Chapter 4: Chapter 4
Robbie swam back to consciousness through a warm, syrupy haze. His body felt like it had been disassembled and lovingly put back together by clumsy but enthusiastic hands. Every muscle was limp, pleasantly sore in a way that spoke of profound exertion. A weight rested across his chest, heavy and secure. He blinked slowly, the world resolving into the familiar chaos of his bedroom ceiling, the plastic glow-in-the-stars James must have stuck there as a teenager now faintly visible in the late afternoon light.
The weight was James’s arm. The warmth was James’s body, curled around him, skin to skin. And the sensation that had pulled him from the depths was James’s lips, moving softly against his shoulder—a lazy, unhurried trail of kisses along the curve of his neck.
“Don’t flake out on me now, beautiful,” James whispered, his voice a low vibration against Robbie’s skin.
Robbie turned his head, a monumental effort that rewarded him with the sight of James’s face, relaxed and open, propped on one hand. His deep brown eyes were soft, the usual rugged intensity replaced by a contented calm. Robbie’s throat was dry, scraped raw. He tried to speak and managed a rough croak. James smiled, reaching over to the bedside table for a half-empty glass of water. He held it to Robbie’s lips, supporting his head, and Robbie drank gratefully.
“There you are,” James murmured, taking the glass away. He smoothed Robbie’s sweaty hair back from his forehead.
They lay like that for a long moment, just breathing together in the easy quiet. The smell of sex and sweat and lavender fabric softener hung in the air, a potent mix that Robbie knew he would forever associate with this specific, perfect exhaustion. He wanted to fossilize this feeling, to capture the exact pressure of James’s thigh thrown over his, the scratch of his chest hair against Robbie’s back, the steady, reassuring thump of his heart.
Then James’s phone buzzed on the floor, a violent earthquake in the stillness. James groaned, leaning precariously over the edge of the bed to fish it from the pocket of his discarded jeans. He squinted at the screen, then sighed.
“Dad,” he announced. “They’re on their way back. Bringing food. See us in forty-five.”
The spell wasn’t broken, but it was gently folded and put away for later. Reality, with its obligations and other people, seeped back into the room. Robbie became acutely aware of the sticky mess cooling on his stomach and thigh, the ache deep in his ass, the overall sense of being thoroughly used.
“Shower,” James declared, already swinging his legs out of bed. He stood, a magnificent, naked silhouette against the dusty window light, and offered Robbie a hand. “Come on. Can’t have you smelling like my cum when your mom and my dad get here.”
The bathroom was, like the bedroom, large, the shower stall a wide, tiled, glass-encased haven. James turned the water hot, steam quickly fogging the mirror and the window. He guided Robbie under the spray first, letting the water sluice over his pale, marked skin. Robbie leaned his forehead against the cool tiles, eyes closed, as James’s hands, gentle and thorough, began to soap him down.
It was clinical and intimate at the same time. James poured cedar-scented body wash onto a loofah and worked it over Robbie’s back, his shoulders, down the knobs of his spine. He knelt on the shower floor, soaping Robbie’s legs, washing between his toes with a focus that made Robbie shiver. When he nudged Robbie’s legs apart to clean him there, his touch was devoid of its earlier hunger, replaced by a practical tenderness that made Robbie’s throat tighten. James rinsed him clean, his fingers carefully ensuring no trace of their activities remained.
“Your turn,” Robbie said, his voice still rough.
"Hang on," said James. "I don't want you wasting what little energy you have left." Robbie looked sad so James added, "You can clean my cock, I'll do the rest." He took the loofah, soaping his broad chest, his muscular arms, the flat plane of his stomach. Robbie knelt, mirroring James’s earlier position, and took James’s soft cock in his soapy hands.
He washed him with reverence, lathering the heavy length and sac, his thumbs circling the base, his fingers tracing the thick vein. Under his touch, it began to swell, thickening and rising from its nest of dark curls until it stood out from James's body, on it's way to a full erection, the water cascading over the broad, flushed head.
