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Robert, among many things, seems to be the person everyone wants to come to for any query or advice. It’s not a role he’s particularly accustomed to, but, since he’s become the boss of a lot of people, it’s one he’s learning to deal with. Sometimes people want him to help with something real, but most of the time it’s Flambae being a dick about something or other, or Visi stealing his food when he’s not looking. Yesterday, Sonar misplaced his stapler again, somehow, and this time it actually was in Robert’s desk, no doubt a prank from one of the others. He’s just trying to beat his snacks out of the vending machine when he hears a squeaky pair of shoes approaching him. He knows, without really knowing anything at all, that someone is going to ask him some stupid shit again.
“Trouble with the—are you—need… help?”
Robert glances over his shoulder to find Herman standing behind him, gesturing shakily to the current source of all of Robert’s problems. He glances back towards his lodged bag of BBQ chips dejectedly.
“Fuckin’ thing’s stuck again,” Robert deadpans. “I can’t believe that even the new one sucks. They should stop investing in commercials and start investing in the things that matter. Like a vending machine that vends.”
Herman laughs a little awkwardly, like the noise was choked out of him. He sidles over and takes in the scene before him, mouth pursed and brows furrowed, then clicks his tongue and snaps, spraying water over the glass. “If you…” he trails off, and then jimmies something on the side of the machine. It whirrs beneath his fingers before Robert’s chips fall gracelessly into the retrieval port.
“Huh,” Robert says. He’s actually kind of impressed. “Thanks, Waterboy.”
Despite all of Robert’s rigorous training, Herman still seems unwilling to accept his praise. “Oh,” he says, flapping his hand around as he looks away bashfully. “There’s no need—just did a little—it’s nothing. And you can—if you want to—call me Herm. In here. Only if you want to, sir. Robert.”
“Well, thanks, Herm. I think most of these are still intact, too.”
Robert pops open the bag and finds, to his pleasure, that almost all of the chips are still in one piece. Hickory BBQ floods his nostrils as he takes a chip and eats it. Fuck, yeah, he really needed a snack. The whole shift, Sonar was going on and on about how hungry he was, and yeah, he was mostly talking about grubs and shit, or whatever the fuck he eats, but Robert was nonetheless subjected to a conversation about mouthwatering food when all he had at his desk was a single piece of stale cinnamon gum and a musty cup of water. Robert doesn’t even like cinnamon gum. He doesn't know where it came from.
Halfway through his chips, he realizes that Herman is still standing behind him. He turns and leans against the counter. “Something on your mind, buddy? I can practically hear the mouse wheel turning in there.”
Herman looks surprised, as if he forgot he was standing there too. “Lotta things—in my—on my mind.”
“Share with the class?” Robert asks, popping another chip into his mouth. He watches Herman rub his neck and look away again and braces himself for whatever is going to come next. There’s no guessing with Herman. He gets anxious about asking to borrow a pen, nevermind the time he tried to tell Robert his shoelace was untied. It’s like he’s still waiting for someone to snap at him for doing something wrong.
“I though, er—well, it’s just that you said the other day—not that I think you were serious or anything, but I was—am—thinking. Thought, uh—”
Robert raises his brows. “Herm,” he teases, “if you’re coming onto me, you should have practiced your lines better.”
He knows that’s mean. Honestly, he hardly means to say it. But Herman is cute when he’s flustered, and it’s so, so easy to fluster him. Sue Robert for wanting some entertainment that doesn’t involve knives or bodily fluids. Well—the non-gross kinds.
“What?” Herman squeaks. Beads of water are collecting around the collar of his suit, and he rubs them away awkwardly, embarrassed. They seem to replace themselves almost immediately after he gets rid of them. “I’m not—this isn’t—not that you aren’t pret—attractive, but that’s not really what I…” he seems to notice the smug look on Robert’s face. “Oh. You’re teasing me.”
“Yes,” Robert says. “Sorry, it’s a bad habit. I can’t really turn it off, and believe me, I’ve tried. What did you want to ask me?”
