed that IA must have had a chance to review the goods.

“There is enough here to get us farther than we are right now,” Atkins said, cryptic prick that he was. “Though I wonder if your friend didn’t hold out on you, Sergeant. Some of this evidence is piecemeal at best.”

Jake passed over the your friend, not wanting to give Atkins the satisfaction, and focused on the important part: “What happens next?”

“We will keep reviewing and crosschecking the evidence, and…”

“I mean with me,” Jake interrupted. Silence ticked by, ants crawling under Jake’s skin.

“We’ll let you know,” Atkins said at last. Almost word for word what Bishop had told him, only Bishop had come through for Jake. And for himself, self-preservation and so on and so forth, but also for Jake.

Jake laughed. “I delivered, and now fuck me very much, huh, Lieutenant?”

Atkins hung up on him. Jake smashed the receiver against the table a half dozen times, then put what was left of it back in its cradle and whistled for Butch, who’d started barking at the noise.

“Fetch your leash, shithead,” he told the dog. “Go on, fetch! Let’s get out of this piss-hole.”

What Jake really wanted was a whole bottle of scotch, no chaser. Maybe something to bring down his heartrate, make his skin stop crawling with this anger that had nowhere to go. What he did was take Butch for a long walk, away from any bars or liquor stores or local street corners where he knew he could score, easy as nothing.

Coming back half-frozen – springtime, like fuck! – he took off Butch’s leash as soon as he opened the door, and the dog sprinted into the house.

“You freeze your balls off, buddy?” Jake called after him.

Silence. Not so much as a whine or a bark over Butch’s empty food bowl. So it wasn’t exactly a surprise when Jake followed Butch inside and found Marion Bishop in his goddamn armchair, in his living room, Butch sitting by Bishop’s knee, as upright and still as a porcelain dog on some old lady’s mantelpiece.

Not surprise – just deep annoyance at Jake’s instincts lagging so badly from all the time he’d spent behind a desk and on leave.

Jake refrained from the obvious. What the fuck are you doing here? How’d you get in? Did you put some voodoo shit on my goddamn dog? “You could have called if you wanted an update,” he said wryly, pulling off his gloves and blowing on his stiff hands. “I’m in the book.”

Bishop gave the tiniest smile. “I may have to get out of town for a little while now that things are about to blow even wider open than before. Didn’t want to leave without settling our shit.”

Jake’s mouth went dry. “Oh, so it’s about me and you again?”

“You are under no coercion, Sergeant,” Bishop said, the bulk of him filling Jake’s armchair, with a bulge in his pants and another bulge visible under his coat, under his arm, both plain for Jake to see. “But I dare say there is an obligation.”

“That’s debatable.”

Jake broke off eye contact and cut his eyes at Butch. “Hey, shithead, come here.”

The dog stayed put, looked first at Bishop, then back at Jake.

“He knows who’s boss,” Bishop said, and if Jake had still had his gun, he’d have shot him right then and there. Instead he came closer, thrilling at how he could loom over the sitting Bishop, grabbed Butch’s collar, and shoved the dog toward the kitchen. Butch whined, but he went and let Jake shut the door after him.

“Be under no illusion about who I am, Bishop,” Jake said. His anger and his gathering arousal were one inside him. “Not one of your boys. You don’t get to just whistle and I come running.”

Bishop inclined his head, unmoving. “Dogs do as they’re told. People do what they want. People always end up doing just exactly what they want.”

There really was no question of this going any other way, and Jake knew it and resented the hell out of it, and he’d already started to get hard with how Bishop was watching him. Jake came closer to where Bishop sat, and after a moment’s hesitation over the sheer lunacy of what he was about to do, he got down on his knees in front of Bishop, his leg protesting but not embarrassing him. The past year had been easily the worst of Jake’s life – certainly the weirdest – at least since Kuwait and his parents’ deaths. In the end, the least he could do was what he fucking wanted.

His fingers still felt stiff with cold as he unzipped Bishop, Bishop’s breath hissing when Jake pulled him out. Jake took his hands away and bent for a deep lungful of Bishop’s scent, Bishop’s hardening cock just by his cheek and the corner of his lips. He turned his head and licked up the length of it, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see if Bishop would watch him do this, which he was certain Bishop would.

Bishop sighed and cradled Jake’s shaved head, the strength in his hands there but held at bay, when Jake’s tongue reached the tip of his cock. Jake licked his lips and opened. Went right in, sinking down low, his throat closing up, so he screwed his eyes shut while his throat muscles remembered this and what they needed to do, and let Jake open up. He sucked in his cheeks, his own cock stiffening in his pants at Bishop’s girth heavy on his tongue, the deep rumble of a sigh his mouth pulled out of Bishop. Squeezing his throat onto that thick cock, Jake stayed a moment, riding out the choke, saliva flooding his mouth, before he rocked back, his lips tight around Bishop’s dick. He sucked on the tip while Bishop’s fingernails sank into his scalp, his tongue chasing that taste he’d imagined often enough, and got down again till Bishop’s pubic hair nearly made him sneeze.

