Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You’re ruining my sleep schedule.”

Two nights later, two am sliding past like it’s nothing on Robbe’s wall clock, they’re flopped out on their respective beds, each descending at their leisure from that unmatched climax high. Three consecutive early mornings they’ve been doing this but even now, with the sticky product of a fresh orgasm cooling uncomfortably on his stomach, Robbe can’t wait to do it again. He likes to watch Sander’s face as he’s describing what he’ll do when they’re finally allowed, likes the way Sander shuts his eyes and growls when he’s brought to the brink by Robbe’s words.

On his phone screen Sander grins in luxuriant satisfaction.

“Am I supposed to be sorry about that, or...”

“Jackass,” says Robbe with affection. “You could at least pretend to be sad about my sleep deprivation.”

“Poor baby,” says Sander, that fond mocking pout on his mouth, eyes laughing. “I am sorry you’re tired. But you could sleep more during the day if you really wanted to.”

“You act like schoolwork doesn’t exist,” bemoans Robbe. “I still have to get it done. Physics won’t stop for something like a stupid virus.”

“I’m sure physics can stop long enough for you take a nap every once in a while,” says Sander, and he winks. “Did you take your temperature today?”

“Ninety eight point seven,” says Robbe. “Twice. And you?”

“Three times,” says Sander. He looks down at himself, winces. “And three times, it was perfect. I’m gonna clean up. I’ll take you with me, hold on.”

“Twenty seconds,” reminds Robbe, and Sander laughs.

“I Will Survive.”

Later, as content as they can be without the other physically present, they drop slow into sleep speaking of nothing and everything, the tones of their voices pitched and lilting as though they’re reading love poetry. It’s wonderful, and it’s placating, but it’s still not enough; Robbe dreams every night of Sander’s warmth curled like a familiar blanket around him.

*

On Thursday afternoon Sander has a virtual appointment with his psychologist. Robbe knows he’s not incredibly fond of the idea — Sander already suffers from mild apprehension regarding his in-person visits — so he does his best to keep Sander’s mood in the corner of optimism, sends him quarantine memes and a picture of the pancakes he makes for breakfast, on the top layer of which he draws a smiley face using strawberries, whipped cream, and chocolate chips.

You’re ridiculous, Sander says to this, and then, make me some? 😘 and Robbe with a thrill of warm pride knows he has succeeded.

After Sander’s appointment he seems happy, relaxed; in reply to Robbe’s inquiry of how did it go he says:

I miss you. Can’t we just meet up once?

and Robbe’s heart explodes from frustration, all those layers and layers of yearning. He means it with everything inside of him when he replies

miss you too ❤️

there’s nothing I want more

and it causes him almost physical pain to add but you know we can’t to the end of his sentence because he wants to be irresponsible, wants Sander with his loud contagious passion and starlit smile invading Robbe’s space like one of Bowie’s moonage daydreams. After such an impossible precarious beginning, those long soulless days in which Robbe couldn’t remember what it felt like to be okay, he’d relaxed into how blissful and incredible it was with Sander, how he looked so forward to waking up in the morning to see him. They’d barely had four months together when the entire world had shrieked to a merciless, terrifying, unexpected halt and Robbe feels like he’s standing on a bridge made of cracked glass. Everything in his life is uncertain except Sander.

Sander replies

Aaaaargh

And then he says

At least I can take you on my walks with me 😉

And Robbe barely has time to ask questions before a video pops up on his screen. He presses play in less time than it takes for his heart to beat again.

It’s Sander, all cloudfluff havoc hair and sprite-green eyes, the look on his face somehow managing to be impish and pure at once. He’s smiling, walking outside with the wind teasing around his face, and Robbe is socked by how much he misses him, no longer just a low humming ache somewhere in the vicinity of his chest cavity but an actual woundlike pain. Sander is so beautiful it’s like he’s from another world and Robbe wants to lick between his lips, feel the resulting sigh pour from Sander’s throat to his own.

“Welcome to part one of the lockdown walks,” says Sander on screen, in that bass-deep voice that Robbe feels in his stomach. “Today we’re standing next to the best known contemporary piece of art in the world.”

