Work Text:
Robby’s front door is stuck again. The first time it happened, he just assumed it was from the heat, 90-degree weather making everything swell up, get a sweaty sheen across it. The landlord doesn’t give two shits when Robby calls him after it happens for the fourth time, accusing the guy that the 15 layers of paint they use to fix anything and everything is most likely the culprit. And he mentioned it to his doorman, but the guy just said they were fixing the issue in the whole building; yeah, right. He had to twist the key hard, then use all of his strength to get the door free.
Inside his front hall, he hears his phone buzzing. Putting his backpack down, he digs it out of his pocket.
DENNIS WHITAKER (WORK)…
Why the hell was Whitaker calling him at 8:30 at night? Robby wants to decline it, turn his phone off, and just melt into his uncomfortable couch after the day he had.
Gloria was on his ass all day about patient satisfaction scores, and he wanted desperately to tell her that they’ll only get worse if she doesn’t get off his back. Irritation still clings to him as he picks up the call.
“What?” Okay, that might have been a little harsh — but it's reflective of his mood.
“Oh, Doctor Robby, hi. Sorry.” He sounds nervous over the phone, a little strung out. Dennis has become much more confident since his first day, but none of that is shining through now. “What is it, kid? Please tell me they don’t need me back at work.”
“No — No, that’s not it. Um, this is awkward.” Then pauses for a moment, as if he’s trying to work up the courage.
It would almost be cute if Robby wasn’t still standing in his foyer, scrubs itching on his skin; he imagines all the germs wriggling around on the surface, ready to enter his system.
Robby just clears his throat, waiting for him to spit it out. They weren’t exactly just co-workers anymore after Dennis stayed in his house for three months. A few texts during his road trip, mostly pertaining to stuff about his house, but he'd occasionally check up on him.
Robby would avoid answering the same question back. Not great, usually. Especially the time he drunk-called Dennis, not wanting to bug Jack but just needed someone to talk to. Drunken haze, forgetting about the time difference. The last message he received from him was sent the next morning,
Hey Dr. Robby, sorry I missed your call, I was sleeping! Everything okay? Embarrassment forced him to leave it on read.
But since then, Robby wanted to ask him for a beer, maybe get to know him outside the chaos of their day jobs. He asked Jack once if he should. The look he got back was all the answer he needed. Don't take a recently graduated med student out for a beer. Got it.
Plus, Dennis has enough going on: new to residency, new girlfriend (which he still adamantly insists is not his girlfriend), living with a coworker who convinces him to go to clubs on their days off. Which he only knows about from them loudly talking about it on the floor. He doesn’t need a 53-year-old man hanging around him like a bad smell.
Whitaker continues, “We lost power—” Robby sighs in frustration. Of course, the hospital lost power. They’ll want him to come in to help transfer patients to Presby while the most critical patients get the power from the backup grid. It’s not dire, but there’s always a fuck ton of paperwork that Robby is really not in the headspace for. "—At my apartment. My whole neighborhood is down."
Oh. That’s not what he was expecting. The relief slides up alongside the confusion. What does this have to do with him?
“Okay?”
“I was wondering — I know this isn’t really appropriate.” Jesus, where is he going with this? There are a lot of inappropriate things Robby’s mind is supplying to him now. He tries to shove them back into the little box he keeps in his brain for those fantasies. “Could I crash on your couch?”
He wants to protest immediately. Explain all the reasons why it would be crossing boundaries, how his position of power would make it improper, if the hospital ever found out. It would also make him a hypocrite. Robby had already crossed that boundary when he asked (manipulated, really) the guy to sleep in his bed while he went on his ego death/potential actual death wisdom tour. Whitaker interrupts him before he gets the chance.
“It’s just that — I would stay here without power, but my phone is nearly dead. And the air conditioning is electric, so my apartment is like a sauna. I’ll be super quiet too; you wouldn’t even know I’m there, I promise. I’ll be gone before you even wake-”
Fuck, he’s going to let him stay. Robby wants to smack himself upside the head for folding so easily.
