Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Jack gets home from his shift, their house is suspiciously silent.

Though the air inside is warm, and heavy with the scents of sausage and eggs and hot sauce, and thick in that particular way that tells Jack Robby’s home somewhere, there’s no noises. The television isn’t on, nor is any music playing. He can’t hear Robby mumbling to himself as he works on reports or research for his newest paper. There’s nothing.

Robby’s shoes are by the door, his jacket on its hook, his bag hanging beside it. A note on their kitchen table, pinned down by their apple-shaped salt shaker, reads:

Jack—

Breakfast is in the oven. Got groceries on my way home.

Shower and get some sleep, but don’t wake me up.

♥️ M

It’s with a smile that Jack opens their oven door, crouching to find a covered plate waiting for him. The warmth of his omelette, corned beef, and hash browns suffuses him, gives him enough energy to push himself towards the shower, quiet as he can be with every step he takes. He knows exactly which floorboards creak, which to avoid on his way to their bathroom. His prosthesis and sleeve get set aside before he scrubs himself down in the hot spray and steam of the shower, scouring the day off of him, every frustrating student and leaking patient and fight with administration washing away and down the drain.

By the time he’s clean and damp and ruffled-dry, in his rumpled old Scream 2 t-shirt and faded-soft boxer shorts, he’s ready to collapse beside Robby and sleep until exterior forces have to wake him up. As gentle as he can, maneuvering his crutches around the same creaky floorboards, nudging the door to their bedroom open with his elbow, he heads for their bedroom.

What he’s expecting to find there is Robby curled up in their bed, dead asleep, like he usually is on a rare day off when Jack gets home.

What he actually finds there is Robby stumbling back from the corner, yanking his t-shirt down, blushing a furious red and cursing, “Shit— Jack, I didn’t hear you get home, what— How long have you been here?”

Bewildered, Jack is frozen-halted in the doorway for a moment, not understanding. Looking from Robby, tugging at the faded, loose fabric of his grey t-shirt like it has somehow personally wronged him, over to the corner he just backed away from, Jack tries putting the pieces together. The mirror that stands in the corner of the room is tugged out and angled, and Jack frowns, cogs working, things clicking.

“Here in the doorway, or here at home?” Jack asks him, still surveying the mirror, thinking hard.

Robby lets out a single nervous hoot of a laugh, twisting to check the time on the nightstand’s digital clock. “Oh, have you— I left you breakfast— Uhh, dinner, did you—”

“What were you doing in here?” Jack asks. “Why are you acting weird?”

“I’m not acting weird,” Robby protests, though the furiously darkening red of his face and the way he folds his arms at awkward angles over his midsection definitely say otherwise. “You just— You surprised me, man, come on.”

“While you were doing what?” Jack asks, coming to sit on the edge of the bed, abandoning his crutches against the wall, peering at the mirror. “Were you checking out your own ass or something? ‘Cause, I gotta say, no shame in that. I do it all the time, you’ve got a hell of an ass.”

He’s expecting more of a laugh out of Robby than the pathetic huff he gets. There’s not even really a smile on his face, cast as it is in the dim blue glow of early morning, the sun just barely starting to come up to light the world outside.

Sobering a bit, Jack asks, “You alright, babe?”

Robby’s jerk of a nod is in no way convincing. He’s already turning over and away again, his voice quiet and low in saying, “Yeah, I’m good. You must be exhausted, though, we sh—”

“Hey, nice try, but you are not good,” Jack insists. “And I’m not sleeping until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Jack.” Robby levels him with one of his most exasperated expressions. Already bringing out the big guns, which just makes Jack want to push more. “Nothing’s going on, it’s stupid.”

“How can anything be stupid if there’s nothing going on?” Jack asks, pouncing without hesitation.

“That’s not—”

“Just tell me,” Jack repeats. “Or I’ll have to guess. Were you— Oh, did you get a new tattoo that you’re hiding from me? Is it dumb?”

A smile starts creeping onto Robby’s face, tugging at the corners of his lips, though it’s not fully present yet. “No. It’s not—”

“Not that, okay,” Jack says, pretending to contemplate. “Hmm… Were you jerking off?”

