Chapter Text
Robby barely makes it through the door when Jack barricades him into the corner of the foyer with his body and kisses him hard enough to bruise. Jack takes his bag off for him as he worms through his jacket. A thunk as he dumps the bag wherever it can go. His coat is peeled off for him. Robby stands helpless, hands frozen midair, as Jack presses against his mouth in quick intervals, one, two, then a flex of his jaw deepens the pressure. His mouth is soft. He might have put on Chapstick recently. A minty tingle transfers onto Robby's lips as he finally realizes he needs to keep up. He cups what he can reach of Jack's jaw, a weak and ultimately useless attempt to soothe his beloved's desperation.
They hum into each other's mouths, stealing breaths from each other's lungs. Robby almost wants to laugh at himself; his husband practically devours him only steps away from the still-open front door. Jack presses in on him, deeper, stuffing him against the cold foyer wall as his own warm body squeezes him like a toy. He returns both hands to Robby's lower back, and together, the pair rounds his ass, groping him hard enough to make him yelp.
Robby manages, shocked away from his mouth, "Why do you always have to grab my ass?"
"'cause 's mine," Jack says.
"Who's it attached to?"
"Doesn't matter." He bares his teeth in effort as he claps both hands down as hard as he can–
"Uff!" Robby shouts. Jack laughs devilishly. Robby smiles so wide he can barely kiss back. His husband drags him along backward through the house, still anchored at his ass– while he still can, Robby bends and shuts the door; he's shuffled too far away to get the lock, but it's enough.
When Jack parts from his mouth to look back and orient his direction, Robby asks, "Did something about my ruffled scrubs and handsome eye bags get you hot under the collar, Jack?"
He replies, sliding down to catch his wrists, "Is it so hard to believe that I organically get hot for the guy I'm married to?"
"I can only wonder where your imagination goes while I'm not here."
"Just you," Jack replies, and that earnestly flatters him.
His husband leads him, hand in hand, like they're teenagers, down the hallway to their bedroom; when Jack spins to lead the way, Robby gets a glimpse of the tent in his pants. He wants to pantomime breathing on an invisible apple and shining it on his chest.
"Can I take a shower first?" Robby hums when his lover rounds the door. Jack makes some kind of bitchy noise, personally inconvenienced, but there are phantom stains on Robby's skin; the raw patches on his hands desperately need medicated lotion. "Do you need to–"
"I already prepped in the shower a few minutes ago," he says.
"Wow," he remarks, "Had all the fun without me?"
"Just step one, baby." Jack kisses him again. But Jack can't kiss him just once; he sucks in a breath like he's preparing to dive underwater, and returns, working against him fervently, tasting of mint and the barest hint of what might have been a chocolate protein bar he had for a snack.
Robby murmurs, "Love it when you call me 'baby'," as he works at the hem of his scrubs, failing to get them off because Jack is pressed so close.
"I know," Jack says, smug.
"Have to shower."
"Let me help." He tears Robby's undershirt over his head, and finally, his upper half is bare. Jack floods into the gaps of him; their bodies are flush and hot from their thighs all the way up to their heads, as Jack buries his into the crook of Robby's neck.
When he soothes into Jack's ear, "I'll be okay. Just freshening up," his beloved groans in disappointment. With excessive effort, he peels Jack off him like the plastic film on a TV, and retreats into their on-suite.
Robby showers quicker than he can move. His shoulders are sore, his back aching from twelve hours on his feet, but still, he scrubs his earthy-scented body wash in broad streaks up and down rather than the little circles he sometimes treats himself with. It's all business. No time to dilly-dally. He pays close attention to his armpits and balls. Gets nervous around his ass. There's still a pink handprint on each cheek.
"Good Lord," he says under his breath. "Please give me patience."
He rinses himself down, shuts off the water, and slathers himself in lotion while the steam slowly dissipates. It's more kind than he would normally be to himself, normally restricting the lotion to his hands, wrists, and maybe forearms, but he finds himself itchy with the need to impress.