“Kid. Stop. There’s no one else? Where is Santos staying?” Robby tries, knowing the answer already. Santos isn’t exactly subtle about her little fling with the Trauma Surgery Fellow.
“She's staying at Ga— With the person… she’s seeing.” Good save. It’s commendable that Dennis is trying not to out anyone, even though neither of them is quiet about it themselves.
“Okay. Alright—Jesus, Whitaker. Fine. How are you getting here?”
Whitaker lets out a happy sound. Robby ignores the blush it gives him. “Wait, really? Oh my god, Dr. Robby, thank you! I’ll just take an Uber.”
Robby rubs a hand over his face. This is such a bad idea. It’s not like he can’t control himself; he’s a grown man. But he’s never hung out with Whitaker outside of the pit or off of PTMC grounds. Never imagined he’d get lucky enough to see a tired Whitaker cozy on his couch, maybe damp after using his shower. Not that he hasn’t thought about it. Of course he has. The thrill of possibility shoots down his spine. Fuckin’ perv.
“Don’t mention it. I’ll see you soon.”
Shower, scrubs in the wash, and first glass of scotch, done. Robby can’t function in a messy place, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about that. He almost hesitates taking out linens from his closet to set Whitaker up on the couch — imagines himself forming some kind of excuse to get him on the other side of Robby's bed. Nope. Absolutely not.
Whitaker is sweaty when Robby wrenches the door open, still tacky from the heat. He’s wearing shorts that are exceptionally small and a long tank top with armholes that dip nearly to his ribs. It would take almost nothing for his nipples to be exposed. Robby swallows the spit collecting in his mouth when he hears Dennis pant out, “I don’t miss those stairs.”
Robby is on the third floor of a building with no elevator. It’s nice to get the exercise, seeing as he doesn’t have the time to work out, but on days like today, they’re hell. Heat leaking through the old brick walls creates a special kind of radiating humidity that gets worse as you ascend the creaky steps. Thank god his unit has air conditioning.
Thank god he doesn’t step forward and lick the sweat off of his resident's neck.
Snapping out of it, he leans out of the doorway, ushering the boy in. “Come on. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Thanks again.” Dennis groans when he steps into the front hall. “Fuck, that air feels nice.”
Do not have a physical reaction to that. Do not picture what else might make him feel nice.
A diversion — “I’ll grab you something to drink. Do you want to shower?”
“I don’t have to, if it’s an imposition.”
“Mi casa es su casa. You remember where everything is?”
“Yep, tha-” Will this kid ever stop thanking him? It makes him feel even grosser for all the thoughts racing through his head. The shower is now setting the scene for his creepy little daydreams. Delusions.
Robby interjects before he can get the full word out. “I’ll be in the living room. Come join me after.”
Whitaker comes out of his bathroom practically steaming, cold air clashing against the scalding water he clearly doused himself in. The pajama pants he’s wearing are slung low on his hips, and his wet skin is clinging to his already short T-shirt.
Robby knew this whole thing was a misstep — what he thought was going to be some wet dream come to life was actually domestic in a way that made his heart lurch in his chest. Loneliness of the last few years is creeping up and holding a vice grip around his heart. Good thing he’s become an expert at ignoring the fuck out of it. Moving on.
“That for me?” Dennis says, pointing to the lowball glass of scotch next to his own.
“Go for it.”
He takes a sip as he settles into the couch, screwing up his face when it hits his tongue. Robby chuckles, knowing that it’s an acquired taste, but doesn’t want to give him shit about it, even though that glass is probably worth $40. He’s got enough money.
“So, how’s the farm?” He surprises himself in asking, prying really. Maybe he's jealous of all the time he spends there, with Amy and her baby. He thinks of Dennis greeting the kid the day before his sabbatical, tries not to think of how much he melted at the sight.
“Oh, it's uh — yeah, it’s fine. I don’t go there as much anymore. Amy’s parents moved in with her, so they don’t need a lot of help.”
