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Dennis knew it wasn't normal. But it was so much easier to deny it. To blame himself, hell, it wasn't like his reaction was normal. The touching was easy to compartmentalize. Robby was caring and careful. He was tactile, grounding himself and Dennis with a pat on his shoulder or leading him by the scruff of his neck when asking him to follow would have been too many words. There was nothing weird about it; it was paternal almost. He'd just have to forget how the one time Robby moved him out of his way by the small of his back had made him so hard he felt dizzy. It didn't help that he was so spellbindingly attracted to his boss. Robby could have pulled him by his ear into a bathroom stall and ordered him to his knees, and Dennis knew there was no way he was going to stop him.
That was part of the thrill of it, really, knowing that Robby could do anything and he would obey. Like some kind of unnegotiated kinky dynamic that he had to be imagining, conjuring up in his head to rationalize the attraction. Robby was easy to ignore in that aspect. Just pretend it all was perfectly normal and he was just a pervert who jacked off to his attending in the bathroom sometimes. It was just enough to keep him wondering, but never enough to not terrify him. There was always the thought in the back of his mind that he was the stereotype. The sex-brained pervert that he was taught that men who dare to "prey" on other men are.
That was thrown out the window when he started his night-shift rotation.
Abbot was so similar but so sneaky. Touches that left a tingly warmth, like he'd been branded. Now in quiet corners, a tap on his hip. Just the ghosting of someone brushing behind him. Just to look behind him and see Abbot swaggering away like he didn't just barely grope his ass. Guiding him by the small of his back rather than his shoulder when he was sure no one was paying attention.
It all came to a head in the locker room after a particularly grueling shift. Some asshole had stalked his ex-girlfriend to a cafe where she was on a date and opened fire. The woman's date didn't make it, and the asshole arrived at the E.R. with no upper cognitive function, in a pathetic attempt to take himself with her. It was a miracle, really, that the only death had been the date. But it sure didn't feel that way as he watched the woman pound on the plexiglass windows on Trauma 1 with her good arm. The other one held up in a sling, from where she tried to shield her date from the bullet that had lodged itself behind her heart after shredding a good portion of it. It was almost poetic, but Dennis didn't have the emotional capacity to think about that as he dragged his feet towards the locker room.
He didn't notice that Abbot trailed him the whole way. Dennis went through the motions, dragging his scrub top and bottom off, ready to change into the sweats in his locker now that he was finally going to go home. He barely even startled when a hand landed on his nape.
"You did good out there kid."
Dennis looked at Abbot's chest rather than his face.
"Sure doesn't feel like it." Dennis managed to get out in a pessimistic chuckle, so fucking embarrassed at the tears starting to prick the corners of his eyes.
"Uh-uh, we're not doing that. You, we, did everything we could. That woman wouldn't have made it even if we somehow had a heart transplant on standby."
He repeated himself, "You did a good job, kid," this time rubbing, petting his stomach like a fucking dog. A scared stray that needed to be calmed.
Dennis couldn't even register the strangled sob that came from his throat as his own. He clutched the front of Abbot's scubs like a lifeline, so aware that he was practically naked, sobbing into his completely clothed boss's chest.
If he could hear himself, he would be mortified to hear him rattling on "im sorry, im so sorry, sorry papa, im sorry," like some sort of prayer.
Dennis was dead to the world, the only thing keeping him from floating off into the clouds, his knuckle-white death grip on Abbot's shirt. He had no idea how long he had been like that until he was startled back into his body.
A warm, impossibly strong hand putting even pressure to his cock over his boxers.
His eyes shot open, meeting Abbot's, his brow crinkled with concern, but his eyes dark with something Dennis didn't want to identify. He had a mind to push him off, his attempt a pathetic thing considering his grip on Abbot hadn't lessened at all. The only thing he did manage to do was accidentally grind against the firm top of Abbot's palm. His sobs broke to let out a choked-out moan.
"Shhhh, no, it's okay, baby. Just let go."
Abbot gripped his shoulders in a bear hug, not letting him slink away from his touch.
"You're good, baby, good boy, make yourself feel good." It was low and rumbly, reverberating through him.
