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ROBOTNIK

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Evening Earlier - March 25th

It was long after they had both settled down for the night.

Long after they both had pressed up close together and 'snuggled' - something which the doctor most definitely didn't do, he didn't 'snuggle.'

Nor did he cuddle, cling or nestle into his Stone, lay his head upon his, or sweetly stroke his soft belly with his knuckles. He certainly didn't murmur endearing lovey-dovey words or pet names into his ears, like shnookums, baby, sweetheart, darling or angel, petal or sugar. Or teasing dickish names like barnacle brain, dipshit or pansy - making Stone smile and return the banter with equal (but much cuter) insults, and light affectionate tickles, just to see what he could get away with.

The doctor also didn't retaliate by nuzzling his moustache hard into his neck, just to hear his baby giggle childishly and squirm away. Or by holding his arms still by his sides, pretending to eat him all up and torturing him with mocking words, just to hear his helpless frantic laughter escalating.

He also didn't get carried away with all the excitement, and his mischievous boyish charm, by blowing raspberries into Stone's neck, then straddling him and wiggling fingers viciously into his armpits for a good solid five minutes to make him freak out with laughter. Or, to finally assert his dominance, by attacking his belly and ribcage mercilessly to make the poor boy laugh hysterically, push at him defensively and nearly snap his spine trying to escape. Of course he didn't force him to beg and plead for him to stoppit and let him up, or spill his guts and apologise for trying him until the sun nearly came up, and until tears streamed from his eyes and he was red faced.

Rob definitely didn't lay by his side then, claws digging threateningly back into his armpits daring him to retaliate one more time, as they both laughed breathlessly and gazed adoringly into each other's eyes. He definitely didn't lay there for a time, wondering how so much happiness had crept into his life without him realising, or where his Stone had come from. Or wondering how this sweet boy had made him become so soft in his old age... or why he always thought about children when he looked at him.

He most definitely didn't kiss him...

...or feel a hard on pressing into his thigh.

He loved, no craved, Stone's beautiful, helpless laughter... He always was so helpless when he laughed. He had such an amazing laugh, it was so bright, so sunny, so soft and gentle like caramel, even his cute little girly snorts and hiccups were adorable. He was a big girl at heart, and no matter what he did to him, he always seemed to love him all the more.

Even his pretty smile was like Summer.

God he longed to tickle him so badly sometimes, hold him down and just let loose. On his belly and sides and ribs, no less. Armpits if he got him going good... Just to hear him laugh like crazy, squealing and begging and pleading for him to let him up. Squeezing his eyes shut hard with that over-excited nervous little grin of his, dreading the upcoming retribution for reacting. Dreading the upcoming retribution for not reacting.

God that kid was so pure sometimes he simply couldn't stand it, it literally took every fibre in his body not to over-exert his sexual prowess and tease him pitilessly to distraction. Not to spank him playfully, or tie him to the goddamn bed, handcuff him and blindfold him, and send his senses going through the roof with feathers, brushes and whatever else he could get his hands on. He just had a feeling - and he was usually always right - that he even knew where his weak spots might be.

.-.-.

For the rest of the evening, he had had to content himself with some not-cuddling, not-reading-quietly-as-a-couple-in-bed, definitely-not-dickish flirting, not even sure if the kid wanted to take it any further. Which sounded silly, because they were sharing a bed together and fooled about a little sometimes. They had both turned each other on before, not always on purpose, and had shared some pretty intimate moments to relax before now.

But he was so scared of invading his personal space, making a fool of himself, risking rejection, mis-reading the situation, over-stepping his boundaries or messing things up, losing him... He was everything to him - not that he would always let him know that. He craved him. Dare he even say, cared about him? ...He loved him. More than anything. It was the one reason why he had brought them here in the first place, so that he could help him get well again... and - eventually - propose to him.

He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be feeling things like this. Not at his age, not over a younger man, not over any man. But god Stone was the only thing that had kept him going for so long. Every time he saw the kid, he had to practically plow himself hard into his work to stop the fire-hot fantasies from burning him up. Destroying him... drifting away, and yet every time he was this close to him, he felt his insides fluttering like rabid butterflies, and the most tantalising romantic tingling in his heart.

.-.-.

He had taken to 'not-snuggling' a bit closer to Stone each night, 'not-wrapping his arms around his waist' and 'not-laying his face against his chest.' He had hoped that it would settle him some more when they slept side by side. He had felt him tossing and turning, as though deep in some nightmare, mumbling incoherently in his dreams and jerking and twitching occasionally. Stone had kicked him once, and when the doctor's eyelids had fluttered open and he had propped himself up to scold him, realised that his face was damp. He had whispered his name, but the boy hadn't responded, as though drowning in his own wonderland from which he couldn't escape.

That struck him as unusual, and it saddened him. Stone always responded to his voice when he talked to him at night, sometimes to tell him all the things he longed to say to his face, but didn't trust himself to. Whether it was a soft sigh, or curling into his arms, murmuring or waking when he called his name... he had always responded. Stone had been trained to sleep lightly. So the doctor had observed, and when the tossing and turning had seemed to disappear within his own dreams, and he hadn't been woken by his lover anymore, he had naturally assumed that he was getting better.

Then the disappearances had started.

Only he hadn't known about them for a while - and that had scared him.

See the thing was, he was always right. He always knew where his baby was at all times, that he was safe and by his side late at night. He had taken to curling around him when they slept to make sure that he always knew where he was, that he felt loved, wanted. Appreciated. He must have been so tired within himself not to notice properly, with his own lack of sleep from worrying so much. How had that little shit managed to squirm out of his embraces at night without him waking up?

More to the point, where had he been disappearing to? He hadn't even noticed at first, his sleep-addled mind merely assuming that he was safe in his big warm arms. Meaning that he must have woken briefly for the bathroom, or for water, that he would be back soon. So quite often he had dropped off to sleep again...

And then one time he hadn't returned... and his paranoia had kicked in.