“Hm. Trouble in paradise? I thought you two —”
“No!” Dennis says rather quickly, sounding frustrated. It takes Robby back, how defensive it comes across. “Sorry, everyone keeps… bugging me about it.”
Robby understands the frustration. The whole E.D gave him shit for months about Collins, and after a while, it gets under your skin. They were together, but still — everyone always tried to make it a bigger deal than it was. Workplace gossip is somehow more exciting than saving lives.
Dennis continues, “I’m not exactly telling a lot of people, but — I’m gay.” He's fidgeting, wringing his hands, and seemingly trying to make himself smaller. It's as if he's waiting for Robby to kick him to the curb. Fuck whoever has ever made him feel like that. “You’re like the third person from work I’ve told, so don’t go like — telling anyone. Sorry.”
Robby reaches a hand on the collar of Dennis's white t-shirt, callused fingers resting on the warm nape of his neck. “Why are you apologizing, kid? Thanks for telling me.”
It doesn't seem to reassure him, though. It looks like he wants to bolt. Robby adds, “And welcome to the club.”
Dennis whips his head towards him, disbelief painting across it.
“Bisexual. Came out in the 90’s and I… keep forgetting I still have to do it sometimes.” Robby explains — the shyness still bubbling underneath when talking about something so personal.
Robby thinks of the first few people he came out to — his med school roommate who had found one of his dirty magazines, Jack Abbot, and his Bubbe.
If he still believed in a higher power, he'd thank them every day for how much grace his Bubbe gave him. He was terrified, absolutely shaking like a leaf when Robby proposed that his boyfriend come meet her. The sparkle in her eyes never dimmed, her mouth never turned sour; She just held Robby's hand and said I would love to, Tattele. Doted on said boyfriend just as much as she had his previous partners. It's a special memory.
Dennis joins their hands on his own shoulder, sort of awkwardly patting him, but his smile is incredibly warm. Accepting. "Cool."
Cool. Very cool how intimate this moment is. How Dennis's hand feels like a lifeline, similar to how it felt in that Pedes room that horrible, horrible day. How he wishes his front door would permanently stick and they could stay in this little bubble of cozy companionship.
“Movie?” Robby blurts out, bursting the moment, attempting to dodge him, tears threatening to make themselves known behind his eyes.
They both clink their bourbon glasses on the coffee table, Robby's empty next to Dennis's mostly full.
"Sure." The kid sounds beat, emotions and chaos from the day leeching out. It was a rough one, chairs never really clearing out, and two people being off with the stomach flu. They were both run off their feet.
Dennis rests his head on the armrest as Robby scrolls through the categories. Rom-coms were never his particular favorite, but with the day they've had, it feels like a good decision. Light, a little funny; nothing medical.
"The Proposal's good," Dennis says with his face half squished into the fabric of the couch, arms reaching around his middle, looking cold. Robby takes his word for it, puts it on, then reaches for the blanket across the back of the couch and drapes it across Dennis, who smiles at Robby in a way that makes him want to keep him forever. Goddam it.
Robby comes to, sweaty and disoriented. Betty white is dancing around a campfire and chanting. It wouldn't be as irritating if he wasn't groggy with sleep, but he really wants to just shut it off and move to his bed. He blearily reaches for the remote on the coffee table and realizes something is stopping him.
Two pajama-clad legs are outstretched on his lap, attached to a sleeping Whitaker. He's snoring lightly, mouth wide open and drooling a little. It catches Robby off guard, how cute he looks like this. He's never seen him so vulnerable, face so open and relaxed. The stress of their job often turns their expressions into a permanent furrow or makes their under-eye bags look like they're halfway down their face.
Would it be so bad to wake him up and ask him to come to bed? Have someone to wrap around and keep him company? He considers it as his hands land on Dennis's exposed ankle. Rubs the soft hair peeking out.
Robby rubs the other hand over his face, frustrated with his infatuation with the sleeping man. He's twice his age, for God's sake.
"Mmf, Robby?" Dennis says groggily, rubbing his face into the throw pillow. "W'time issit?"
