Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Whitaker’s softly smiling face stares at him from the photo taped to the wall.

It’s a cute picture. The kind you might put on Tinder. A very pathetic little face. A face he sees nearly every day.

He’s seen that face slack with horror, pinched with effort, red with shame. He’s certainly imagined the ways that face might contort under…less professional circumstances.

And these circumstances are anything but professional.

Robby started coming here a few years ago, initially looking for a place to blow off steam. It seemed like the right place for a guy like him: everyone was already vetted before they showed up, anonymity encouraged. It’s low-key, some BDSM hobbyist’s space with forgiving lighting and a constant low thump of bass-heavy music. It’s been a while since he’s come out here, and he’s looking forward to turning his brain off and letting his dick do all the thinking for once, give his other tired head a rest.

Not tonight, though.

No, tonight Dr. Michael Robinavitch is being forced to use his brain, at least a little bit, because he’s found himself on the business end of a gloryhole with a student’s ass hanging out of it.

He wouldn’t have known it was Whitaker if it weren’t for the damn picture—though there is a terrifying moment where he wonders if he would have somehow known anyway, like some kind of fucked-up instinct.

Robby even understands the point of the picture. Some people like that kind of thing: knowing exactly which face you’re pulling those noises out of, yet free of the weight of their direct gaze. It’s also a good way to avoid accidentally fucking someone you know, now that he thinks about it.

All of that logic seems to evaporate when he sees that face, though.

They aren’t gloryholes in the traditional sense—they’re larger, four of them, allowing for an entire lower half instead of a cock or a hand. He’s pretty sure he’s seen it described as a Czech gloryhole before, but he’s not really sure what the Czech Republic has to do with it. Maybe they perfected the design over there.

In any case, it’s the main attraction for Robby. Those perky asses jutting out of the wall, feet spread wide on trembling thighs, are always a sight to behold. Tonight, it’s the ass on the far end that really calls to him.

Cute, smooth, a sweet curve that Robby wants to sink his teeth into. As he walks over, he notes the tally marks across the small of that “anonymous” back—a group of four thick black lines, crossed over with a fifth and a sixth line floating nearby. A Sharpie is held to the wall above the gloryhole with a fraying piece of duct tape.

And next to the Sharpie, the picture.

So here Robby is, drooling over this gorgeous ass, only to be smacked with the reality that said ass is attached to the same medical student he’s already had to make a conscious effort not to blatantly eye-fuck at work for the past several months.

Yeah. Perfect.

There is no world where this ends in Robby ever seeing heaven.

Under the picture is a piece of an index card, and it reads in Dennis’s familiar scratchy print, like a Grindr profile gone analog:

27. PrEP’d. Love getting fisted and being your breeding bitch.

That last part makes Robby blink fast like he’s been slapped. Jesus, this kid.

No, not a kid. A twenty-seven-year-old man, who might still be a kid to Robby but is actually a consenting adult for all intents and purposes.

Right.

But none of that changes that this is an ethical nightmare. It doesn’t matter that Dennis is here on purpose, that he clearly knows what he wants. None of that cancels out the fact that Robby’s career would go up in a nuclear fireball if anyone ever found out.

The thought should stop him. It should repel him immediately. It should send him running down the street.

He takes a half-step closer.

It must have been a few minutes since anyone has touched him, or maybe he can feel the warmth of someone standing just behind him, but Dennis gives an inviting wiggle of his butt that quickly banishes every thought of possible consequences with hospital administration.

Robby freezes as he watches that little sway. His hands twitch at his sides as every atom in his body screams that he should turn around, get the fuck out of here, pretend he never saw any of this.

Go back home. Go back to beating your dick in the shower, thinking about those sad puppy eyes. That’s exactly what you should do.

He doesn’t.

He reaches out and caresses along the cheek of the same perfect ass he spends so much time trying to ignore. His fingers sink into the creamy flesh like it’s been waiting for him.

On the other side of the wall, Dennis whines, and the sound makes Robby’s stomach clench with heat.

You can’t do this, Robby thinks helplessly, even as his middle finger strokes Dennis’s stretched rim. You can’t, this is too fucked up, even for you.

Robby’s finger slides inside with little resistance. Dennis’s body clamps down on the digit, and he whimpers out a broken little, “Please.”

Fuck it.

A growl bubbles up from Robby’s chest as he pushes his finger in down to the last knuckle, curling and twisting and making the younger man’s breath turn into stuttering gasps. He’s still slick from the last guy stretching him open, but Robby still adds a drizzle of cool lube to his fingers as he works in another, mostly so he can watch how Whitaker’s hole hungrily takes it all in.

Robby wants to tell him how good he looks like this, how perfectly made his body is for this rough use, but he knows Dennis would recognize his voice before all of the words could even get out. He bites the inside of his lip instead, and the groan that leaves him is slightly tinged with frustration.

Dennis, for his part, is being such a slut that Robby’s not sure how he’ll ever see him the same way again. That’s tomorrow-Robby’s problem.

Pushing back eagerly onto Robby’s fingers, an impatient whimper leaks through the opening of the gloryhole as Dennis grinds his hips down, seeking, urging Robby for more, more, more.

