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Pope can’t sleep.
He’s never been good at it. But there’s a silence here he hasn’t had to deal with before. He grew up in the middle of Smurf’s parties and his brothers’ ragers and his time locked up. Silence feels heavy. It feels oppressive. It feels weird.
So he walks. The little stretch of beach is his, signed and sold. The three bungalows right off the water are his too. A Smurf special, real estate was always the easiest way to clean up your cash. And he still had a decent amount left over after making sure Lena was set for life. But honestly, he likes actually renting the places out. People come and go and all he has to do is clean up after them.
A legitimate businessman. Deran would be laughing his ass off if he knew.
There is only one occupied bungalow right now. A doctor from Pittsburgh who paid for a full week and an extra weekend. It was fucking expensive, but doctors made good money. Pope thinks it is weird he came alone, though. Maybe he was going to pick up some local. Or do some weird fetish shit. Pope doesn’t care as long as it doesn't involve kids.
But it is three in the morning and the light is on in the kitchen of the bungalow. Pope is in his own head about it now. What if the doctor was in there with one of the kids who sold jewelry on the beach? He couldn’t leave that alone.
One look. He could take one look and go back to his room knowing the doctor was just there to jerk off into a ham sandwich or something. (He was going to deep clean the place as soon as the doctor was back on his plane to Pittsburgh.)
So he walks, barefoot and silent to the side of the bungalow. The only light on is the kitchen. It makes it easy for him to come up beside the back door, steeling himself for what he would see.
And still not being ready for it at all.
The kitchen tile is covered with a couple of trashbags, all cut open to lay in flat squares on the floor. In the middle of the island of white squares was a single kitchen chair. And on it was the doctor, his shoulders hunched down and a gun pressed against the underside of his chin.
Shit.
Pope watches the sharp curve of the doctor’s back, the way his shoulders are trembling. He knows he needs to say something, but if he startles the guy into blowing his own brains out, then it’s half his fault. And he doesn’t want to be responsible for any more blood on his hands.
The doctor sobs, a wounded animal sound that resonates inside of Pope’s chest. It reminds him of being in prison. The sounds you would hear in the dark when no one could prove it was you and you could finally let it all out. And thank fuck, the doctor lowers the gun, the muzzle pointing towards the floor.
“You wouldn’t want to do it that way anyway.” Pope speaks before he can talk himself out of it. In the kitchen, the doctor startles and drops the gun. It hits the floor with a weighty thump, but doesn’t go off. This guy was the worst kind of lucky. “I went to high school with a guy who got drunk and tried to off himself. Like that.” He tucks his first two fingers under his chin in imitation. “He flinched at the last second. Didn’t die. But he blew half of his face off.”
The doctor watches him with huge dark eyes. With huge dark circles underneath. “You’re the…caretaker, right?” The doctor’s voice is rough. They had met briefly when Pope showed him the code to get into the place and told him he could help if anything went wrong.
“Yeah. Andrew.” It felt weird, talking through the screen door. But Pope knows a thing or two about wounded animals. You don’t want to make any sudden movements. “You mind if I come inside?” He is already reaching for the screen door, the hinges squeaking when he swings it open. He needs to come back in the morning and fix that.
“For what it’s worth, I tried to keep the mess to a minimum.” There’s something in the doctor’s voice that’s almost playful. He runs a hand through his dark hair and looks around. Pope doesn’t say that the tarp wouldn’t do shit but catch his body when he hit the floor. The blood would have been everywhere. On the ceiling, the walls. He would have had to repaint. Depending on how far the bullet went, he might have to replace some drywall.
“Thanks.” Pope doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to say. So he tries to think of what Baz would do at this moment. Be charming, probably. Pope can’t do that. But he can at least ask. “What’s your name?” It was on the rental agreement, but he never paid attention to that shit.
“Robby.” The answer is aimed at the floor. Robby has both hands locked against the back of his head now, his elbows digging into his knees. He looks exhausted in a way that went deeper than bone.
“You want a drink, Robby?”
Robby looks up at him again, weighing him. Pope has had a lot of people look at him like that. Usually, they cross the street to pass. Or say no thanks. But Robby looks away after a second and nods.
“Come on. The good stuff is back at mine.” He isn't going to leave the guy alone while he goes to get the liquor. Too many chances for him to get lost in his head and pull the trigger while Pope was gone. (It’s what he would have done, if Baz would have left him alone.)
They walk across the beach in silence. Robby leaves the kitchen light on. Pope walks behind him, then beside him, then in front of him so that he can unlock the door to his place. It’s not as nice as the ones he rents out. He doesn’t need the fancy art on the wall or the pillowtop mattress.
He doesn’t even have to try and hide the gun in the fridge from Robby, because Robby isn’t looking in the kitchen at all. He’s watching through the open blinds in Pope’s living room. You could see the water from there, dark and frothy and crawling up on the sand. “We can sit out there and drink, if you want.”
Robby leads the way. He peels off his shoes on Pope’s porch and rolls up his pant legs until Pope can see his hairy ankles. He pads far enough into the sand that Pope knows both of their pants are going to be wet. But Robby doesn’t care, so Pope doesn’t let himself care. (He learned that from his brothers. From Deran and Craig and Baz, who loved to get a rise out of him.)
“I used to dream about the ocean when I was a kid. It was this…thing. Something I saw on TV. Like Disneyland. Or winning the lottery. It wasn’t something I thought I was ever going to see. Then I went to New Orleans…” Robby trails off there with a mirthless laugh, his shoulders up by his ears. Pope only realizes he didn’t bring cups when he cracks open the bottle. He offers it to Robby, who takes it without breaking eye contact with the ocean.
Robby takes a long pull from the bottle, and Pope watches the way his throat works. He’s bathed in moonlight, one half of Robby’s face cast in darkness. It’s like he’s two people at the same time and neither one of them is happy.