“Well, you—the others—had said, in passing, that I would… benefit from a certain… thing. Dru—substance.”
Robert clicks his tongue and asks flatly, “Oh, weed? You can say weed, dude. This is California. It’s been legal for, like, ever.”
Herman clears his throat and tugs on his collar. “Right. Um. Well, anyways, I figured that, as—since you seem to know… familiar with it—not that I’m implying you’re dependent or, um, a… a—?”
“Stoner.”
“S-Stoner,” Herman repeats, and then, overwhelmed with trying to explain himself, relents, “Do you know where I can get some?”
“Yeah, dude, I’ve got, like, a whole drawer full at my apartment. I’m sure I could hook you up with something.” Robert nods coolly, leaning back against the counter. Realizing, or perhaps simply remembering how Herman’s brain works, he adds, “You’re not asking because you think it’ll make me—or anyone—like you better, right? Because we’ve already established that you don’t need to change yourself to get people to like you. And you shouldn’t do drugs because you feel like it’ll make you cooler, or something. I shouldn’t have to say that. You do know that doing drugs doesn’t make you cool, right?”
Herman shakes his head. “No,” he says, “Yes? That’s not why. I’m just—wanted to—curious.”
“Are you free after work?” Robert asks. “You could come to mine. I can show you how it works, if you want.”
“Oh!” Herman says. “Like… like friends? Like—hanging out?”
“Yeah, buddy. We can hang out.”
Robert has a feeling this is a very bad idea. There’s something inherently wrong about mixing business and pleasure, and something even more wrong about suggesting his much younger, much more innocent employee come over to his house so they can do drugs. It’s even worse when Robert thinks that employee is cute, worse still when that employee had posters of him in his bedroom. Because he used to be something. Because that employee thinks he’s cool.
Robert has never been accused of being intelligent. He has been accused of being an asshole, though, so he supposes the general consensus is that this is just par for the course.
“O—kay. Alright.” Herman does this move with his hands. Robert thinks it’s supposed to be finger guns, but he just flings water in Robert’s face. He flinches a little, wipes his eye. “Sorry. Water. I’m—that was—not cool.”
“It’s fine. Hang around after work and I’ll meet you here, okay?”
Herman grins at him, lopsided, and waves a little awkwardly. “I’m gonna go do… job-things.”
“Alright, kid,” Robert tells him, “Go do job-things.”
God, Robert’s such an idiot.
-
As it turns out, the best place to smoke is the balcony. Not because Robert particularly cares about staining the walls, or the perpetual stink that lingers for hours after he’s lit up, but instead because Herman is, nicely enough, worried about making his apartment mouldy from the puddles. It’s a sweet thing, and Robert honestly doesn’t have the heart to tell him that his apartment is probably already infested with black mold—it’s why he’s like this. Besides, you know, all the other shit.
Despite the fact that he’s broke, he does have a few prerolls shoved away somewhere. Not because he’s irresponsible with his money—he’s pretty sure he’s been smoking the same bowl for the past month—but because he’s a hoarder. And he doesn’t actually smoke that much, so it’s probably all stale anyways. He’d gotten these on discount because they were some bumfuck flavour in some weird papers that nobody wanted. Robert is very familiar with things nobody wants. It’s kind of his specialty.
He locks Beef inside because he doesn’t want any of the smoke around him, and because he won’t stop licking Herman since he’s a walking fountain. The last thing he needs is Beef pissing in the house. And, frankly, it’s a little weird to let his dog drink water that some guy secreted.
“Alright, so,” Robert starts. He’s got everything laid out in front of him where he sits crosslegged on the concrete floor, and by everything he means the blunt and the old sauce jar he uses as an ashtray, because he doesn’t need to get fancy with anything. He realizes after a moment that Herman is just… standing there. He kind of looks like he wants to jump off the balcony. Robert narrows his eyes. “You gonna sit, or just stand there?”