Robby is pretty certain this is going to kill him, but fuck, what a way to go. He bullies a third finger in alongside the first two, and Dennis cries out with something close to relief. Greedy thing.

“Fuck, yes,” he hears Dennis’s voice, but it’s…wrong. Wrecked and wet. The sound of it makes Robby feel dizzy for a second.

He curls his digits inside of the smaller man, stroking his silky insides as he prods for that little button that’ll really make Dennis’s brain go foggy.

Frustration prickles again when Robby realizes he won’t get to see the look on his student’s face when that happens, but he’s already a bad enough man; he’ll take what he can get.

Robby angles his fingers just right, and Dennis yelps, the sound wavering off at the end before his voice melts into a groan. He’s pleasantly surprised to find that Dennis is capable of more than those needy whimpers and mewls from a moment ago—not that those weren’t delicious to listen to, too—but he grunts and growls as Robby works him open, nothing like the delicate, papery noises of some of the other asses he’s fucked in this very wall.

Fuck being cute, Dennis is trying to get used.

The thought makes Robby’s already-hard cock throb insistently against his jeans zipper.

He rewards Dennis’s voraciousness with another finger, and now he only has to work his thumb in to get his whole fist inside.

His free hand moves to begin stroking the younger man’s abused hole as it clenches around him, and Robby makes another hungry, growling noise. He sounds almost wounded, like everything he wants to say is fighting to get out around a mouthful of broken glass. Dennis doesn’t make it any easier on him.

“Oh my god—oh, fuck, oh my god,” Dennis babbles on the other side of the wall as those four fingers curl and pump, mixing and melting his insides.

Robby could drown out the sound of Dennis’s voice if he wanted to. He could focus on whatever electronic beat is pumping through the speakers now or the filthy, muttered dirty talk of the man fucking the ass beside him.

He doesn’t want to, though. No, he wants to hear more.

“Fuck, yes, fill me up, sir, it feels so good—!”

Sir? He’s so fucked.

Robby lets out an uneven breath and slathers more lube on his knuckles and wrist before starting to work his thumb inside. He must have the biggest hand Whitaker has taken all night, because even now, the tight squeeze of his ass around Robby’s fist is absolutely exquisite. He spears his thick fingers in at first, pushing out little oh-oh-oh’s from Dennis with every pump, before slowly curling his hand into a fist.

He knows the burn of the stretch is just right, because Dennis goes up on his tiptoes, his thighs shaking as he cries out with pleasure.

Robby is relentless, giving the med student only moments to adjust before he pushes in deeper, rolling his wrist and letting his knuckles massage Dennis’s inner walls. It makes Dennis shiver and spread his legs even wider, and Robby can see his back bowing, likely pushing himself up on his cot on the other side of the wall.

The noises coming out of Dennis now are downright pornographic, especially when paired with the lewd, slick sound of Robby’s fist opening him up.

He pulls back just enough to make Dennis’s rim cling to him, his muscles fluttering like he wants to pull Robby in deeper.

The noise that comes out of Dennis is almost animal, the kind of sound someone makes when their brain hasn’t caught up to their body yet—pure heat and need and submission all at once. It nearly makes Robby’s eyes roll back in his head.

Dennis’s body is shaking now, his cock leaking and flushed between his legs as he takes every slow push of Robby’s fist like he was made for it. “Please, sir—oh my god, please don’t stop—“

Stop? Fuck no, not now, not anymore.

Robby imagines licking into that little cock-drunk mouth, thinks of the taste of mint and shitty coffee and cheap cigarettes he would find there, of the deer-in-the-headlights look on Dennis’s face if he told him, From now on, when you call me ‘sir’ at work, I’ll be thinking about my fist in your ass.

God, life really isn’t fucking fair.

He presses his head against the cool surface of the partition wall between them and tries to draw in a breath that doesn’t shudder. He’s buried to the wrist now, and he can feel every pulse and twitch of the smaller man’s hot body around him.

Robby almost feels drunk on it—every shiver, every tremble that ripples through that stretched, hungry hole just makes him want it even more.

He rolls his wrist just so, and Dennis screams.

It’s not a full-throated cry, more like a pathetic, stuttering noise that’s dragged out of him, scraped raw at the edges as it falls out of his throat. He doesn’t slow down, though—if anything, his hips buck back into Robby’s hand even faster, helpless against the drag and turn of his big knuckles.

Robby lets out a choked noise that’s halfway to a groan, risking it to mutter under his breath to himself, “Jesus Christ.”

He can’t see Dennis’s face, but at this point, he doesn’t need to. He can imagine that sweet bottom lip being worried between his teeth, his brows scrunched up in that lost-puppy look that made Robby want to wreck him in the first place. He closes his eyes to really enjoy it, only opening them when Dennis’s gasping voice catches his attention.

“Fuck me open, sir, please—split me apart, I can take it—“

Can you? Robby thinks viciously, his free hand moving to grip one of Dennis’s shaking thighs, giving the soft flesh an appreciative squeeze.

He pulls his fist out just a bit before thrusting in again—deep, hard, deliberate—and Dennis wails again.

“I’m gonna cum, please, sir, oh fuck—!”