James chuckled, a deep, warm sound. “We don’t have time for more horseplay,” he grinned, though his cock twitched in Robbie’s hand, betraying his interest. “At least not until after dinner.” He winked.
Robbie, saving his energy, just smiled and stood on his toes to kiss James chastely on the lips. He tasted of water and himself. Then he turned James around to wash his back, his ass, as James bent to deal with the powerful legs of a man who worked on his feet all day.
Stepping out of the shower, James grabbed a large, clean towel and wrapped Robbie in it first, rubbing his arms and back gently through the fabric. He secured another around his own waist, the terry cloth doing little to hide the renewed outline of his erection. He took the towel from Robbie and began drying him with a gentle, almost fussy care. He patted Robbie’s skin dry, avoiding any abrasion, smoothing the soft towel over Robbie’s soft, pale curves—his belly, the swell of his hips, the delicate inside of his thighs.
“Hot damn if you aren’t the sexiest thing alive,” he muttered, more to himself than to Robbie, as he crouched to dry Robbie’s calves.
Robbie was stunned into silence by James’s attentiveness. It wasn’t pandering. It wasn’t babying. It was an acute, observational awareness of Robbie’s needs—his exhaustion, his sensitivity—and a willing, effortless adaptation to meet them. James walked back into the bedroom, his damp footprints dark on the wood floor, and went to Robbie’s dresser. He opened drawers, searching through Robbie’s soft, worn cotton lounge sets. He pulled out a pair of gray sweats and a faded blue t-shirt, then found clean, boxer briefs.
“Here,” he said, calling Robbie into the bedroom. He knelt again. “Lift.” Robbie steadied himself with a hand on James’s broad shoulder, lifting one foot, then the other, as James guided the soft cotton underwear up his legs. He pulled them up over Robbie’s hips, his knuckles brushing Robbie’s freshly cleaned skin.
It was then that James heard a sniffle. He looked up, alarmed.
Robbie’s face was turned away, but his shoulders were shaking silently. Tears tracked clean lines through his freshly washed skin.
“Hey,” James said, his voice suddenly tight with worry. His hands went to Robbie’s hips, holding him. “We went too far, too fast, didn’t we? I fucked up. I got carried away. I am so sorry, Robbie.”
“No, no,” Robbie choked out, swiping angrily at his eyes. He looked down at James, kneeling at his feet, his handsome face etched with genuine concern. “Happy tears, I promise.”
James’s expression softened, but the worry didn’t fully leave his eyes. “Tell me more,” he prompted, kindly.
Robbie took a shaky breath. “It’s just… In the same vein as your amazement at my skills with your… your superb cock,” he said, the words tumbling out in a rush, “I have never had someone treat me like this. Like they got it. Not babying me, not treating me as incapable, but just… recognizing when I need that extra support. Taking over without making me feel weak. It’s magical, truly.”
James’s eyes seemed to sparkle in the dim room. He stood up, cupping Robbie’s face in his big, warm hands. “I’m here now,” he said, his voice firm and sure. “And this is how I want to be with you. This. The sex. The woods. The quiet. The helping. It’s all just… perfect.” He leaned his forehead against Robbie’s. “You’re perfect.”
They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing each other in, something solid and real settling between them, cementing with an ease that felt both new and ancient. James helped Robbie finish dressing, then, from outside, came the distinct crunch of tires on gravel.
James sprang into action. “We need to set the table,” James said, pulling on his own jeans commando, zipping up over his still-prominent bulge. He threw on a shirt. “Let's move,” he said, kissing Robbie on the cheek.
James thundered downstairs, Robbie following behind, his body protesting every step, and busied themselves setting the big farmhouse table just as the back door swung open.
