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Dennis Whitaker is having a bad day.
It's not even nine, and he's already spilled coffee down himself. It's one thing to be thrown up on, or bled up the front of - doing it to himself is so decidedly embarrassing. But, self inflicted or not, the shirt is soaked and ruined, so Dennis heads over to the scrub exchange machine, punches in the shameful request, and posts his shirt through the box. It's second nature by this point, he doesn't even need to read the screen as he does it. He probably should have learned by now to wear a t-shirt underneath, but the day is sweltering, so he just waits in the hope that no-one comes along in the next five minutes to see him topless in the corridor.
The error message doesn't serve to make his day any better.
No units available. Replenish machine.
“Shit…” he hisses, tries the request again, only to get the same message. He's going to have to head to another department to steal some, but he's going to have to do it half naked. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, someone has, in fact, seen him.
“Whitaker, you good?”
It's Robby, passing by and catching sight of him, shirtless and fighting with the machine.
“No scrubs,” Dennis explains, doing his best to preserve his modesty. He should've picked up a gown or something. Dr Robby folds his arms and nods.
“Another accident?”
He grimaces.
“I don't try for them, honestly.”
“You asked around?”
“I mean…”
He gestures down at himself, in a move he hopes explains he can't exactly head up to geriatrics in this state.
Dr Robby nods in understanding, and then before Dennis is even sure what's happening, he's pulling his own scrub shirt over his head.
It tugs up the white tee underneath, shows a wedge of stomach, hair and warm skin that gets hidden just as quickly as Robby brings the hem back down. Dennis feels dizzy.
“Here,” Robby says, holding the shirt out to him. Dennis shakes his head.
“Oh, no, I couldn't, it's okay–”
“Whitaker” he says, attending voice in full play, “Take it.”
Dennis takes the shirt.
“Put it on, it's okay.”
Dennis does.
“Good boy.”
Dennis’ knees feel weak. The shirt smells like aftershave and Robby - slight musk, coffee, his laundry liquid and antibacterial hand gel.
Robby looks at him for a second, then, and tells him:
“I wanted to thank you. For the other week.”
“Oh, no, it's okay.”
Dennis doesn't want to think about that. It was frightening enough to be there, he doesn't need to relive it, and Dr Robby probably doesn't either. He looks at him, though, kind, kind eyes and says:
“You're a good kid. If you ever need anything, you know you can come to me.”
If only, Dennis thinks.
“Thank you, Dr Robinavitch.” Is what he says.
Dr Robby narrows his eyes, and Dennis wonders if he actually did say that bit out loud.
“Are you okay?”
Dennis nod-shakes his head.
“No, yeah. I'm fine.”
“You seem distracted.”
“I'm sorry. I guess– No, it's nothing. You're busy.”
Dr Robby looks concerned, and takes his hands out of his pockets.
“It's okay. You can tell me.”
“It's okay.”
“I can help, Dennis. Come here.”
Dennis goes. Robby puts a large, solid hand on each shoulder. He gets to his level to look him in the eye.
“Take some deep breaths.” He instructs, and Dennis does, tries not to meet his eyes just in case he pops a boner and fucks up his career completely. Robby watches him breathe once, twice, three times and rubs his thumb over his clavicle. “Good boy.”
Dennis feels his face flush again at the phrase, and Dr Robby's eyebrows raise in understanding.
“Ah, there it is,” he says, somewhat amused, “That's what's distracting you.”
“What?”
Then he sighs, looks into Dennis' face and after a moment of what seems like deliberation:
“I think it's best if you get this out of your system.”
What does that mean?
“I– I don't–” Dennis tries, but Robby shakes his head.
“It's okay, c'mon. We've all been there.”
He brings one hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck, leading him away from where they're talking.
“In here.”
Dennis trails him into one of the trauma rooms, and Robby pulls the thin curtains closed over the windows. The white shirt stretches over his chest, and Dennis can see the dark hair underneath, pressed up against the cotton, gold chain and Star of David glinting atop it all.
“Sit up,” Robby says, and Dennis does as he's told, hops up on the bed, Robby's shirt loose around his biceps. Robby sanitises his hands, and pulls on a pair of gloves. Dennis isn't sure what's going on.
“Okay, then,” he says, in that casual tone he uses to put patients at ease, “I think we've got a good idea of the problem, but let's just make sure, huh?”
He approaches, and one hand goes straight between Dennis' legs to cup his crotch firmly. He gasps at the sensation, but Robby doesn't register it. His hand works him through the fabric, and Dennis' thighs shake. His cock fills rapidly, blood shooting down there so fast he thinks he might faint. Robby feels the shape of him, hardening, like he'd assess any other patient, but he doesn't stop, just keeps going.