“I grew up on the beach.” Maybe Robby doesn’t want to hear. But Pope is already talking. And then Robby is looking over at him, his chin brushing against his shoulder.
“We were always in the water. My little brother wanted to go pro.” He could have been a real deal professional surfer if it wasn't for Smurf and all her bullshit. “After that, being at the beach felt like a chore.”
Robby turns his eyes back to the water and Pope watches the hair at the nape of his neck ruffle in the breeze. “I guess that's life, huh? No matter how much you love something, it ends up a burden in the end.”
They weren't talking about the beach anymore. Robby offers the bottle back to him and Pope both wants and doesn't want a drink. It makes him want to brush his teeth. Or stick his tongue right in the rim and see if he can taste Robby. Which is a pretty fucked up thing to think about a guy who wants to kill himself.
The glass is still warm when he wraps his lips around it. Pope takes a long, burning swallow. “Are you still going to kill yourself tonight?”
Robby’s shoulders are rigid. He loops his arms over his knees. “If you’re going to call protective services on me about it, no.” There’s a long beat, filled only with the sound of the waves crashing onto the sand. “If not…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. And who is Pope to try and control someone else’s life? If the guy wanted to punch his card and leave, why did Pope get to demand otherwise?
“You want to eat something first?” Robby shoots him a look that makes Pope think that he wouldn’t want this guy to be his doctor if he did something stupid. Pope shrugs. “I don’t know, man. They do it for dogs. They get them McDonald’s and chocolate and shit. Go out with a bang.”
Robby’s expression cracks wide open. Even in the dark, Pope can see the tears in his eyes. All his brain can come up with is poor bastard. “You know, to look at you, I wouldn’t think you were the compassionate euthanasia type.” His laugh sounds a little bit like a sob.
“What can I say, man? I’m a dog person.” It earns him an honest to God laugh, and it startles the hell out of Pope. He’s used to people laughing at him, not because he said something funny. But Robby is doubled over next to him, shoulders shaking with the force of his laughter. The sound slows and falls off, Robby lacing his hands against the back of his neck.
“Fuck it. Why not? I’ll take a Big Mac and some Hershey Kisses before I get put down.”
–
Pope drives them all the way to In-N-Out before he remembers it’s four in the morning and they’re closed. But there’s a taco truck across the street in the parking lot of a convenience store. Robby stares at the menu with his hands in his pockets and mutters another ‘fuck it’ to himself and orders two of everything. The old guy in the truck is suspicious until Robby steps in front of Pope and taps his card. Once the receipt clears the printer, the guy is all smiles, chatting while his grandson makes their tacos in the back.
They end up sitting in the bed of Pope’s truck, a spread of tacos taking up most of the space towards the tailgate. Pope doesn’t even know what half of these are. But when Robby reaches for a taco, he reaches for the same one in the paper container. The first one is some kind of fish taco with a spicy sauce and Robby groans when he takes a bite, chewing loudly. “I’ve never had a fish taco before.” He flashes Pope a quick, impish smile. “It didn’t seem like the kind of thing you ordered from a truck in Pittsburgh.”
The tacos were probably basically the same there, but Robby was having his California experience and Pope wasn’t going to take it from him. “You ever had tongue?” Pope knows those tacos by sight. He grabs a napkin and cleans his hands before he offers the container over to Robby. “Don’t get in your head about it. Just try it.”
Robby gives him a look. Pope meets it and holds it, and lifts his own taco to take a bite. He doesn’t break eye contact while he chews. But Robby does, murmuring something under his breath that Pope is pretty sure is the continuation of his mantra of ‘fuck it’ before he takes a bite. There’s a long moment of chewing and a swallow before Robby speaks. “You know, this is not how I saw myself getting tongue tonight.”
“Were you going to do that?” Pope doesn’t even know why he asks. Robby is licking salsa verde from his thumb, sucking it into his mouth. When Pope finally looks away from Robby’s fingers, he finds those dark eyes on him. Watching him.
“That was my original plan. Go to the bar. Get drunk. Get laid. Then it would be easier to end it.” There’s a matter of factness to the words, like Robby has repeated them in his head several times. “I brought pills for that.” There’s a beat of silence, and a huff of wry laughter. “To kill myself. Not for the sex. I’m fifty, I’m not a hundred. Everything still works.”
Pope doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s reminded briefly, and violently of being fifteen years old and watching Cath watch him while she licked ice cream from the back of her spoon. He didn’t know what to say then either.
Robby breaks the spell of eye contact and grabs for another taco. “But I got here and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It felt like the coward’s way out. Which, I’m aware is pretty hypocritical, since I’m taking the coward’s way out anyway. But I felt like…” Robby falters there, looking for words that won’t come.
“Like it should hurt.” Pope answers, wiping his hands on a new napkin before he mirrors Robby’s taco grab. “And be a punishment.” That’s what he wanted, when it came to Baz. To everything he did, everything he fucked up. “That you don’t deserve to go easy, because nothing else was ever easy. Everything was a fight. This should be too.”
They finish their tacos in silence. Pope isn’t hungry anymore. But he finishes chewing mechanically, trying to stop seeing Baz and Cath every time he closes his eyes.
“So you’ve been here before too.” It’s a question, but not really a question. Pope can feel the heat of Robby’s leg through his shorts, the edge of a knee bumping up against his thigh. “I guess I should have known. Other people would have tried to talk me down off the ledge. Tell me I still have something to live for.” But Pope didn’t.
“You ever swam in the ocean?” The question is out of Pope’s mouth before he’s even formed a thought about it. The weight of Robby’s eyes on him are too much. Pope needs them turned back towards anything else but him. He doesn’t know how patients manage to be under the weight of that stare.