Robby redoubles his efforts. He fucks his hand into Dennis’s hole, twisting just enough to drag over his prostate again and melt him into a twitching, whimpering puddle.

He watches with something like reverence as Dennis cums untouched, his cock jumping as his hot spend splatters across the floor. Robby rewards him with a few gentle tugs that squeeze the last few drops out of him and make Dennis’s entire body twitch.

He’s trembling now—not just Dennis. Robby.

He slowly works his fist out of Dennis, and the younger man immediately whimpers at the loss. Robby caresses the plump meat of his ass, watching for a moment as Dennis’s hole clenches and shivers around nothing.

Greedy, greedy, greedy.

Robby finally undoes his own jeans, his cock springing free from his briefs—hard, flushed dark red at the tip and gleaming with pre-cum. Dennis must hear the zipper because he lets out a strangled little “Yes,” muffled and urgent.

The groan that leaves Robby when he sinks into Dennis is nothing that he’s proud of, especially when it devolves into a decidedly vulnerable whimper. Dennis’s oversensitive walls still clutch him deliciously, slicked and stretched and absolutely divine.

Robby knows he’s powerless against the wet heat of his student’s body and makes no effort to pretend otherwise. After months of lying to himself about how badly he wanted this—needed it—he knows there’s no hope of holding back now that he’s had a taste.

His hips snap forward and set a punishing pace, every stroke dragging hiccuping, whining moans out of Dennis, his toes nearly leaving the floor as Robby drives into him.

“Yes sir, yes sir,” comes Dennis’s voice, high and shaking, “use me like a fucking fleshlight—!”

That does it.

Robby grunts as he digs his fingers into Dennis’s hips and bottoms out, his cock throbbing as he pushes every drop of his cum deep inside the younger man’s ruined hole. He can feel Dennis’s body still clenching around him, determined to milk Robby’s cock dry.

Robby finally lets his hands move across Dennis’s lower back, petting and massaging him, and he makes a grateful noise on his side of the partition. He’s limp now, exhaustion making his body shudder more than arousal.

Slowly, Robby pulls his softening cock out, and Dennis makes a soft sound of protest before relaxing again, soothed by the warm hands still kneading his skin.

With his fingers still trembling slightly, Robby tucks himself away again and zips up his jeans. That thin voice in the back of his head has returned now that he’s cum, the one that whispers what the fuck is wrong with you and how could you do that, but he’s not quite ready to give in to the guilt spiral just yet.

He pushes those thoughts away to look over Dennis again—spent now, with a smear of lube and cum across his winking hole—and grabs the Sharpie from its place on the wall.

He adds a seventh tally mark across Dennis’s pale skin with deliberate precision, then re-tapes the marker like it’s fragile.

A part of him that he doesn’t want to acknowledge wishes badly that he could be on the other side of this wall right now, that he could be the one to clean up his boy and take care of him, to hold him and kiss him and put him to bed.

Robby wants to tell Dennis that he’s a good boy.

Instead, Robby exhales slowly through his nose and turns away, towards the exit. He keeps going until his feet hit the sidewalk, then stops under a streetlamp to light a cigarette that he can’t really taste.

Now, away from the club and the thud of music and the smell of sweat and cum, it’s impossible to avoid: You just fucked Whitaker, and he doesn’t even know it.

The same Whitaker who looks like he can’t believe it when Robby tells him good catch. The same Whitaker who flinched like he was waiting for someone to slap him when he knocked over an instrument tray earlier that week.

The same Whitaker who just wants Robby to like him.

Robby squeezes his eyes shut against the memory of that stupidly hopeful face looking up at him, tries not to think of that same face melting into an expression of ecstasy as his chin tips back and his mouth hangs open—

“Fuck,” Robby hisses, his eyes flying open as he throws his half-smoked cigarette into the gutter.

He is so, so fucked.

Chapter Text

It’s been nine days.

Nine days since Robby had thrown away every shred of ethical integrity for the chance to bury himself wrist-deep in his favorite med student.

He still can’t think about it without getting shamefully hard, so he does his best not to.

The morning after it happened—when he woke to stubborn Sunday light and a dull thudding behind his eyes almost like he was hungover—he’d sworn he wouldn’t let it keep affecting him. He’d treat Whitaker like any other MS4. He couldn’t let this disrupt the flow of the ED.

What a crock of shit that was.

Robby spent the entire next week on shift avoiding Dennis as much as he could, passing off teaching opportunities to other faculty and hardly ever staying in the same room with him for longer than was strictly necessary. In moments where it was impossible to make a quick getaway, he settled for avoiding eye contact.

He can’t look at him at all, really, or else he might start thinking about the tight body under those scrubs.

Naturally, this meant Robby stopped touching him, too.

No more grabbing him by the shoulder, letting his thumb settle into the crook of his neck where he could feel his pulse kick up like a rabbit’s—

Yeah. No more touching.

Even Dana had taken notice.

He’d been standing at the nurses’ station, his hands curled into fists in the pockets of his hoodie, very pointedly looking at the board instead of Dennis, who stood a few feet away doing the same—save for the couple of glances he threw in Robby’s direction.

After the younger man walked away, Dana looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Then she held up a stress ball, bright yellow with some pharmaceutical company’s logo on it. Offered it to him.