“Jack—”

“Okay, maybe not.” Jack gives him a grin, watching his blush burn, his lips twitch, his eyes cast away, before he guesses, “So, were you… practicing some flash dance?” and watches with satisfaction as a small laugh jumps out of Robby. “‘Cause you’re way too late to that one, big guy.”

“Jack, seriously, it’s nothing,” Robby protests, hiding his smile from him, yanking the covers back like he’s preparing for bed, as if Jack will let go now that he’s latched on. He should know him better than that.

“If it’s nothing, why won’t you tell me?” Jack asks him. If Robby can bring out the big guns right at the start, so can he. “I thought we trusted each other with everything. Isn’t that part of it?”

When Robby glances towards him, a quizzical furrow to his brow, Jack just lifts his left hand and points at his ring, waggles his fingers at him. Realization sinks in, and Robby’s face colors again; his ensuing sigh is bone-deep, like he’s dragged it up from the very core of himself, and he turns away from the head of the bed, towards Jack once more. His face is returning to its wildfire shade of red— from what Jack can see of it after Robby buries it in his hands again.

Scooting closer on the bed, Jack reaches between Robby’s wrists, taps him on the chin, encourages his head up. Their eyes meet again, Robby’s unexpectedly red-rimmed, and Jack frowns.

“It’s really stupid,” Robby warns him.

“If it’s bothering you, it’s not stupid,” Jack argues. Robby levels a look at him. “Well, it’s not. How about you let me be the judge of how stupid it is? Since you’re all stuck up in your own head right now.”

Robby huffs again, eyes falling to his hands, clasped between his knees. After a moment, he straightens up with another sigh, though he doesn’t look towards Jack next to him. Instead, he makes his announcement to the wall, telling it and Jack both, “I was just—” He motions vaguely towards the corner. “I don’t know, just— I was—”

This next sigh that escapes Robby is frustrated, agitated, the words apparently trapped somewhere in him. Jack’s frown deepens, his hand coming up to Robby’s shoulder, feeling all the muscles so tense there he’s surprised they don’t all snap and roll up inside of him.

“Jesus, Mikey, what’s bothering you?” Jack asks, digging his fingers into a particularly knotted coil of muscle tissue.

Robby tilts towards him, slumping a little. His eyes shut, and he says, fast, like the words might bite him on the way out, “I was looking in the mirror and just— getting frustrated, I guess.”

It’s an answer, but not really much of one.

Jack evaluates, processes, then tells him, “You know, when I look at you in the mirror, I just want to start unbuttoning your pants.” Robby’s brows tick together, his lips twitching a little, but he doesn’t look at him, doesn’t respond, and so realization dawns over Jack like the sun cresting the horizon. “Ah.”

“Don’t,” Robby warns him. “I told you, it’s stupid.”

“You’re right,” Jack agrees. “It is fucking stupid.”

Robby’s eyes snap open, surprised, darting over to Jack as an incredulous exhale of a half-laugh escapes him. “What—”

“You’re getting frustrated looking at your reflection for what reason, exactly?” Jack asks. “Because I don’t see a thing to be frustrated by, I’m not going to lie to you here, babe.”

The look Robby gives him this time speaks volumes, perfectly accompanied by Robby’s irritated, “Jack. Seriously. You’ve known me longer than anyone.”

Admittedly, Jack is lost again. “And? So? I know you better than anyone, too.”

“Exactly,” Robby agrees, though Jack still feels like they’re not only on two separate pages right now, but in two different books entirely. “You remember when I was younger, when we met, when I was— You know, I looked bet— Well, I looked more like you.”

“You never looked like me, you’re a foot taller than everyone else,” Jack points out.

This only earns him another huff from Robby and a repeated, “Exactly.” He runs a hand through his hair, displaces Jack’s fingertips where they’re massaging into his shoulder. “I’ve never looked like you. Not even when I did look—”

He cuts himself off with a sharp bite. Jack wouldn’t be surprised if he actually bit his own tongue to stop talking; he certainly feels as though he’s going to bite through his own as shock hits him like the detonation of a bomb, reeling back to look at Robby with stunned incredulity. Robby, for his part, doesn’t look towards him, though the darkening blush on his face tells Jack more than enough.