“No.” Robby scrubs a hand over his mouth, crumpling up his napkin and dropping it into the bed of the truck. “It’s one of a million things I never got around to. Like buying a motorcycle or-” Pope doesn’t know what Robby was about to say, but it looks like his lips are pressing around an ‘F’ sound when he stops himself. “No, I haven’t swam in the ocean. But I can at least swim.”
“So let’s swim.” If the guy wanted a night to remember before he killed himself, Pope could do that. He could give him those Big Macs and Hershey kisses. “The beach in front of the condo is nice and quiet.” Especially at this hour.
–
There's no one outside of the condos. Dawn was still more than an hour away and even the most hardcore surfers around here would wait for the light before they trekked out. Pope peels his shirt off, tossing it down on the sand. Luckily, he had a second pair of swim trunks in his place, so Robby isn’t standing out here in his clothes.
“How cold is it going to be?” Even Pope can hear the hesitation in Robby’s voice, where it trails off at the end of the sentence. He looks over his shoulder to find Robby watching him, intense in a way that Pope doesn’t know what to do with.
“Cold enough to suck for a little while. But not cold enough to not be worth it.” Because the water was something else at this time of night. You couldn’t see the sand beneath your feet. You couldn’t see anything. It was like swimming in the night sky and you were one of the stars. Pope hears another one of those ‘fuck it’s from Robby and then he’s pulling his shirt up and over his head.
Robby wasn’t built like most of the guys Pope was in prison with. He wasn’t cell block jacked or meth lean. There was a softness over the swell of his bicep and catching at the waistband of Pope’s swim trunks. There were tattoos scattered across him, half hidden in the dark so that they might as well be hieroglyphics or something. Some ancient language that Pope could never hope to read.
“Alright, Andrew.” His name rolled right off of Robby’s tongue, sounding better than it had any right to. (Sounding good enough to drown out his mind’s echo in Julia and Cath’s voices.) “You first, pal.” Robby lifts a hand and shoos him, a smirk tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Once more into the breach.”
Pope turns and heads to the water, because it’s easier on his nervous system than looking at Robby. Because he was having the kind of thoughts you weren’t supposed to have about guys outside of prison. And Robby was a good dude. He was a doctor. He didn’t deserve to get fucked the way people fucked in prison. He deserved somebody to lay him down on nice clean sheets and treat him right.
Fuck.
The water is shockingly cold where it hits his toes and his ankles. But Pope doesn’t stop. He keeps walking, big steps with lifted knees until he’s deep enough into the water that lifting his legs doesn’t do shit. He turns when he’s practically on his toes, the water line nipping against his chest. “See?” He calls out, lifting his arms out of the water and sending a spray in both directions. “I didn’t die.”
Robby’s laugh carries over the sound of the waves. He dips a toe in at the water line and swears. But after a moment of hesitation, Robby rolls his shoulders back and strides into the water like a man going to the gallows. And putting curse words together in a way that would make a nun blush.
They end up standing next to each other, gently bobbing in the ebb and flow of the waves. “Okay.” Robby sounds short of breath. “This is cooler than I thought it would be.” He turns in a slow circle, taking in the sight around them. “It’s like we’re the only people in the world.”
Pope makes an agreeing sound, the kind he used to do when his brothers were talking and he didn’t know what to say. Deran used to call it his parole officer noise. Pope misses him like a fucking limb. But Deran was better off wherever the hell he was. And better off without Pope knowing. That way he couldn’t follow. Deran could make his own life without any other Cody fucking it up.
“Thank you. For this.” Robby’s voice brings Pope back out of his thoughts to realize that the waves have brought Robby closer to him. They were practically elbow to elbow. “All of this. You don’t even know me. But you’re still out here helping me. Respecting me. I can’t say I think I deserve it, but I appreciate the hell out of it, Andrew.”
There it was again. The bell gong feeling radiating in his chest at hearing his name on Robby’s lips. The same lips he couldn’t stop looking at. The lips that were being wet by a pink flash of tongue, there and gone.
“Yeah.” Pope finally manages to get a word out. And to get his eyes back up to Robby’s. “I wish somebody would do that for me.” He didn’t have anybody left. They were all gone. Another wave bobs him up onto his toes, and Robby even closer. They were almost chest to chest, now.
“I can.” Robby’s eyes are firmly on Pope’s mouth. He can feel the weight of them like they’re pinning him to the ocean floor. “What’s your Big Mac and Hershey Kisses?”
Pope feels like he’s watching all of this happening over his shoulder. Like some kind of fucked up video game. But the knot of fear and misery twisted up in his chest isn’t enough for him to stop from saying the word. “You.”
Robby collides with him, no wave to explain away the motion. He puts both hands on Pope’s shoulders, leaning in close enough that their noses are brushing. There’s no threat from Robby to never tell anybody about this, no plea to be quiet. Just easy confidence as he tips his head and slots their lips together.
Robby tastes like hot sauce and salt water and heat. So much heat. He’s an inferno compared to the chill of the water around Pope and he opens up to it immediately, trying to get as much of that warmth inside of him as he can. Robby groans and it cuts right through Pope, all the way down to his cock.
He reaches up, a dripping hand cupping Robby’s cheek when they part. Even in the dark, Pope can see how blown wide Robby’s eyes are. He looks so fucking good that Pope has to stare for a long second. Just to take him in, to try and commit this all to memory. Maybe he could have something good rattling around in his head, not just the bad shit.
“Tell me I didn’t read the situation wrong.” Robby’s voice is wrecked. “Because I really don’t want to back off right now.”
Pope licks his lips, chasing the taste of Robby there and is rewarded with another soft, punched out sound from Robby. “What do you want to do right now, then?”
Robby digs his teeth into the plush center of his bottom lip for a beat before he answers. “I want to go back to your place and get on my knees so I can suck your cock. Hopefully well enough that you’ll fuck me.” When he smiles, the skin at the corners of his eyes catches and crinkles. It makes him look younger, somehow. “Go out with a bang, right?”