Such a pretty little thing, cuddling into his couch. He's got to get away before he does something stupid. Robby stands up, holding Dennis's feet, and rests them back on the couch.
"Go back to sleep, Whitaker." Just one thing, one stupid thing, and he'll forget this ever happened. Go get laid, or something. Take his mind off of this precious thing he can never have.
Robby swipes Dennis's hair off of his forehead gently and leans down to his ear, "Sweet dreams, kid."
Dennis has a sleepy smile on his face as he starts to snore lightly once again. Robby stumbles to bed, alone like always.
Robby's alarm goes off at six in the morning. He's off today, but forgot to turn the damn thing off before falling into a deep sleep. He blearily reaches for his phone and swipes at the screen, silencing it.
He wishes he could just roll over and go back to sleep, but as he gets older, he's realized that once he's up, he's up. There's a crash from his kitchen, and Robby hears a whispered shit coming from the same direction. Guess Dennis is already awake. They must have the same sleeping problems.
Entering the kitchen, he finds Dennis on his hands and knees, sweeping up coffee grounds. Robby stands against the entryway, just watching him. The focus Dennis has on making sure to sweep up every single piece is almost mesmerizing, and the view is even more so. The roundness of his backside is on full display, and Robby feels like a creep for just standing there, observing, but he can't help himself. Can't rip his eyes away.
Dennis startles, finally noticing Robby peeping at him. "Jesus— Robby! You're so quiet. Did I wake you up?"
"Nah, forgot to turn off my alarm."
"Hah, me too." Dennis picks himself up off the ground, holding the dustpan. He winces as he gets up and holds the unoccupied hand to his lower back. There's pain written all over his face, and Robby wishes he had thought to help him. Except he was rooted in the spot, staring at his ass.
"Why don't you go back to the couch and I'll make us coffee?" Robby suggests needing space to get his thoughts together. To tamp down this restless need that carried over from the night before.
"Actually, um, I don't know if I can ever sit on that couch again." He says, wincing. It isn't the most comfortable thing, he'll admit. He's fallen asleep after work a few times on it, and he still feels it in his back a couple of days later.
A thought enters Robby's mind. A senseless idea. But he hasn't had caffeine yet, and his inhibitions are low. The thought energizes him more than the whole pot of coffee could.
“Do you want a massage?”
A flicker of distress is on Dennis’s face. Like a baby deer about to be run over by an 18-wheeler. Shame broils underneath the surface of his skin with how distressingly hot it is. Robby continues, floundering for some kind of excuse — an explanation for whatever the fuck he just suggested.
"I’ve fallen asleep on that couch far too many times. I know what it does to a lower lumbar.” Robby says, trying to sound innocent. Such a fucking liar.
“I wouldn’t — I shouldn’t — I’m not opposed?” Dennis then turns around, almost as if Robby is going to massage him, standing right here in the kitchen, holding a fucking dustpan.
A chuckle escaped Robby before he replied, “It’ll be easier if you lie down.”
“Oh uh- Sure! Where?” His eyes are darting around, nervous.
“Go to my bedroom and take your shirt off. I’ll be able to reach all of the knots.”
He absolutely did not need to tell him to take his shirt off. But it's fine; he’ll just give him a massage, then send him on his way. Just wants to see what he looks like in his bed, half naked and turning to putty under his fingers. Alarm bells ring in his head, but they go ignored. Fuck it.
The expanse of Dennis’s back looks shocking against Robby’s sheets. Pale, but toned — all that farm work must have paid off. Dennis whips his head around when Robby opens the door, and he still looks spooked. “This okay?”
“I told you to do it, didn’t I?” Robby says, Growls, really.
The air feels charged. Like sparks of electricity are running through the air. The thrum underneath Robby’s skin could probably power the kids' blacked-out apartment.
Robby was just going to lean over him, but the angle was awkward, the bed too low to really dig his hands in. He decides to climb over Dennis, settling his knees into the bed around Dennis's thighs. It's just for a better angle — he lies to himself. The squeak Dennis lets out underneath him isn't helping his cause, but Robby has never claimed to make good decisions.