Robby stared at her for a moment, unamused.

After a beat, he snatched the stress ball from her, squeezing the daylights out of the poor thing as he walked away.

Of course, Dennis picked up on the shift in his behavior even before anyone else.

On the rare occasion that Robby did make the mistake of looking the younger man in the face, he hated what he saw there—this confused, wounded expression, like he was looking for something that wasn’t there.

Then Robby would look away, or walk in the other direction, or duck into the nearest patient room.

Real subtle.

Robby couldn’t help it, though. He knew he’d fucked up, and he couldn’t shake the fear that Dennis would somehow be able to smell the truth on him if they were in proximity for too long.

The whole thing made Robby feel like shit. After every shift, he would spend the walk home chastising himself for his stupidity, his cruelty.

It’s not enough to fuck him behind his back, huh? You have to hurt his feelings now, too? Piece of shit, fucking asshole—

And so on and so forth.

He spent the next weekend firmly locked in his apartment, despite the evil whisper in the back of his head that came on Saturday: Maybe he went back. Maybe you can do it again.

He spent that night on the couch with a bottle of bourbon and a throw pillow to shout into instead.

So when he wakes up the following Monday, he feels like he's at the end of his rope, even more so than usual. His body feels fatigued in a way that has nothing to do with a lack of sleep and everything to do with his guilty conscience.

He can't go through another week like this. He just fucking can't. Something has got to give, there has to be some way for him to share an ER with this fucking kid without Robby wanting to hump his leg or blow his own brains out--

With a vicious groan, Robby sits straight up in bed and scrubs at his face.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

His stomach is churning with dread at the thought of spending another day like that, like a dog barking at the end of his leash.

Self-loathing and dangerously determined, Robby swings his legs over the side of his bed and marches to the en suite bathroom, turning on the shower like the pipes hold some kind of scalding salvation that might clean up this horrible mess he's made.

He kicks off his sweats and steps under the hot spray, groaning low in his throat as the water works at the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders. He closes his eyes, tips his head back, and tries to clear out the fucked up carnival in his brain.

He tries to think about safe things. Safer, at least.

The memories are always bouncing around in the back of his head: Heather's body under him, lean legs wrapped around his waist and eyes rolled back in ecstasy. Or Langdon on his knees in a supply closet, eyes teary and lips stretched around the girth of Robby's cock as he muttered filthy praise and fucked his throat.

These should just be further reminders of his moral and ethical failings, but somehow they feel less predatory than the memory of sinking into Dennis's sweet, unaware body.

Maybe because it had been Heather who approached him first, face-to-face, no bullshit. And Frank had all but begged Robby to fix him, then in a moment of frustrated arousal he found himself unable to deny his favorite resident (at the time, anyway) anything at all.

But Dennis? Dennis didn't even know. Didn't get the choice.

Robby screws his eyes shut even tighter, trying to banish even the younger man's name from his head.

He focuses on the memory of Langdon as he slides his hand over his own thick stomach, down to the damp swath of dark hair where his cock is filling out. He strokes himself lazily at first, a familiar, slow twist of his wrist that makes him twitch against his own palm.

He thinks about Frank sinking to his knees, his eyes damp with desperation as he mouths and nuzzles Robby’s dick through his cargo pants like he's in love with it. He relishes in the phantom sensation of threading his fingers into his resident's hair and gripping hard, using it like a handle to direct Frank's handsome face. He remembers how that hot mouth felt when it finally slid over his length and it makes him hiss through his teeth, his fist working faster.

He imagines Langdon taking his whole cock into his throat, sliding his mouth onto it until his nose is pressed against Robby's stomach. And when he slides back--

His wet eyes are different now. Sadder. And the hair under his fingers is curly and short, not the perfectly styled locks Langdon tries so hard to keep up.

It’s not Langdon at all. It's Dennis.

Before he can even think to stop himself, he's imagining Dennis gagging on him as he thrusts shallowly into his throat. Not Dennis's bare ass from the club, but Dennis knelt down for him in his scrubs, stethoscope around his neck and bouncing against his chest with every bob of his head.

"Fuck, no," Robby moans pathetically, his cock suddenly achingly hard in his hand. 

But he doesn't stop. He strokes himself faster, arousal and anger raging in his chest.

Now he's bending the boy over a gurney in his mind, licking at that perfect, pink asshole that's been haunting his dreams for the past week. He's imagining Dennis grinding back against his face with more of those hungry grunts and moans that he remembers from the club. And then his dream-Dennis looks back at him with dark, lidded eyes and whimpers, "Please, sir."

"Oh, fuck, Whitaker," Robby grunts as he cums over his fist, the relief white-hot for a moment as his hips buck against his own hand.

The echo of the boy's name from his own mouth ricochets around in his skull like a pinball machine and it makes him feel hot and sick at the same time.

That moment of reprieve is quickly stolen by a dread even colder than the one that gripped him when he opened his eyes in his bed this morning.

This isn't going away.

Robby wants to hit something, or scream, or maybe even fucking cry.

Instead, he opens his eyes and leans back against the tile of the shower, letting the water pelt his chest and rinse away the evidence of his weakness.