That shitty pun knocks a little breath of laughter out of him. It’s a miracle he can breathe at all, with how hard his heart is beating. Pope hasn’t been this turned on in years. Maybe since before prison. Back when jerking off was still fun and not just something you did so you wouldn’t go crazy. (Crazier. If you asked his family.)
“We better get back inside, then.” Pope starts walking back towards the beach. There’s a shock of cold water trailing down his back where Robby touches him between the shoulderblades. It’s a gentle touch. An idle touch. Pope doesn’t know what the fuck to do with the fact that Robby feels safe enough to just touch him for no reason.
“Your freckles are unreal. I bet guys tell you that all the time.” Robby is all easy lines, hands in his pockets as he drips on the sand. Like it was a completely normal thing to say about another guy. Just for no reason.
“I’ve only ever fucked guys in prison.” Pope watches him out of the corner of his eye as he says it. Waiting for the recoil. Waiting for Robby to change his mind and want to go back to his condo. To get away from the ex-con.
“Well.” There’s no recoil. Not physically, and not verbally. Robby grabs his shirt and shakes it out before he pulls it on. “You’re in for a treat. Sex is great when you have real lube and a King sized bed. You’ll see.” He starts walking towards Pope’s place, and Pope is left to stare after him in wonder.
–
Robby doesn’t stand behind him at the front door, which Pope appreciates. People make him antsy when they stand behind him, claustrophobic in a way that even prison cells couldn’t match. But Robby stands to the side, a shoulder leaned against the siding and keeps reaching out to run the tips of his fingers down Pope’s arms.
“You know, I’ve always thought freckles were sexy. There’s just something about them. You’re a work of art.” Pope fumbles the keys and almost drops them. Robby laughs, hands curling gently around Pope’s hands. Pope knows he wouldn’t touch him like that if he knew how much blood was on them. “Here. Let me.” Their shoulders brush as Robby slides the key into the lock and turns it over.
They barely clear the front door before Robby is turning to face Pope, his eyes dark. “I know I’m probably being a little too careful here, but can I kiss you?” Pope is sure no one has ever asked him that before. The question settles low and deep in his belly and he nods, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Robby’s gaze follows it. He steps in close, raising a big hand that curls against Pope’s cheek. Robby’s palm is warm and callused, his breath a soft fan against Pope’s lips before he leans in to kiss him.
The kiss is gentle for a moment, the kind of kiss Pope only had with Amy for a little while. But then Robby’s tongue is in his mouth and Pope’s body remembers why the hell they were doing this in the first place. Robby groans into the kiss, a vibration of sound. His hand slides down to curl against Pope’s neck.
Pope takes Robby’s hips into his hands, feeling the sharp edge of them beneath the softness of his skin. He’s a little clammy from the water, and when their bodies collide Pope gets a jolt of cold before the heat takes over. He walks Robby backwards until his shoulders hit the door and keeps him there, pinned in place. Robby seems to really like being pinned in place.
He’s arching up into the kiss, pushing against Pope’s hold without trying to get away. His hardening cock brushes up against Pope’s hip and Robby breaks the kiss to gulp in air like he’s been underwater. “Jesus, it’s like you were cut from marble.” Those big hands paw over Pope’s chest, thumbs brushing across his nipples. His whole body jerks like Robby is pulling him along on a leash. “Oh, you like that?” Pope has just enough time to clock the mischief in those dark eyes before Robby is ducking down to suck on one of his nipples.
The feeling is electric, racing up and down his arms and legs. Pope bites down on the side of his tongue, but it does nothing to stop the noise. Robby hums a pleased sound, his tongue tracing along the nub. Pope feels like he’s going to burst out of his skin. Robby’s teeth scrape against the skin and Pope’s hand snaps out of its own volition, catching in dark hair, soft and still a little wet from the ocean.
Robby moans, a string of saliva connecting their skin when he pulls back, his lips already a little puffy. “I’m going to need to suck your dick now.” He uses his hold on Pope’s hips to lower himself down to his knees. Pope wants to commit this image to memory, to have this branded behind his eyes for the rest of his life.
His shorts come down with Robby, pooling in a heap around his ankles. The air in the condo is cool against his skin, a stark contrast to each puff of Robby’s breath he can feel against his thigh. Pope drags his fingers through Robby’s hair, tugging him in towards his hard cock. Robby murmurs something that might be thank fuck but Pope can’t be sure because the head of his cock is sliding against Robby’s parted lips before he thrusts into the perfect, white hot heat of his mouth.
Robby doesn’t give him the chance to decide if he’s going to keep his thrusts shallow or go deep. Because Robby swallows his cock down like a man starved, only the small circle of his fist wrapped around the shaft. He sucks cock messily, spit circling his lips and dripping down his chin. Robby moans damn near every time he takes Pope down, his eyes closed as he loses himself in the rhythm of it.
It’s the hottest fucking thing Pope has ever seen. He tightens his fingers in Robby’s hair, not to guide but to hold on and keep himself upright. Robby pulls off of his cock to mouth down the side of the length of it before he pulls one of Pope’s balls into his mouth. It’s a rush of pleasure like he’s never known. “Holy fuck.” The words sound rough and wasted to his own ears. Pope drops his head back against his shoulders, unable to keep his eyes open.
“Like that?” Robby’s voice is velvet in the darkness behind Pope’s closed eyes. “See? I told you. A whole new world, man.” There’s the brief pressure of teeth against the inside of his thigh before Robby works the other ball into his mouth. Pope can feel his orgasm building like a freight train in the pit of his stomach. He yanks hard on Robby’s hair to pull him away from where he was still mouthing at him.