He turns around and the camera spins with him and when Robbe gets a look at his new background he sucks in a furious breath: Sander is standing next to the mural, his mural, and the sight of his own face in such artful vivid splashes of color next to Sander’s own bright, slightly bashful countenance makes him ache. Sander calls Robbe the most beautiful man in the world, starts scolding COVID-19 for breaking them apart, and as Robbe is laughing at his sudden adorable intensity he goes quiet, brings the camera closer to his face, blushes like a peony.

“I miss you,” he says quietly, and then the video stops.

Robbe can’t formulate coherent sentences; his stream of consciousness sounds a lot like fkfkfkfkdkdkddkdjdjfj and feels a lot like heart eyes and all he can manage as he shakes his head, warm all over, is

hahaha, silly.

Didn’t you think it was beautiful?

I did. Very cute.

Sander sends him a Bowie quote and Robbe responds with a kiss face, still surprised and touched into temporary partial incongruity, but when he gathers himself he says,

Fuck this virus. I miss you so much.

And Sander replies,

I miss you too. More than you know.

*

Friday dawns long, slow, washed over with lasting gray rain. Sander sleeps late but Robbe wakes early, hopeful that several cups of bitter-strong black coffee and the quiet hour will force him into concentration. When his mother begins her day, comes to peek into his room with a plate of buttered toast and a little smile, he realizes he’s been working for two hours without pause.

By eleven he’s worn out; by twelve, he’s asleep again, and he doesn’t reopen his eyes until mid-afternoon. Sander has texted him good morning sunshine but when he replies it’s ages before Sander answers and his tone seems subdued, abstract. Robbe feels the beginnings of worry gripping his chest and tries not to do that thing where he’s overbearing, avoids asking did you take your meds, are you feeling okay even though Sander never fails to call Robbe an angel when he checks up on him.

Just for something to do, just to avoid overthinking everything, Robbe buries himself in his homework once more. Where Sander excels with lines and colors and visual expression, Robbe finds comfort in the stability of a mathematical equation, how no matter what he can always solve for x. Sander, who loathes math with every particle of his being, is so always fascinated watching him work, doesn’t understand how all those numbers and letters make sense in his head, but Robbe knows there’s nothing to math but memorization and he laughs it humbly off when Sander expresses admiration. True creativity, Robbe knows, is far more valuable than the slope of a straight line.

He gets caught up, works ahead so he can relax for the next few days. Talks to Sander sporadically throughout the afternoon, their conversation dwindling into the evening, and when at last he caves and says

Are you okay? You’re quiet

Sander texts back instantly.

Sorry! I’m fine, just drawing and in the zone ❤️ don’t worry

Robbe feels stupid for thinking too much into it. He makes dinner with his mama — chicken parmesan, because it’s his night to choose; the previous evening she’d picked some kind of too-green vegetable casserole that had reminded him strongly of Zoë would have made on her health food kick — watches a movie with her after they eat, and when he goes back to his bedroom to shut in for the night he’s only thinking about the little routine he and Sander have developed. They’d skipped the previous night and he’s already itching for it, all the isolation making him feel like he’s too much for his own skin, Sander the singular outlet he craves.

But when he opens his phone Sander‘s text disappoints him.

I’m falling asleep already. you’ve been keeping me up too late, Ijzermans, shame on you

I love you 😘 have a good movie night with your mom

Robbe sends him a hasty heart-led Sander nooooo but where Sander’s picture usually appears instantly at the bottom of the screen to indicate that he’s read Robbe’s message there is nothing and Robbe has to conclude that Sander has already fallen asleep. He huffs out his frustration, throws himself belly-up onto his bed, rubs his palms roughly over his face. Debates jerking off, decides against it; he wants Sander there to watch him, coax him through it, and already he knows it won’t be quite the same without the lovely incentive of Sander’s baritone voice thrumming under Robbe’s skin.

With his options savagely restricted, he texts Jens to play a video game, and they pass the next hour bellowing in a good-natured sort of way at each other until Jens, at the insistence of his mother, signs off to go participate in a round of cards with his family. After Jens disappears Robbe stares at his monitor without seeing it for half a moment before he, too, decides he’s had enough.

