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Herman's never had a blowjob before.
It's not that he was completely sexless; he did go to college after all. While he'd never been drowning in propositions or anything—considering there was a very real possibility he could literally drown whoever he kissed—he also wasn't so insecure as to think he was entirely unfuckable. A couple of parties, enough drinks sloshing around his stomach to be brave, and he'd managed three hookups over four years.
However, those: a) never got beyond one night, and b) never got farther than awkwardly jerking each other off while trying not to be pinched by the open flies of their jeans.
Yet, all that being said, his brain seemed to have no issues imagining what receiving head might feel like.
And it felt fucking great.
A quiet hum vibrated low in his throat as a smooth tongue flattened against his length, licking an agonizingly slow stripe up from base to tip. Closed, plush lips pressed against his slit, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive flesh. At a gentle, encouraging thrust of his hips, he was granted entrance into blissfully wet heat with a long exhale.
Herman moaned softly, fingers twisting in the dampening sheets beneath while tight, incandescent moisture began to rhythmically envelop him. The warmth, the loss of control over his own pleasure, the understanding someone wanted to touch him this way—it was perfection. It was a low-grade electrical current spreading through his chest and numbing his limbs. Every inch of his skin tingled with undue sensitivity. He tried to bite back the little noises escaping with each glide of tongue and suctioned pull to his tip, but it was a losing battle.
Even when Herman was by himself, remaining quiet was often more of a challenge than hero work. He could take down villains coming at him with crowbars, but keeping his mouth shut while feverishly stroking himself raw somehow managed to be his ultimate pitfall. He could only pray his grandma's hearing had deteriorated to the point that she couldn't catch any unfortunate noises, no matter how late he waited before rubbing one out.
It wasn't like he was never going to jerk off.
A louder groan ripped from his chest when a rough palm suddenly cupped his balls, his abdomen shaking at the exquisite press of a finger into the meat of his perineum.
"Fuck," he exhaled.
His fists twisted tighter in the sheets, knuckles quickly going bloodless from the strain. He clenched his teeth in a desperate bid to bar the gasp threatening to spill from his lips as the finger massaged slow, deliberate circles over his prostate.
Herman hardly ever played with himself there—partially because it was challenging to reach comfortably on his own, and partially because it drove him absolutely feral. And again, with Grandma down the hall, Herman couldn't exactly afford to be feral.
His typical water output increased drastically, the small teardrops beading from his pores becoming rivulets that soaked into the already oversaturated sheets. He bit his lip, allowing one hand to settle on his navel and begin a languorous slide up his body. He shivered as it crossed over the concave plane of his stomach, the taut skin of a pectoral—pebbled, sensitive gooseflesh rolling beneath his finger pads—and finally arriving at one pointed nipple.
He stroked idly around the tender bud, pinching the moment he was taken completely to the base. He swallowed back a cry, pulsing a thick rope of pre-cum into the constricting warmth.
His hips were beginning to rut of their own accord, chasing the steady sensation of welcoming heat. Bending a leg, Herman planted his foot on the mattress in a bid for leverage. His other hand abandoned the sheets, instead drifting to his inner thigh, where he clawed into the flesh of his leg mere inches from where he burned.
Increasingly erratic gasps and poorly concealed whimpers continued to flow from him as the inexorable call of release pulled with growing fervor. The slick pump of lips along his length accelerated, filling Herman's ears with a symphony of the filthy slurp of mouth on cock, the soaked mattress squelching beneath his head, and his own desperate whines.
And good golly, this was promising to be a mind-boggling orgasm.
The pressure only continued to build, even once Herman was sure he was about to reach the zenith. Impossible heat condensed into a single unbearable point between his legs, so intense that his hands flew to the bars of the bed frame overhead in a futile attempt to keep himself grounded. He gave up the ghost on fighting his voice box, allowing the lascivious sound of wanton moans to fill his little bubble of pleasure.
Then the palm that had been kneading his balls vanished, and instead his leg was being hitched up over a narrow shoulder. Herman sucked in a jagged inhale as slick, burning heat took him so deep there was a lap of tongue at the base of his balls.
“Oh—oh god. Oh fu—shitshitSHIT!"
His back bowed fully away from the bed. His toes curled where they hung uselessly in the air. He squeezed the bars of his headboard so tight he caught a vibrating ring of buckling metal—
And he came, shooting what had to have been an ungodly amount of jizz as he convulsed and sobbed and writhed beneath the mouth as it continued to bob along his pulsating cock. It lasted for decades, centuries, eons in which Herman rode a seemingly unending wave. Spurt after spurt, spasm after spasm, stroke after stroke along his length—milking out any and every bit of pleasure that could be wrung from his hypersensitive dick.
Finally, when he felt tears of over-stimulation pricking the corners of his eyes, he was released—cock falling to his wet navel with a soft plap. Herman’s breath came in heavy, wide arcs. Unfocused eyes, lazily blinked back into awareness. His legs dropped to the mattress, shaky and spent.
And then the mouth's owner straightened from where they'd been buried in the heat of Herman's groin, silhouetted but for a familiar notch at the tip of one ear. A molten hot hand reached forward to caress a searing path along Herman's jaw, and a rough thumb pad slid along the meat of his lower lip, pressing insistently against the seam. He opened his mouth, enveloping the finger in cool moisture and sucking diligently, the faint taste of himself lingering on his tongue. Herman smiled dazedly around the thumb, the high of orgasm leaving him giddy and boneless.
Then the hand's owner began to crawl toward him, face finally illuminating in the dim light.
Robert leaned in close, thumb withdrawing to cup his cheek. Herman's smile melted into a slack-jawed invitation, his eyelids growing heavy as he took in the rugged and yet impossibly soft embodiment of masculinity not three inches from his face. Dark-rimmed eyes, mussed, damp hair, perfect lips that had just been stretched around his cock.
If Herman hadn't just busted a massive load simply seeing Robert like this would've been enough to do him in.
Then Robert pulled him close, lips parting, his tongue leading into the kiss—
And Herman snapped awake, immediately bolting into a seat with a jagged inhale.
Holy shit.
There was no way that was a dream. It was too real. Too visceral. His lungs were still working overtime to keep up with his racing heart, sucking in oxygen like he'd been drowning in his own water.
"Wwwwwow," Herman muttered, running a trembling hand through his hair.
He faltered, pausing at the sensation. The fingers caught between his wet strands, almost like they were getting stuck. He frowned, pulling the hand away. "What—"
It was covered—covered—in cum.
Herman's eyes snapped wide. He flung his waterproof sheet away from his lap to be met with one of the more unpleasant sights he'd ever had the misfortune of witnessing.
"Oh."
He was sitting in what was quite literally a lake of jizz. It was everywhere. Soaked through his boxers, smeared across his thighs, matted into the sparse trail of hair running along his navel, and, of course, stringing between the fingers of both of his hands up to his wrists.
Herman tilted his head back, loosing a deflated groan. Well, it had been a dream, alright—a really, really freaking intense dream. About his boss, of all people.
He liked Robert, sure. He was nice, funny, gave Herman the time of day—which was more than he could say for the rest of the Z-Team—and he'd been Mecha Man to boot. But sexual like? Robert was his mentor. He was a hero from the major leagues, where Herman was just some rookie. He hadn't even considered it.
Well, it would seem not consciously, at least.