“I’m going to come if you don’t stop.” It’s supposed to be a warning. But it comes out sounding like a plea. Pope’s hands keep moving over their own volition, short and heavy swipes through Robby’s hair. Robby breaks away with an obscene wet sound, and all Pope can do is stare. Robby’s mouth is bright red and swollen, and shiny wet with spit. It’s smeared all over his cheeks, into his beard and down his shin. His eyes are dark as hell, and he’s watching Pope like he’s starving. Nobody has ever looked at him like. It makes Pope want to stay here forever. Where he doesn’t have to talk and he can’t fuck this up. Just him and Robby on his knees for the rest of time.
“Do you want to fuck me, or do you want me to fuck you? I’m down for either one.” Robby reaches out a hand and Pope offers his own on instinct. Robby uses it to lift himself to his feet with a soft groan. “Though in the spirit of full disclosure, I’d really like for you to fuck me.” Robby’s smile changes his whole face. For a split second, gone is the exhausted man with slumped shoulders and a gun in his hand. He’s replaced with someone kind, someone funny, someone who had the life they deserved, not the life they were stuck with.
“I’ll fuck you.” Pope’s voice comes out too quiet. And even he knows that’s not the right thing to say. So he hurries to tack on. “I want to fuck you.” Because he does. Fucking desperately. He wants Robby on his back with his knees spread wide. He wants Robby to beg him not to stop. Pope wants to be something good for once in his damn life.
“It’s my lucky day.” Robby drawls the words out, leaning in to press into a kiss. His mouth tastes like spit and skin and Pope wants to swallow him whole. It’s only when they break apart from the kiss that Pope realizes that Robby has a hand on Pope’s chest, his fingers splayed open right on top of Pope’s heart. “Bedroom? Couch? I could probably do the floor, but my knees are not going to thank me for it.”
Pope is already moving, a hand sweeping against the small of Robby’s back. “Bed. This way.” The condo is small, and sparsely decorated. He doesn’t have any pictures hanging on the wall. He never feels like he can get them lined up straight enough. His bed is made up neatly, tightly tucked corners and a smooth duvet.
Robby smooths a palm over the edge of the pale blue duvet. “I’m going to feel bad messing this up.” Not too bad at least, because he was already peeling his clothes off, unselfconscious. Robby’s body was…normal. Not cut, not covered in old scars pinched closed with hot iron. There was something really fucking sexy about it. He was soft at the edges and had dark hair on his stomach and trailing down to his cock. Which was hard and brushing against the softness of his stomach.
Pope has never actively wanted to suck a cock before. He knew it was part and parcel of the deal, that’s how you got to the sex. But for the first time, his mouth iss dry with want. He wants to know what it felt like to have Robby in control of his mouth. Fucking it however he wanted and making those low, bone deep noises.
Pope sinks to his knees right there at the edge of the bed. Robby makes a soft sound that might be a laugh, fingers immediately carding through Pope’s hair. “Hello there. See something you like?” Pope knows that any of his brothers would have a better answer than him. Something flirtatious or fun or confident. But they’re not here and he is. So Pope simply says yes and licks the tip of Robby’s cock.
The taste is the salt of the ocean and the salt of a man and it settles on the back of his tongue and makes Pope's mouth water. He sucks just the head into his mouth, letting it drag over his tongue before it slips back out, his lips folded over his teeth.
Robby makes a punched out sound, his fingers tightening before he makes them gentle. Pope likes it better this way. He got his hair pulled in prison. It was fine. But these gentle feathering touches were making want pool in his stomach. “Look at you.” Robby’s voice is low, and soft.
Pope is glad he can't see himself. But the way Robby is looking at him makes him wonder what the hell he's seeing. Because Robby is watching him with dark eyes, his swollen lips parted. “You look so good, Andrew.” Every time he hears his name out of Robby's mouth, Pope wants to grab it and hoard it. To lock it away behind the cage of his ribs so no one can take it from him.
He traces the vein of Robby's cock with the tip of his tongue, up and around the head before he takes him back into his mouth again. Pope focuses on the slide of it, of getting Robby's cock as close to the back of his throat that he can without gagging. Then he drags it back all the way to where just the tip is caught on his lips.
It's hypnotic. It shuts his brain off. Pope could stay here forever, the ebb and flow of ocean waves replaced with Robby's haggard breathing and the feel of his hands in his hair.
“Not to be a repeat, but.” Robby's voice is wrecked, barely more than a shuddering whisper. “But if you don't stop, I'm going to come. And I don't want to come without you inside of me.”
It's the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to Pope. He releases Robby's cock, watching the slick skin bob and brush against the dark hair on his stomach before it settles. Robby is flushed red from his ears down to his cock, like a flashing red neon sign. Leading right to where Pope wants him the most. “How do you want me?” Robby reaches between his legs to palm his cock and Pope is riveted to the spot on his knees, watching. He doesn’t know how to answer. In prison, it was always someone on their hands and knees. Like a dog. And he doesn’t want that for Robby. “Hands and knees? On my back?”
Pope gets hit with the sudden, vivid mental picture of Robby arching up off of the bed with Pope between his knees. “Back.” He grabs hold of the side of the bed for leverage as he lifts back up onto his feet. Robby is already leaning in by the time Pope is on his feet, and kissing him. It’s filthy and distracting and Pope doesn’t realize he’s being pulled towards the bed until he’s already in motion, falling in a heap on top of Robby.
“Okay.” Robby wheezes with laughter, holding onto his side. “That’s always sexier in the movies. Where they don’t get a knee to the ribs.” Pope reaches down to palm along the ridges of Robby’s ribs, mumbling an apology that’s more sound than word. Robby takes his hand and lifts it, kissing the middle of Pope’s palm. “No harm, no foul.” Except Pope isn’t sure that is true. Because it feels like he doesn’t know how he’s going to go back to his life after this. How he was supposed to be able to jerk off or fuck somebody without thinking about Robby’s dark eyes and his after midnight laugh.