When Dennis stayed still, a deer in headlights, Abbot took things into his own hands, literally. He held Dennis still in his impossibly strong hands and gyrated his palm against him. Not letting him move, giving him just enough to keep those pretty noises from stopping.
"You're a good boy, Dennis, take what you need."
If he didn't have his eyes screwed shut like he was trying not to wake up from a dream, Dennis would have seen the pleased, prideful smile Abbot wore as Dennis started to move of his own accord. Abbot held his shoulders still but let him move his hips as much as he needed to. The sobs were gone now, the tear tracks on his face just a reminder of how they got here. Instead, Abbot delighted in the high keening noises the boy made between huffs of air. His breathing was steady, if not fast enough to worry Abbot about hyperventilation.
Dennis' brow was fixed tight, his mouth held slack as beads of sweat mixed with the tears on his face. Abbot decided this whole arrangement was for Dennis, but didn't have the willpower to stop himself from lapping up the liquid from his face like a man parched. The older man could feel how the boy's cunt started to soak through the thin fabric of his boxers. The hot dampness coated the tips of Abbot's fingers.
Abbot pushed experimentally against the cloth covering the younger man's hole. Just the ghosting of pressure makes his dick pulse aggressively against Abbot's palm. Abbot relinquished the thought of feeling the boy from the inside. Thinking that even the second it would take to get his grubby hands into the man's boxers would break him from the trance the younger man was under. He settled for hoping to feel him some other time and continued circling his ring and middle finger over the damp fabric.
Abbot could feel the muscles in and around Dennis's cunt start to tighten as the boy began chanting again,
"papa, please papa, I'll be good, pleeeaaseee"
The last word sounded like it was choked off, the latter end becoming a guttural sort of sound. The boy's thrusts into his hand continued in short, fast repetitions.
"yes, my good boy, papa's got you, you can cum, you've been good."
Dennis's face is shoved squarely into the crook of Abbot's neck, and Abbot swears he could have cum in his pants when Dennis fucking bites him just above his collar bone when he cums. if he wasn't a dirty 50-something-year-old man, of course. Abbot groans low and long as Dennis' dick jumps in his hand, his hole angrily clamping down around nothing. Abbot holds him there, his warm palm cupping him, guiding him through his orgasm until the boy finally opens his eyes, like a proverbial cloth has been lifted from his face.
Dennis is still foggy when his grip of Abbot loosens. His legs are wobbly as Abbot guides him down to sit on the bench in the middle of the room. The room, the very public room, that has somehow been theirs alone for who knows how long. Dennis doesn't really know what he's doing when he sinks to his knees in front of Abbot. His brain still not supplying him the needed blood to think, his dick still twitching with it. He has some semblance of a thought that when an old man makes you cum on his hand, you're supposed to do something, to him, for him, but he's not quite sure what.
Abbot looks down on him and cursed himself. Wishing he were a weaker man than he seems to be. He hauls Dennis up again, careful with him, the boy still shaky like a newborn foal.
"No, kid, we're not doing that right now," Abbot groans, trying to make himself rationalize. Why is letting the kid cum on your hand so much better than choking him on your painfully hard dick? But, alas, he doesn't break.
"That was about you, you can suck my dick some other time," his dick twitching angrily at the images that sentence supplies him with. Dennis is still looking up at him like some sort of god, teary-eyed and red as Abbot helps him out of his soaked boxers and into the sweats still hanging out of his locker. The boy is dressed and has his bag packed back up with all his things when Abbot guides him by the small of his back towards the locker room door, both of their bags over Abbot's opposite shoulder.
It's then that the spell is broken and Dennis looks around like he's just woken from a coma and stutters, "i, i, i should get home, um, thank, thank you?"
Dennis shudders when Abbot looks back at him like he's about to chastise him and says, "nuh uh, you're not going home alone like this," the hand on his back circling to hold the outside of his hip, most definitely possessive in nature.
Dennis still can't seem to kick the stutter, (Jesus does cumming that hard make you lose higher motor function or something) "Oh, no, i um, i live with Santos, um, Trinity Santos, i won't be alone, she had the day off, if that's what you're um worried about."
This time, Abbot looks at him like a kicked dog that just can't seem to trust anyone, even against its own best interests, and grumbles,
"Good boys listen to their papas."