Herman bit his lip, reluctant eyes trailing down his body to his cum covered crotch and soft cock outlined with perfect clarity, thanks to the jizzy wetness of his boxers. Yeah, he always came a lot, but this… this was just unnecessary.
Gingerly swinging his legs over the bed, in an attempt to keep as much… liquid from spilling off the mattress as possible, Herman stood. A glance at his bedside clock confirmed he wasn't late for work yet, but he wasn't going to leave this for Grandma to potentially find.
Allowing himself a final repentant sigh, he changed, carefully gathered up the evidence, and headed for the laundry room—vehemently vowing to never think of this morning again.
He was thirteen minutes into his shift when he broke that promise.
At the first syllable of Robert's drawling "Good morning, Z-Team," Herman stiffened, a strangled squeal catching in his throat even as he beat it back.
Robert was just greeting everyone. There was nothing weird about that. No one knew. Everything was totally, 100%, completely normal.
Don't think about his tongue. Don't think about his lips. Don't think about that mind-blowing orgasm. An orgasm so powerful that Herman had to wash his sheets twice and skip breakfast just to get to work on time. His grandma, blessedly, didn't question his sudden passion for laundry.
Herman would sooner pick a fight with Coupe (and end up stuck in 3 separate suitcases at the bottom of the LA River) than admit it, but Grandma probably knew exactly what happened to him today. He only prayed he was at least quiet during the act itself.
"—boy. Waterboy. Hey kid, you with us?"
Robert's voice snapped him back to reality like a rubber band to the back of his hand.
"Y-Yes??" Herman blurted in a high-pitched voice that definitely sounded completely normal and not like he'd just been thinking about Robert giving him a sloppy toppy.
"You didn't answer your comms check," Robert replied, "You good?"
"Fine!" Herman practically shouted, nearly cutting Robert off.
A pause.
"Okay…" Robert trailed off, suspicion evident but mercifully refusing to pry any further.
"Since it seems like everyone's good," He switched back to the group channel. "Let's get started."
The day was tortuously long. And bad. Really, freakin' bad.
Herman had been on the team for a couple of months. He'd improved to the point where most of his calls ended in veritable success. Did he suspect Robert typically sent him on the easier dispatches? Sure, but if Herman could walk away unhurt and with a sense of accomplishment under his belt, he was satisfied.
Today though—today he just couldn't seem to get himself together.
"Okay, Waterboy," Robert sighed, failing to contain the obvious exasperation, "Just, don't worry about it. I'm sure that cat will turn up… somewhere. Just get to the next call."
"Waterboy. Kid. You really need to think about where you're aiming that spray, man. Video feed is showing that you just broke, like, three windows with that last one."
"Alright, just—look, Waterboy, it seems like you're having a rough one today. How about you come back to base a bit early, 'kay? There's not too much going on right now anyway."
Herman could practically hear Robert pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He apologized for what had to have been the billionth time that day, but it didn't make the defeat any easier. Maybe it would just be better for everyone at SDN if he demoted himself back to janitorial work. He liked it, he was good at it, and most importantly, it would keep him away from Robert's intoxicating voice rumbling through his ears, continuously pulling his consciousness back to the hottest dream Herman had experienced in… well, ever.
At least the team wasn't too rough on him as he made the walk of shame back to HQ.
Visi: "Coupe probably killed that cat anyway."
Coupe: "Fuck you, no one ever paid me to kill animals."
Visi: "Soooo, you would if it was a paid job?"
Prism: "Maybe Waterboy drowned it on accident or something."
Flambae: "Nah, I think Sonar ate it."
Sonar: "I'm not going to eat a cat at work. Who the fuck does that?"
Flambae: "You, probably."
Sonar: "Hey, at least I'm smart enough not to ignore expert advice about building a stock portfolio."
Flambae: "Ughhhh, I already told you I'm not buying crypto. That shit is for losers.
Sonar: "I literally went to Harva—"
Visi: "Yes, we know, and yet you're on the same team as Waterboy, the guy that couldn't even find a cat."
He ended up taking his earpiece out halfway back to SDN. If they needed him, well… they probably wouldn't. Of course, even when he arrived back at headquarters, he found himself rummaging about the janitorial closet and doing custodial tasks before leaving.
Cleaning was easier than thinking.
If he cleaned out the break-room fridge, he wouldn't have to go home to the scene of the crime. If he disinfected the locker room showers, he wouldn't have to think about the fact that he disappointed Robert (not to mention the entire team) by being a closeted perv. If he mopped the lobby, he wouldn't—
"Soooo, like, what the fuck is up with you today?"
Herman started, dropping the mop he'd been carting back to the janitor's closet with a sharp crack against the linoleum. He whipped his head around as he bent down to retrieve it, gaze meeting thick muscles barely contained beneath orange and black lycra.
Flambae.
"Oh! N-nothing. Just feeling weird—off. Was feeling off, I guess…" Herman didn't quite meet the coppery eyes currently dissecting him with an unnerving intensity.
"Something happen?" Flambae pressed, "I mean, you were totally cool yesterday. You even stopped that riot about the zoo being closed on a Saturday totally solo. The fuck happened between then and now?"
"Nothing! Nothing," Herman said, frantically waving his hands (and mop handle) in front of his face. "Everything's fine. Cool. Uh, g-great. Awesome."
He flashed a watery smile, praying it would convey his desperate plea for Flambae to just drop it. Unfortunately, though not surprisingly, the man just kept on talking with blissful ignorance.
"Fine my ass. Come on, Waterbitch, you can talk to me." He grinned, and the genuine kindness behind the smile caught Herman off guard. Even a few months into working with the Z-Team, he was still regularly surprised that they actually, well, cared. (At least, as much as recently reformed villains could care.)
But despite that, Herman wasn't about to tell Flambae that he produced 'Ocean de Jizz', dreaming about their boss that morning.
"It's—it's really okay. Just didn't—ah, didn't sleep well… last night. Stress dream…" he mumbled, shifting his weight awkwardly.
He wondered if, with enough concentration, he could perhaps melt into the floor completely. There was an already impressive puddle of awkward 'please just leave me to my horny thoughts' water pooling around his feet.
Flambae just nodded obliviously.
"See, that wasn't so hard! We've all been there, okay? I mean, after I lost my fingers, I was a mess. So listen," he clapped a scalding hand onto Herman's shoulder, and steam quickly began to pour from the contact.
"Go splash some water on your face," he paused, smirking to himself, "—well, more water, look at yourself in the mirror, and take five deep breaths. Helps you relax or whatever. Worked great every time I saw my hand after the accident and would freak the fuck out."
Herman forced a smile that he hoped didn't look too pained. He hated lying (though technically he might be able to call what happened a stress dream… at least, a stress-relieving one), but the quicker Flambae left him alone, the better. He just wanted to forget the whole thing, a task proving exceptionally challenging for someone who embarrassed himself twice an hour, on average.
"Thanks. I'll do—try that."
Flambae shoved his shoulder away playfully, then snatched the mop from where Herman had been holding on with white-knuckled intensity. Like a wooden dowel was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
"Nuh uh, you go now," Flambae said, lips curving into a wickedly smug grin, "That's good advice, and you're going to follow it. I'll even put this away 'cause that's just how nice I am. Try not to be too impressed."
With that, he winked and marched off to the janitor's closet with all the over-confident swagger of a man who just solved world hunger by smiling and flexing. Herman watched him go, hands now woefully empty of any distractions. Loosing a tired sigh, he resigned himself to at least attempt Flambae's advice before heading home to face his dreaded bed.