“Michael Benjamin Robinavitch,” Jack says, feeling heat pulse inside of him. “You are not—”

“I don’t look like I used to, Jack!” bursts out of Robby, like he can’t hold it in anymore. “I saw— I looked at that picture in the hall, right, from our first rotation together, and, fuck, man.” He laughs without humor, drops his head back into his hands. “I just kept thinking— I mean, what the fuck happened to me? You still—” His hand comes out to make a vague gesture in Jack’s direction. “You look incredible, and I’m—” A groan interrupts him this time, growling out of his chest, his hands dragging down his face, leaving pale streaks in the blood-rush. “I’m sorry, I’ve just fucking—”

“Stop,” Jack tells him, unable and unwilling to hear any more of this. “Just— Stop, what the hell are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Robby replies.

Jack scoffs. “Uh, no, I really, really don’t.” Twisting fully, he reaches out, takes Robby by the chin with one firm hand, and directs his face upwards until he’s forced to meet his eyes again. “Are you fucking insane? Did you hit your head?”

Robby’s brows knit together again. “Wh—”

“Am I doing something wrong?”

“N—”

“Because clearly,” Jack continues right over him, “I’m doing something extremely fucking wrong if you don’t think your body is perfect right now, that you are perfect right now, Mikey, what the hell?” Robby starts to protest again, but Jack just says, “Don’t, stop, I said stop.”

With a huff, his face gone a dark cherry red, Robby finally falls silent. He’s still giving Jack that agitated look, though, and that’s just not gonna work.

Turning fully, letting his hands come up to frame Robby’s face, his cheeks held between his palms, Jack surveys him for a long moment. His eyes flick over him from top to bottom, taking him in, and it only makes resolve settle in his chest.

“I love,” Jack tells him, “everything about you. Let me finish,” he says when it seems like Robby might try interrupting again, and Robby acquiesces, jaw snapping shut. “I loved you then, and I love you now. I don’t want you to have the same body as then, are you kidding me? Why the hell would I? That was then, this is now, when you’ve got…” His hands slide down to Robby’s broad shoulders, gliding across their expanse, “…all of this, Jesus fuck, what’s not to love?”

Robby’s eyes flicker, a brief moment where he seems to be processing, and Jack takes that as all the invitation he needs to keep on going.

“You think there’s anything not to like about this?” Jack asks, his hands dragging down Robby’s chest now, taking two plush handfuls and squeezing, drawing a jerk from his body and a slight groan from deep inside. “Or this?”

He shifts them both, moving to push at Robby, bringing his right leg up to fold under him. His hands run over Robby’s soft stomach, trailing to the sides to take hold of the rim of fat over his waistband in twin grips, firm, making sure Robby’s looking at him.

“I love you. I love how big you are, I love how you look, I love your body,” Jack tells him, his voice a low rumble, and Robby’s eyebrows lift. “I have loved watching you take up space, watching you fill out like this. I love everything, shit, the hair, the body, the— how fucking sexy you are, Michael, Jesus, all of it, and I love that you’ve become you, so fucking perfect for me it’s like you were made in a lab.” His hands drag towards the center of him, kneading into him, wanting to touch as much as he can at once before he’s pushing his shirt up, revealing the bare pouch of his belly, the dark forest of hair layered over him, the fat that spills into Jack’s hands. “God, who wouldn’t fucking love this? Who wouldn’t fucking love you?”

“Jack,” Robby finally exhales, escaping him like he can’t control it, more noise than name.

“You’re being fucking ridiculous,” Jack insists. “I think about ways to get my hands on you twenty-four-goddamn-seven, Mike, and I’m not just indulging you or whatever bullshit you’re thinking, I’m indulging me.”

To punctuate this, he surges upwards into a kiss. One hand stays firm on his stomach, sliding over to his side, while the other finds the back of his head and cradles it, holds him firmly in place as he licks into his mouth, doesn’t hesitate, just dives right into the kiss with him. Robby’s jaw loosens with a soft whimper, and Jack takes advantage, plunging deeper, his kissing sloppy and intense as he nearly tries to swallow him whole.

It’s only when both of their chests are hitching, seeking air in their deprived states, that Jack withdraws. His mouth, however, cannot stop moving, pouring out a gasped, “Fuck, man, I hate to think of a day where you don’t have this weight on you, fucking gorgeous—”

“Jack,” Robby repeats, a strain in his voice, but it’s not enough.