Simon, James’s stepfather, came in first, his arms laden with bags that smelled of smoked meat and vinegar. He was a tall, lean man in his late fifties, with kind eyes and the same weathered hands as James. Right behind him was Janice, Robbie’s mom, her face flushed and happy, her own arms full of produce and a bouquet of wildflowers.
“Hey boys!” Simon boomed, dropping the bags on the counter with a grunt. “Hope you’re starving.”
“We brought the world!” Janice laughed, arranging the flowers in a jug of water. She pecked Robbie on the cheek, her eyes scanning his face with a mother’s keen instinct. She saw the exhaustion, but she also saw a new, soft calm in his eyes. She smiled, squeezing his shoulder.
Simon started unpacking foil containers of barbeque—pulled pork, brisket, ribs—while Janice launched into a breathless recap of their day. “The farmers market was incredible, Robbie, all these heirloom tomatoes! Then we found this little place for lunch with a garden, and Simon knew the owner! And the antique market afterwards—I found a box of vintage lace trim that’ll be perfect for your 1920s poet. Simon drove us all the way out to the canyon lookout, just to watch the sunset. He’s been so amazing, so attentive.” She beamed at Simon, who smiled back, a quiet, fond look passing between them.
“Well, you make it easy,” Simon said, coming over to kiss her temple. He turned to the boys, gesturing with a pair of tongs. “So, what did you two degenerates get up to? Besides sleeping all day, by the looks of him.” He nodded at Robbie, who was sinking gratefully into a chair.
James, plating the food, grinned. “We had a little adventure. Went out to the west woods. Robbie showed me some of his costumes.”
Janice clapped her hands. “You left the house! In a costume? Which one?”
“The, uh, the elven one,” Robbie said, smiling. “The green and brown one.”
“And he looked damn good in it,” James added, winking at Robbie as he set a heaping plate of brisket in front of him. “We just… hung out. Got in the hot tub. Talked. Got to know each other.” He met Robbie’s gaze across the table, a spark of heat and memory flashing between them.
Robbie nodded, picking up his fork. “James was great,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Really understanding. You know, of my… limits.”
Simon chuckled, passing around a bowl of coleslaw. “Good to hear. Takes a patient man.”
James sat down next to Robbie, his knee brushing Robbie’s under the table. He took a huge bite of a rib, chewed, and swallowed. “Yeah, well,” he said, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He looked directly at Robbie, his eyes dancing with mischief. “A man can only be stretched so far in one day.”
Robbie, who had just taken a sip of water, choked. He sputtered, coughing into his napkin as James pounded him helpfully on the back, his grin unrepentant. Janice frowned slightly, confused, while Simon just shook his head, a knowing, amused glint in his eye.
Dinner continued with easy talk, the food disappearing quickly. Robbie found he was ravenous, the physical exertion of the afternoon having burned through every reserve. He listened to his mother’s happy chatter, watched the easy camaraderie between James and Simon, and felt a sense of belonging weave itself around him, warm as a blanket.
When the plates were mostly clean and the conversation lulled into a contented silence, Robbie pushed his chair back. “I think… I should go lie down,” he said, the full weight of the day settling on him like a lead coat.
Simon nodded. “You look beat, son. Get some rest.” He then looked at James. “James, before you run off, can I have a quick word in the study?”
“Sure, Dad,” James said, standing up and starting to clear the plates.
“I’ll get these,” Janice said, taking the stack from him. “You go talk to your father.”
Robbie headed upstairs, his legs feeling like they were filled with sand. The bedroom was dim, the bed still a tangled mess of their earlier passion. He didn’t have the energy to remake it. He simply crawled into it, burying his face in the pillow that smelled like James—soap, sweat, and something indefinably James. The sounds of the house settling, the low murmur of voices from downstairs, the distant clink of dishes being washed, all faded into a pleasant hum. He was asleep within minutes, adrift in a deep, dreamless peace, his body and heart fuller than they had ever been. The low murmur of voices from downstairs was a soothing, distant hum. Robbie floated in the warm, drowsy space between waking and sleep, his body sinking into the mattress that smelled intensely of James. The profound physical exhaustion was a pleasant anchor, tethering him to the aftermath of the day.