The plash of water in the sink basin echoed sharply throughout the large, empty restroom. With the day shift drawing to a close, the office had mostly cleared out, leaving a sense of incongruity—as workspaces often do when vacant. Like some forgotten, liminal place sitting just outside the edges of reality.
Herman splashed another handful of tap water over his face, dragging his hands down his cheeks and scrubbing hard at his eyes, as if in some futile attempt to erase the false memory of Robert's tongue lapping at his most sensitive regions. Turning off the faucet, he forced his eyes up to meet his reflection. Tap water mixed with his secretions dripped down his chin with a steady pat pat pat into the sink.
He inhaled. Exhaled. One.
Don't think about Robert.
Inhale. Exhale. Two.
Don't think about Robert.
Inhale. Exhale. Three.
Don't think about—
Herman groaned, dropping his head to his chest. Flambae's advice would have been perfectly nice if the problem had been what Herman said it was. But how the heck could he move past shooting the biggest load of his entire life, in his sleep, imagining his boss as the cause?!
He ran a rough hand through his hair and leveled his reflection with a stern expression.
"Look, Herman, you just need to relax. Get over it. Everyone has… unprofessional dreams at one time or another. You can't afford another day like today. You disappointed the team, and Miss Blazer, and definitely Robert."
He exhaled sharply, glaring at himself like he could force the belief his reflection was the one to blame for every inappropriate thought he'd ever had through sheer willpower. Long fingers came down to grip the cold, metal edge of the sink.
"You are gonna go home, you are gonna put your sheets back on your stupid bed, and you are going to forget you ever had a sex dream about your freaking boss."
Slam.
Herman whipped his head toward the door fast enough to elicit a sharp stab of pain in his neck. His stomach dropped through the earth's core, punching a one-way ticket into the ninth circle of hell. Wide, chestnut brown eyes, rimmed with the dark bags of too much stress and too little sleep stared at him in naked shock, before Robert quickly schooled his expression into one of nonchalance.
"Hey kid," he said casually.
"Robert!" Herman blurted. Heck, it was practically a squeak, complete with voice crack everything—like he was back at band camp around his first crush.
"Soooo," Robert closed the distance between them, turning to the sink beside Herman's and setting down a pair of tweezers, "That's why you were acting weird today, huh?"
Herman contemplated smacking his head against the sink. Maybe with a hard enough hit, he could manifest short-term amnesia. He'd even take forgetting the last ten seconds! Though he'd certainly be grateful if fate could remove the past twenty-four hours.
Then Robert began undoing the top buttons of his shirt, and Herman all but fainted like some 18th-century woman he'd seen in movies—one whose corset had been tied too tight.
"W-w-w-w—" he stammered, water blooming with such fervor along his skin that it dripped audibly onto the tile below.
Robert turned to him with a slightly bemused expression, though when it became clear Herman wasn't making it past the first word of his question, he was finally spared.
"Got some glass in my chest, if you didn't notice."
Herman blinked, eyes flicking down to the suddenly obvious pricks of blood and glass decorating Robert's SDN button-up. In another context, he would've been embarrassed at his obliviousness, but considering what Robert just walked in on him saying? Yeah, no—nothing was topping that in the mortification department.
"Anyway," Robert shrugged, turning to watch his reflection finish undoing the last button and shrugging off the stained shirt. "Sex dream, huh? How'd I do?"
Amazing, Herman thought.
"Amazing," Herman said.
Immediately, he clapped a wet hand over his mouth, the slap of moist flesh sending a constellation of droplets shooting away from his face. Robert only snorted a laugh, which quickly turned into a wince as he pulled the first shard from his skin.
"Damn, kid. You know I don't have control of raises or anything, right?"
"Nnnnonono! What I meant—it's not like—I don't think of that—you!—like that. Not that you're not handso—attracti—hot. Wait, sorry, that's not—"
"What? I'm not good-looking?" Robert smirked at him through the mirror.
"No! No, you're, like, super sexy!" Herman practically shouted.
Water gushed from his every pore—his every atom, probably. At the rate he was leaking, Herman was confident California could fight its summer forest fires with him alone. Already, the standard puddle around his boots had doubled in size, now quickly working to encompass the adjacent soles of Robert's shoes.
Herman caught a faint flush spreading over Robert's face, honeyed skin darkening with blotches of dusty pink that brought out the smattering of freckles embellishing his cheeks. Robert's expression, however, remained impassively calm.
"Thanks, though I think 'sexy' tends to come with the territory of sex dream."
Herman heaved an exasperated sigh and hung his head, cheeks flaming. "Please, just—can you just forget you heard that, Robert—erm, sir?"
"That you think I'm hot, or that you dreamed about—" Robert cut himself off with a hiss, pulling a particularly large shard from his chest and dropping it to the sink with a soft tink.
"Both!" Herman groaned, "Just—what happened to you anyway?" He added in a desperate bid to change the subject.
"Oh, this?" Robert looked from Herman down to his blood-streaked skin, "Phenonanaman. Phenomamanalman? He really picked a mind-fuck of a name, didn't he? In any case, it wasn't on purpose. Blazer asked me to give him a pep-talk or… something along those lines. Apparently, that's my new superpower here."
"Do you n-need help?"
Herman couldn't really explain why he wasn't bolting at the first sign of freedom. He should be mortified. He should want to crawl over the porcelain rim of one of the toilet bowls and try to flush himself far away from this conversation—from Robert. Yet the dispatcher had taken his extreme lack of professionalism and overt horniness so coolly that Herman actually wanted to stay.
Robert raised an amused eyebrow to him through the mirror, another tink of glass echoing in the space between them.
"Can't lie, I would appreciate it."
Herman nodded with a wan smile, and Robert hoisted himself to a seat on the sink's edge.
"Thanks," Herman muttered, coming to face him and taking up the tweezers.
"You bend over enough as it is," Robert said with a quirk of his mouth, wincing at the first prod of metal, "Figured I don't need to contribute to your back problems any more than I probably already do by virtue of my height."
"You're not—very—that short."
Tink.
"Yeah, and bears don't shit in the woods."
Tink.
"Everyone is short. Well, that is—short to me anyway. Also, the suit—with you as Mecha Man—don't need to be tall to do cool stuff."
Herman made the mistake of lifting his eyes from his work to meet effervescent, earthy brown watching him intently. They were probably the closest they'd ever been (at least, outside of Herman's stupid, horny unconscious). Close enough for Herman to take in the blackheads on Robert's nose, the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, the fine lines of too much worry starting at too young an age, creasing the space between his brows.
How had he not realized he was attracted to Robert before? It was as obvious. As clear as the sky of a California summer's morning. As evident as Coupe and Punch Up's lingering feelings for each other.
The tweezers suddenly slipped out of Herman's grip, where they'd been embedded half an inch deep into Robert's chest.
"Ah! Fuck, kid." Robert inhaled sharply.
"Sorry!" Herman blurted.
Retrieving the tweezers, Herman made quick work of the last of the glass, cheeks flaming with both embarrassment and something else—something much worse.
"Thanks," Robert said, dropping from the sink, "I should probably get outta here, Beef is still sleeping at my desk. Can patch the rest up at home. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
However, at the door, the dispatcher stopped short, and the bathroom's moist air seemed to thicken. Robert glanced over his shoulder with a predatory leer—a smile sharper than the blood-stained shards now littering the sink basin.