“Is that it?” he asks. Dennis isn't sure what he means, but he nods, anyway, manages to get at least one word out.
“Y-yeah…”
Robby nods as he rubs at him, face impassive - he doesn't seem to be trying to find anything in particular, just strokes him, firmly, until Dennis thinks he might be about to pass out. Then, he takes his hand away.
He pulls the gloves off, and tosses them the pedal bin, sanitising his hands again and turning back to the side like he's making a note. Does Dennis have a chart over there or something? He feels lightheaded, like his whole bodily sensation right now is centred on his hard-on, heavy in his scrub pants. The muscles of Dr Robby's back shift under thin white cotton, and the smell of him is heady in Dennis’ nose. He's not sure what he's supposed to do now.
“Okay,” Robby says, then, turning back, “I'm gonna ask you to hop down, and then onto your knees on the floor.”
Dennis can't quite keep up.
“It might be a little uncomfortable, but we're all out of pillows, I'm afraid.” Robby says, like that makes any sense. In fairness, the gurney doesn't have one on, and there aren't any scrubs. Supply must be running low, or something.
“Come on,” he says, and then when Dennis doesn't move, "Whitaker. Now.”
Dennis' legs are shaking, heart pounding, as he jumps down from the gurney. He kneels where Robby's pointing, right at his feet, hard hospital floor on his patellas. He doesn't quite have the confidence to look up, but Robby tips his chin up for him.
“That's better,” he says. And then he unbuttons his cargo pants, reaches inside his underwear and fetches out his cock, no more than three inches from Dennis' face. What on earth is going on.
He's mostly soft, but still thick and cut, and the smell of him is like the shirt times a million, sticky and making Dennis feel drunk.
“Open,” he says, and with one hand still on his chin, he brings two fingers up to his lips. Dennis does as he's told - his mouth is watering and he puts his tongue out too, for good measure. Robby watches, intent, as he slips his long fingers into his mouth.
He doesn't taste like the alcohol sanitiser he'd been expecting - instead it's salt and skin and the pads of his fingers are soft as they press down the back of Dennis's tongue, slipping in further. His ring finger comes to join pointer and middle, the broadness of the three of them stretching his lips until his mouth is stuffed full, and he's in danger of drooling. He's whining, a little, at the back of his throat, and Robby's eyebrows are raised as he watches, fucks his fingers into his mouth and sees if he can take it. This must be part of the treatment, Dennis figures, some experimental tactic, and his dick leaks steadily in his briefs, missing the warm firmness of his hand against it. He tries not to gag as Robby presses still further, into the back of his throat with his fingers, pulls out a touch and thrusts them back in. He chokes, and Robby tsks, but does it again anyway.
Dennis wants his cock. It's sitting there, tantalising, right in front of his face, wants it so badly he could die, and then he realises this is a test. He has to earn it, has to show how well he can take his fingers before he's allowed it. He takes a deep breath and resolves to try harder.
The fingers press in again and he fights the instinct, relaxes his throat and lets Robby push, and push, and push, down into the passage of his throat. The sounds he's making are obscene, wet and clicky, the sounds of Robby reshaping him to be good and obedient.
“Okay, I think you're ready for it, aren't you?”
He nods, garbles his assent around Robby's fingers. They're removed from his mouth, and Robby swipes them on his cheek before he tears off a paper towel and cleans them off.
His cock’s still only half hard, pliable in his grip as Dennis reaches for it, but he swats his hand away.
“Nuh uh,” He tuts, “No hands.”
He feeds it into Dennis' mouth for him, soft delicate skin, the length of it filling his mouth already as it is. His nose is buried in the coarse hair at the base of him, balls up against his chin, smelling musk and sweat. He licks over them, too, tries to get as much in his mouth as he can. He's so hungry for it he could die.
“Get me hard, c'mon.” Robby instructs, and Dennis does as he's told.
He pools spit in his mouth, uses it to slide his lips up and down the length. With every pass, Robby gets harder, his cock flushing and filling out, the angle getting gradually more difficult for Dennis to keep up with as the stiffness brings it up to his belly. He keeps on regardless, as his jaw aches and his throat hurts - the feeling of him growing in his mouth is addictive, shows he's good at it, is doing it right.
Robby's hands find the back of his head, then, lace behind it and still him where he's been bobbing up and down. With his head immobilised, Robby fucks his hips up, just a touch, then again, and deeper, straight into the back of his throat.
Dennis wouldn't want to do anything about it even if he could. He measures his breathing and lets him use his mouth, throat, everything - takes it as he fucks his skull. The hands on his head are grounding, somehow, tethering him to the planet so he doesn't float away. He's crying, he can feel the tears as Robby fills him up over and over, pummels through his gag reflex until he almost doesn't feel it, though he knows it's going to bruise. At the thought, his own dick blurts precum in his pants.