He pushes back from his desk, wanders idly over to the window, still freckled lightly by precipitation. It’s the kind of rain that’s uncertain, finicky, noncommittal; the sky hasn’t yet made up its mind about whether it wants to weep or trickle, cloud cover constantly shifting to show patches of sky, reveal the nearly full moon. Robbe hates the inconsistency, finds himself wishing for a storm. In the glass his blurred reflection is black-eyed and tired, corners of his mouth slicing down, fringe a desultory whirl across one side of his forehead. His hair is getting so long he keeps having to puff it with a breath out of his eyes and habitually he scrapes it back to clear his face as he peruses the empty world outside of his home bubble.

He misses Sander.

He’s just reaching for his phone to tell him so, get sappy and cute and long-winded over WhatsApp so Sander has something cheerful to wake up to, when it lights up on the table.

Still awake?

The adrenaline rush of seeing Sander’s name pop up in his notifications has not abated in the slightest since they’ve started dating and Robbe sinks into it now, lets serotonin bathe his struggling brain as he replies.

Of course. You left me high and dry, asshole 😘

Did I?

Robbe grins.

Uh yeah, you fell asleep before midnight. We don’t even start fucking around until at least one.

Haha, true 😈

Pause.

Are you still up for it tonight then?

Already Robbe is half hard for the thought; he texts back so quickly he has to correct several typos before his response is intelligible.

What do you think?

The second Robbe’s message registers as read Sander is typing.

I’ll take that as a yes then. Do me a favor first?

Robbe can only guess where Sander might go with this and all the conjecture does is thrill him.

What?

Sander sends him a photo. It’s the grey-black sky, all deep and frosted with diaphanous clouds,.

Go outside and look at the moon with me.

Instinctively Robbe checks the time; it’s nearly twelve thirty and he knows he won’t get caught, his mama has been in bed for ages. Since lockdown began he hasn’t been outside except to go to the grocery store or the pharmacy and suddenly the only thing he wants to do is inhale the dark night air. He glances skeptically at his window before he replies.

Can you even see the moon right now?

Yes. It’s amazing. I thought it would be cool to pretend like we’re stargazing together for a second ❤️😩

Robbe smiles.

Five seconds, Galileo.

He yanks at the hoodie hanging haphazardly over the back of his desk chair, throws it on as he steps, socks and all, into his house shoes. Then he grabs his phone and his keys and steals out of the silent apartment into the fifth-floor hallway.

As he’d fully anticipated Robbe doesn’t encounter a single other person on his quick race down the stairwell. When he bursts out onto the street he shivers automatically for the temperature drop; it’s not quite cold, but the first fleck of rain on his face coaxes gooseflesh along the entire length of his spine. He shoves his free hand into his hoodie pocket, raises his eyes to the sky to find the moon; his attention is wholly spent on celestial bodies and that’s why he doesn’t notice immediately that he is no longer alone.

“Told you it was amazing.”

For a heart attack of a second Robbe goes into full flight-or-fight mode, startled, petrified. Then he looks round and his eyes find Sander, leaning against the exterior wall of Robbe’s apartment building, an alarmingly purple umbrella held in place over that distinct fluff of bright moonbeam hair. The look on his face is equal parts jubilant and querulous and Robbe understands immediately, innately, that Sander is worried that Robbe will be angry with him for showing up unannounced.

Robbe does not hesitate. He launches himself at Sander with such enthusiasm that Sander, unprepared, loses his grip on the umbrella; it clatters wetly to the ground and Robbe walks him back into the brick and kisses him like he’s starved for it. Sander tastes like rain and joy and Robbe could cry for how much he’s missed him.

“You idiot,” he hisses against Sander’s mouth, laughing; he means I love you and they both know it. “This isn’t safe.”

“I was safe, I promise,” says Sander, his massive hands coming up to clutch in Robbe’s overgrown hair. “I rode my bike straight here and I didn’t see a single person. I even wore my mask, look.”

He disentangles himself slightly to dig in the pocket of his rain jacket and produces a standard-looking face mask for Robbe’s examination. Robbe doesn’t even look at it, can’t see anything but the transformative green of Sander’s eyes, the excited beaming grin that splits across his perfect symmetrical face.

“Sander fucking Driesen,” says Robbe, and there’s maybe more to that sentence but he’s shaking his head and giggling and Sander ducks in and nuzzles his forehead over Robbe’s own before he can speak again.

“You’re not mad?”

Robbe scoffs.

“I’m only mad that you didn’t ignore my whole you know we can’t hang out shit sooner. You — ” Robbe nibbles at Sander’s lower lip, sighs. “Sander, I missed you so fucking much.”