“Come here, you.” Robby curls a hand against Pope’s jaw, leading him down on top of him again. This kiss is slower, lazy in a way that Pope has never really done before. They are slotted together, hips pressed tight and chests rising and falling in uneven rhythm. There’s no hurry to this, no desperation. Just a slow building heat in Pope’s gut. He doesn’t even know when his hips start moving, he just finds himself breaking the kiss so Robby can kiss behind his ear. His hips are moving in slow tidal circles, the head of his cock nestled against the soft crease of Robby’s hip.
The skin is slick from pre-come, and Pope knows he could come just like this if he wanted to. He could rut against Robby while they kissed and it would be good enough for him. Hell, it would be more than good enough. But if this was really Robby’s last night, that wasn’t good enough for him. He deserved to go out with a bang, like he wanted to. And Pope was going to make sure he got that.
Robby’s teeth graze his earlobe and it’s another lightning bolt gut shot of pleasure. Pope reaches between them to palm Robby’s cock and he’s rewarded with a low, heady groan. Pope cups his hand around all of him, shaft and balls and all, and gives a good squeeze. Robby’s hips lift off of the bed. “I have lube.” Pope feels like he has to mention. It’s in the drawer of his nightstand. Not because Pope was ashamed or had people over that often. But because he didn’t like the way it looked sitting on the top of the night stand. It made it look cluttered, and it bugged him.
“Thank God for that.” Robby laughs, a little breathless. “Because I would really like to have you inside of me as soon as possible.” Pope doesn’t want to take his hands off of Robby, but he has to. But that doesn’t mean he has to take his body away. He reaches up to the bedside table, pulling the drawer open and reaching around blindly until he can feel the smooth edge of the lube bottle. He doesn’t even bother to close the door, his attention too focused on Robby beneath him to care.
Pope pours some lube into his hand, sitting back on his knees to warm it against his skin. Robby spreads his knees wide open, dark eyed and unashamed. He takes his own cock in hand again, giving it a lazy squeeze. “You can start with two fingers if you want. I can take it.”
Taking it isn’t how Pope wants this to go. So he doesn’t answer, instead turning his attention between Robby’s legs. He brushes his fingertip between Robby’s cheeks, brushing against the soft skin of his hole. Robby’s thighs flex a little, his toes digging into the sheets. “I want.” Pope doesn’t know how to articulate it. So he slides off of the bed and stands, wrapping his hands under the crooks of Robby’s knees to lug him bodily to the edge of the bed. Robby makes that punched out, pleased sound again.
Back down on his knees, Pope is right where he wants to be. He can see Robby’s hole perfectly here. He traces it with the slick pad of his finger, feeling the way the skin warms the lube his own body hadn’t. Pope presses down at the center, a constant and steady pressure until Robby’s body opens up to him and he can feel the silken heat. Robby clenches tight around him before he breathes out long and slow, and relaxes.
Pope presses his finger all the way up to the second knuckle, focused entirely on the wet heat of Robby’s body all around him. He pulls back, a promise and a precursor of what is to come before he drives his finger back in. His second finger catches at the rim, Robby’s hips jolting at the touch. Pope is pretty sure it’s a good thing. He scissors his fingers, stretching Robby’s hole out shallowly, less focused on making room for himself and more focused on the erratic stutter step of Robby’s breathing he can hear up on the bed.
“Please.” The word is practically a gasp where it leaves Robby’s mouth. Pope looks up from where his attention has been zeroed in to see Robby’s hands clutched in the sheets on the bed, pulling them up into jagged whorls of cotton. “More.” It takes Pope a second to realize what Robby is asking for. He keeps his fingers wide open and pushes them deep inside of Robby. The sound that Robby makes is almost painful. He rocks down into it, pulling Pope’s fingers in deeper.
“You want another one?” Pope doesn’t wait for an answer. He gets a third finger inside of Robby, crooking them up as he drags them back down to where he’s opened up before shoving them back in again. His wrist is starting to ache so Pope supports it with his other hand, keeping up the harsh pace he’s fucking into Robby’s body with. And Robby is loving every second of it, noisy in a way that Pope has never really heard a guy be before. Begging and gasping and moaning, his feet drumming against the side of the bed.
A hand slaps down blindly and catches in Pope’s hair. He feels the blunt drag of Robby’s fingernails against his scalp before his hand becomes a fist and he yanks. It’s a bright bloom of pleasure and pain, shooting straight to Pope’s cock, making it ache. “I want.” Robby’s words come out through gritted teeth. “You to get inside of me. Right now. And fuck my brains out.” Robby lifts his head off of the bed as he yanks Pope’s head up, their eyes meeting across the plane of Robby’s body. “Can you do that for me, Andrew?”
Pope would kill a man with his bare hands right now if Robby asked him to. He nods, standing as Robby’s hand releases his hair and slides down the length of his body to take hold of his cock. Robby strokes him a few times with a tight, dry fist, his eyes a little mean. It feels like the best fucking thing that has ever happened to him. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” Robby rumbles out a good and grabs the bottle off of the bed, winging it at Pope. It hits him in the chest, leaving a small smear of lube before Pope fumbles the bottle between both of his hands and manages to catch it.
He doesn’t bother pouring it into his hands. Pope squeezes the bottle, letting the stream land directly on the rigid line of his cock. It splashes over Robby’s fingers and takes away some of the painful edge of his stroking. Robby turns his grip from overhand to underhand, spreading the lube all along the length. Pope slaps his hand away and Robby laughs. Pope doesn’t know if you can get addicted to someone’s laugh, but it fucking feels like it’s possible with Robby. “Hold your legs.”