“I won’t—I know how to—” Herman doesn’t finish what he was going to say. He plops down awkwardly, gangly and rigid. He’s still wearing his suit, but he’s thrown a shirt and shorts over it, and even through the rubber they’re pretty much soaked through. He kind of looks like he accidentally triggered the sprinkler system.
“Alright,” Robert repeats. “Now, if you don’t like it, or you don’t want to do it anymore, just say that. Don’t try to like, I don’t know, prove a fucking point or something.”
“Oh…kay.”
This is weird. He knows this is weird. It was weird on the walk here, because neither of them really said anything to each other, and it was weird to let Herman into his apartment knowing that he wouldn’t judge Robert for his lack of, well, everything, but he definitely noticed, and definitely wanted to say something about it. It must be kind of disappointing, after all, to find out the guy you’ve been looking up to used to sleep in a garden chair.
Luckily for Robert, he has just the thing to take the awkward edge off. He’s starting to think that he needs this more than the kid does. Without preamble, he picks up a preroll and lights it, taking a long, steady drag before he exhales slowly.
“So, uh,” Robert says, realizing that he’s supposed to be teaching Herman how to do this, and also realizing he doesn’t really know how to teach someone how to do this. “You kind of want to like, suck on it a little bit. And then inhale. You don’t need to hold it in, really, that’s kind of just a thing they do in movies.”
“I’ve never—the ones I like don’t—seen this. In movies. Never.”
“Uh-huh.” Robert takes another hit just because he can. “Well, you just blow it out after a second, and then you’re done. It’s really not that complicated.”
He holds out the blunt tentatively, watches as Herman eyes him like it’s going to bite him. He picks it up between his index and thumb, and copies Robert's actions. A little clumsy. He chokes on it, because of course he does, and while he’s coughing about it, he says something along the lines of, Tastes bad, before he swallows a few times to get the burn out of his throat. Water drips off the end of his nose. He’s a little red from coughing.
Herman laughs flatly and says, “I am bad. At this.”
“I don’t think you can be bad at smoking,” Robert assures him. He should have just gotten him an edible. He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of that. Probably because he’s an idiot. Herman makes this dejected face at him, so Robert asks, “Did you want to try again?”
“Um,” Herman says. “Okay.”
Robert watches as he brings it slowly back to his mouth, watches his lips purse around it, how the end gets a little darker from the moisture. He still chokes a little, but less this time. “Alright,” Robert murmurs, taking the blunt from his hands, “That’s probably good for now. Don’t wanna overdo it, you know.”
“How do—when will it… work?”
“You’ll know when it’s working.”
Robert lets his eyes fall closed for a moment, lets the tension bleed from his body as he leans back and sighs to the sky. He needed this, after the week he’s had. Sure, Herman’s not his ideal smoking buddy—in fact, Robert is pretty strictly into doing this kind of thing solitary—but it’s kind of nice, in a really weird way. He’s got someone else who shares his burdens, or whatever. Even if that someone is an everything-virgin.
Time flows thick and languid. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been sitting there before Herman says. “I’m high.” After a moment, he follows this with. “I think.”
Robert opens his eyes to find Herman is already looking at him. His perpetually-worried expression has melded into something flat, mellowed. Robert’s sure he’s actually kind of smiling, which is pretty cute. The same way a frog is cute, he thinks, blinking one eye after the other like his brain is trying to catch up to his face.
Robert grins. “Yeah, bud?”
“It’s like,” Herman says. “I’m in syrup. Like. Soupy. You know? Soup?”
Yeah, he’s pretty fucking fried off absolutely nothing. Robert reaches out to pat his knee. His hand comes away dripping. “Yeah, I know soup. Congrats, Herm,” he murmurs, “You are no longer a weed virgin.”
Herman giggles. Like a little kid. He’s got straight white teeth and dimples and—God, Robert is so fucked. This is the worst decision he’s ever made in his life. He takes another hit so he doesn’t think about the corner he’s backed himself into.