“I missed you too,” says Sander in that low snake-charm chant of a voice. “I couldn’t wait any longer to see you, I had to come. I’ve been planning it all day.”

“That’s why you were quiet,” says Robbe, and Sander spins him around, hooks an arm across his chest, draws him in so Robbe’s back is flush to his front. He stamps a kiss to the center of Robbe’s nape, the side of his jaw; nips at his earring. The piercing is still fresh enough to be sensitive and Robbe sucks in a breath for the touch.

“Yeah,” says Sander, low devilish in Robbe’s ear. “I was trying not to give myself away. Didn’t want you to suspect anything. Did it work?”

“Too well,” says Robbe, turning his head to look Sander in the eye. “I was worried about you.”

Sander smiles for his concern. “I’m fine, Robbe. I’m doing a lot better, promise.” He kisses the tip of Robbe’s nose, scratches a gentle hand up through the chaos of his russet curls. “Your hair is so long now, fuck.”

“I know.” Robbe rolls his eyes, flops his head back onto Sander’s shoulder. “It’s so annoying. I can’t see.”

“It’s hot,” says Sander, warm murmuring breath against the marble silk of Robbe’s neck. His teeth scrape gently at the chain of Robbe’s necklace, warm from absorbing the temperature of his skin. “Quarantine hasn’t touched you at all, you look amazing.”

“And you,” says Robbe, soft. Contentedly he burrows back into Sander’s heat, involuntary purr in the back of his throat, and he can feel the way Sander shudders. Something about wrapping Robbe up from behind gets Sander at his core; he loves to be the big spoon even when he’s the one in need of comfort, loves to stand behind Robbe and hold him close, not a millimeter of space between them as they rock gently to and fro together in comfortable quiet. Love turning Robbe around and pinning his hands on either side of his head and fucking him until they’re both gasping, boneless.

“Me? No way, I’m getting roots. Gonna have to bleach my hair myself before this quarantine shit ends. Fucking tragedy,” says Sander, but his voice is light, holds no trace of annoyance. He takes Robbe’s hand, points it at the sky, traces a fingertip path around the uneven moon. “Unless you want to help me.”

“Oh, I see,” says Robbe, grinning. “That’s the real reason you snuck out to see me. You want me to help make you pretty again.”

“Excuse me, I already know you think I’m beautiful, thanks very much,” says Sander, biting gently at Robbe’s earlobe; when Robbe gasps once again in response he growls, can’t help himself. “Jesus. I’ll never get over this earring.”

Even as Robbe feels himself losing his breath for Sander’s mouth he smirks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Sander with feeling, and very purposely he shifts forward so Robbe can feel him, how hard he already is. Whatever chill was left in the rainy air dissipates with the fervent want that spirals through Robbe’s entire being and he turns his head, catches Sander’s hazy gaze.

“Fuck.”

“I think I remember you saying that you were still up for it,” says Sander, voice a husk as he leans in to lap his tongue once across Robbe’s lips. “That true?”

When he pulls back Robbe whines; Sander is always leaving him asking for a kiss he waits ages to give, hovering with his mouth slightly open inches away just before he retreats so Robbe has no choice but to beg for more.

“You know it is,” says Robbe, and Sander unbraids one hand from his hair, tracks it slow, slow, slow down Robbe’s chest, his trembling abdomen, until he’s pawing lazily at the waistband of Robbe’s sweatpants. Loops his index finger through the undone drawstring and tips his chin so his top lip presses lightly to Robbe’s own. Robbe forgets to breathe.

“Do I.” Sander’s grinning, fiendish. “Let’s find out.”

With agonizing leisure he slides his hand into Robbe’s waistband, tracks his fingers over the warm panel of Robbe’s skin. Robbe is paralyzed, watching Sander’s eyes, his mouth, and when Sander finds his swollen cock, gets a hand around it through the thin fabric of his boxers, they both groan aloud.

“Told you,” says Robbe, teasing, voice strained, and at last Sander kisses him open and hot on the lips. At the same time he rubs the pad of his thumb over Robbe’s cockhead where it’s poking out of the front flap of his underwear; already he’s damp at the slit, pulsing in response to the flick of Sander’s fingertip, and when Robbe sighs and pushes his hips up into Sander’s palm he is ruined.