"And Waterboy?" Herman swallowed with a cartoonishly loud gulp. "Try to get some actual sleep tonight, okay?"
Well, that was a nice seven minutes of feeling like he could survive beyond the day's events.
And then Robert was gone, leaving Herman with the reality that his dream wasn't just the product of a pent-up one-time fantasy, but something he'd managed to bury deep within his subconscious for months now. Something that had been building since Robert fixed his tie the day of his interview. Since Robert had picked him for the Z-Team. Since Robert stuck up for him time and time and time again—making Herman feel appreciated, important, wanted.
He liked Robert. Like like. Sexual like. Romantic like.
Well then. If that wasn't just his luck.
Post-unfortunate realization, things got really awkward between Herman and Robert. No, scratch that—Herman got really awkward around Robert. Even more than his usual stumbling word vomit and perpetual blush, which was just embarrassing at this point.
In the following days, turned to weeks, Herman could safely say he hadn't been able to hold Robert's gaze for more than two-point-five seconds since the bathroom. Every space they shared would conspicuously heat to an intolerable degree. The daily purr of Robert's vocal fry in his ears caused his stomach to weave itself into an impressive array of knots. And worse, he also couldn't stop himself from getting Robert his favorite doughnut. Making him coffee before the start of shifts. Or—well—keeping his thoughts away from a certain weary face every time he touched himself.
And yet, Robert… Robert—
Well, putting it bluntly, Herman wasn't so sexless as to be blind to certain Signs. And the dispatcher was flashing them in bright neon while shirtless and pirouetting in assless chaps. Standing closer in the elevators. Taking breaks at conspicuously similar times of day. Increased worry lacing Robert's voice during bad calls.
It was wrong on so many levels. Supervisor and subordinate. Mentor and mentee. The Mecha Man himself wanting to jump the bones of the office loser because said loser had a fantastically record-breaking wet dream about him? It was a dilemma even the most morally righteous hero would struggle with.
Or, at least, that was what Herman tried to make himself believe. Because the real truism of the situation was pretty black-and-white. Robert was a walking HR violation. Herman liked—loved—his job, and if Robert chose to be irresponsible, it was Herman's duty to take up the mantle of professional sanctimony.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown, or whatever the saying was.
Except Herman never looked good in hats. And when his crush was throwing himself at him, left, right, and center, Herman could only hold out for so long. At least his sheets had been spared from his overzealous imagination, though that was probably related to him actively fantasizing about his boss during his fap sessions. (Which also had been increasing in frequency, but that was totally normal and obviously not related.)
The night his indecorous illusions finally manifested into reality started the same way most bad decisions do—with alcohol.
The team was at a bar. A villain bar of all places. Herman wasn't a big drinker, especially not hard liquor, but when Robert Robertson starts handing you drinks? Well, you darn well drink 'em.
He was feeling pretty good when the first punches started flying.
Herman wasn't sure who started what, or if this was simply a nightly occurrence at villain-based establishments, but in any case, he didn't have much time to question things. One moment, he'd been contentedly leaning against the cool brick of the back wall, waiting for Robert to return from the bar, the next, Robert was being decked by a guy with giant mechanical arms, and Herman's drink had been knocked to the floor with an impressive shatter of glass and liquor that, frankly, he wasn't sorry to see go.
Things got a bit fuzzy after that.
There was a dodged punch followed by a not-so-dodged punch that whited out his vision for a moment. Then he was vomiting water onto the closest (hopefully) bad guy, which was followed up with a cascade of 'ews' and 'what the fucks' before villains were slipping and crashing to the floor. Perfect height for their groins to find unfortunate purchase with Punch Up's fists.
Herman looked around for Robert a bit dazedly, finding him now in the clutches of neon green, phantasmal spider's legs. He broke into a charge, only for one of the many bodies struggling to find their feet around him to grab his ankle. He flew to the floor, smashing his nose against the linoleum with a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage.
Whipping his head back, Herman kicked at the face of his aggressor.
"That—" Kick. "Was—" Kick. "Rude!"
Then Malevola yanked the guy up by his collar and flung him through a portal. She smiled dangerously, offering Herman a hand up, before she hurdled her sword around in a wide arc, catching another black-clad villain directly in the gut. The guy gurgled out a nauseating groan, the blunt edge of the sword flinging him backward into a table.
"Keep up, Wetboy!" Malevola cackled and slung herself stiletto-first over an overturned table, heel connecting with the cheek of another unsuspecting victim.
"I'm trying!" He yelled, scanning the chaos for a familiar head of unruly brown hair.
There—the blue of Robert's bloodied SDN uniform just peeked out of the end of the corridor to the bathrooms. Herman set his jaw, took a breath, and bounded across the bedlam of cracking bones and wild laughter. He made it about six feet before he caught a dark wall of something flying toward him out of the corner of his eye, just quick enough to understand there was nothing he could do.
A pool table slammed him into the closest wall with a punched out exhale, the ominous crack of something within his chest that should not have cracked echoed in his ears, despite the roar of pandemonium around him.
"Sorry, lil man," Golem's earthy rumble rattled through his ruined ribcage.
"'s cool," Herman coughed out, dragging himself away from the table where its intended target remained, pinned and unconscious beneath the heavy wood.
He blinked dumbly, trying to remember why he was even here, and wondering if it might've been best to have refused the evening's invite. The Z-Team seemed to be having the time of their lives. Unhinged laughter, agonized howls, and the spray of blood coalesced to fill the air with a suffocating miasma of havoc that Herman did not feel built for.
That was, until he spied Robert stumbling out of the bathroom hallway, bloodied, battered, and clutching his ribs. And immediately, as if the guy wasn't clearly in need of a hospital twice over, he was closing the distance toward his next target, climbing over the bar to launch himself—fists first—at the fight's instigator. Herman couldn't help it; his lips broke into a wide smile.
And just like that, he was sprinting toward the mess of limbs before he even registered he'd moved.
"Rober—!"
He was cut off with a punched out oof as the man in question was hauled over the bar, flying straight into Herman's chest. They tumbled downward in a tangle of arms and groans. Herman's head snapped back, only instead of thunking into the floor, he was cradled by something softer than the ground. Robert had managed to get a hand around the back of his head, a maniacal grin plastered over his tired features from where his face had been momentarily buried in Herman's neck.
"Hey kid," he chuckled.
And then Robert was scrambling back to his feet, hauling Herman up, and jerking his head toward the bar with a feral sneer. "Wanna get in on this?"
Robert didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he picked up a broken chair leg and, with a running start, heaved himself back over the bar to bury it into one of the villain's giant mechanical arms. Herman followed, of course managing to slip his way over the bar and drop down to the increasingly familiar, and exceptionally dirty, linoleum.
All the same, he swung himself around and kicked the guy's knee inward. The villain coughed out a groan, dropping to the ground where Herman steeled his diaphragm, sucked in a massive breath, and vomited a stream of water as hard as he could right into the man's grimacing face. The villain's head snapped back from the force, remaining functional prosthetic arm releasing a groaning Robert to the floor. Herman tried to find his legs, but it was unnecessary when Punch Up was suddenly flying down onto the guy from a Malevola portal, fists raining.
He was out in seconds.