“You don’t believe me.” Jack sits back with a huff, repeats, “You don’t believe me.” A frustrated groan rolls out of him as his fingers grasp at the air, trying to grab onto some way to make him understand. “I wish you could just see into my fucking head, you’d see how serious I am about this. Wait, actually—”

Reaching for Robby’s wrist, taking it firmly in his grip, he drags his hand down, shoves it against the hardening line of his cock in his loose boxer shorts.

“Just from touching you,” Jack informs him, watching Robby’s eyes get darker as they flick down, staring at the place he’s turning his hand over to cup Jack through the cotton fabric. “I’d probably be rock fucking hard if you weren’t making all those sad faces at me and lying to me about how hot you are.”

Lips parting, blush staining all over until it disappears beneath the collar of his t-shirt, Robby breathes, “I just… I don’t know.”

“Well, good thing I do know,” Jack insists with a nip to his lower lip, nuzzling against his face, sharing his air, feeling the burn of his beard along his own bare cheek. “I don’t even have the words for how perfect your body is, just—” With a groan, he manages to choke out, “God, babe, your body, it makes me sound fucking shallow as hell, but goddamn, I’d do anything just to get my hands on you, every curve, every fucking hair, the way you just fill my hands, every inch of you, fucking Christ above, Robby, you’re my fucking home, you’re hot as fucking hell, I never want to leave, never want to stop.”

Robby’s chest is heaving, his eyes flickering over Jack’s when they separate again. Though Jack’s hands track up across his waist again, seeking more of him, Robby tenses, his arms starting to come up.

“No, stop that,” Jack insists, catching his wrists, forcing his hands apart, exposing him to him. “Don’t hide yourself from me, I want to see all of you. I mean it.”

“Jack,” Robby says, quiet, heat laced through just the single word. “You don’t have to—”

“Well, fuck, I want to,” Jack stops him, his hand tracing up to his chest. “You have no idea what you do to me. C’mon, babe, take this off, show me some skin—”

A smile flickers up onto Robby’s face again as he gives a token protest of, “I don’t know— Are you sure?”

“Am I sure if I want the hottest fucking person I’ve ever put my eyes on to take his clothes off?” Jack asks, incredulous, still touching, hands roving everywhere beneath Robby’s shirt as he urges it further upwards. “No, I’m fucking stupid, I got hit on the head with an anvil on my way home like fucking Wile E. Coyote— Yes, I’m sure, Michael.”

Finally, he succeeds in shucking his shirt off of him, tugging it up over his head and arms and tossing it heedlessly into the corner. He does the same with his own, stripped off in one fluid motion before it joins Robby’s on the floor.

Robby’s dark eyes track down, his arms starting to cross over himself again. “Jack— I mean, look at y—”

“Look at you,” Jack insists. “God, you make it impossible not to want to touch you, you always make me feel drunk.” His hands spread over Robby’s shoulders, down his back, raking his nails in twin sets of long, hard drags gouging into the soft flesh he finds there, warm and prickling with dark hair and giving under his touch, letting Jack hold him, letting him hang on, letting him drag him closer. Robby’s breath catches in his chest, and Jack leans in, kisses his throat, hungry, slow. His lips brush the spot as he murmurs, “I just can’t get enough of you. Fuck, I’d take more of you.”

The place he’s just kissed receives a bite, hard into his flesh; Robby whimpers, twitching under him, but that’s not good enough, it’s just— It’s like he doesn’t get it yet.

Out of nowhere, it’s as if a bolt of lightning strikes Jack. Robby’s always telling him he talks too much; he can’t help it, everything just spilling out, especially around him, but Robby—

Robby’s in his own head a whole lot of the time. Words can be false, they can just be said, and Robby knows that better than most people, in ways that make Jack want to hunt people down and hurt them for hurting him, for making him doubt the things Jack says to him now.

It’s something he’s learned about Robby with time: more often than not, actions speak far louder than words.

“Come here,” Jack coaxes him, rolling over on their bed, shifting himself upwards until he’s flopping flat on his back. His head ends up on the center pillow, the one they share, that they alternate holding while they sleep as they swap off being little spoon.

Robby twists to watch him, all flushed from the waist-up, a confused furrow to his brow as he watches him settle in. When Jack looks up at him again, expectant, he’s just staring.