“Robbe, Jesus.”

“I think we’ve done enough stargazing for the night,” says Robbe pointedly, and Sander removes his hand, sucks that thumb wet with fluid into his mouth without dropping eye contact. Just below his breath Robbe swears and Sander’s smirk is hot, needy.

“You better invite me in, then.”

Without hesitation Robbe grabs Sander’s wrist, whirls on his heel; wrongfooted, Sander almost topples over trying to retrieve his umbrella from where it’s been tossed aside. Once he gets it properly closed Robbe marches them back to the side entrance so he can let them into the stairwell, where up the arduous five flights they clatter, laughing for their own clumsy noise. It doesn’t make sense to Sander how they can shut up long enough to tiptoe their way into Robbe’s room from his foyer but they do and the second that bedroom door clicks closed Robbe is on him again. Ripping at the zipper of Sander’s rain jacket, helping him push the sleeves over his shoulders and down, fingers scrambling for the hem of Sander’s sweatshirt before his coat and backpack even hit the floor, and Sander is grateful that he remembered to wear sneakers that can easily be kicked off, no interruption to the action this time. He’s barely stepped out of them when Robbe’s already shoving him purposely back towards the bed.

He loves this, loves when Robbe lets himself be led by hunger and instinct, and when they tumble atop the mattress together he sits up immediately so he can get his fingertips up under Robbe’s hem and rid him of both his hoodie and t-shirt in one go. Robbe helps him, emerges from the fabric looking animal-eyed and determined.

“Been thinking about this for ages.”

“Me too,” says Sander roughly. He kisses along Robbe’s collarbone, licks him, get his teeth in so Robbe yelps aloud, scrapes his fingernails down Sander’s forearm. “Driving me fucking crazy talking about you wanna sit down on it.”

Robbe chuckles far back in his throat, fists one hand in the cloud-white thatch of Sander’s hair. “Yeah, well, I drive myself crazy thinking about that. And you behind me at the bathroom sink, fuck.”

Sander rolls his head on his neck, groans. “I’ve always wanted to fuck you in front of a mirror. Then you can see how perfect your face looks when I put it in you.”

The noise Robbe makes is inhuman. “Sander.”

“What.” Sander pulls him down into his lap, Robbe’s thighs nestling automatically on either side of Sander’s hips, works the heel of his palm over Robbe’s hard-on so he drops his chestnut head back and exhales aloud. “I want you to see yourself. You’re so beautiful, Robbe.”

“You are,” insists Robbe, and then he gets to his knees so he can yank his sweatpants down over his waist, kick them off, haste making him graceless. In the muted lamplit softness of the room he’s golden and stunning and very clearly iron hard and Sander can’t stop himself. He bends to circle his tongue once, viciously slow, around the head of Robbe’s twitching cock, mild bitter salt of him so thick and familiar. Opens his mouth and draws him in deep and hollows his cheeks as he sucks, and when Robbe chokes a moan Sander pops off the tip like a lollipop and tilts his head up and grins.

“Did you want me to — what was it you said — tease you until you fucking die again?”

“Actually,” says Robbe, and his voice is so strong Sander senses he’d expected the question. “I have another idea.”

He reaches between them, gets Sander’s zipper down, wrestles with his button (“why did you have to wear jeans, it’s quarantine, be a bum,” as Sander laughs at him). Waits observing while Sander peels his jeans down, tongue pressed to the center of his top lip, feral. When Sander is naked Robbe lowers himself once more into the direct center of Sander’s lap, and that first hot sharp brush of friction is enough to make them both hiss in seething unplanned harmony. Robbe takes them both in one hand, spreads that copious flow of precum down the length of first his own cock, then Sander’s, and when they’re each sufficiently lubricated he starts jacking them together, slow, staring with heated intent dead into Sander’s lust-doped eyes. Dazed, Sander blinks, helpless moan warbling from his open mouth.

“Robbe...”

