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Stone had never expected tenderness. Not from Robotnik.
It simply wasn’t in the man’s nature.
Love, in Robotnik’s world, was not soft. It was not whispered reassurances or quiet nights spent tangled in the sheets. It was not an arm draped around his shoulders in a moment of absent affection, nor the simple pleasure of resting in comfortable silence together. That wasn’t how Robotnik operated. He had no patience for wasted effort, no use for traditional romance or sentimentality.
But in his own fractured way, love was there, hidden away beneath layers of ego and calculation, expressed in a form no one else would recognize.
Stone did, of course.
Love, in Robotnik’s world, was not the gentle warmth of a steadily burning candle but the crackling heat of a live wire, sparking too bright, too dangerous to hold onto for long.
Stone saw it in the way Robotnik’s hand fisted in his tie, yanking him close when he hesitated a second too long, the silk fabric tightening at his throat like a leash - but not tight enough to put him in danger. In the sharp shove against the console when he was in the way, fingertips pressing just hard enough against his chest to leave bruises beneath the crisp uniform, but not hard enough to send him sprawling to the ground like Stone knew the Doctor could easily do. It was in the barked demands disguised as requests, his scathing insults spoken like endearments.
There was no softness in the way Robotnik loved, no quiet intimacy that others might expect from a man in a perfectly loving and reciprocated relationship. That wasn’t who he was. That wasn’t who they were.
Robotnik’s affection was a force of nature - erratic, consuming, impossible to predict. It came in sharp glances and rough grabs, in the way he’d seize Stone’s collar to yank him close, their noses brushing, his breath hot with irritation, his eyes burning with something more. Something possessive, something that dug deep and left Stone breathless.
"Do I need to say everything twice, Stone?" he’d snap, his grip lingering just a moment too long, fingers curled in the fabric like a claim, his gaze locked upon Stone’s, searching for something he would never say aloud.
It came in the way he loomed, in how he invaded every inch of Stone’s space like he was entitled to it, like he owned it. In how he backed Stones into walls and corners and pressed too close, not out of anger - no, that would be too simple - but because Robotnik did not know how to exist without dominating. Even love, in his own warped way, was an act of control. He always had to have the upper hand, always had to be the one puppeteering the situation - even when it came to something so typically gentle and slow like love.
And yet, for all his sharp edges, Robotnik’s hands never truly hurt Stone.
Bruised him, maybe - fingers gripping his wrist too tight, nails pressing into Stone's skin when Robotnik pulled him close, an iron grip at the nape of his neck when their arguments dissolved into something else entirely - but it was never enough to make Stone want to wince or pull away.
If anything, it made him want to lean in. It made him want more.
They didn’t hold hands. But sometimes, when Robotnik was working, lost in thought, pacing, scheming, Stone would hand him a wrench or a data pad, and Robotnik wouldn’t let go right away. His fingers would curl around Stone’s, distracted, absent-mindedly, before he realized what he was doing and snatched the item away with a scoff.
"Don’t just stand there gawking, Stone. If you’re going to be useless, at least be useless somewhere else."
Stone never left.
They didn’t kiss like normal people did, either. There were no slow, sweet moments, no hesitance. Robotnik kissed Stone the way he did everything else - like a man devouring, consuming, leaving no space for hesitation or doubt. There was nothing delicate about it, no careful exploration. He never hesitated, never wasted time. When he grabbed Stone and pulled him in, it was all teeth and heat and purpose. No wasted movements, none of what he considered "unnecessary" emotion.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow.
For most people, it wouldn't be anything close to "romantic."
And yet...
The way Robotnik’s fingers tightened at the back of Stone’s neck, held him there - possessive, unyielding - until their lungs burned and their world narrowed down to nothing but heat and breath and the taste of each other... If that wasn’t love, then what else could it be?
Robotnik was not a man of wasted effort. He did nothing without reason, he did nothing he didn't want to. If he did not want Stone, he would not have him. If he did not need him, he would not keep him. If he did not love Stone, he would not treat him as the center of his world.
Robotnik did not love gently. He never would.
But when he grabbed Stone by the wrist, it was not to hurt, but to keep. When he shoved him out of his way, it was never so far that Stone was out of his reach. When he insulted him with a tone that would send others running, it was in the same breath that Robotnik turned to Stone first, always first, when something needed to be done.
His love was a chaotic thing, abrupt and senseless in a way that only made sense because it was his.
But he loved Stone in a way that made it clear that Stone was his and his alone, and that was more than enough.
It was a kind of love that most people wouldn’t understand. It was harsh, unapologetic, all sharp edges and biting words, but it was real. It was the kind of love that didn’t need to be delicate. It didn’t need to be soft. It didn’t need to be easy.
And, if given the chance, Stone wouldn’t change a thing.