For a moment, he looks excited. “I…” he begins, and then frowns. “I… forget.”
“That happens,” Robert tells him, passing the blunt back over. Herman takes a slow, steady hit and doesn’t cough at all. Robert really tries to fight the demon that’s purring good boy somewhere deep in his chest. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay.” A moment passes. “Oh. I’ve—not ever—never not worried. Ha. Weird.”
It falls silent for a few moments. Robert closes his eyes again, drifts into the feeling of it. He tries to ignore the fact that Herman is making this quiet gurgling noise—it’s probably another bout of giggles caught behind excess water in his throat. He wonders if Herman can drown like that. Or if he can drown at all. He’s not, like, Fishboy, or anything, so he probably can. Not that Robert wants that to happen. Actually, he’d like to know a lot less about the intricacies of Herman’s powers. He thinks they know too much about each other already.
“Raw. Ro-bert,” Herman says, suddenly very serious. Robert’s head snaps up. “I’m gonna…”
And then he promptly falls forward into Robert’s chest. He does appreciate the warning, shitty as it was, but he does not appreciate the force with which he just slammed all of his bruises into the concrete. Robert groans, letting his head thunk back against the ground as Herman presses his forehead into his sternum. It’s kind of like picking up the clothes from the washer and trying to move them to the dryer all at once. Herman is soggy and a little amphibian and weighs a lot more than Robert had expected him to. Being six-something and sopping wet will do that.
Because he doesn’t know what else to say, he murmurs, “You good?”
“Sorry,” Herman says. “Sleepy. You smell nice.”
Robert definitely smells like hot ass right now. Day-old sweat and weed definitely don’t make a good combo, but Herman doesn’t seem to mind. He keeps taking little sniffs, which would be kind of creepy if Robert didn’t like him so much. He pats Herman’s back, maybe a little condescendingly, and adjusts so his bony ass knees aren’t digging into him.
“Oh. That’s better. Comfortable.”
“You’re kinda heavy,” Robert tells him. Herman doesn’t make any moves to get off of him, but Robert doesn’t really want him to.
“Sorry,” Herman says. “My grandma says—said—I have big bones.”
“You do have big bones,” Robert agrees. The sheer size difference between them would be emasculating if Robert cared about that kind of thing. He doesn’t. He kind of likes that sort of thing.
Herman shifts a little and makes a little squeaky noise. Probably just getting comfortable. Robert pats his back absentmindedly. There’s definitely better places to have Herman on top of him—and not even in the perverted way. Contrary to popular belief, Robert is not, in fact, the world’s biggest pervert. He would just prefer to by lying on the futon instead of the cold concrete, but even if they were in there, he’s pretty sure Herman’s too tall for it.
He’s just about to acclimate to his new weighted blanket when Herman shifts again. And there’s another squeaky noise. He does it again. A slightly less squeaky, slightly more whimpery noise comes out of him this time.
It’s almost like—huh.
“Herm…” Robert trails off. “What are you doing?”
He knows what Herman is doing. It’s not like there’s any way to pretend he isn’t humping him like a dog. He doesn’t even think Herman realizes he’s doing it. Robert couldn’t tell you how long it’s been going on, but he absolutely could tell you what it feels like to have his socially anxious subordinate use him as leverage to get off. He could also—unfortunately—tell you in detail the exact size and heft of his dick, because it’s currently burning a line into his thigh. It’s pretty fucking big. Robert’s actually kind of annoyed about that. Herman probably doesn’t even know what to do with it. No, he definitely doesn't know what to do with it.
“Sorry,” Herman says for the millionth time. He does actually sound kind of sorry. He doesn’t stop doing it, though. “S-Sorry, Robert, I’m sorry, but it feel—feels…?”
This is fucked up. Robert knows this is fucked up. It was fucked up to invite Herman over here in the first place. He knows people are going to talk about it, because there’s eyes and ears everywhere, and everyone knows that he specifically said that he liked to keep his work life and personal life separate and that when he inevitably walks into work everyone’s going to look at him like he’s some kind of insane person. He’s not sure he can argue there’s a degree of separation between taking Herman home with him to get him high and then letting him rub all over him like he’s never touched himself before. God, he’s probably never touched himself before. Robert is so royally fucked.