“Yeah,” says Robbe, raspy, and then they’re kissing, Robbe’s tongue sliding slick between Sander’s lips so he can taste him like he’s needed to for days. Until Sander is panting harshly into his mouth he increases the velocity of his stroke, careful to pace himself, because if they’re going to do what he wants them to do he’s got to make this last. The problem is he could go forever; the problem is he’s been waiting so long to feel Sander’s skin against his own that he can’t see how he’ll ever be able to stop, working the pulsing ache of his cock against Sander’s own until they’re both crying out in simultaneous climax. For a dangerous moment he loses himself to it, the sure motion of his wrist, and he can tell that Sander is pouring precum now too, their combined wetness making it so easy to go faster and faster and —

Sander sobs out a moan into the sweat-hot side of Robbe’s neck, the ruptured depth of his voice a sure signal that he is close; it’s enough to bring Robbe back to himself and against all of that furious instinct he checks his pace. His palm is soaked.

Through dizzy neon eyes Sander looks up at him; Robbe kisses him so heavily they’re both knocked askew. When Sander speaks he sounds decimated.

“What’s your plan?”

Robbe grins.

“That first night,” he says. “You asked me if I’d used lube on myself, and I said no, it was just me.”

Sander narrows his eyes, uncomprehending. “Yeah...”

“Driesen,” says Robbe, commanding drawl as he leans down and breathes hot into the shell of Sander’s ear, “the plan is for you to use me as lube.”

Then he takes Sander’s hand, slides his big palm over his own weeping slit, grits his teeth for the sensitivity as he watches Sander’s face.

Sander looks at him, looks down at where he’s still stroking absently over the head of Robbe’s cock. When the understanding arises it strikes him like lightning.

“Fuck,” he says, rusty. And then, for good measure, “Jesus fuck.”

“I want,” says Robbe clearly, tugging at Sander’s furiously twitching cock just to let it slap thick and firm back against his stomach, “to sit down on it.”

Obediently Sander coats his fingers, first with Robbe’s slickness and then his own, rubbing his dick against Robbe’s firmly enough to make them both clench their jaws but not so much as to bring either of them closer to orgasm, all the while keeping his eyes trained on Robbe’s face. When he’s satisfied with his work he bridges one eyebrow, holds his hand up, and Robbe sits back, spreads his legs, gives that insolent half-smirk that wrecks Sander from the inside. The second Sander presses a fingertip to the cleft between Robbe’s thighs he pulls in a breath, whimpers.

“Ijzermans,” breathes Sander, the reverence in his voice transforming Robbe’s name into a hymn as he caresses that most intimate of places on his lovely pantherlike body. “You’re — ”

“ — dying,” says Robbe, wriggling down to chase Sander’s fingers. “Sander, please.”

“Yeah?” Sander presses forward, marginal, so only the very tip of his index finger slides inside Robbe’s body. Every bit of him remembers what it feels like to be encompassed by that clenching heat and Sander has to take one very large and very placating breath to steel himself against the urge to pull Robbe on top of him right then, let him ease down until every burning inch of Sander’s cock is buried within him.

Robbe sees it on his face, that loud wild want. Leans forward to kiss him and Sander bites at the fullness of his bottom lip as he pushes his finger all the way forward, smiling when Robbe squeaks aloud. Gentle, torturous for them both, Sander spreads Robbe open with first one finger, then two, then at last three, withdrawing occasionally so he can get his fingers slick again. They’re both so wet it’s indecent, the skin around Robbe’s entrance shining with it, Sander’s cock glossy and glistening and pearled at the tip, and he’s finger-fucking Robbe with such minimal resistance he’s starting to wonder dazedly if they’re even going to need any other form of lube. Robbe’s pliant, boneless, thighs split wide like a gymnast’s as he supports his weight back on his palms, and when Sander curls his fingertips against Robbe’s prostrate he gives a rumbling whine that drives Sander to frenzy. He surges forward so he can lick up Robbe’s exposed throat, suck mercilessly on the sensitive skin around his piercing, and Robbe with his expression all ecstasy lets him go to town for half a moment before he shoves Sander back against the pillows, straddles him, feral at the eyes. Sander is losing his mind even before Robbe rises to his knees, begins sliding the head of Sander’s cock around his warm puckering entrance. His eyes as he pins Sander in place with a gaze are positively immoral.