Robby fucks, and fucks, and then - Dennis doesn't know if it's he angle but it catches wrong and he honest-to-God chokes, has to pull off to be able to breathe, or try not to throw up. He's so mad at himself, was doing such a good job, but Robby doesn't seem mad, just tugs at himself as Dennis coughs, gags onto the floor and gets air back into him.
“Good boy,” he says, and then there's an arm under Dennis’, pulling him up, taking him over to the gurney. He's not sure if he can stand, but he does his best, and lets Robby put him where he wants him, in front of the gurney. He can feel him at his back, cock pressing into Dennis’ ass through his pants, breath so hot and damp on his neck.
“Pants down, please,” he says, and with shaking hands Dennis pulls them down, lets them pool around his ankles, and follows the lead of Robby's hand between his shoulder blades, pushing him down and over the bed. He hangs his head between his shoulders, propped up by elbows.
Then the gloves are back on, a fresh pair, and Dennis feels the soft drag of them over his asscheeks as Robby exposes him. There's a shuffle, and a cold squirt of lube drips directly onto his hole. He whines at the sensation, and Robby chuckles before pressing the gloved fingertips of his fore and middle finger to his pucker.
“Now, ordinarily we'd start with one, but you're a fast learner. I think you can take a little more, don't you?”
Dennis nods into the bed. He'd take anything he was given, and more, so long as Robby is the one giving it to him. As it so happens, Robby pushes in.
It's full and raw, and feels so good. They find that sweet spot immediately, curling down inside him. His face is a mess, and the drool from his chin pools under him on the bed as he feels himself loosen.
Robby doesn't hesitate to add another finger, spreads the three apart inside of him and Dennis doesn't know why, but he laughs. He's picturing himself, face-fucked and desperate, bent over a gurney with Dr Robinavitch's scrub shirt on and three of his fingers up his ass. It's like something he could only imagine. He feels delirious.
Robby fucks him with his fingers, stretches him out to the sound of slick, wet, thrusting, pulling and reshaping him. When he pulls them out, Dennis finds himself missing them already.
What he gets instead is the hot, rough pass of Robby's tongue, flat against where he's been prepped, loose and tender. His legs nearly give out so he's grateful for the gurney under him - because something about his warm, wet mouth is a whole different ballgame. His bones just about turn to liquid, his neglected dick spurting precum again, as Robby kisses and sucks at his hole. He presses his tongue in, fucks him with it. It's so fucking sensitive down there - every stroke feels amplified a hundred times.
The scrape of his beard against the skin of his thighs, inside of his cheeks makes him shudder and writhe uncontrollably.
“Daddy,” he whines, and nearly slaps himself for it. Oh fuck, oh fuck - he really didn't mean to say that.
He hears Robby chuckle behind him.
“Yeah? Is that what you need?”
Fuck it. Might as well be honest. He nods, pressing his sweaty forehead against the thin sheet covering the gurney.
Robby's hand comes down on his ass with a sharp cracking sting.
“Go on, then, baby. Let me hear you.”
“Shit, Daddy,” he says, marginally louder, and Robby's hands dig into his cheeks one more time, spreading him and thumbing over where he's so stretched open. He can feel his hole flutter, hopes to God that he's going to fuck him soon.
“Up,” he says, “Sit back on the edge for me” and Dennis does, perches on the edge of the bed and lets him strip his pants off from around his ankles. Then Robby crouches, and gets a hand under each thigh and lifts him, carries the whole weight of him, up and off the gurney to the wall. He watches the flexed muscles of his arms as his back knocks up against the plaster, Robby's forehead pressed to his, looking down at where he's open and ready. He glances up into Dennis’ eyes.
“You want it?” he asks, and Dennis nods, must look fucking pathetic with how bad he needs it. Robby bites his lower lip into his mouth in concentration.
“Cmon, good boy,” he says, guides his tip in with one hand and Dennis's hole takes it so easy, hungry for it. He sinks down, gravity doing the work and filling him up, and his brain blanks out, only able to comprehend full and hot. He's never taken anything like this before.
“Fuck, Daddy…” he whines, and Robby's other arm comes under his leg, and he's backed fully up against the wall as he rocks his hips up and into him.
Robby kisses him, then, beard rough on his swollen lips, and he doesn't have the wherewithal to kiss him back, just kind of whimpers into his mouth. The thrusts built up pace, and force, and Robby's grunting, then, as he punches into him, and all Dennis can do is tuck his chin to his chest and take it.
“Doing so well,” Robby huffs out, “ Such a good boy for me. So good for your Daddy, huh?”
Dennis nods, tries to say yes, but he's sobbing instead - his face feels wet and he's aching somewhere deep, his hole loose and sloppy and his head elsewhere completely. The feeling is incomprehensible.