He heard the heavy tread of boots on the stairs, familiar and steady. The bedroom door opened softly, then clicked shut. Robbie kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep, not wanting to pressure James to take more care of him than he already had, give him some space to relax and sleep.
He heard the heavy thunk of each boot being toed off, the soft rustle of jeans being shed. The floorboards groaned as James moved, followed by the soft click of the lamp switch. Darkness plunged the room into deeper blue, broken only by the neon glow of some gaudy material flowing out of a bin.
He lay perfectly still. “Good night,” Robbie called softly into the dark, his voice thick with false sleep. “Thank you.” He felt foolish, overly polite, but the words were automatic. James didn’t respond.
Instead, Robbie heard the soft pad of bare feet on wood. His own mattress dipped profoundly. The covers lifted, and a wave of heat and the scent of clean, male skin washed over him. James slid in behind him, his solid, hair-dusted body spooning against Robbie’s back. “You think you’re getting rid of me that easily?” James whispered, his lips grazing the shell of Robbie’s ear before planting a soft kiss on his neck.
Robbie managed a small chuckle, the vibration barely escaping his chest. “I hope not,” he murmured, his voice slurring with genuine sleepiness now.
James hushed him, a gentle shushing sound by his ear. He began to hum, a tuneless, low rumble that vibrated through Robbie’s spine. One big hand came up to stroke Robbie’s hair back from his temple, the touch impossibly tender. He pulled Robbie closer into the curve of his naked body, his arm a secure band across Robbie’s chest. Enveloped in that heat and that sound, Robbie let go, sinking into a deep, dreamless void.
The first thing he registered was warmth. A soft, persistent pressure moving slowly across his skin. Warm kisses, peppered along the line of his shoulder, up the side of his neck. He resisted, burrowing deeper into the pillow, into the delicious smell of James that saturated the sheets. Then memory clicked into place—the woods, the bed, the shower, the profound sense of being claimed. He turned his head, a smile already blooming on his face before his eyes were fully open.
James was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully washed and dressed in his work jeans and a faded grey flannel. He smelled of soap and fresh air. “Hey,” he said, his voice morning-rough. “Gotta head out. Couldn’t leave without telling you how beautiful you are.”
Robbie blinked, the sincerity so stark it felt like a physical blow. “You’re not real,” he mumbled, pulling the sheet over his head to hide the stupid, wide grin he couldn’t control.
The world went dark under the covers, then James dove underneath, a sudden, playful invasion. His hands found Robbie’s bare skin under the clothes he hadn't had the energy to remove the night before, sliding over his hips, his stomach, cupping his ass. “I will show you later how real I am,” James growled, his voice muffled by fabric. He squeezed once, firmly. “Get some rest. Lots of it. Okay?”
Robbie nodded under the sheets, not trusting himself to speak. He felt James press one last, hard kiss against his hipbone before retreating. The mattress lifted, footsteps receded, and the door closed with a soft click. Robbie floated back into sleep, the impression of James’s hands still warm on his skin.
He woke four hours later to bright, silent sunlight. The other side of the bed was empty, cool. He stretched, wincing at the pleasant ache in his muscles. He reached for his phone on the nightstand. 10:47 AM. A notification glowed on the screen—a single message from James, sent an hour ago.
Miss you already.
A thrill, hot and bright, shot through Robbie’s core. He bit his lip, a mischievous idea forming. He pushed his sweats and underwear down, exposing his ass. He angled the phone behind him, contorting slightly. The camera flashed, capturing the intimate, slightly shocking image: his asshole, still faintly pink, softly gaping from the thorough use it had received the day before. It looked well-used, tender, but fundamentally ready. He sent it with the text: Not as much as I miss you.