“Come here,” Jack instructs again before surveying him. “Actually, before you do— Take the rest of that off, would you?”

Glancing down at his shorts, riding high and tight on his thick thighs, Robby asks, “What, really? Why?”

“Why?” Jack asks, kicking out to run his heel down Robby’s thigh to his knee, barely able to reach with how long his legs are, still so far away from him. “Now you’re just asking stupid questions.” With a little kick to Robby’s thigh, he says, “Off. Clearly my words aren’t getting through to you, so shut me up, sit on my face, and let me show you how fucking hot you are.”

For a long moment, Robby just stares at him, his breath coming hard and fast with the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Jack takes advantage of his momentary stillness to wriggle his boxers off, sending them the same way their t-shirts went, forgotten the instant it leaves his hand. In all fairness, though, his hand has better things to do when he licks a broad stripe over his palm and brings it down to fist his cock with a heavy inhale and a groaned exhale.

“If you don’t get over here, I’ll finish without you,” Jack warns him, his breath hitching as he strokes up his cock again, finding a low, steady rhythm. Sparks fly through his veins; his cock feels electrified, jolting again in his hand with a throb he feels full-body when he looks Robby over again, thinks about him coming up to sit on his face.

Apparently realizing just how serious he is about this, Robby shoves his shorts down, taking his underwear with them, kicking them off before he crawls up over Jack. He’s still holding himself up, not letting Jack feel his full weight, only the lightest press of chest and belly and thighs.

As soon as Robby starts to kiss him, Jack breaks it, twisting his head away to insist, “No, on me, come on.”

“Jack, I’m not going to crush you,” Robby says, as if he’s scolding him.

“You’re right, you’re not,” Jack replies. He abandons his cock, leaves it curving hard up towards his belly as he reaches for Robby’s hips and yanks him down towards him. “Let me feel you, come on, Mikey, quit wasting my time.”

Robby huffs against his cheek. His arms still hold him up for a moment before he allows Jack to tug him all the way down, until Robby is blanketing him top-to-bottom, broader and bigger than him in every way that counts to Jack. It feels so good, so perfect, the way Robby compresses him, the way his weight presses him into the mattress, the way something deep inside of Jack just settles as Robby nudges into another kiss with him.

“Much better,” Jack murmurs into his mouth. When Robby parts his lips, readjusting on top of him as he grinds down against his cock, Jack groans, fingers digging in hard to his hips, dimpling his flesh. “Fuck—” Their kiss breaks with a snap of saliva as he pants, “Seriously— Babe, I’m not gonna last like this, you gotta get up here.”

There’s still that barest hint of disbelief, the doubt that Jack hates to see and that his words will just never fully touch.

Instead, he uses his hands, yanks at Robby, bodily hauls him up with two palms firm on the meat of his ass, earning a rushed exhale and a groan from Robby in return.

“Are you sure?” Robby asks, like Jack’s favorite place to be isn’t between his thighs, his mouth on his cunt, witnessing his most favorite view. “I don’t want to hurt you, if your neck—”

“Michael,” Jack stops him. “How many times have you sat on my face? Jesus, I thought we were in agreement, if I get old and my brain stops functioning, you’re just supposed to sit on my face until I die. It’s literally my favorite thing in the whole world. And you’ve never hurt me before, why would you start now?”

It looks like Robby wants to provide an actual answer to that, but when Jack shoves at his shoulders, encouraging him to sit up on his lap, he allows himself to be distracted and re-directed. Upright, his thighs on either side of Jack’s chest, knees pressed to the mattress—

He’s just such a fucking sight towering over Jack’s head, so irresistible that Jack can’t help but drag his hands up from the round softness of his ass up his back as far as he can reach, scouring his nails along again, just needing to touch. Robby’s head falls back, his spine arching as he pushes forward towards him, and Jack needs him so badly to move upwards right now that he’s dizzy with it.

“Come on, up, up, let’s go,” Jack orders, his grip sliding down to Robby’s hips to tug him forward.

“Do you want me to turn?” Robby asks, but Jack only shakes his head.

“No, stay like this.” His eyes slide up over his body above him, and he only feels more secure in his decision. “Just— tilt for me, I want to taste all of you.”