Herman eyed the now unconscious body with a glazed expression, as if he was expecting the guy to spring back up shouting "ooga booga!". A warm hand dropped heavily to his shoulder, pulling him back to reality. Robert smiled down at him, blood dripping from his lower lip and cheek already beginning to darken a stomach-churning purple. He offered a hand up.
"Come on, cowboy."
Herman blinked, inspecting the hand confusedly, then smiled, wrapping long fingers around Robert's wrist and pulling himself to his feet. A quick survey of the carnage around them revealed the Z Team seemed to be the last ones standing. Although standing was a loose term for a few of them—Robert, especially.
"First bar fight, yeah?" Visi smirked, rolling her shoulder and smacking Herman's chest playfully, "Did pretty good, Waterbitch. Though I'm pretty sure your nose is fucked."
Tentatively, Herman raised his fingers to the bridge of his nose. They came away bloodied.
"Come on," rough fingers curled around Herman's wrist, and Robert began to lead them toward the restroom, "Let's clean you up a bit."
Herman nodded dumbly, brain still lagging five seconds behind, and dutifully followed, stepping over moaning and unconscious bodies as he went. Even the bathroom hadn't been spared. Herman recognized the weird fire-lizard guy that had been harassing Robert during the fight, now out cold in the middle of the floor.
Robert didn't even look down when he stepped on the guy's chest to get over him.
"Alright," Robert huffed, heaving himself into a seat on the counter in a move concernedly reminiscent of the Bathroom Confession. He grabbed a handful of paper towels from the, somehow, still intact dispenser, and waved Herman over.
"Well? Get over here, man. You look like Bloodyboy rather than Waterboy," he chuckled.
Herman obeyed, coming to stand in front of Robert and wincing softly at the first press of the towel.
"Jeez, someone clocked you good," Robert muttered as he worked, "Probably going to have a wicked curve when this heals."
Herman didn't bother mentioning that it was the floor which did the most damage. Instead, he flashed a weak smile.
"Always thought crooked noses were kinda sexy—hot."
Dimly, Herman knew the statement should've been an embarrassing one, but whether it was his still-decent buzz—or the residual adrenal spike—his brain felt soupy. A pleasant cocktail of thick and slow, like warmed honey.
Robert huffed a laugh, "Me too."
Then he dropped the bloodied, damp paper towel to his lap with a grin. "But what about this?"
Robert lifted his hand to Herman's eye level and unceremoniously dislocated his thumb, bending it completely backward and keeping it there.
Herman grimaced, "That work on a lot of people?"
Robert shrugged, then hissed in pain, "Was hoping it'd work on you."
Immediately, Herman's suit heated to an intolerable degree; the latex he'd been comfortable in a moment ago now clung in all the wrong ways.
"You're really making a pass—hitting on me after a fight—bar fight?" He asked incredulously, miserably failing to keep his voice from climbing into the stratosphere.
The corner of Robert's mouth twitched, his eyes glinting deviously in the flickering light.
"What? You don't get crazy horny after getting the shit kicked out of you?"
"I don't know if that's he—healthy," Herman murmured, but already he was being drawn in, allowing Robert to pull him gently into the offered space between his knees.
Rationally, he understood he was being really dumb right now. Dumb and horny and a little drunk. The team was waiting for them outside. Authorities, or at least the bar's owner, could burst in at any moment. Yet he was letting Robert reel him in like some kind of deranged fish—one that had been successfully tempted with the unorthodox bait of blood, bruises, and cracked ribs.
Herman wasn't sure what about him was doing it for the dispatcher, but Robert looked about two seconds from committing numerous HR violations. Heck, he was practically undressing Herman with his eyes at this point.
"Come on, sweetheart," he purred, "Don't you want to make that dream of yours a reality?"
Herman groaned, low and broken. The thick warmth of arousal curled low in his stomach, nestling between the bruised muscles of his abdomen.
"You're a bad boss," he muttered, and then he was smashing his mouth onto Robert's.
Herman could feel the curve of Robert's lips against his, twisted into a filthy sneer. Two scorching hands moved from his collar to his hips, wet latex heating to an near unbearable degree beneath the palms. Robert roughly yanked him forward the rest of the way, shimmying himself to the edge of the counter to inelegantly smoosh their frames together.
Herman wasn't standing idle, though. He may have been less experienced, but if he was going to do this, then he certainly wasn't going to do it as a passive observer. His hands flew to the buttons of Robert's shirt, wet fingers slipping clumsily over the plastic as he attempted to undo them. There was no grace—no savoring to their movements. It was hunger. Bone-deep hunger, made even stronger by impaired decision-making.
Their tongues were in each other's mouths almost the moment their lips met, everything wet and sanguinary and painful. Herman gasped against Robert with every brush along his ruined nose, his head throbbing with pain just as his dick swelled with the promise of pleasure.
Robert's hands were everywhere. One second, they were sliding up along his jaw, calloused fingers carding through the wet strands of hair along his nape. The next, they were skating down his chest, kneading into Herman's pectorals, heaving with stuttered, shallow breaths.
Robert hooked his ankles behind Herman's ass, pulling their hips flush, and with the benefit of the counter's height, they were in perfect vertical alignment. Herman choked out a surprised sound at the feeling of Robert's thickening cock pressing into his hip, and suddenly, he couldn't be bothered with the rest of the shirt's buttons. Grasping the fabric's edges, he wrenched the garment open, sending a cascade of plastic buttons ricocheting through the filthy room.
Robert pulled back with a look of disbelief, damp hair now plastered to his forehead.
"Did you seriously just rip my shirt open?"
Herman blinked, and his ears immediately warmed to a degree where steam was surely beginning to curl over his head. "I—I thought—is that not—?"
Robert chuckled, diving back in to pepper kisses down Herman's neck, ending with a light bite to his collarbone over fabric.
"Just gonna be hard to explain that to the team," Robert hummed against the hollow of his neck, "Plus I only have, like, three shirts. Well—two now."
Herman opened his mouth to continue his apologies, only to snap it shut—swallowing a thick, indignant whine as the dispatcher licked a long, cruel stripe back up to his lips. The kiss was even more messy and uncoordinated than Herman's typical brand of make-outs, all tongue and drool and Robert's split lip still lazily weeping blood.
Man, his suit was not getting any more comfortable. Why the hell had he decided on full-body latex and not just some goddamn swim trunks?
"What's your name anyway?" Robert murmured against his lips.
"Huh?" Herman muttered, pushing aside the fabric of Robert's shirt to access the roughened skin. Skin he'd seen so many times in the locker room without even realizing how desperately he'd wanted to touch it.
"Your real name. I'm not—" Robert broke off with a groan, body shuddering as Herman found a nipple and lightly pinched, "I'm not shouting fucking Waterboy when I cum."
"Herman."
Immediately, Robert pulled back, fixing him with an incredulous look.
"You're joking."
Herman bit his lip. He'd always been a bit embarrassed by his name. Debatable if it was as bad as 'Robert Robertson', but it definitely didn't do him any favors in the sex department.
His eyes flicked down to one of the sinks beside them. "I know it's a lame—an old guy name—but it's not a joke."
"No—no wait, I'm sorry," Robert whispered, cupping his jaw and forcing their eyes to meet, "I didn't mean it like that. It's just Herman—like Herman Melville, ya know?"
"I don't—no?"
"What? Herman Melville—author of Moby Dick and arguably the most famous 'Herman'? Come on, that's, like, required middle school reading."