“Okay if I use oil?”
“Mhm,” Dennis replies, strained.
Robby starts with his shoulders — like a safe zone; If shoulder and neck touches in the emergency department to spin Dennis around were little glimpses of heaven during the more grueling days, this bare skin underneath his fingertips is like reaching Nirvana. There are tiny freckles dotting his pale back, and the impulse to lean over and kiss every one is making Robby chub up a little in his pants. He lifts his hips so Dennis doesn't feel it pressing against him.
Dennis shivers as the cool oil on his hands spreads, creating a beautiful radiance on the boy's skin. He feels around for any tight spots on Dennis’s shoulders and finds a pretty sizable knot on his upper trapezius. “This might hurt a bit, kid. Let me know if you need a break.”
Neither of them mentions how low Robby’s voice is. Gravel rumbles in his throat at how fucking arousing this is. It shouldn’t be. He’s basically performing a medical procedure, but it’s happening in his bed, and the person he has been actively trying to keep his mind off is basically a wet dream between his legs.
Robby firmly digs his knuckle into Dennis’s lower neck and is elated at the noise he produces. Elated that he’s hurting the man underneath him. You’re fucked in the head rings through Robby’s mind, but he doesn’t stop.
He continues until he feels the knot loosen, then rubs gently against Whitaker’s skin — trying to soothe the bruise that will most likely bloom in the oncoming days. Robby wonders if Dennis will let him check them later. If he could pull Dennis into South 16, request to pull up his scrubs, trail his fingers down Dennis’s spine — Healing well, kid. Don’t forget to relax.
He’s pulled from his thoughts when Dennis’s hips move jerkily underneath him. Robby was so zoned out that he didn’t realize he was trailing his fingers lightly down Whitaker’s ribs. Dennis whines out after going completely still, “Sorry.” Robby can see the tips of his ears turning red. I want to bite them. “M' ticklish.”
“It's alright,” Robby replies, sounding almost drunk. God, he needs to get it together.
Robby focuses again, moving further down to find and dispel any remaining knots. Dennis is starting to melt underneath him, little noises escaping from him as Robby digs his knuckle into a knot at the base of his spine. The noises are too delicious, too tantalizing, and Robby knows he needs to put a stop to it. Let the kid finally get out of his bed in this early morning light, head home to his apartment, and not let Robby continue fucking touching him.
"All done," Robby says as he lifts his oil-slicked hands off of Dennis's back, starting to get up.
“Wait! Um — I’m still having some pain. In my lower back.” Dennis says, sounding a little desperate. A little like he doesn't want this to stop as much as Robby doesn't want to.
It sounds like music to his ears, so Robby lowers himself back down, settling into the back of Whitaker's thighs, and asks, “Can you point to where?”
Dennis points right where the hem of his pajama pants sits. Robby was purposely avoiding that area, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, or really not wanting to reveal the very nature of this pathetic excuse of helping. The way Dennis is wriggling on top of the comforter and making pathetic little sounds indicates he knows exactly what Robby intended to do — he is trying to tell him to continue.
He digs his hands back into the muscle, harder than he has yet, urging Dennis's hips forward. Dennis practically mews as his hips shudder, grinding with purpose now. Robby tries to communicate with his fingertips to say I know what you're up to. To say Just give me the word, honey. I'm all yours.
It seems to work when Dennis mutters out, “Lower.”
Robby obliges, dipping his fingertips into the hem of his plaid pajama pants. Lighter now, taunting.
“Lower. Robby —” Dennis whimpers, hips pushing back with want. “Please.”
Oh, how polite.
Robby gets the bottle of oil as he slips Dennis’s pants past his ass. He can’t help but admire it for a moment; It’s perfect, round with just a light dusting of hair.
Before, he was just applying the oil to his hands, but now he pours it. It drips onto Dennis's cheeks first, then slides into the crack. Robby kneads his gluteus, digging in with the same brutal pressure — then pulling them apart.