Bishop was practically massaging Jake’s scalp while Jake swallowed around him, going as fast as he could as soon as he could. He didn’t want to give the son of a bitch the satisfaction of guessing how Jake had stood over the sink in the downstairs toilet, working his dick for upwards of half an hour while thinking about how slowly he wanted to tease and suck Bishop dry while Bishop cradled his head in those big hands of his, and how Jake’s leg had ached and he’d trembled from his spine to the ends of his limbs when at last he’d come, his jizz catapulting white on the yellowed porcelain of the sink and even on the fogged-up mirror.

Bishop’s grip on Jake’s skull tightened. He cupped the back of Jake’s head in one hand and grabbed his lower jaw with the other, and held Jake’s mouth open, and fell to fucking down Jake’s throat, Bishop’s hips humping up off the armchair while Jake choked him down. Jake’s sore lip stung, and his throat made horrible noises against his volition. He hurt and his face contorted with the effort, but he wouldn’t have shut his mouth or pulled off even if Bishop had let him. Goddamn, he wanted to yank out his dick so bad, but his hands were still cold, so he held on to the side of the armchair and Bishop’s calf, feeling the muscles tense in his grip while Bishop fucked his face. He just knew that Bishop’s deep staccato grunts would stay with him, like a piece of music he heard once on the radio and couldn’t get out of his head ever again.

Jake wouldn’t have expected a warning before Bishop jizzed down his throat, but one would have been nice when suddenly Bishop pushed him off. Jake overbalanced, landed on his ass, his throat and lip smarting and his hard-on tenting his Levi’s. Bishop’s eyes flicked over him from head to foot, pausing at Jake’s mouth and his crotch. He stood up from Jake’s armchair, as big as a mountain over Jake on the floor, his glossy, hard cock and his heavy balls hanging out of his open fly.

“Not just yet, Sergeant,” Bishop said. “Upstairs.”

“Fuck you calling me ‘Sergeant’ at a time like this,” Jake muttered as he picked himself up.

Bishop gave him that slow, self-satisfied smile. “You enjoy it. Sergeant.”

Jake weighed the option of barking to show that he knew he was being pushed around and was letting it happen. He kept his peace and adjusted his junk for the trip up the stairs. His leg had twinged when he’d knelt, and did so again now, but Jake ignored it – that was just a ghost. This was real as real got.

The force of Bishop’s haste knocked him off balance again once they made it upstairs to Jake’s reclaimed bedroom. Literally so – Bishop followed close on Jake’s heels, crowding him up the stairs, then pushed him onto the bed from behind, landing on top of Jake and pinning him to the mattress with his weight. The duvet smelled musty with Jake’s face mashed to it, while Bishop undid his belt, pulled down his fly, and yanked down his pants and his boxers, Jake’s cock dragging a trail of precome over the duvet.

Jake writhed on the bed. He didn’t want to ask for more, not with words. Bishop already had him naked from the waist down, and now pulled at the rest of his clothes, trapping Jake’s arms and landing him ass up, face down on the bed.

Jake struggled out of his shirt and fleece and jacket, spat out a mouthful of cotton fluff. “Asshole,” he said without real heat.

Bishop chuckled behind him, in his blind spot, the dark rumble of it going straight through Jake. He could hear Bishop’s clothes rustling but didn’t turn around to look. Something heavy hit the floor with a dull thunk – Jake registered that that was Bishop’s gun and he’d dropped it on Jake’s seven o’clock. Just in case Jake needed to dive off the bed and grab it. Shit, that could still end up happening, he knew that much while he waited for Bishop to join him.

“How’d they let a scrawny thing like you into the Corps, huh?” Bishop asked. His broad, warm hand ran down Jake’s back, from the back of his neck, over the tattoo spanning his shoulder blades, down his spine to his ass.

Jake blinked, still on his elbows and knees on his bed. “Guess they were desperate for warm flesh going into Desert Storm,” he said wryly. Then Bishop pressed the tip of his finger to Jake’s asshole, and Jake could only clench and close his eyes at the enormity of the want which swept through him.

He’d sucked plenty of dick since he’d got back, and got plenty in return, though not recently. He hadn’t done this since Kuwait City, and Marty Mann had wanted to make a career in the Marines and then hadn’t made it back at all, took a faceful of shrapnel at Kuwait International Airport, so they’d never got the chance to grab a beer and fuck Stateside. Now Marion Bishop, of all people, was settling into position behind Jake, the naked bulk of him warm and heavy over Jake’s bent back.

The rattle of the bedside drawer while Bishop rummaged inside it brought Jake’s head up off the mattress. He twisted around as far as he could go with Bishop’s legs bracketing his, Bishop bearing down on him, and grabbed Bishop’s wrist, their hands hovering over the mess in the drawer. Jake’s wriggling around brought his entire back flush against Bishop, Bishop’s thick cock sliding up between his ass cheeks, the length of it rubbing against Jake’s hole.

“I don’t have the shit,” Jake said, hating the catch in his voice almost as much as the tremor in his hand squeezing Bishop’s wrist. “You’ll split me in half.”

“You’ve divined my plan,” Bishop said, and moved both their hands down, till his fingertips snagged the edge of the drawer and slammed it shut. Then he wrapped his arms around Jake and rolled them both onto their sides on the bed, Jake still pressed up against Bishop from neck to knee.