Herman rolled his eyes and, because he was horny and annoyed by the direction this conversation had taken, he decided to be a little petty. Taking Robert's face in his hands, he mustered as much water as possible to his palms. Robert grimaced as body-warm water began running down his cheeks and neck in wide rivulets, threading through his exposed chest hair, over the ripples and valleys of scars along his torso, and soaking into the waistband of his slacks.
"You think—believe, that books and—and I get along?" Herman asked flatly.
Robert chuckled, eyes warming with an incalculable fondness. "Touche."
Then his eyes darkened once more, lids growing heavy with lust, as he slid a hand slowly down the plane of Herman's chest and stomach to cup his partially softened erection over bright latex.
"Christ, Herman," Robert waggled his eyebrows, "You certainly have a white whale down here, don't you?"
Herman couldn't help it—he tossed his head back, coughing out a wet laugh, "Oh my god, you did not—did not seriously just compare my dick to a whale."
Robert flashed a wolfish smile, pressing the meat of his palm into the base of Herman's stiffening cock.
"Yeah, I did. Now, what're you going to do about it?"
Herman exhaled heavily, dropping his head to Robert's shoulder, and instantly soaking the opened collar. Slowly—far, far too slowly—Robert's hand began to stroke along his length.
"Herman—"
"H-Herm. Or Hermy." He muttered into the fabric.
"Alright, Hermy, tell me what you want me to do to you?"
Robert's voice had gone intoxicatingly low. The sound resonated soothingly against his battered ribs. Slid languidly over his brain, as if Herman was licking from a spile sticking directly into Robert's most depraved thoughts.
"I—" Herman shivered, bucking into the heat of Robert's hand. The squeak of flesh on latex echoed against the tiled walls. "Anything. Please."
Robert tsked, nipping the tip of Herman's ear.
"Come on, you got me eating out of the palm of your hand here. What do you want?"
Herman thought. " I-I want," he swallowed hard, willing himself to be brave. "I want you to get on your knees."
Robert's head whipped back, only for his shocked expression to contort into one of pain. He groaned, rubbing the back of his bruised neck.
"Shit, man, didn't think you'd be so forward."
"Sorry! Do you not want—" Herman started, but Robert was already pushing him back with a smile that was all teeth and tantalizing hunger.
"Of course I fucking want."
Robert gingerly slid off the sink and, without breaking eye contact, began to lower himself to the dingy, glass-strewn floor. Herman quickly kicked aside any shards, allowing the dispatcher to settle before him. The rich chestnut of his irises was nearly hidden beneath the veil of blown pupils and heavy eyelids. His cheeks flushed dusky pink, freckles more pronounced against the caramel of his skin—like sugar just on the edge of burning.
Even abused and battered—split lip, swollen eye, bruised to hell and back—Robert was perfection. A living callous. One which Herman had somehow managed to soften via his awkwardness, sincerity, and excess moisture. And he could see it now—that beneath Robert's rough, apathetic exterior was someone desperate for connection.
And in that regard, they were in the same boat.
Of course, whatever warm, fuzzy feelings Herman currently had sloshing about his chest quickly thickened into the syrupy heat of lust when Robert flashed a disgustingly lewd smile up at him, now sitting just below eye level with Herman's crotch. (Curse his ridiculous height. It wasn't even like his parents were that tall!)
Robert licked his lips, leaned forward, and pressed an open-mouth kiss to the base of Herman's erection. It twitched impatiently where it was pinned unpleasantly between latex and thigh, and Herman raggedly exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"This what you dreamed about?" Robert sighed against his cock, gliding his cheek against the persistent heat pushing against the fabric. His hands began to drift up the length of Herman's chest. "Wanted me to taste you?"
"Yes," Herman breathed. He sucked in a sharp inhale when Robert's hand found the suit's zipper at his collar and began to pull.
"Wanna s-see your mouth on—" Herman caught his lip between his teeth, biting back a whimper when Robert's other hand came up to cup his balls. Flicking his tongue out, Robert licked an obscenely long stripe over the detestable latex currently strangling Herman's dick—all while maintaining maddeningly steady eye contact.
"Fuck Robert," Herman whispered, hands clenched awkwardly to his sides.
Robert huffed a laugh, breath heating the straining fabric in a way that drove Herman absolutely insane. Again, his cock pulsed eagerly within its prison.
"Never heard you curse before," Robert smirked, "It's fucking hot. Great encouragement for me."
The zip was almost to Herman's navel now. He sucked in a deep breath of the bathroom's fetid air at the first brush of Robert's knuckles against the sparse line of hair leading to his crotch. This was happening. Robert was going to suck him off in some disgusting bathroom after a bar fight.
And it was absolutely perfect.
Until it wasn't.
"Christ, what the hell is taking so long—" a familiar muffled voice drifted in, and with a jarring bang, the bathroom flew open to reveal none other than Flambae standing at the threshold.
Herman's head whipped around, hands immediately flying to cover his crotch despite facing away from the entrance. Whatever Flambae had been in the process of saying died on his lips. His jaw dropped open, fiery eyes shooting cartoonishly wide.
"You have to be fucking kidding me."
Robert loosed an audible sigh. With a grunt, he stood and craned his head around Herman.
"You have really shit timing, know that?" He said flatly.
Flambae's arms flew wide. "I have shit timing? We're all waiting for you to clean Wetboy up, and you're in here sucking dick!"
Herman opened his mouth, though he had no real plan for how he was going to explain that yes, in fact, he and Robert had made the entire team wait around while they were getting each other off. In any case, he was spared at the sound of the entire Z-Team exploding from the bar with holy shits, oh my gods, and they were doing whats.
Flambae pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Look, I am fucking hungry, so you're going to zip up and buy us Del Taco while I try to scrub this image from my eyes."
With that, he turned and left Herman to guiltily zip up his suit while Robert pulled his shirt closed (though unable to button it thanks to Herman's… enthusiasm) and flashed a sheepish smile.
"After dinner then, sweetheart," he whispered, pressing a quick kiss to Herman's cheek before half-limping from the bathroom.
Herman didn't miss that, unfortunately, Robert's entire front was soaked.
And, if he was being honest with himself, he wasn't exactly upset about it either.
Herman's never had a blowjob before.
Yet, as he tipped his head back against Robert's fridge, all he could think about was how much his dream did not do the feeling justice. Robert's mouth was so hot. Hot and plush and sliding with perfect suction along his length. A quiet, broken whimper wormed its way out of his mouth as Robert's tongue swirled around the tip before engulfing him again.
Herman braced himself with one hand against the cool, brushed metal of the fridge, the other threading through the (now thoroughly sopping) strands of Robert's hair.
"You're re-really good at this," he breathed, another undignified noise spilling from his lips when Robert tongued his frenulum.
Unfortunately, he made the mistake of looking down as he said that, finding Robert's eyes gazing back at him, ebony dark in the dim black of the unlit apartment. His lips stretched into a slow, salacious smile around Herman's dick as he bobbed.
"Fuck—stop!" Herman exclaimed, fingers twisting into Robert's hair as he yanked him off with a wet pop.
Robert chuckled, sitting back and wiping a combination of spit and Herman's moisture from his lips.
"Too good?"
"Yeah," Herman sighed, leaning back to ground himself against cold metal. He was naked from the waist up, open suit hanging in an awkward bunch around his hips, and shoved down enough for Robert to access his cock.