Sander’s trembling, chest heaving as he hauls in breath after shaky breath, he feels like a stallion caged behind the starting gate of a derby race. Adrenaline crashing through him like a typhoon, every nerve ending concentrated between his thighs, the downward blood flow making him woozy as he clamps both fists around anything he can grab, Robbe’s hip, a thick hank of comforter. Robbe’s testing him, he knows, payback for those countless times he allowed Robbe to crawl his way to the precipice of orgasm with just the slick repetitive lap of his tongue, and oh how good the anticipation but oh how he’s nearly incoherent from need. Precum from Robbe’s cock drips steadily onto Sander’s stomach and Sander thinks he could maybe come just from the stimulation of his cockhead teasing the heat of Robbe’s hole.

“Do you need,” spits Sander, voice unsteady, “more?”

Robbe knows what he means. With his thighs still clenched around Sander’s waist he leans over to the bedside table, rakes in the drawer for a bottle of proper lube, thumbs it open so he’s got enough on his palm before he’s even settled back again. Fists up around Sander’s cock and slips two of his own fingers inside himself, eyes shut briefly as his breath glitches, and Sander is delirious for the sight of him. He grabs for Robbe’s hips, trying to pull him down, but Robbe resists, grinning as he tosses the bottle aside.

“No.”

Sander groans. “Robbe.”

Robbe bends down, kisses him roughly, repeats himself on a whisper.

“No.”

And so the slow, deliberate back and forth continues; just when Sander thinks maybe, maybe this time Robbe will let him, he draws away, letting Sander’s cock spring up against his belly as he slides away. Sander is a bundle of nerves, useless, pupils gigantic and space-black as he leans back and takes it because what else can he do but wait. It’s getting to Robbe too, he can see how badly Robbe wants it in rough slices and angles across his face, the muscles in his jaw jolting as he leashes his instinct; when he grips a fist around his own cock and jerks himself once, slowly, Sander lets his head flop back, chokes out a strangled noise of frustration.

“Robbe.”

“Sander.” Robbe’s voice is low, purring. “What do you want?”

“For you to let me put my cock in you,” spits Sander, ferocious, beyond being demure, “right the fuck now.”

Robbe rocks forward, licks the shell of Sander’s ear.

“Now?”

Sander shudders, distracted; he’s about to reply with some forceful affirmative when Robbe reaches between them, angles Sander’s cock so it’s standing perfectly straight against him, and pushes his hips down.

Even being allowed one inch after such a long period of denial makes stars combust around the frame of Sander’s vision; he’s electric, nerve endings singing as he freezes in place, destroyed. Robbe feels like butter around him, taut and silken and warm, and as he sinks down slow, slow, slow until he’s taken every inch, sitting flush atop Sander’s waist, he shuts his lovely ochre eyes and utters the most beautiful sound Sander has ever heard.

“God,” babbles Sander, ended, afire everywhere. “Fuck, Jesus, Robbe, fuck.”

Robbe exhales hard, eyelids fluttering as he situates, and with every minuscule rock of his hips he can feel Sander pulsing within him. “Yes. Sander, you — ”

He’s shy now, but as Sander reaches up and runs a thumb along his cheekbone, dopey smile opening his face like the sky after a storm, he remembers that he’s talking to the person who loves him most in the whole entire world and he can say any, any, anything.

“I can feel you in my stomach.”

Sander moans out loud for that, this wanton daring side of Robbe is new and fascinating to him and he’s in love.

“If this is you sitting down on it,” he says, and Robbe grins, “I wanna do this all the time.”

Robbe leans down, kisses him tenderly on the mouth, and as Sander opens him up to taste he starts to move. Timid at first, then with more and more assurance; Sander’s hands come up to circle his hips and they’re both mewling into the kiss, losing themselves to the sensation of coming together after such a grueling period of time apart. Usually Robbe lets Sander take control; he’s more than content to let Sander place Robbe’s ankles on his shoulders, move with him until they’ve found delirium, pound him ruthlessly against the shower wall, but tonight he finds power in taking the lead. Sander beneath him is loose, blissed-out, kiss-fat lips open as he watches the way Robbe’s hips roll for him, and when he swears against Robbe’s ear the ruinous timbre to his voice is everything. It’s not long before Robbe’s found that perfect angle, the one that lets him take Sander to the hilt with every up-down motion, Sander’s cockhead swiping against his sweet spot until he’s mewling.

“Perfect, Sander,” he gasps out loud, all sensation, and Sander kisses his shoulder, happiness beaming even through the haze on his face. He wraps his hand around Robbe’s cock, thumb over the head like Robbe loves, and Robbe loses his ability to speak.