As excited as he is, he stands and air-dries as he works in the last patches of body cream. He's caught between movement and stillness, indecisive, because he can't stop thinking about Jack. Of course, he can't – that's his husband, for God's sake. But knowing that he was here just minutes before, it tickles the hair at his nape.
He twitches at the thought of Jack leaning up on the handrail, reaching back, working himself open, enveloped in steam, cheeks red from arousal. A surge of desire hits him, but it isn't directed simply at the image; instead, a tiny whimper in the back of his head wonders what it would feel like to be him, fingering himself in anticipation, panting into the tile wall, slipping out and then returning as the angle of his hand begins to ache, mindless with pleasure. He shakes his head and squeezes his throbbing dick as if to punish it. It does nothing to purge the shot of lust through his gut. He's so hard it hurts. The head of his dick is a full-bodied pink.
For a moment, he thinks about putting on boxers, but maybe if he walks out just like this it will be a show of masculine bravado. Instead, he cups himself to the best of his ability and feigns confidence as he strides into the bedroom.
Jack lies topless, in more than one sense, flat on his back on the bed. He idly scrapes some fingers over a nipple and swings his bent knee back and forth in the air. The prosthetic leans like a drunkard against his bedside table, taken off in haste. He kept his pants on. His arousal is obvious; a thick line curves against the fabric of his sweats, giving it away that he's gone commando, as if the pants are only a formality, or more specifically, a treat for Robby to take off.
"What took you so long, man?" Jack says to the ceiling. When, finally, he glances over, his expression thins remarkably like a cat spotting a mouse. Robby's dick taps his pinky's fingertip as it twitches.
"I wasn't gone for that long," he replies. He shuffles onto the bed on his knees.
"When you're as turned on as I am, a second is a century." He pinches Robby's hip impatiently, urging him closer. "Let me suck you off."
"Maybe I should do yours instead, since you've been suffering so greatly." Robby practically falls onto his husband's face, kissing him, swinging a leg over his belly to straddle him. Jack writhes, brushing their chests together; he attaches himself to Robby's neck, nibbling over his jugular vein. As he nips at that sensitive skin, he takes Robby's hand off his dick and starts tugging him dry. Robby bites the urge to squeak.
"I won't say no," Jack chuckles in the moment he parts. "You smell good."
"Thank you." He tries to return the favor, turning his head into Jack's neck. Inadvertently, he interrupts the bruise his husband was sucking on his trapezius, and he earns another annoyed huff. So, in the interest of time, Robby skips his neck and instead kisses a path down his chest.
He nips Jack's soft underbelly; he tugs the sweats down in one rough shove and Jack springs forth, hitting the underside of his jaw. Jack snickers. Smiling back, Robby scoots just enough to take him into his mouth.
What Robby finds fascinating is that he has always been bigger, but Jack is thicker. Meatier, too; a weight on his tongue that makes him groan as he guides him past his teeth. The bands in Jack's thighs tighten, brushing either side of his head as he buries his nose in the dark curls. Jack's carpet does not match his drapes. Another fascinating thing. There are little wisps of red instead of silver; at least from what he can see, which isn't much. He runs his tongue back and forth over the seam between Jack's head and shaft, knowing it drives him crazy. In excitement, his dick offers him some precum, and he swallows around it; Jack whines. His hips buck up and bump his top teeth.
He finds a rhythm, bobbing in short bursts, focusing on the head. Still, sometimes, he can't help himself from taking as much as he can, feeling as though he's about to crack his jaw out of place. Jack's hands wander through his hair. He scratches at Robby's nape when Robby suctions the head against the roof of his mouth, running his tongue back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
"Fuck," Jack wheezes. "Fuck, Mike. That's good."
Robby loses himself in it. He brings himself down into the curls and the fullness overwhelms him, so warm and hulking that he chokes. He can't stop thinking about what it might feel like to have it. To truly have it. For Jack to whisper nothings against his back. His cock drools.
Jack is murmuring something, moaning into the air in soft hisses. Robby keeps going. Without his knowledge, his hips lazily drone into the mattress.
"M-Mike. Mike," his beloved coos, fingers winding into his hair, trying to pry him off. "I'm done–!"
