obsessed with the idea of like. Robby asking Dennis to touch himself. y'know give him a show. just for it to be Dennis showing Robby how he self-soothes because he's been so touchstarved for so many years that he had to learn to pet and cuddle himself. alone. and then it turns into body worship. anyways drabble.
Robby leans forward in his seat, eyes glimmering in the warm lighting, mouth parted as his gaze roves over his angel’s bare body, laid out in his sheets.
“Show me how you touch yourself.”
His angel takes a shaky breath.
Dennis starts by dragging his knuckles gently over his cheek, over his lips, sucking one into his mouth. He gives it a few, slow kisses, before splaying his hand out and sliding it to cradle his other cheek.
His fingertips glide down his face, and he tilts his chin back, letting them continue their journey over his throat, light and tracing.
He slides two fingers over one collarbone, rubbing along the length of it before rubbing back the other way, all along the opposite bone. He smoothes his hand flat again, down his chest, over his stomach.
He traces his ring finger along his v-line, slow and steady, ghosting over his groin, but not moving to touch there. Instead he cups his side, smoothing his hand back upwards, across his collarbones to his shoulder.
He turns his face as he cups his upper arm, kissing at his own bicep gently while his fingers glide down to his wrist. He laces his hands together for a moment, rubs his thumb back and forth.
He brings his hands to his mouth, one cupping the back of the other, his lips pressing into his palm. Slow, gentle kisses. He kisses each of his fingertips. He presses the hand he’s kissed to his cheek, nuzzling into it, curling up fetal.
Robby can hardly breathe. He feels unmoored, lost in devastation at the implications of Dennis's show. How long did he have to survive on his own touch? How many nights was it not enough?
He's crawling into bed and breathing sweet nothings, warm hands reaching to unfurl his angel.
Shh, oh, baby. I'm here now, I'm here now. You're so beautiful. So sweet. Prettiest angel, my pretty boy. So fucking soft. I love you. I love you.
His hands follow the path that Dennis had made, trailing over his body. He cradles Dennis's cheeks, slides his hand over his neck, collarbones, chest, stomach, hips, sides, arms. His kisses follow every copycat touch, lips pressing into the dip of his collarbone, the curve of his throat, underneath his jaw.
Robby doesn't stop touching, soft and soothing, caressing his angel's beautiful body. Murmuring those praises over and over— sweet boy, good boy, precious boy— against his skin, kissing and suckling down his sternum— but not hard enough to leave marks. This isn't about ownership; this is about making his baby feel good and safe and loved.
"Robby," Dennis manages, after a while of silent crying, his breaths hiccuping out of him. His tears are sparkling on his flushed cheeks, eyes piercing and wet. Angelic. His angel, his angel, Robby's angel.
Dennis reaches to touch Robby's face, and his fingertips come away wet with tears. Robby hadn't even realized he'd started crying. The grief he feels for Dennis trickles out of him, dripping onto Dennis's skin. "Oh, Den.."
Then Robby is sitting up and tugging Dennis into his lap, clutching him close with a hand on the back of his head, keeping his face cradled in the crook of his neck. He rocks them gently, breaths staccato and aching as he just holds and holds his boy, tight and warm.
I'm okay now, Dennis whispers, his crocodile tears dripping onto Robby's neck, I have you now. I'm okay now, I have you now. I'm okay. I'm okay.
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