For his part, Robby’s breath catches, and he moves, rising properly up onto his knees. He shuffles forward until he can take hold of the bedframe; beneath him, Jack wriggles down, until he’s perfectly positioned between his thighs, looking up at his cunt from below, dark hair speckled silver and already wet, his clit flushed as red as his face.

“Perfect,” Jack breathes. He guides him down, and though Robby moves slower than he would’ve liked, he finds his place, setting down with a steady pace that allows Jack to tilt his chin up and reconfigure into the exact right position for him.

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” Robby reminds him, voice low and rough. His left hand pries Jack’s right off of his thigh, patting it against his side three times. “Like that. Got it?”

Jack gives him a thumbs-up as he tilts his head up and licks up his slit towards his clit, drawing a long groan out of him and his full weight finally coming to settle down on top of him, burying Jack in him.

God, but Jack could just drown here and he’d be happy. The bulk of Robby’s weight over him, the all-consuming enclosure of his cunt and his thighs and his body around him, the heat rolling off of him and the slickness he can taste and just Robby, the absolute phenomenal perfection that is being here right now beneath him.

His hands curl up again, arms supporting Robby’s thighs, fingers grabbing so hard onto his ass that he hopes he leaves marks behind. The hold gives him better leverage; he plants his heel on the bed, shuffles to push up, and then he can taste him, can get his tongue inside of him in a deep push before he’s withdrawing to suck at his clit, drawing a rumbling moan out of Robby that he can feel all the way in his cunt, into Jack’s mouth, through his entire skeleton.

There’s no way he can speak, mouth too busy, but he still groans, mumbling Robby’s name in an incoherent growl as he focuses on his clit, knowing he gets more stimulation from that than anything else.

Above him, Robby gasps out, “Fuck, Jack,” and the sound is muffled from his thighs pressing in on Jack’s ears, and it’s perfect.

For a moment, Jack almost forgets what it is he’s doing here, content enough to have Robby on top of him like this, happy to close his eyes and bury himself in him and just exist here, mouthing at his clit.

Then, though, Robby’s hips twitch, tilting up and forward just a little bit. Jack’s hands tighten on his ass, encouraging him closer so he doesn’t have to lift his neck, forcing Robby down so he’s pressing his head into the pillow. There’s no upward movement necessary anymore for Jack to suck his clit, give him a graze of teeth before he’s back to work; he can’t stop groaning into him, a long string of moans that steal his breath as much as being deep inside Robby’s cunt does.

His own cock is untouched, twitching to spurt precum that dribbles down his length or drips onto his belly every time Robby shifts, or groans, or lets Jack taste, which is every second, he’s really not going to make it, the night’s been long and he’s exhausted and yet, still, there’s nowhere he’d rather be than here.

Robby’s hips start hitching, like he can’t control the way they’re moving, thrusting towards and into Jack’s face in this minute little twitches. Jack redoubles his efforts, hands roving everywhere on Robby’s ass, his thighs, the warm expanses of his skin, as he loosens his jaw and makes out with his cunt, his lips to Robby’s, tongue stroking inside the hot, wet velvet of his cunt as deep as he can go. When he pulls back again, it’s only so he can lick over his clit, suck it between his lips again with the light sharp edge of his teeth.

Overhead, Robby bucks, groans, “Jack, fuck, j— Fuck, Jack, Jack—”

Jack hums into him, feeling his thighs tighten on the sides of his head. This would be a good way to die, too, he thinks; suffocating in his cunt or getting his skull crushed by his thighs, either way, Jack’s happy.

He gets two handfuls of Robby’s waist, holds on tight as he encourages him to ride his face. Coaxing him to move, to let his hips find the rhythm they’re clearly seeking, he still feels Robby’s pace stutter before he holds himself trembling-still. Jack can feel the way he’s panting, chest heaving, muscles trembling with effort, and he squeezes, urging him to go, wanting him to fuck his face so badly his heart’s thundering with pure need.

Above him, Robby bites out, “Jack, I— Fuck, okay, let me—”

He readjusts, and Jack sucks in air for a brief moment before Robby’s settling back down, heavier than before, and his hips roll forward into Jack’s face.