His center is glistening, massage oil practically drenching it. Pretty, in the way it's fluttering when Robby ghosts his thumb over it.
The animalistic side of Robby wants to fuck. Wants to stick two fingers in and stretch him for his cock, have him screaming and begging for more, watch as his cock disappears into him over and over again.
But the sick part of him is enjoying the show. The teasing, the slight twitches coming from Dennis, perfectly flushed in his hands. The drawn-out tactility that is clearly driving the boy underneath him crazy.
“Sir, c'mon. I want to feel you.” Dennis pushes his hips back far enough that his bare ass slams against the front of Robby’s clothed cock — and it's like a switch flips.
Robby pushes him back down with a firm hand. He can hear the boy say, under his breath; holy shit, I can’t believe this is happening.
Neither can Robby. He really should stop this, pull Whitaker’s pants back up, and apologize for going too far. For taking advantage. For playing a sick little game with a kid that doesn't know any better.
But it feels too good, feels too fucking perfect.
Robby takes his cock out with one hand, the other still pushing Dennis into the mattress. Robby has to hold the base of himself to prevent it from coming too soon. The picture in front of him is creating sparks in his lower abdomen, and as much as it would be satisfying to just jerk off, blow his load all over the kid's back, he wants to enjoy this.
He pulls Dennis’s cheeks apart again, rough so his hands don't slip against the gratuitous amount of oil.
“Oh fuck.” Dennis cries out as Robby slaps the blunt tip of his cock against the boy's hole. It's loud, compared to the relative silence of Robby simply rubbing his back.
Robby's usually not this quiet during sex, likes to grunt and nip and praise the people he gives pleasure to. But it's like Robby's in a dreamlike state. He's getting lost in the milky expanse of skin, shimmering with sweat and massage oil.
He grinds now. Chasing his pleasure; hips motivated by the hitches of breath coming from Dennis underneath him every time his cock head gets caught on his entrance. A litany of words come out of Dennis, fuck me and Robby finger me please please you feel so big fuck
Robby isn't listening. He's hypnotized as precum mixes with the already slick crease of Dennis, creating a perfect tunnel for Robby.
The next bad decision, he pushes his cock head down. Watches how it spreads Dennis's tight ring, resisting.
"Holy shit. Robby! Please, your fingers? You're too big." Dennis yells out.
Robby speaks, for the first time since they started venturing lower, "Just a little, hun."
More oil is poured over both of them. Robby knows he should stop, but the thought of the tight heat around him is making all thoughts leave his head. He pushes his cock head down, watches it disappear as Dennis moans loudly underneath him.
"Fuck, you're so good to me, baby." Robby punches out, overwhelmed with the sensations around him. It's selfish, the way he's chasing the end now. Rough stroking along the length of him that isn't surrounded by Dennis's hole, and the tight coil in his abdomen is ready to snap. He thrusts his hips, just once, pushing himself deeper into the slick heat.
It feels like he's set on fire when he comes. Shivers wrack through him, and pinpricks of pleasure wash across his skin. His vision swims, and he can't help but scrunch his eyes closed with how fucking fantastic it feels.
He comes to, dick flagging inside of Dennis, who is lying beneath him, quiet. Reality sets in, and he pulls himself out gently, soothing the kid's lower back with a firm hand.
"Dennis."
He turns his head and looks at him. He looks blissed out, pupils wide and eyes shining, but he also looks pissed off. Robby took it way too far, fuck.
"Kid, I'm so damn sorry." Robby tucks himself back into his pants and starts to stand up. Dennis turns, reaches a hand out, and grips his wrist hard.
"Don't leave, idiot. Just — give me a minute." Robby wants to be shocked at the rude name, but he has absolutely no right to. Deserves it. This was supposed to be about making Dennis feel better, about giving him a roof over his head while his apartment was out of commission, but he just — couldn't help himself.
