dennis whitaker is a mistake. unfortunately, he's not even close to the worst ones robby has made, next to how many catastrophes he's caused. dennis whitaker is maybe in the top 50 mistakes of his lifetime, and could fall out of the ranking in a couple years when robby will inevitably fuck up again and again. it's not even the first time robby has fucked a subordinate. dennis is one of the youngest, he supposes.
dennis whitaker is kissing him, wet and eager and young, and it reminds robby of college days and cigarettes, except dennis's tongue tastes more artificial than that. he mumbles a do you vape, kid? against those pretty pink lips, and laughs as dennis flushes, stutters out a defensive I've been... I've been trying to quit. sort of. robby hums, licks back into his mouth. something tropical... mango.
dennis whitaker is soft and warm and malleable in his hands, and he knows the kid has had a crush on him since forever, knows he shouldn't be indulging it. not when puppy love comes so easy when you're still as bright-eyed as dennis, not when the poor thing will get too attached and heartbroken. robby's never claimed to be a good man, never justified it to himself in his head. maybe being aware that he's bad is better than delusion.
dennis whitaker is letting robby open him up on lube-slick fingers, whining so beautifully as robby curls them inside his ass, so tight and velvet for him. it's cute, how dennis doesn't even try to muffle his whimpers, squirming and rocking his hips up into the pleasure robby freely gives. he can barely hold back his own groans, already knowing how good it'll feel around his dick, perfectly warm and welcoming and clenching down with a vice grip.
dennis whitaker is confirming that theory when robby finally sinks inside, panting and squeezing at dennis's hip to ground himself, pleasure sparkling in his veins and throbbing in his dick. dennis's own dick twitches against his pale stomach, reddened and weeping, pretty like the rest of him. robby's tempted to take ahold of it, pump him in time with slow thrusts, but he wants to try and make the kid cum untouched, first. wants to see if he can't get dennis's cum splattering over his own stomach as he wails.
dennis whitaker is catching him off guard and making his hips stutter in that lube-slick heat, making his eyes burn as he blinks back tears. dennis is clinging onto robby as best as he can, moaning out god, robby, you're so— oh, fuck, you're so beautiful, you're so good, feels so good— and robby has never been beautiful. no one's called him that before. ugly and big-nosed when he was younger, when everyone sorted him in the box of "other", which meant undesirable. handsome, sexy, when he was older, rumored to be a good lay. a plethora of insults and compliments, but never once has someone dubbed him beautiful.
dennis whitaker is lying so nicely to him and robby is murmuring m'not, kid, m'not, and he doesn't know why he's responding at all, but he has to make dennis understand. this is not intimacy, this is sex. this is not making love, this is fucking. robby is not beautiful, he knows how to thrust his hips in just the right angle to make dennis cry and cum and have a good night. dennis moans it anyways, whimpers out nooo, cmon, you're— unnngh, you're so pretty... and robby shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut, wants to laugh. pretty. him, a useless kid, a gangly teenager, a grown man with a body that looks better in the dark. pretty. never in any stage of his life has he been pretty.
michael robinavitch is whispering no, angel, you're the pretty one, and it comes out sweeter than he meant it to, and oh fuck, he's really gonna break this kid's heart. he feels something sick curl in his gut when he realizes this might break his own heart, too. he doesn't want dennis to go. he doesn't want the kid to leave. maybe if he can fuck into him forever he'll stay. maybe if robby just asked he'd stay. robby doesn't know how to ask.
michael robinavitch is struggling not to cum before dennis does, hiccuping little sobs at the pleasure tremoring through his body, more pathetic than he's been in bed for years. he keeps his mouth firmly shut because he's terrified of what words might come out, terrified that they might be i love you. he doesn't even know if he means it. just that it's been so long since he's said it and felt it, and maybe he wouldn't feel it after, but he feels it now. warm and aching and fond and desperate, impossibly lonely. clinically fucking insane.
michael robinavitch is fucking hard into dennis's prostate, punching out unh, unh, unh—'s from the poor thing with every thrust, dizzy as he drives dennis to his peak whilst chasing his own. stupidly he thinks nothing has ever been more beautiful than dennis whitaker cumming, when a final thrust hits just right, makes that pretty cock on his stomach jerk and twitch, shooting ropes of cum over his tummy and chest, painted in warm spend. a debauched angel, a picture robby'd like to keep in his wallet. it's much too intimate of a thought.
michael robinavitch can barely think at all as he stills inside his boy— no, not his boy, his resident, his intern, whitaker— and cums long and hard and deep, full-body, tension draining out in one big swoosh. his orgasms haven't been this blissful and all-consuming for months, leaving him panting and sated, humming sleepily as his body blankets over his intern, catching his breath. dennis, voice a little hoarse around the edges from his moans and hiccups, answers him from earlier. we can both be pretty, he says, and it's so goddamn sweet it almost makes robby upset. a dog whining for a treat always kept out of reach. robby isn't the kind of man that gets sweet things.
dennis whitaker is soft and perfect underneath him, vulnerable and aching. dennis whitaker says things like we need you out there, captain, and feels so good, you're so good, and you're beautiful, you're pretty. dennis whitaker admires him. dennis whitaker is a mistake.
michael robinavitch wonders how many times he'll make it.