“That’s it,” Jack encourages him, though he’s buried so deeply in him it comes out as a rumbling murmur into his cunt. Still, that doesn’t stop him from continuing with, “Mikey, Mike, that’s it— Fuck, yes—”

Robby must have hold of the headboard, because he feels steadier when he rolls forward again, finding a slow, steady, tentative rhythm. Jack lets him take over their pace, focused only on licking into Robby’s cunt, on eating him out as he grinds down into him, on fucking him with his tongue like it’s his cock while his nose rubs into his clit and his face gets smeared with his wetness, all over, not a bit of him left untouched by slick or sweat.

His cock is pulsing, so hard it hurts, but he’s not about to let go of Robby just to touch himself. All he wants are his hands on Robby, his mouth on Robby, and Robby on him.

Everything else slides away: the shift he’s just had, Robby’s insecurities, everything that isn’t this, the way Robby surrounds him, the tight, wet heat of his cunt, the press of his weight. Jack wasn’t fucking around; if he died here, he’d die as happily as he could, doing what he loved most in this world.

Above him, Robby’s rhythm stutters, losing his tempo, as he gasps out, “Fuck, I’m close,” and Jack’s hands drag back down from his waist to his thighs, just beneath the curves of his ass, shoving him forward into him, helping Robby in fucking Jack’s own face.

The push, push, push of Robby continuously grinding into him steals Jack’s breath, leaves him panting and writhing as he does his best to consume him, to eat him out until he’s shaking and red-hot and gasping out Jack’s name over and over above him, until it loses all meaning except that he is giving Robby the pleasure he deserves, he wants. And maybe Jack is selfish, and maybe he’s shallow, because he doesn’t think there’s a goddamned thing better that he could be doing right now than having Robby’s body on his, his cunt on his face, swallowed whole by him.

Jack tilts his chin again, gets his mouth on Robby’s clit on his next rock forward. Robby gasps out, stilling for a moment before he’s moving. His rhythm is gone, just fucking down on Jack’s face to feel it; Jack’s work gets accordingly sloppy, all tongue and teeth and saliva until he can feel his clit throbbing, his walls tightening when he tries to fuck his tongue in again, and he knows he’s almost there, teetering on the edge. He doesn’t want to pull away from Robby, not this close, not even as his chest tightens from shallow breaths and his cock fucking aches for not being touched and his head swims with how good all of this is.

Another encouraging rumble of, “Yes, Mike, come on,” into his cunt might not be literally understood, but Robby seems to get the gist anyway. One of his hands comes down, fisting in Jack’s curls, pushing him down and pulling him up at the same time somehow, holding him tightly in place. His grip on his hair is so hard that tears spring to Jack’s eyes, his cock jerking, and he’s so close to cumming untouched, he wants to scream— he might still scream, not that anybody could hear it. It would be Robby’s and Robby’s alone, consumed by his body as soon as it would leave Jack’s.

Over him, on top of him, Robby’s rhythm stutters again before he’s bowing over him, his hand in Jack’s hair tightening further as he humps forward once more, twice more, and then he’s cumming, a slick gush from his cunt. Robby’s not always a squirter, but fuck, when he does, Jack’s a fucking goner, and now—

Now, with Robby’s slick all over his face and his clit throbbing between his lips and his cunt leaking everywhere and his hips still fucking forward and his orgasm seizing him whole, Jack’s own hips jerk up and his cock feels like it explodes— his body feels like it explodes, every nerve ending lighting up, every vein alight with electricity, as he cums untouched.

Above him, Robby groans again, gasps out, “Jack— Fuck, you just—” but he can’t finish speaking, too caught up in his own orgasm as he all but collapses on top of Jack, squashing his head beneath his body, and Jack doesn’t even care. It just feels too good.

His orgasm comes in waves, makes him incoherent; he doesn’t care about anything for the longest, haziest moment. This is everything, just this, drifting in the perfect nonsense of his orgasm, buried in Robby’s cunt and thighs and body, exactly where he belongs, exactly where he’s meant to be, exactly this.

Then, Robby shifts with a groan and lifts one leg away, climbing up and off of Jack. Jack sucks in a deep breath, not even realizing how long he’d been taking in only the thinnest breaths while burrowed in Robby, feeling his chest inflate gratefully with the air he’d been denying it.

“Fuck,” Robby exhales on a pant. He’s still trying to catch his breath, too, collapsed flat beside Jack in bed.