Robby coughs when he retracts. "Sorry."
"Fuck." Jack falls into a fit of laughter and drapes an arm over his eyes; his teeth are beautiful, bared against the low evening light.
Smiling sheepishly, Robby hauls himself back to his husband's face; his ears flush. Jack cups his cheeks and kisses him roughly. Like it knows where to go, his dick helps itself and dives underneath Jack's sex, and Jack responds in kind, lifting his knees up. Robby traces Jack's teeth with his tongue as he blindly guides himself inside. Jack is hot, already wet, and willing. The skin surrounding him is so soft; it welcomes him gratefully. Jack bites his lip. Looks up at him as he shakes with lust, sinking in deeper, deeper, until he stops at the hilt, feeling as though his beloved has swallowed him whole.
"Forgot the condom," he murmurs.
Jack laughs, wraps a hand around the back of Robby's neck, drawing him down until their foreheads meet. "Don't bother."
Jack taps his ass with his intact ankle, setting a horse to run. Rolling his eyes, Robby starts his course, easing backward and then back inside, nice and slow, how Jack likes it. Slow and steady always wins the race.
Jack hums with every thrust, at first looking down to watch their bodies meet. Before Robby knows it, a sheen of sweat paints his brow, and he pants in time with his husband's moans. The pleasure roils in waves as he slows even further, watching for confirmation that Jack's feeling every stroke; he is; he slowly tips his head toward the ceiling, mouth agape, one side pinched as Robby angles for his prostate and massages it as best he can.
Something is missing. He can't say what. Something has always been missing. Maybe Jack doesn't notice it. He paws at Robby's chest, whining, "Oh," into the air, groaning, blinking his eyes as though the pleasure is so overwhelming that it needs to be shaken.
"Oh, my God," Jack cries. "Oh, my God. Feels so good, Mike. So good."
"Can't feel that good," Robby says, swallowing.
"It does– Oh, God." He gropes one of Robby's pecs, who winces.
He eases himself up higher, to watch how he fucks Jack and his reaction at the same time. He sinks into Jack's body, imagining where the head of his cock disappears into, brushing his prostate over and over and over, feeling such intense pleasure that he has to blink tears out of his eyes. Robby blinks. His thrusts have gotten sloppy. His husband commandeers him; he grabs him by the ass, again, forcing him as deep as he can go – groans as he cums.
Robby watches him, bewitched. He'd forgotten about his own dick. He stops moving when Jack's entire body begins to tremble.
"Wait," Jack says when he pulls out.
"I'm okay," Robby says. He makes a placating gesture when his husband reaches for him; he sits and helps Jack set his legs back down, stiff from holding them for so long. Or maybe not very long at all. Robby isn't sure. That might be a compliment. He scrapes his hair back as he waits for his erection to subside.
"Let me help," Jack says. "Let me give you a handie, at least."
Sighing, Robby turns toward his husband, who grabs his sex like it's a toy he wants. Despite the initial tug, he works him lovingly; he wills him closer with his eyes. Robby kisses him. Jack tangles him in his web and sucks a bruise beneath his ear, and Robby closes his eyes, focusing on the dual sensations. It takes him longer to cum than he thinks; he grunts once, and he bursts in thick ropes over Jack's fist and belly, mixing with Jack's cum in something poetic. He barely feels the orgasm, but squeezes his eyes harder as if he can.
"You okay?" Jack hums into his ear. He lets go and wipes his hand on a clean patch of his stomach.
He replies, "Yeah." He goes to the bathroom for a washcloth; he takes it and a glass of water to Jack's bedside. Jack wipes himself down gratefully. Though, he nudges the glass back to Robby. Robby pours it into the sink. He puts the washcloth in the laundry. Walks back to bed and sits there naked as his husband gets dressed.
They go to bed without speaking another word. Robby should eat dinner. He doesn't. He hopes Jack did. After an hour, Jack gets up to take a shower, and Robby watches him leave; lube dribbles down the back of his thigh. Robby bites his lip. He grips the sheets until his knuckles turn white, then lets go.