Robby complies immediately, tucking his hands behind his knees and lifting his legs up, spreading open wide. He looks obscene like this, perfect and sexy and everything a porn star would want to be, but still better. Pope can see the way Robby’s hole keeps fluttering, desperate to be filled. He gives himself one long stroke and lines up, pressing against Robby’s hole. His body opens up easily, puffy and still fucked loose from Pope’s fingers. He barely has to put any pressure forward for the head of his cock to breach Robby’s body. They both groan, echoed and mingled together at the same time. “You’re so tight.” Pope doesn’t know how he manages to get the words out. Robby’s body is a perfect contradiction, greedily pulling Pope in but still so fucking tight around him, like a vice.
“Please.” Robby’s hands are tight enough on his thighs that Pope can see the white, bloodless imprint of his grip in the skin around his fingers and he’s not even all the way inside of him yet. Pope inches forward, slow and smooth against the incredible heat and tightness of Robby’s body until he’s bottomed out inside of him and has to gulp in air to keep himself steady. (And from coming.)
“How do you want it?” Pope is pretty sure he knows the answer to that question, given the way Robby is clenching around him. But now was not the time to fuck this up and misunderstand somebody. So he holds himself rigid and still, heart beating so hard that he can feel it in his jaw and hear it pounding like a drum inside of his ears. Robby’s got his head thrown back against the sheets and Pope watches the jerky rise and fall of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
“Hard. I want-” Robby lifts his head off of the bed, his hair a wild mess from where he’s been writhing against the sheets. He pins Pope in place with just a look, his eyes intense. “I want you to fuck me so hard I feel it for days. I want-” Robby’s voice cracks there with emotion and he looks away.
That’s all Pope needed to hear.
He starts a brutal pace, his hands low against the inside of Robby’s thighs to keep him from sliding too far across the bed while Pope fucks him. His brain shuts off then, finally, beautifully until there’s nothing left but Robby’s body all around him, and Robby’s groaning breaths in his ears. Pope exists only where he and Robby connect, the heat and pleasure building inside of him. He hooks Robby’s knees up over his shoulders, folding him practically in half. It gets him impossibly deeper and Pope wants to chase that feeling as deep as he can.
“Oh god, oh fuck. Like that. Fuck, Andrew. Just like that, baby. Don’t stop.” Robby’s got his head thrown back, a constant stream of filth from his lips as Pope pounds into him. He tells him how good he feels, how deep he is. How badly he wants to feel Pope come inside of him. It drives him to fuck him harder, to snap his hips faster. Sweat drips down into his eyes and Pope shakes his head furiously to blink it away. He doesn’t want to miss a second of seeing Robby like this.
He goes to reach between them, to take Robby’s leaking cock into his hand. Robby lets go of one of his thighs, batting Pope’s hand away with a gasp. “No. I want you to make me come just by fucking me. You can do it.” Fuck. Pope groans, deep enough that he can feel it down in his toes. With both hands back on Robby’s thighs, he yanks his ass just off of the edge of the bed so that he can bear down on him further and all Robby can do is take it.
Robby makes a deep, guttural sound, hips jerking as he tries to fuck himself back to meet each of Pope’s ragged thrusts. They’re both slick with each other’s sweat now, bodies twined together and colliding over and over again. Pope loses himself to the motion, his own thighs quaking with the effort of keeping up the brutal place. “There!” Robby’s voice yanks him back out of the quiet place in his mind, half a sob and half a word. “There. There. I’m close. I’m so fucking close, Andrew. Don’t stop.” Pope locks his knees so he doesn’t shift an inch and keeps fucking into that same deep heat of Robby’s, desperate to make him come.
He can feel his own release building, a fucked up race to see which one of them makes it over the finish line first. “Oh God. Oh fuck. Andrew.” Pope has never heard his name like that. Robby goes rigid underneath him, fingers forgetting to hold onto his legs as he reaches down to take his cock in hand and strip it fiercely, his release tearing through him. Pope watches the white strands spread across Robby’s belly, catching in that dark hair and smearing across his skin. “Come inside of me. Please.” Robby is still coming down from his own orgasm, hips shoving back weakly against Pope’s.
Robby might as well have given him a command, because Pope’s body reacts like someone pulled his string. His orgasm hits him like a fucking baseball bat to the stomach, tearing through him with force. It yanks a broken sound from his lips and he folds over Robby to shudder and rut his way through the aftershocks, every inch of his body tingling. He can hear the wet squelch of their bodies, his come dribbling out from Robby’s hole before he’s even pulled out.
Robby’s hand curls against the base of Pope’s neck, keeping him in place as their uneven breathing begins to slow. It’s like the tide. Robby breathes in and Pope breathes out. He closes his eyes, his mind quiet. It feels too good for words, too good for Pope to ever explain. (Too good for someone like him, but maybe not good enough for a guy like Robby.) “Shower?” Pope wants to keep Robby close, but he can’t stand the feeling of sweat cooling on his skin.
There’s a groan from Robby, his fingers flexing against Pope’s neck before he relinquishes his hold and flops his hand against Pope’s back. “Fine. But you may have to hold me up in there.” It throws Pope off enough that he sits still for a long second, thinking about it. Robby doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want Pope to leave. He wants to take a shower with him. Something warm unfurls in Pope’s chest at the thought.
“I can do that.” He stands on rubbery legs that threaten to give out on him, taking a moment to stretch. His back pops. Pope looks out of the bedroom window and sees dawn beginning to crest on the horizon, the darkest part of the night now past. He brushes a hand down Robby’s knee as he passes, Robby blindly trying to pat back without sitting up or opening his eyes. “I’ll start the water first and come back for you.” He gets a lazy thumbs up from Robby that makes a laugh bubble up in his chest.