“I’ll say,” Jack replies, his voice rasping and rough. “Holy shit, Mikey. You sure know how to show a guy a good time.”

Robby huffs, pushing himself to sit upwards. The mattress shifts beneath him, and he moves closer to Jack, sharing body heat between them; his fingertips come up to Jack’s belly, tracing the stripes of cum there, smearing them along his skin, into his silver hair scattered down his stomach and up over his chest.

“Really?” Robby asks. He lifts his hand, watches the golden early-morning sunshine make his cum-slick fingertips sparkle obscenely. “Just from that?”

“‘Just from that?’” Jack echoes, teasing more than mocking. “As if you didn’t just blow my fucking mind.”

Dark eyes flicking up to his face, Robby seems like he’s about to say something before he actually looks at him. An incredulous exhalation escapes him as he wipes his hand off on his thigh and reaches for him; when he cradles Jack’s cheek, fingertips smearing Robby’s own wetness along his skin, he understands what he’s looking at him like that for.

“Made a mess of me, didn’t you?” Jack asks him. “Fuck yeah, you did. God, that felt good. I feel amazing now, Jesus Christ, I could sleep for a week.”

Robby’s little twitch of a smile blossoms on his face again as he asks, “Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah,” Jack repeats, rolling towards him so he can grab him and roll back, dragging Robby over him, laughs bursting out of the both of them. “Don’t you ever doubt how fucking perfect your body is, Mikey. The things I’d do just to get you to sit on my face— I swear, I’d kill a dozen men just to kiss you.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Robby accuses, voice soft, rearranging himself on Jack until his head is pillowed on his shoulder and their stomachs press together and his arms are winding under his body, holding him close. One ankle tangles with Jack’s, their thighs slotted together like keys on a piano.

When Robby nuzzles into him, Jack kisses the top of his head, letting his own arms come up to hug him close, hands rubbing over his back, splotched with blushing heat still.

“I’m being honest,” Jack tells him, using his serious voice, wanting Robby to understand. “None of that was just a show, Mike. It’s how I feel.” Another kiss to the crown of his head. “Don’t tell me how I feel. I told you you’re the hottest person I know, that I love your body, and I meant it. I mean it.”

There’s a beat before Robby asks, tucked into Jack’s chest, “You’re sure?”

“Babe,” Jack replies, honest as a person can ever be, “I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

Finally— Finally— Robby seems to understand what he’s saying. His muscles loosen, relaxing as he slumps into Jack; he turns his face into his chest, then peeks up at him with one dark eye, evaluating him.

“Thank you,” Robby says. His voice is so low it’s like a vibration, rumbling from his chest directly into Jack’s.

“No, no,” Jack replies, “and I mean this: thank you for your service.”

Robby laughs again, happier and lighter and looser by far than he had been when Jack first got here. His mission accomplished— and with food in his belly, the shift scrubbed off his skin, well-fucked, satisfied, and Robby laid out on top of him— Jack lets his exhaustion win, start taking over, and he yawns accordingly.

“Fuck— Sorry, man,” Robby apologizes. “You’ve gotta be tired—”

“Hey now,” Jack stops him. “I am never too tired for you to sit on my face, I’ll tell you that right now. And if I am? Fucking do it anyway and let me suffocate there, because life’s not worth living anymore.”

Another snort of a laugh comes from Robby, muffled into Jack’s chest. His hand wriggles out from beneath Jack’s body to stroke upwards instead, combing gently through his curls where previously he had yanked so hard at them Jack nearly cried. It feels so good, too good, and Jack yawns again.

“Sleep,” Robby murmurs to him.

Despite his encouragement, the edge of their sheet comes up, wiping at Jack’s face, and Jack splutters a laugh, jerking his head back.

“You’re messy,” Robby reminds him with humor laced through his voice. “I’ll take care of this, you just shut your eyes.”

For a long moment, Jack just looks down at him, taking him in, all of him, every inch, every roll and curve and hair and muscle and perfection of him. With that image burnt into his mind, he closes his eyes, sees Robby in the darkness behind his eyelids, and smiles there, too.

“Ridiculous,” he hears Robby mumble in that fond tone he takes, and it’s the last thing he’s aware of before he’s drifting off into a dream of Robby— and still, he thinks with his last thoughts, it’s never quite enough.