“Bishop…” Jake started to say. Bishop’s warm breath in his ear took whatever words were there clean out of his head.

“Trust me a little, Sergeant,” Bishop said in that low voice, the one he’d used when standing handcuffed in the middle of a police precinct and telling Jake to give him a gun. The tip of his tongue flicked Jake’s cheek, just by Jake’s ear, more a taunt than a kiss, then Bishop got his hand between them, Bishop’s knuckles brushing Jake’s spine, his tailbone on the way down. Jake could feel Bishop yanking on his own dick, rubbing its wet head between Jake’s ass cheeks, pressing in like he’d fuck him, lube or no lube, but then he reached around Jake, took Jake’s dick in a fist slick with his, Bishop’s, precome, and pressed Jake close with his arm around Jake’s chest.

Despite the near tenderness of that gesture, Bishop gave him no quarter, not that Jake expected or wanted any. Bishop’s strong hand on Jake’s dick made quick work of getting him off, feeling out the length of him, Bishop’s thumb rubbing the vein running along the underside of his dick, before he started to jack Jake hard and fast. Bishop got his own with even more urgency. He threw his leg over Jake’s, forcing Jake’s thighs close together, and shoved his dick into that gap, slick with sweat and precome. Bishop pounded between Jake’s legs, rubbing himself in the tight grip of Jake’s ass cheeks. The head of his dick kept hitting the spot behind Jake’s balls again and again.

Jake couldn’t even draw a deep breath from the intensity of it. Bishop’s thighs slapped against Jake’s with wet and meaty sounds, like a pair of fleshy hands clapping in rhythm, till Jake felt like he’d be shaken apart and like he couldn’t stand for this to end. His teeth rattled in his head at the force of Bishop’s full weight smashing into him. The pressure building in his gut and crotch made him want to push back into the harsh strokes of Bishop’s cock and forward into Bishop’s fist, but he couldn’t move except with Bishop, move as Bishop moved, both of their sweat running down Jake’s back, so Bishop’s chest felt slick as if oiled against it. Jake’s left arm was trapped under him, the pangs shooting through it a counterpoint to his building pleasure, but his right hand was free. He wrapped it around Bishop’s hand holding his dick when he started to spurt, clawing at Bishop’s hand and letting himself cry out with it, shaking within the vise of Bishop’s limbs, maddened by the wet friction of Bishop’s cock on his clenching hole while his orgasm tore itself through and out of him.

Bishop fisted Jake’s cock till he had nothing left, then grabbed his hip, hitched him even closer to himself, and kept at it. His dick kept hitting that spot behind Jake’s balls, so Jake felt like he was still goddamn coming even though his dick was twitching dry. Bishop used Jake longer than seemed possible, just rubbed off on him while pressing Jake’s legs tightly together, till finally he groaned and grunted sharply in Jake’s ear, and his jizz spurted over Jake’s asshole, down the backs of Jake’s balls, and all over his inner thighs.

Gritting his teeth at the feel of it on his skin, sliding thickly and already starting to cool, Jake sagged under Bishop’s weight, Bishop’s breath hot on his sweaty neck. He should’ve let the son of a bitch dry fuck him. Then maybe he’d have been too fucked out to think, instead of lying there mad at himself over how badly he wished Bishop’s spunk were dripping out of him, his ass red and open like a mouth from the pounding Bishop would’ve given him. Jake’s balls hung light and his dick flopped on the sticky duvet under him, but this want – for Marion Bishop, of all fucking people! – twisted still in his gut.

“Our shit’s still just on pause, you know,” Jake muttered, his face mashed to the duvet again, his heart still racing and his lungs burning from how hard he’d come, how hard Bishop had come all over him.

Bishop’s soft laughter shook Jake like an Adderall buzz, Bishop’s chest still pressed to Jake’s back, sending Bishop’s amusement oscillating down Jake’s spine and out through Jake’s breastbone.

“Every cop I’ve ever known was at least half a skell. Prone to violence, pigheaded,” he said, placing, in Jake’s opinion, wholly unnecessary emphasis on the pig part, “and gifted at rationalization.”

“Yeah, well, you have to hold the line somewhere,” Jake shot back, but his body felt so heavy, and Bishop was so heavy on him, he had neither the desire nor the strength to try to get out from under.

“You do that, Sergeant. You keep holding that line.”

When Jake woke up what the bedside clock told him was hours later, he hadn’t moved from how he’d lain under Bishop. The duvet had magically shifted to cover his legs and ass, but his back was bare and cold in the night air, and Butch was whining downstairs in the kitchen.

Jake struggled upright. No trace of Bishop, only Jake’s clothes and shoes tangling underfoot. He emptied his bladder and fed his dog, and even washed himself perfunctorily before he fell back on his bed and wrapped himself in the come-stained duvet. Hell if he’d let Bishop get away with this. Bishop would be back in Detroit sooner or later (sooner would have been Jake’s guess, the man had courage bordering on hubris), and Jake knew how to find him now.

Next time, Jake would be ready for Bishop – in every way.