In the bathroom, Pope turns the hot water on full blast so it can start heating up and turns to take a piss. He washes his hands after he’s done and catches sight of himself in the mirror. There’s several dark marks on his throat, a constellation of hickeys covering up the spattering of freckles against the skin. It was a lasting reminder that this was real. That it happened. Pope stares at himself even as the glass of the mirror begins to fog over and wonders if any of his brothers would recognize him now.
Hands dried on the towel hanging on the rack, Pope goes back into the bedroom. Robby hasn’t moved an inch from where he was laying, legs hung over the side of the bed and his bare feet in the carpet. The most he’s moved at all was to sling an arm over his eyes. Robby’s breathing is so slow and even that for a second, Pope thinks maybe he fell asleep. He stands there and watches, taking Robby in as dawn sends its first weak tendrils of light across Robby’s legs. “I’m not dead yet.” Robby uncovers his eyes with a groan and uses both hands to lift himself up into a sitting position. “But I’m still going to need that hand.”
He holds a hand out, easy and demanding all at the same time. Pope can’t do anything but step forward to take it. He hooks his thumb around Robby’s, fingers curling against the back of his hand. With one good pull, Robby is up on his feet with a groan. He shuffles forward a step, resting his chin on Pope’s shoulder, his arms looped loose around Pope’s waist. “Give me a second. I haven’t been fucked that hard in years.” There’s a beat of silence before Robby adds warmly. “Not that I’m complaining. My compliments to the chef.”
Pope hesitates for a second before he settles his arms around Robby’s waist. “Thanks.” What the hell else is he supposed to say? It must be the right thing though, because he feels the soft tremors of Robby’s laughter against his body. “Come on, before the hot water runs out.” Pope peels himself away from the warmth of Robby’s skin and pads into the bathroom. Steam billows out around them when he opens the door.
“You have a shower seat. Thank God.” Robby brushes past him and into the shower, taking a moment to adjust the showerhead before he sinks down to sit on the marble shower seat. Water spatters off of Robby’s shoulders, hitting the floor outside of the shower. Pope climbs in before the mess can get any worse, pulling the shower door shut behind him. It puts him between Robby and the hot water, and Pope grits his teeth at the sharp sting of it. He adjusts the knobs to something more palatable, hot enough to sink in but not so hot that it burns. Turning back around, he’s met with Robby’s eyes. “You’re so pink.” Pope looks down at his skin, flushed from the too hot water.
“You have no room to talk.” Robby has been various shades of pink since they got into the bedroom, the angry red of his cock and the soft flush of shower warmed skin settling into something in the middle. Something that looked more comfortable. “You get red all over.” Pope gestures to him where he sits, flinging a fan of water from his fingertips.
Robby shrugs, amused. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards. “I had a girlfriend who used to tell me that I was a walking mood ring. She could always tell what I was feeling when she looked at me.” He brushes a hand through his hair, and Pope can see the strands of silver mixed in at Robby’s temple. “I told her that being pissed off and horny made for a pretty shitty mood ring.”
Pope, for once in his fucking life, doesn’t second guess himself. He follows the path of Robby’s hand with his own fingers, wet enough to hide that silver in the darkness. Robby leans into the touch, closing his eyes. “I wish I could say that I grew up and changed.” Robby reaches up, brushing his fingers under his nose. “But I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m still the same shitty mood ring as I was back then.”
Pope doesn’t know if he agrees. Yeah, the angry and horny were still there. But there was a deep sadness and loneliness to Robby that weren’t so easily washed away. Pope was starting to wonder when the last time Robby said any of this out loud to anyone was. But there was more than that too. There was a tenderness, a sense of humor. Robby was a hell of a lot more than he gave himself credit for.
A little tug in Robby’s hair gets him to his feet, though he makes a low sound in the back of his throat that lets Pope know just how unhappy he is about it. Pope turns them around, putting Robby’s back into the spray of the water. Robby’s shoulders slump, his chin practically touching his chest. “I can wash your hair.” Pope feels stupid for asking, even though it doesn’t really come out as a question. But Robby lifts his chin in a faint nod, his eyes staying closed.
Pope’s shampoo isn’t anything fancy. He gets the same stuff from the grocery store each week. The smell of coconut fills the shower around them as Pope pours some into his hands and rubs them together before he slips them back into Robby’s hair. Pope takes his time at it, making sure the lather is all over Robby’s hair, paying special attention to his nape and the dark curl of hair behind each of his ears. He scratches his fingernails against Robby’s scalp the same way he would do for himself, to make sure he was good and clean.
With a hand on Robby’s sternum, Pope walks him backwards further under the shower’s spray. He watches the white froth catch at Robby’s shoulders and swirl down his chest and legs. When the water runs clear, Pope curls a finger beneath Robby’s chin until he can meet those dark eyes and leans in to kiss him. Robby meets him easily, eagerly.
When they break apart from the kiss, Pope speaks with more conviction than he feels. He’s scared to fucking death about this night coming to an end. But he was raised to take risks. You didn’t get to take home the big scores if you didn’t take the big risks. Smurf taught him that.
“You still have three days left on your rental.” Robby opens his eyes slowly as Pope speaks, blinking slowly. But Pope sees the moment that the words sink in and Robby realizes what he’s saying. “You might as well stick around and use them. Don’t waste the money.” Pope’s eyes skate over Robby’s face, trying to read what he sees there. His heart is racing. Pope doesn’t know if there’s some magic words he can say to get through to Robby, but he has to try something. Anything. “I can teach you how to surf.” He remembers their earlier conversation, though it feels like years ago now. A lifetime ago.
Robby presses his lips together, his expression crumbling. He swallows, and then licks his lips. “I uh.” The words catch in his throat and Robby has to clear it to be able to get the rest of the sentence out. “I always wanted to learn how to surf.”
Pope takes the opening he’s been given with both hands.
“I’ll teach you.”