His shift starts in an hour. He's out of time for penance.

---

Stepping into the ED is starting to make him feel like he's walking towards his own execution.

The bright white lights and antiseptic smell give the impression that he's about to be held down and cut open even as he walks with purpose through the hallways. He goes through the motions and finds Whitaker's presence mercifully absent for the first thirty minutes or so of his shift. Maybe the kid is running late.

Robby is looking over the overnight notes, mostly left in Jack's small, efficient handwriting, when he finally sees Dennis. He spots the younger man before he can notice Robby first.

He's across the nurses' station, nodding and listening intently as Samira explains something to him, probably dosage of a new medication or how to get someone to tell you something when they don't want to. Dennis has his arms crossed low over his chest, his left hand gripping his right elbow and his right hand tucked under his left bicep. His shoulders pull at the fabric of his scrubs a bit. Living with Trinity and having better access to food has really filled him out, reminding Robby that this kid did in fact spend years working on his family's farm in Nebraska, and under that scrub top is probably a firm, toned body.

Robby runs a hand over his face, shaking his head as he looks back to the notes, the letters all meaningless scribbles to him now.

Do you always have to be such a fucking animal?

As if the morning couldn't get any better, that's the moment that Dennis turns his head slightly and notices him.

The med student finishes up with Samira and starts towards Robby, and the older man realizes it's too late for him to bail without making it painfully obvious to Dennis and every nurse at the station right now.

"Morning, Dr. Robinavitch," Dennis greets him, careful but hopeful, his eyes stupidly sweet and bright.

"Morning, Whitaker. What do you need?" It comes out curt, to-the-point. Not necessarily unlike Robby, but a bit sharper than Dennis is used to from his attending.

"Uh, I just-- I was wondering if you have any advice for how I can talk to this patient. Really talk to him, you know? I think he might be unhoused, and he hasn't really been--"

"I would talk with Kiara and see if she has any suggestions for resources," Robby cuts him off, grabbing a chart just to have something to look down at.

Dennis blinks and tries to recover quickly.

"R-Right, yeah, I was going to," the younger man says with a nod. "I guess I was just hoping I could...connect with him a little more before he left. Show him I care what happens to him without scaring him off."

Of course that's what Dennis wants to do. He knows better than to think the problem with a patient like that can be solved with one trip to an overcrowded ER. And he wants to help his patient, because he's a good doctor.

A good doctor who deserves better than Robby as his attending physician, that's for goddamn sure.

"He on a long-term treatment plan?" Robby asks, looking up from the chart.

Whitaker nods.

"Get his info for the street team-- you're on that, right? Let him know you can help him keep on track. People feel better when they don't feel like they have to do it all by themselves," the older man tells him.

Some of the tension in Dennis's slight shoulders falls away, and while it's certainly not the close mentorship he's grown used to, he's grateful that Robby is saying something to him at all.

"Thanks, Dr. Robby," Dennis says, turning to head back to his patient.

He hesitates, opening his mouth like he’s on the verge of saying something else—Aren’t you trying to do it all by yourself?—then swallows it down and keeps walking.

Robby watches him go, hating the twist of longing that immediately creeps into his chest.

---

The trauma alert comes through the overhead speakers a little after noon.

"Trauma team to bays two and three. Motor vehicle collision, two patients. ETA five minutes. Trauma team to bays two and three."

The words crackle slightly as they come through, and the change in the ED is almost palpable. The air becomes alive with urgency as people move more quickly, everyone dialed in just a little bit more. Robby feels the change in his own body: the telltale tightening of his muscles like he's bracing for impact, the thrum of adrenaline replacing the stubborn dread that's been lodged in his chest.

Finally, something he can actually fix.

He finds Collins at the nurses' station, already tying on a trauma gown. "You taking two or three?"

"I'll take two, you take three," Robby replies briskly.

She nods and jerks her chin past him. "Bring your duckling."

He doesn't have to look to know who she means, but he does anyway.

Dennis is hovering at the edge of the station, his eyes bright with that anxious focus that he always gets right before things go sideways. His eyes move between the board, the hallway, the rest of the team. When they land on Robby, he straightens like he's been caught slouching.

"Whitaker," Robby calls to him, "you're with me."

The effect is immediate: Dennis's whole face lights up like Robby’s just given him a gift instead of a guaranteed bloodbath. "Yes, sir-- I mean, yes, Dr. Robby."

Yes, sir.

Fuck, Robby wants to die when he hears that. He hates the part of himself that immediately conjures up the memory of those words from the younger man's lips at the club, and for a moment all he can do is stare, not trusting himself not to do or say something horrendous.

Time tunnels as he leads Dennis to the second trauma bay. The boy is close enough for Robby to smell the Dollar General soap under the stress sweat dried to his soft skin. Somehow, he just knows that the damp curls at the base of Dennis's neck smell like heaven, which is ironic considering that Robby is going straight to hell for thinking about it right now.

They set up the trauma bay with the practiced motions and efficiency of a small army, and soon Robby is pulling on his own trauma gown and tying it at the neck with deft fingers.

"I want you on the right side, keep your hands on his chest and talk me through what you're seeing," Robby tells Dennis, mostly to have something to say. "You know the primary survey. Go on."