"Just wanna—wanna savor it, I guess," He forced a laugh, cringing at his inability to be anything but as earnest as the day was long.
He'd love to say something cool for once—dirty talk, playing coy, something—but that wasn't happening with Robert freaking Robertson, Mecha Man himself, on his knees with the taste of Herman's dick still on his tongue.
Robert grinned filthily, licking his lips and sliding his hands up Herman's legs, ending on both ass cheeks and giving a firm squeeze.
"Fuck, that's so hot. You're just going to make it harder for me to control myself."
Herman whined, his cock pulsing out viscous dribbles of pre-cum onto the already soaked dish towel Robert had insouciantly thrown around Herman's boots.
"Don't want you to—to control yourself," he whispered, involuntarily jerking his hips toward Robert as the dispatcher's strong, calloused fingers kneaded into the meat of his ass.
Robert's gaze darkened, playful smile contorting into something devious and raw in its need. He dropped his hands and gradually leaned forward, jaw slackening—
And then, not for the first time since they'd entered the apartment some twenty-ish minutes earlier, a familiar clink of metal echoed against bare walls as Beef rounded the kitchen's bar.
Robert groaned, whipping his head around to glare at the chihuahua's dopey little face.
"Dude, I told you to go lie down," he bemoaned, but Beef simply trotted over to nuzzle at the hand Robert had been in the process of inching toward his own neglected cock, still trapped beneath straining denim.
Herman coughed out an uncomfortable laugh. Something about Beef's blissfully happy face staring up at him—while Robert was literally inches away from the fattest boner Herman had ever popped—was sending serious mixed messages to his brain.
Robert looked up at him apologetically. "Sorry, I just—I can't bear to, like, stick 'im in the bathroom or something."
A warmth filled Herman's chest like spilled coffee—sweet with a slight burn like the terrible instant stuff Robert loved so much—and he couldn't hold himself back from running his hand through Robert's hair in a smooth pet.
"It's oka—fine. But, erm…" he felt his face flush, traitorous eyes again flicking to Beef's large, innocent ones, "Should we be doing—uh, this—" Herman gestured to his crotch, "—in front of him?"
Robert cocked an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth curling into a poorly suppressed smile.
"I mean, he's a dog, Herm. Haven't any of your granny's cats caught you in the act?"
All too often, Herman thought guiltily. The number of times Snowball or Iris had been lying on the laundry pile housing his… 'special sock' before he'd cleaned it were as innumerable as they were embarrassing.
"Besides," Robert murmured, voice dropping an octave that rattled comfortingly through Herman's battered ribcage, "You really want me to stop?"
Robert raised his hand to give an encouraging tug of Herman's mostly softened dick, already thickening with renewed interest. He felt drunk, though his buzz had long since worn off—intoxicated with the graveled auditory taste of crushed velvet lacing the dispatcher's perfect voice.
Herman shook his head, willing away the claws of shame digging into his chest as Beef abandoned his futile search for Robert's attention to instead quench his apparent thirst with Herman's shin. The combined sensations of hot canine tongue against his leg, gentle tink of dog collar, and then the methodical pump of Robert's dry, rough hand along his shaft were—in all honesty—really weird.
He felt like some kind of deviant, even though his dick had nearly fully hardened under Robert's ministrations—like he was corrupting the sweetest little being in the entire universe. At the hum of Robert's warm laughter, he opened the eyes he hadn't even realized he'd closed.
"W-what?"
"You look like you're about to shit your pants," Robert snickered, "Are you really uncomfortable with this?"
"It's weird!" Herman protested, only to choke out a strangled moan when Robert suddenly lifted his cock to trail a long, broad lick along the underside.
"He'll get bored," Robert whispered into the rigid flesh, pressing open-mouth kisses to the veins along his shaft, "Focus on me, sweetheart."
Herman opened his mouth to object some more, but it only took a glance down to shut him up. Somehow, the dispatcher had undone his pants, one-handed, and without Herman even noticing. (Probably because he'd been too busy trying to ignore the empty-headed ball of fluff currently lapping at the water running down his legs.)
Now, Robert's cock stared up at him from the V of his open fly—uncut, perfectly thick and pink, tip glistening with pre-cum in the low light.
"Oh. Wow." Herman murmured, voice dripping with undisguised reverence. Suddenly, the feel of Beef's tongue steadily licking along his calf felt very far away.
Robert began to stroke himself slowly, a look of knowing satisfaction gradually settling over his tired features as Herman's eyes tracked the movement.
"Still weird?" Robert asked, fingers leaving Herman's cock to delve into the space between his legs and fondle his balls.
"Y-y—" Herman couldn't get beyond the first syllable before interrupting himself with a throaty groan. His head thudded back against the fridge, hips bucking toward Robert's face in a wordless demand for attention.
"Fuck, Robert. Please."
Rather than a reply, he was answered with the soft, incandescent wetness of Robert's mouth. The fingers tangled in Robert's hair tightened, strands pulled taut beneath Herman's desire for more. The dispatcher groaned in approval, the vibration of his vocal cords providing a delicious massage to the underside of his cock.
And, by Robert's own promise, Beef did in fact get bored. A few more licks along Herman's leg, and his thirst was quenched. With a satisfied snort, Beef proceeded to turn tail and retreat to his dog bed. Meanwhile, Herman was only growing increasingly parched, just not for water.
His knuckles turned white where they gripped Robert's hair, and on one particularly good slurp, Herman unconsciously snapped his hips into that perfect, heady moisture. Immediately, Robert made a wet, gagging sound, pulling off with a moist cough.
"Oh god—oh f—I'm sorr—so sorry," Herman stammered, his hand flying away from Robert as if burned. "I'm—that was really inconsider—rude."
Steam began to unfurl from his exposed skin in tiny, vaporous curls. Robert looked up to him, only to flash a wolfish grin.
"Oh, so that's how it's going to be, huh?" He asked, voice dripping with a frankly pornographic level of sensuality.
"Nnnno! I didn't—"
Robert only shook his head, shutting Herman up with an audible clack of teeth.
"I want you to," he said, resuming the movement of his hand over his cock. "Fuck my face, sweetheart. Please."
Herman's eyes blew wide. The steam twirling lazily in the space between them grew into a full-on mist, like Robert was some sort of ethereal angel of dick sucking, appearing to him in a fantastical cloud of fog to take Herman's blowjob virginity. Yet he hesitated, even as his cock bounced excitedly.
"Are you sure? I mean—I'm not—I know it's kinda… erm, big…" He trailed off, resisting the impulse to cover his face in embarrassment.
Robert barked a laugh. "Damn, someone ain't modest."
Herman rolled his eyes. "It's not like—I'm not trying to show off! I don't want hurt you."
"I'm not asking again, sweetheart," Robert murmured, voice cloyingly thick and sticking to Herman in all the right places. A shiver ran up his spine.
"O-okay," he exhaled. With a hard swallow, he dropped his hand into Robert's matted, wet hair once more and pulled the dispatcher's face toward his cock.
"Open," he commanded, soaking the word in as much authority as he possibly could manage.
It still came out a bit hesitant. A far cry from Robert's ability to invoke absolute domination into his every syllable when the need arose—yet the man himself choked off a low groan, almost a growl, and allowed himself to be tugged forward. Herman also didn't miss the way Robert's hand paused mid-stroke, and an unfamiliar, bone-deep satisfaction thrummed profoundly through his chest. Confirmation that this was doing it for Robert as much as it was for Herman.