The reply was almost instantaneous. A photo of James, clearly in the barn, the front of his tight jeans conspicuously bulging, the impressive outline of his cock unmistakable across his hip. Beneath it, the text: I will see to that later. Followed by three red heart emojis.
Robbie stared at the screen, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was thrilled, overwhelmed, and confused. He couldn't deny this was fast, almost too good, too much. But the dull, pleasant soreness inside him was a physical fact. The memory of James’s hands washing him, dressing him, holding him was a tangible truth. He was desired. By the hottest, kindest, most confusingly perfect man he had ever met. And he was going to be getting a whole lot of sex. A giggle bubbled out of him, then a full-throated, disbelieving whoop that echoed in the empty room. He laughed into his hands, kicking his feet under the sheets. Then, slowly, he began to move his stiff body, preparing to face the day.
Just after 4 PM, two hours earlier than his usual return, the bedroom door burst open. Robbie was propped against the headboard, reading comics on his tablet. James stood in the doorway, smelling of hay, diesel, and honest sweat, his face alight. He didn’t say a word. He kicked the door shut with his heel and practically pounced on the bed, covering Robbie’s body with his own, capturing his mouth in a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of sunshine and want.
He broke for air, forehead pressed to Robbie’s. “I missed you so much today,” he said, the words raw and without preamble or embarrassment.
Robbie’s hands came up to frame James’s stubbled face. “So you should have,” he said, but his thumbs stroked James’s cheekbones in a way that told the complete, tender truth.
James rolled to his side, propping his head on his hand. He traced a finger along Robbie’s jaw. “How are you feeling?”
Robbie looked away, a faint blush rising. “A little tired from yesterday, if I’m honest,” he admitted, sheepish, wishing it weren’t the case.
“Sounds like we need to cuddle up and watch some TV tonight,” James said, leaning in to gently kiss Robbie between each word. “Nothing else. Just you, me, and whatever show you want.”
“Sorry,” Robbie mumbled, the word barely audible. “I really wanted to have more sex.”
James’s expression shifted, the playful light solidifying into something more profound. “Hey,” he said, his voice low and firm. “That’s not what this is. This isn’t a hook-up or a friends-with-benefits thing. I care about you.” He cupped Robbie’s cheek, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Let me take care of you, baby.”
Those words sank into Robbie, dissolving a lifetime of quiet anxiety. They were the words he had always wanted to hear. “Thank you,” he whispered, the gratitude so vast it had no other outlet. “My stallion.”
James gave him a funny look, a flicker of something unreadable in his deep brown eyes. Then it vanished, replaced by a broad, warm smile. “Your horse-cocked stallion,” he whispered back, a private joke just for them.
“My knight in shining denim,” Robbie replied, and they both laughed, the sound easy and bright in their shared space.
“Stay here,” James commanded, swinging his legs off the bed. “I am bringing dinner to you. Then you can choose what we watch.”
Robbie called after him, “What do you like?"
James yelled back as he loped down the stairs, "The Boys, Game of Thrones, Marvel stuff”
Robbie couldn’t have scripted it better himself. A genuine, disbelieving smile spread across his face. “All of the above.”
James returned with two loaded plates - leftover barbecue, reheated and piled high - a large bowl of salad and a bag of chips. James grabbed his laptop, navigated to a streaming service, and handed it to Robbie.
“Your kingdom,” he said, settling back against the headboard and opening his arms.
He clicked on the first episode of The Boys. As the title sequence rolled, they ate in bed, shoulders touching, a comfortable silence between them punctuated by James stealing a pickle from Robbie’s plate. After, they cleaned up quickly, and James shucked his jeans, climbing back into bed in just his boxer briefs. Robbie snuggled into his side, his head on James’s chest, the laptop balanced on his thighs. James’s hand began to move, idly stroking Robbie’s arm, his side, his hip. His touch was absent-minded, possessive, but wasn't asking for any more than Robbie could give.