"Airway, breathing, circulation, disability, exposure," Dennis rattles off, struggling to tie his own trauma gown.

"Turn around," Robby mutters, and Dennis quickly obeys.

Robby ties the gown with ease, trying not to let his fingers touch the younger man's surprisingly cool skin as he moves. When he finishes, Dennis looks over his shoulder at him with a small smile and says, "Thanks."

Too close. Way too close.

Mercifully, the doors to the ambulance bay slide open just then, and their patient is wheeled in by two paramedics, one of them barking the patient's info.

Fifty-six year old male, high-speed rollover, hypotensive on scene with bruising to his left chest and abdomen. Certainly not the end of the world.

"On three," Robby says. "One, two, three."

They move the patient onto the ED bed like a well-oiled machine. There are hands everywhere, voices and noises overlapping into a cacophony of the sounds of trying to save a life.

"Talk to me, Whitaker," Robby prompts over the chaos of the trauma bay.

"Uh, equal chest rise, some tenderness on the left-- feeling some crepitus here, might be rib fractures," Dennis responds. "Breath sounds are--"

The med student's hand hesitates just a breath too long, the stethoscope wavering over the injured man's chest.

"Don't just hover, Whitaker. Listen," Robby barks.

"Sorry," Dennis jumps, quickly pressing the cold metal to flesh. In his hurry, he nearly elbows Dana, who dodges at the last second.

"Watch it," Dana grunts as she continues her reach.

"Sorry," Dennis says again, trying to scoot out of the way. He ends up knocking one of the trays with his right hip, and a pack of gauze falls to the floor.

It’s nothing. A baby fumble. No one is going to die from a baby fumble.

But Robby’s nerves are already shot, and he hates that fearful look on Dennis's face almost as much as he hates himself right now.

"Just get out, Whitaker," the attending bites off.

Dennis freezes. "Wh-- what?"

"Go help Collins," Robby snaps. "She's going to be up to her neck in shit, and you're just in the way here. Go."

The younger man stares back for a beat, his face drawn like he's been physically shoved away. He doesn't let the stricken look last long, though, quickly looking to the floor and stepping back from the bed.

"Yes, doctor," Dennis mutters as he rounds the bed to go to Trauma 3 instead.

"Whitaker!" Collins's breathless voice comes a short time later, slightly muffled by distance. "Great, get in here and get airway for me."

"Yeah," Dennis says. "Yeah, I'm here."

Robby might have missed the slight wobble in his voice if he hadn't been listening for it.

When he looks up from the patient for the first time in a few minutes, Dana is watching him with slightly raised brows.

"Real delicate touch there, boss," she remarks dryly.

"Focus, please," Robby grits out, more to himself than to Dana.

The tension still lingers in the air even as the team fights to stabilize the patient, slowly coaxing his blood pressure and heart rate into a normal range.

Eventually, though, things level out. Labs are ordered, fluids given, a spot in line for scans secured. The man's oxygen levels hold steady despite the initial worries, and Robby is able to shed his gown and step back out into the hallway, secure in the knowledge that the patient will be going upstairs soon.

As he passes the glass doors of Trauma 3, he looks in and sees Dennis there, trauma gown splattered with blood, hair mussed and brow gleaming with sweat. He looks up for half a second, sees Robby, and looks down again, and it makes Robby want to put his head through the fucking wall. He realizes again with terrifying certainty that this isn't going away, and if anything, he's only made it worse.

And if the look on Whitaker's face is anything to go by, neither of them are going to last like this for much longer.

Chapter Text

There's only a couple of hours left in the shift when Robby manages to get on Dennis's last nerve.

Really, it's Gloria's fault, as usual. Robby is desperate to get out of a conversation with her about patient satisfaction scores and wait time metrics (how the fuck is that his fault again?) when he finally comes up to a curtain bay that he can use as an excuse to ditch her.

After some snark about how illuminating the conversation has been, Robby pulls back the curtain to step inside, and a different kind of trepidation slaps him in the face.

Of course he stepped into the bay where Dennis is currently examining a patient, gently chatting and palpating her stomach with gloved hands. She looks up at Robby with a calm smile, the kind of smile that would normally feel like a winning lottery ticket in the ER.

"He's very good, he's been very gentle," the patient tells Robby. "Are you his boss?"

"Something like that," Robby replies, his voice coming out tighter than he would have liked. "What've you got here, Whitaker?"

Dennis looks up at Robby then, almost like he's surprised that the attending is addressing him directly, but he quickly straightens and begins his presentation.

"Oh, uh, hey, Dr. Robinavitch. This is Ms. Lowe, forty-year-old female with a history of IBS and anxiety disorder. She came in today with severe stomach pain in the lower left abdomen that started at a lower intensity about two days ago. No fever or urinary symptoms, no recent travel or sick contacts. She's still having bowel movements and passing gas, and there was one episode of non-bloody emesis this morning."

Robby can almost hear it- Dennis asking all the right questions, and even a few of the better ones, to get a clean history. It's good work. It's Robby-level work that he should be proud of.