“Yes,” says Sander, knowing from his expression, from the twitch of his abdomen how near he is. “Yes, Robbe — “

But if there was more to that sentence it’s lost forever because that’s the exact moment Robbe chooses to reduce the frenetic pace of his hips and clench himself hard around Sander’s cock.

Powerless, the motion of his hand around Robbe’s cock stuttering, Sander whines; around him Robbe is deliberately tightening and relaxing his muscles so he’s even more snug than usual, and Sander can’t take it, his instinct is to flip Robbe over and fuck him into the mattress until they’re both screaming but he quells it. Robbe in charge is perfect and torturous and —

“So tight,” gasps Sander, senseless. “So fucking tight, Jesus, Robbe.”

Robbe chuckles hot like he knows, and Sander knows he does, goes wild for the understanding, bucks his hips up to match Robbe’s pace and once more Robbe draws him in with that tensing of his muscles and that's all it takes for Sander to explode, Robbe’s fingers held between his teeth to mute the instinctual volume of his cry, shuddering as his vision goes temporarily starry all over. Robbe keeps him in place, still moving, but gentler now so Sander doesn’t get overwhelmed, and Sander’s murmuring sorry, sorry, that was so fast and Robbe shuts him up with a kiss, hand at Sander’s wrist where he’s closer and closer to bringing Robbe to climax. Robbe can feel Sander’s warm orgasm inside of him, his face flawless and open as he watches Robbe move, and he grinds back once, twice, as Sander smooths his thumb over Robbe’s slit and then he is sobbing out a low uneven cry, thick milky fluid painting Sander’s belly, the best he’s felt since quarantine began. Sander sits up, rumbling yes baby yes Robbe come for me before he kisses him through it, free hand threading in Robbe’s overlong hair, smiling as Robbe pants Sander's name helplessly against his mouth.

Afterward they hold each other’s faces, giddy, nuzzling foreheads as they descend at their leisure back down to Earth. Robbe says, smirking,

“It wasn’t that fast. I wouldn’t blame you if it was, though.”

Sander snorts, shocked. “Wow. My favorite thing about you is your humility, Ijzermans.” He nudges the freckle-spattered tip of Robbe’s nose with his own. “I mean, you’re right, though, you are incredible in bed.”

Robbe laughs out loud. “No, like...it’s been such a long time since we even kissed. I’m surprised I lasted two minutes.”

“Mmmm.” Sander plants a little smack of a kiss on his lips. “Best two minutes of your life.”

“And yours.”

“No doubt,” says Sander comfortably, and Robbe rolls off him with a happy sigh, still surfing that matchless orgasm high.

“Next time,” he says, devious, “we can try your idea.”

Sander puffs out a dejected breath, shoulders slumping. “That’ll be so long from now.”

“Will it? I was thinking tomorrow morning,” says Robbe, tracing a soft sure hand down Sander’s back, the ladder of his spine. “Unless you had other plans.”

Sander looks sideways at him, surprised. “You want me to come back tomorrow?”

“Sander,” says Robbe, laughing, “did you really think I was gonna let you leave tonight? You’re staying, okay? No arguments.”

Warm, Sander flushes; he’d shoved his meds and a change of clothes in his backpack just in case but felt he’d been optimistic to do so. By the time he’d made it to Robbe’s street that quiet traitorous part of him had half managed to convince him that Robbe would turn him away, angry that he’d broken curfew to come over. “You want me to stay? Really?”

Robbe sits up, kisses the side of his neck, nuzzling him. “Sander, of course I want you to stay. I’m so happy you’re here. I haven’t been this happy since quarantine began. I didn’t think I’d see you for weeks, I - I was miserable.”

Sander could cry; Robbe always, always knows exactly what to say, how to reassure him, bring him back to their simple reality. “What about your mama?”

Robbe grins. “Don’t worry about her. I haven’t shut up about how much I miss you for days. She’ll be glad to talk about something else for a change."

So Sander stays, and as they always do, they take it minute by minute. With haste they clean up in the shower, curl cozily together under Robbe’s blankets, fall slowly asleep talking of everything and nothing. And when they awaken in the morning, tangled drowsy in the weak Saturday morning sunlight, it’s to a plate of croissants and a note from Robbe’s mother reading

welcome, Sander. I’m glad you’re here. x

on Robbe’s desk.