“Herman,” Robert says flatly. “I don’t think this is—”
Herman makes another noise. It gets muffled by Robert’s sternum, but he can make out the garbled, “Feels goo—warm, feels warm. Nice. Is it normally this nice?”
Robert has never considered himself a particularly weak person. He’s not a particularly strong person, but he’s definitely got some backbone. He knows when enough is enough and he also knows that there is a good time to call things before they get out of hand And yet, there’s heat coiling in his belly underneath his damp shirt and he’s still holding the small of Herman’s back and there’s sweat beading at the nape of his neck. At the very least, Herman’s perpetual clamminess is good to keep the heat at bay.
“Robert,” Herman whines.
On second thought, Robert thinks that Herman has somehow managed to rewire his body and make him nineteen again. Maybe that’s just the shitty weed. Maybe he is just an insane person.
“It’s okay,” Robert assures him, knowing that it is very much not okay. But it’s not like he’s really doing anything. It doesn’t count if he keeps his hands to himself, because that is the morally correct thing to do in this situation. The hand on Herman’s back also doesn’t count, because he’s pretty sure he’s touched Herman’s back before, and that was never inappropriate. He was just sneaking by him, gently ushering him out of the way. Praising him like a show pony for a job well done. Normal boss stuff. He’s never had an ulterior motive in his life.
“I’m sorry,” Herman whimpers. Robert knows that he can probably feel where his dick is fattening up under his stomach, but he’s either too high to care about anything other than himself, or he just doesn’t know what to do with that information. Robert is perfectly content to pretend that he is not getting a half-chub from Herman’s virginal desperation. He is not a pervert, as we’ve established, and he is especially not a cradle robber.
His shirt is soaked through now from where Herman keeps burying his face in it. It should gross him out but there’s something deliriously exhilarating about the fact that he makes Herman riled up enough to expel so much water. Robert’s not an idiot. He’s seen the way Herman looks at him. And yeah, Herman kind of looks at everyone like he’s terrified they’re going to spit acid at him or something, but he’s been around. He knows a lingering stare when he sees one. He sees the way Herman blushes when he compliments him. He’s caught his eyes wandering in the locker rooms. There’s nothing wrong with a workplace crush, he knows that better than anyone. It was fine when it was just a little something he smirked about. A little boost to the ego, that someone—actually, a couple of someones—thinks he’s hot. He just never thought that Herman would do anything about it.
“Stop apologizing, it’s fine,” Robert says. “Just… try to keep it down, alright? I don’t need to get an indecency charge because someone gets nosy about you whining. We’re on the balcony, not in the house.”
“Indee-sen-see,” Herman repeats, like he’s never said the word before. His voice has gone a little breathy. He’s probably not used to exerting himself like this. Distantly, Robert wonders how expensive rubber sheets are, and whether or not buying them would put him on some kind of list. He thinks that rubber sheets are not conducive to California summers. He also thinks that Herman probably has a bunch of moles and he’d like to test the theory. Dejected, Herman asks, “Am I—indecent?”
“No,” Robert says, even though he definitely is indecent. He hisses when Herman shifts just-so. He’s so bony it’s honestly a little uncomfortable, but he can’t deny the tremor that runs through him at the friction. He catches his hand wandering and pulls it back up sharply. “Just a little loud.”
“But, it feels—”
“Good,” Robert guesses, “Yeah, I know.”
“I didn’t mean—want—to make you think of me—uncomfortable. Are you? Uncomfy?”
At least he’s not high enough to forget to ask if this is alright, even if it’s a little belated. Robert wishes that he didn’t leave the wetsuit on, so his shirt might have ridden up a little. He thinks Herman’s probably paler underneath it, still just as cold and clammy. He tips his head back and prays to a power he doesn’t believe in. Salvation would be so awesome right now.