"On exam," Dennis continues, in full student-mode now, "she has some tenderness to that lower left quadrant, but no guarding. Bowel sounds are present, no masses, and all vitals are in the normal range."

He looks up at Robby like he's waiting for a hammer to come down on him.

"Differential?" Robby sighs.

"It could be an IBS flare-up triggered by stress- Ms. Lowe mentioned her job has given her more hours recently, so she's been on her feet more as well. There could also be an ovarian component, so I ordered a pelvic ultrasound to rule out any cysts or ruptures. Endometriosis is also a possibility, but that would require a specialist diagnosis."

Goddamn, he's good.

"And he explained all of that to me," Ms. Lowe speaks up, putting a hand on Dennis's arm and making him break into a sheepish grin. "Usually, I just get, 'Your labs are fine, go home.' He's been a big help today."

"That's great to hear," Robby tells her, even though the sweet look on the boy's face makes him want to crawl out of his skin. He doesn't deserve that look. "We'll wait on the ultrasound and the rest of your labs, but we might be able to manage this with outpatient care and a better pain regimen. How does that sound?"

"That's so much more than I was expecting," Ms. Lowe says, relaxing back against the angled exam bed. "Thank you, doctor. Both of you."

"Oh, uh, student doctor for me," Dennis gently corrects her, like it's a secret between them, which makes the older woman giggle.

"Well, in any case, I appreciate you listening to me," she replies.

"Of course, ma'am. That's the easy part."

Robby pretends to look over the woman's chart so he doesn't end up staring at his student, even if he feels those words like a punch to the chest. Of course that's the easy part for kind, attentive Dennis.

Suddenly, the room feels too small, the air too thick with the patient's gratitude and Dennis's quiet optimism.

He knows he should let Dennis stay. He's built a rapport with the patient, done a solid exam, and this case is a great learning opportunity. A good attending would keep him right where he is, let him finish what he started.

But Robby is not a good attending. He's a wicked, evil thing in a man suit, thinking about the other ways Dennis's hands might settle on an abdomen, how those clever fingers might coax out other responses under different circumstances.

He's not a good attending physician, or a good man, so he says, "Go check in with Collins. She needed help with that post-op bleeder."

Dennis blinks. "I checked with her earlier, she said she had it and they're waiting on blood--"

"Well, go see if anything changed," Robby cuts him off. "I'll finish up here."

The younger man stares back at him for a heartbeat, and Robby notices a flicker of something in his face- a quiet shuttering. His eyes harden in a way Robby has never seen before.

"You can stay," Ms. Lowe says as she looks at Dennis, having picked up on the shift. "You were doing great."

Dennis opens his mouth to say something, but Robby speaks first, as gently as he can, "He needs to be available for other critical patients. It's a teaching hospital."

Technically true, but it feels like bullshit to everyone in the room. Ms. Lowe doesn't look convinced.

"Right," Dennis finally relents, stepping back from the exam bed. "No problem, Dr. Robinavitch."

He looks back to the patient and musters a polite smile. "It was nice to meet you, Ms. Lowe."

She nods as Dennis carefully steps around Robby to leave, pushing the curtain back to step out into the hallway. Robby looks at the computer screen because he can feel the patient's eyes boring into him.

After a long time, she says, "You didn't have to do that just to show that you're in charge. He made me feel comfortable."

Robby forces a smile like it pains him. "We're still working out how to best use the resources we have."

She shakes her head and doesn't say anything else.

Robby finishes up, escapes as quickly as he can without obviously being rude, and ducks out of the curtain bay again. He's hoping he can finish the rest of the shift without incident, but he could never be so lucky.

As soon as he steps out of the curtain, he sees Dennis at the nurses' station, arms crossed, staring at him. Waiting.

Immediately, he starts walking over, his expression drawn in determination. This isn't some meek farm boy, this is Dennis on some weird little mission.

Robby has no time to run away. No excuse this time.

"Dr. Robby," Dennis says as soon as he's close enough, "do you have a minute to talk?"

Fuck.

Robby lets out a long sigh of resignation.

"Yeah, Whitaker, I've got a minute."

---

They end up in the on-call room, tucked into a forgotten corner of the ED and rarely used for more than a few desperate bursts of sleep at a time. There's a mini-fridge, a desk with a bent leg, and a bunk bed with two blue mattresses stolen from the psych floor.

The break room felt too open, and every supply closet just reminded Robby of Frank's stupid mouth, so they land here instead, in stale air that smells like antiseptic over old mildew.

Robby steps in and Dennis follows, closing the door behind them as the older man turns to face him, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.

"What's up?" Robby asks, like he hasn't been treating the student in front of him like shit all day.

"What's--?" Dennis breathes out, incredulous, then he takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "Dr. Robby, did I...do something?"

Here it comes.

"How do you mean?" Robby asks, still playing stupid.

"I mean, it just seems like...like you're upset with me or something. Or like my performance has dramatically changed over the last week," Dennis tells him. The frustration is still there, but it's giving way to that softness again- the worry that this really is all his fault, that somehow he's let Robby down.

"If I did something to endanger a patient, or if I even just stepped on your toes, I want to know so I can fix it and be better. I...I want to be a good doctor. Like you."