And well, with that being the case, he certainly needed no further encouragement.
At the first parting of Robert's lips, Herman snapped his hips forward, hissing at the minute scrape of teeth before the dispatcher dropped his jaw completely open. He was able to sheath most of his length before smacking the back of Robert's soft palate, the muscles contracting around the spongy head as the dispatcher gagged. Herman gave a quick pause to confirm Robert was okay (which, if his enthusiastic nod was anything to go by, was a resounding 'yes') before thrusting into his mouth again, and again, and again.
He set a brutal pace, one which filled the kitchen with the depraved sounds of wet suction, and the combined moans of two men that had been fucking around for far, far too long to affect any modicum of decency. Herman watched with fascination as his dick rhythmically disappeared beneath swollen, pink lips. Relished the occasional gag when Robert couldn't quite relax his throat enough. Honed in on the frantic, almost sloppy movement of the dispatcher jerking himself off.
"Wwwow, you're—you're so fucking into this," Herman panted.
It was a rather pitiable attempt at dirty talk, but the dispatcher's eyes rolled back nonetheless, face twisting into one of raw want. Robert loosed a strangled whimper, a needy little sound almost lost between the profane echo of squelching and slurping against the miserably barren walls.
"Gosh, you're desperate for it," Herman murmured, a groan punching out of his chest when the hand massaging his balls dipped behind to press into his taint. "Ahh—oh my g—that's so good—perfect. Mmnh—you're perfect Robert."
Another ragged groan vibrated around Herman's cock. Robert was thrusting into his fist as he worked himself, saliva and water running in obscene little rivers down his chin and dripping steadily between them. He was debauched. Ruined. So disgustingly concupiscent Herman thought the Devil himself would be mortified.
A few more thrusts and he was teetering over the edge of oblivion.
"Oh god, Robert," Herman whined, voice a pathetic, tinny little whimper in his own ears. Everything tightened, warmed to an unbearable degree, locked up in unavoidable preparation.
"I'm—I'm cl—close. I'm—oh fuck, don't ssstop."
And then Robert yanked his hand from between Herman's thighs, frantically circling around to grab his ass and shove him deeper. Herman gasped out a wrecked sob as Robert swallowed him completely to the base. The edges of his vision blurred. Every nerve—every cell in his body—all focused on the velvety heat of Robert's throat contracting around the tip of his cock.
It sent him careening over the edge of the abyss—the breathless moment between reaching the pinnacle and tumbling into the mind-altering pleasure of orgasm an endless ocean of time.
"Shit, m'gonna cu—"
Herman barely had the words out before he roughly wrenched Robert off with a loud splort as he shot the first rope. Then the second. Then the third. His cock bounced in wild arcs, each spasm shaking his thighs, tearing a reedy moan from his chest, and sending bolts of prohibitive, mind-numbing pleasure throughout every inch of his body.
He fought for air, every other breath a stuttering gasp as aftershocks crackled up his spine and burst across his synapses, each slower and weaker than the last. Finally, stillness settled over him. The tenseness melted from Herman's muscles, leaving only a pleasant numbness rolling steadily through his limbs like a gentle summer's rain.
When he finally cracked open unfocused eyes, he was doubled over and face to face with—well, frankly, the first thing that came to mind was that Robert looked like he'd just been slapped in the face with a cream pie. The kind of slapstick comedy you'd see in an old black and white movie. Only… this was, unfortunately, a different type of cream pie.
Herman's stomach dropped out of his ass. He'd pulled Robert off because, with the onslaught of impending orgasm, his only thought had been that he really didn't want to choke the unsuspecting dispatcher with the obscene amount he typically shot.
But this might've been worse.
"Oh my—I'm so—I didn't mean—" Herman floundered pathetically, eyes darting fruitlessly around the kitchen for some form of assistance—paper towels, a dishcloth, something?! Of course, Robert simply shrugged off his open shirt and silently wiped away the evidence as Herman flailed his arms uselessly.
"Christ, Herm," Robert finally said as he cleaned the last dredges of cum from his lips and stood, "You always shoot such massive loads? Damn near drowned my ass."
"It's typical—normal for me, yeah," then Herman realized, "Wait, did you—" a glance down at Robert's shrinking erection confirmed the unspoken question.
"You were into tha—liked that?"
"What, being covered in your cum while you sobbed because I made you feel so good you ascended to fucking heaven? Uh, yeah, Herm, sorta blew my wad when the first shot hit my eye."
Robert nudged his shoulder with a playful smirk, though it quickly turned into a grimace when he glanced down to the space between them. The lone dish towel, thrown carelessly about Herman's boots, had long since soaked through, a sizeable puddle now slowly making its way under the fridge. Not to mention the mess of their combined fluids painting each other, and the floor.
"Eugh," Robert groaned with a shiver, then smiled up to Herman, "Come on, I'll call you a cab. Unless, of course, you wanna sleep on the floor next to Beef."
Herman's dazed grin crumpled a bit, post-nut high melting into quiet disappointment. The only thing he'd been thinking about tonight was how badly he'd wanted Robert's mouth around his cock, and yet—yet the idea that he was now expected to leave twisted something deep and unwieldy within his stomach.
He liked Robert. Liked him for more than just being Mecha Man, or a good dispatcher, or the guy that gave him a chance to be a hero. He wanted something he'd never had before—something he'd never really fought for. Wanted more than just a night of getting each other off and then awkwardly going back to being friends or coworkers. He wanted—he wanted—
"I don't mind."
Robert blinked.
"I mean—" Herman quickly added, "Unless you want me—I can leave, obviously. But I'd—I'd like to stay. With you, I mean. Be with you. If you'd—"
Robert put a hand to his mouth before Herman could continue to ramble, studying him with a curious expression. His eyes flickered in the low light, the deep, shadowed browns of his irises scintillating with some unnamed feeling. Fingers began to trace a slow path along the bow of Herman's lips, barely there touches mapping the contours and bruises along his face.
"You really want this? Sleeping on the floor like a dog?" The dispatcher's voice was small, almost vulnerable.
Herman cracked a soft, wry smile. "I mean, it's not my preferred arrangement—sleeping preference, but if it's with you—yes."
Robert watched him, really watched him. Almost like he was searching Herman's face for some sort of hidden lie. An untold ulterior motive tucked away beneath false interest.
And Herman hated it. Hated that Robert didn't seem to trust the idea that someone could possibly want to stay with him for more than a quick suck and jerk session. Hated that Robert expected to wash the shirt now soaked with Herman's cum and pretend like this never happened, apart from awkwardly avoiding each other's eyes in the office.
So he did the first thing that came to mind, and carefully encircled Robert's narrow, bruised shoulders with his obnoxiously long arms, pulling him close.
Robert stiffened. It was a little awkward; Herman couldn't lie. They were both naked from the waist up, dirty with each other's release, and Robert's entire front was soaked, flaccid dick still hanging out of his pants. But Herman gently squeezed him all the same.
"I like you, Robert," he whispered softly into the dispatcher's hair. "I wanna stay."
Then, after a breathless moment of silent waiting, strong, dry arms gradually encompassed his chest with a perfect, grounding warmth. Herman closed his eyes, an irrepressible smile tugging the corners of his mouth.
A floor had never looked so inviting.