“No,” Robert grits. “Unfortunately, I am the opposite of uncomfortable.” Even if Herman’s knee is digging into a shin bruise.
“Good?”
The opposite of uncomfortable is definitely not good, but yeah, Robert’s pretty good right here. He thinks he’s a little too high to care, too. He sighs, clawing absentmindedly at the ground. “Yeah,” he relents. “It’s good.”
They really should stop talking. None of this is hot. It shouldn’t be hot. Herman is so pathetic and it makes Robert feel like he’s going to explode. He’s definitely a pervert. There’s no other feasible explanation for this. He threads his fingers through Herman’s hair, toys with the wet strands as Herman pants and makes this nghhhhhh noise into his clavicle. He’s shifted up now, rolling his hips against the bottom of Robert’s thigh. It makes it so Robert can’t look away. Herman’s in his peripheral now no matter what—closer than they were on his first day. He didn’t think about that then, though the idea did cross his mind in passing. He’d only realized after the fact that it was probably a little weird to get so assertive with some guy he barely knew and then use him as cover. It was also probably a little weird to dote on him so much. Then again, weirdness seems to be working in his favour recently.
He tries, and fails, to decipher what Herman is muttering. He keeps cutting himself off, but it’s not like he’s second guessing what he’s saying. Instead, it’s like he’s struggling to come up with the words to describe how he’s feeling. And as far as Robert can see—and hear—he feels pretty good.
“Sorry,” Herman tells him, seeming finally to notice the translucency of his clothes and the friction the moisture has created. “You’re damp. Wet. I made you wet.”
Robert snorts. Brain lag. Yeah, he wants to say, in more ways than one, kid.
Herman looks up at him then, big glassy eyes and pinched brows and a perpetually slack mouth. He looks fucked out, flushed and dripping. He looks at Robert like he’s dizzy on it, like he can’t get enough, like he isn’t so greedy. Robert kind of wants to eat him.
“Ah, fuck it.” Robert clicks his tongue and says, “Herm. Come here,” before he grabs Herman’s wet face and kisses him.
Herman is, expectedly, not a very good kisser. It’s too slobbery and he doesn’t really do anything except work his jaw a little awkwardly to try and match Robert’s movements. Their teeth clack, his tongue goes way too far into Robert’s mouth, and somehow Robert doesn’t give a shit. He works with what he has because he can worry about teaching Herman how to be good at any of this when Herman’s brain isn’t two minutes behind his body. If the shame of it all doesn’t kill both of them by tomorrow.
Herman fists his shirt tightly as his hips pick up in speed and he makes another squealy noise into Robert’s mouth. Robert pulls away to ask, “Close?”
“M’gonna—f-fuck—Robert, sir, I—” Herman chokes. “Fuck.”
Heat soaks through Robert’s pant leg as Herman shakes and cries on top of him. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought he pissed himself. It’s in part horrifying and strangely fascinating to find out that Herman’s powers extend to even this. He’d probably be a little more concerned about it if he weren’t reeling from the fact that he probably just passively took Herman’s virginity.
Herman flops, boneless on top of him. It’s quiet for a few moments.
Robert is still deliriously hard, but he doesn’t really have the energy to do anything about that. It’s too much effort, after all, and besides, while Herman’s inexperience is—regrettably—a bit of a turn on, he’s also not under any impression that he would go out of his way to give Robert a hand. He kind of wishes he would, though.
The chill of the air makes Robert shiver in his wet clothes. After a moment, somehow recalling his earlier statement despite the fact that he can barely remember what happened three seconds ago, he snorts, “Well, I guess I just took your actual virginity too, huh.”
There’s no response.
“...Herman?” Silence. He laughs awkwardly. “Tell me I didn’t kill you, bud.”
Another moment passes. Herman lets out a little snore.
Robert smacks a hand over his face. “Motherfucker.”
He’s so getting fired tomorrow.