They're sitting across each other on Robby's bed. Dennis, still glistening from all of the oil and dick tenting in his pajama pants. Robby is wondering how many fucking HR forms he's going to have to fill out. He'll probably get fired for this.
"Do not — ever — do that again," Yep. He fucked it. He could have done anything else, and he chose to listen to his stupid impulses instead. "Without my explicit consent, got it?"
Oh shit. That didn't sound like Dennis was rejecting him. It sounds like —
"Kiss me?"
They surge together at the same time. Dennis is practically climbing in his lap as he bites down on Robby's bottom lip and tongue, tangling with his own. The heat of them together feels so good, and Robby is filled with regret. Wishes they started with this, with having Dennis wrapped around him, exchanging kisses and moaning into each other's mouths.
"Let me make it up to you, please." Robby gasps out, breaking their crushing kiss.
"You fucking better," Dennis replies snarkily. He likes the kid like this, confident and a little bratty. If he wasn't as old as he is, he'd be getting hard again.
Robby lays Dennis down on his mattress, kissing his jaw and neck. He's flushed again, splotches of red spread from his face all the way down to his nipples. Robby sucks a nipple into his mouth, and there are little noises coming out of Dennis's mouth, frustrated moans and huffs. "Get on with it."
"Hm. Should I?" Robby can't help but reply. But he does anyway, pulling Dennis's pants off in one fell swoop.
"God, you are so beautiful," Robby says as he's leading kisses down Dennis's torso, licking long stripes through his light dusting of hair near his naval, biting every mole he comes across.
"And you are such a fucking tease." Dennis retorts. Such a needy little thing.
Dennis doesn't seem to have much to say once Robby swallows him down to the hilt. He's not small, and Robby instantly gags, mouth filling with saliva. He tries to recover quickly, lifting off and spitting directly on his head, then swirling his tongue along the underside of it.
"Fuck, Robby, please." He wiggles his hips and opens his legs wider, hinting at something. Robby notices his own cum dripping out of Dennis's stretched hole; it's filthy and the hottest thing he's ever seen. He traces his fingers around it, teasing once again.
Robby slides a finger in with ease, silky cum and remaining massage oil leaving little resistance. He sucks down Dennis's length and tries to hold him as far back as he can as he massages his finger in and out of him.
"Oh my god — feels so good. Gonna—" Dennis says as he falls apart around Robby. His hips lift erratically, shoving his twitching dick into the back of Robby's throat and sending his cum right past his tongue.
Robby pets Dennis's hip, trying to soothe him through it. He lifts his head, "That's a good boy."
That pushes another whine out of him, clearly into the praise. God, this kid is going to fucking kill him.
They just lay there for a moment, both trying to catch their breath and take in what just happened. Robby can't help but feel a little squirm inside of him, regret maybe. He shouldn't — at this point. It happened, and they can't take it back.
He glances up at Dennis, who is already looking down at him. Robby tries to give him a small smile, trying to ease some of the tension he thinks is building.
But then Dennis just laughs. A great big cackle releases from the boy, like it's involuntary. Robby's head is shaking with the force of it reeling out of him, so Robby lifts up and quirks an eyebrow.
That just sets Dennis off more, giggling taking over his whole body as he lifts an arm to cover his eyes. Robby is enamored with it and can't help but chuckle along with him, even though he doesn't really know what's so funny.
Dennis tries to catch his breath, manages to squeak out, "Just — a little — hun!"
Robby's face flames, not expecting the kid to be making fun of him after they just had sex. It is a little funny, though; it sounded like a line from a bad porno. He moves his way up to Dennis's face, kisses his cheek, and rolls his eyes.
"Not my best moment," Robby admits, knowing he'll be making up for that foolishness for a long time.
Finally catching his breath, he leans into Robby's neck, nuzzles into his beard, and pets over his stomach. The domesticity sends a spike of thrill up Robby's spine. "Eh, we'll get others."
"Yeah?" It feels like forgiveness, like hope for the future. He'll do anything to get that chance now.
"Yeah, you dumbass. Now go make us some coffee."
Anything.