“You needed this, didn't you?” Robby's still talking, “Ever since you first stepped foot in here, first got a glimpse of me. Needed to be put in your place, needed Daddy to come and tell you what you want. You wanna be used.”
He nods, and whimpers and hiccups all at once and Robby laughs, low and sweet.
“It's okay,” his voice hums underneath the sound of skin on skin, lube and sweat, “Doing so well, well done.”
He doesn't pull out on the next thrust, instead just grinds his cock in real deep, keeps sheathed inside him, nudging up against his prostate and any number of his internal organs. It's so deep inside of him, he reckons they could pick it up on the ultrasound. Dennis is definitely delirious at this point, his brain full of impossible disgusting fantasies of being fucked apart.
“You want Daddy to tell everyone? Let everyone know what a good hole you are? You could be the fucktoy for the whole ED. We'll keep you locked up in here and anyone who needs a little stress relief could take a turn, how's that?”
Dennis isn't even sure he's on the same planet. The images that conjure in his brain are almost too much to handle: Langdon fucking him on the desk at Central, Abbot's whole fist inside of him. He's whining over and over as he's bounced up and down and his own cock leaks a steady stream of precum down the shaft and drips off his balls into a puddle on the floor. He hopes Robby makes him lick it up. He can clean up his mess. He can be a good boy, a good hole, something to be useful, used for good.
Robby slips a finger in alongside his cock, and Dennis barely registers it, he's so loose. There's a grunt, Robby's hips slam hard enough to bruise and then Dennis feels him come, scalding and filling him up as he presses in to the hilt, grinds his cum deep inside. The imprints of his hands on Dennis’ trembling thighs are going to be there for weeks. He really thinks he might pass out, now - everything feels hazy, like he's underwater, Robby's hands keeping him above sea level.
He lets him do what he likes - lays him down on the bed, again, legs up and apart, cock red and weeping. Dennis realises he's grabbing the ultrasound. He smears a hand through the mess between Dennis's legs, over the raw, open pucker of his hole, rucks up his shirt (his shirt) and deposits the result on the little swell of his lower belly, lube-cum-drool in place of KY jelly.
Someone’s knocking on the door to the trauma room, but Robby doesn't seem to notice, just presses the ultrasound wand to his stomach and after a second of refocusing his eyes Dennis can see it on the screen, the mass of white inside of him where he's filled up with his cum. It makes his head spin, and then Robby takes his other hand, pushes down on his belly, and he squirms at the pressure. The puddle onscreen shifts, and he feels a warm trail leak out of his hole. He feels so full and fucking used.
Whoever is outside is desperate to come in, because the banging is getting louder. There's probably a trauma out there, some person injured or dying, but Dennis thinks his brain must be mashed. He can't bring himself to care about anything except fucking and being fucked. Robby uses the slick mess on his belly to slip his big hand up and down his dick, pathetically red against his tummy and the dark of Robby's top.
“Such a good boy,” he's saying, “Let Daddy fill you up.” and then other, weirder things like: “We'll check back in a few weeks to see how it takes.” and “Knees up and back, that's it.”
He's so overworked that it takes no more than three or four strokes before he's spilling over himself, whole body contracting, shuddering with it, Dr Robby looking down at him with his big, kind, dark eyes as the banging on the trauma door gets louder still–
Dennis wakes to the waves of his orgasm coursing through him. The soaked wet patch of his pyjama pants is still growing as he's regaining consciousness, trying to figure out where the fuck he is and where Robby has gone.
“Huckleberry! Don't fuckin make me late!”
The room is dark, decidedly not the ED and he scans around as he puts the pieces together. It's his new room, boxes piled in the corner, half unpacked - he's tangled in sweaty sheets that need changing, curled up around himself. He brings a hand down to his sticky crotch and the familiar wave of hot shame slams him as he realises the exactitude of what's happened. Then Trinity's words outside register and he scrambles for his phone. They should have left ten minutes ago. Shit. Shit shit shit.
Tissues, hurried wipe, and the cleanest clothes he can find and he's out the door. His legs feel weak and stomach aches as if all that had actually happened. Trinity looks at him like he's a freak, which isn't new.
“What were you doing in there?” she asks, “Wet dreaming about Dr Robby's dick?”
Dennis thinks he might as well just die. He doesn't know what answer could possibly absolve the guilt he can feel written on his very being, so he says nothing. The insides of his underwear are starting to get uncomfortable.
“Dennis?” she asks, looking into his face. And then he sees it - the realisation and slow formation of that evil expression she gets when she finds the perfect way in on someone. Or, more simply, when she realises she's right.
“Oh my God,” she says, astounded and delighted, “You totally should have lied to me about that. You're about to have the worst day ever.”