That twists the knife something awful. He'd known he was doing this to Dennis, that he was making him feel inadequate, and he still did it anyway.

"It's not...," Robby begins, but that's too close to it's not you, it's me, and that cliché makes him want to throw up. He tries again. "You didn't do anything wrong. You're right where you should be, maybe even above average."

That clearly does nothing to soothe Dennis's nerves, though. He keeps his eyes on Robby, steady, unwavering. "It doesn't feel like it. It feels like I haven't done anything right today. I got so in my head about it that I could barely touch that patient."

Robby can't take the weight of his gaze anymore and looks down at the tile floor, huffing an exhale and shaking his head.

"You do plenty right, Whitaker," Robby says, still not looking at him. "If I'm acting like an asshole, that's just because I'm an asshole, alright? You aren't responsible for me, it's the other way around."

"You aren't an asshole, though," Dennis insists. "I mean, you can be, when you have to, but that...that's different from this. You can't even look at me."

In an attempt to prove him wrong, Robby looks up then, only to immediately wish he hadn't.

Dennis is looking up at him with this sad, hurt expression on his face. His blue eyes are wide and a little wet, like even starting this conversation is making them go misty. There's a slight wobble to his bottom lip that he clenches his jaw to stop.

He's in pain, and Robby is the one who did this to him. Robby is also the only one who can make it go away now, and the older man thinks that it must be karma for ever thinking he could get away with this.

"Dennis," Robby says, his voice careful and low. The younger man's eyebrows raise with surprise at the use of his first name. "You just have to trust me that everything's alright."

"But it isn't alright," Dennis argues quickly. "You're acting weird, you're kicking me out of rooms I should be learning in, you barely say anything when I ask you for help, and you-- you said I was in the way."

Those words land heavy between them, and Robby knows that they cut deeper than he'd intended.

"You-- I just got overwhelmed in the moment," Robby tries, but Dennis just shakes his head.

"That's not like you, either," the boy says softly. "I know everyone's got a limit, but this is...too much. And now it feels like you're lying to me about it, and that makes me really worried."

Jesus, when did this kid get so perceptive?

Robby realizes with a brief jab of panic that Dennis isn't going to let this go. He's made up his mind that Robby is upset with him for one reason or another, and that weird little mission of his is to stand right here until his attending lets him fix it.

If only he knew how unfixable this is.

Robby breathes out slowly, running a hand over his short hair and coming to terms with the fact that his best efforts to keep this from exploding in his face haven't done shit.

He can't get out of this any more than he can un-fuck his student's ass at a gloryhole.

"Okay," Robby says, more to himself than to Dennis. "Sit down."

Dennis blinks once, twice, and then obeys. He sits on the edge of the lower bunk bed, not trusting the rickety chair at the desk, and looks up expectantly at Robby.

Fuck, this is happening. Right now.

Less like an explosion than he was expecting, he realizes. More like a slow-moving car crash.

It sinks in that, in the way a teacher loves their favorite student, Robby loves Dennis. He loves watching him succeed and seeing his confidence grow every time he gets it right. He loves when other attendings recognize what a rockstar he is when Robby isn't kicking him out of the room, you fucking dickhead.

And in the way a student loves their favorite teacher, Dennis had loved him, too. He loved Robby’s praise and steady direction and his investment in the younger man's success. He had flourished under it.

Now Robby has ruined it. Now he's taking it away.

"I saw you somewhere the other night," Robby begins. "A little over a week ago."

Dennis's brow furrows with confusion, trying to reason what that could have to do with anything. Of course he doesn't expect his attending to be an insatiable pervert.

He waits for Robby to continue, though, so he does.

"It was a...club. The private kind. It had a, uh, a back room."

Dennis just stares at him

"With the partitions."

The words seem to settle slowly in Dennis's brain. As they do, his cheeks flame a bright pink before all the color drains from his face entirely, his eyes going wide with horror.

"You...you saw me there?" the younger man manages.

Robby fixes him with a hard stare. "I did a lot more than see you, Dennis."

The implication is plain, and the horror on Dennis's face morphs into disbelief.

"No," he whispers.

"Yes," Robby counters instantly. "I was there. I was the...the seventh tally mark."

What Robby doesn't realize is that Dennis had left almost immediately after their encounter at the club, certain no one else could meet the standard that seventh stranger had set. And more than a little sore, too.

He'd even told Trinity about it the next day, sparing the gory details- after all, she had been the one to tell him about the club in the first place (not that she would ever go herself, there were entirely too many dicks there and not nearly enough hot women attached to them). When he'd gushed about the seventh man to his roommate, how he was sure he was ruined for anyone else now, he had no idea that he was singing the praises of his fucking attending.

They had even come up with a codename for the guy so Trinity could tease him about it at work.

"Lucky Number Seven," Dennis mutters to himself, almost unconsciously.

Robby tilts his head. "What did you just say?"

Dennis's ears go red again, and a pink color dusts over the bridge of his nose.

"N-Nothing," he says quickly. "I just...I don't understand, that was you? That doesn't-- that doesn't make any sense to me. There's no way you'd be there."

"I was there," Robby repeats. "I've...been there a few times, and I never expected in a million years that I'd see a student there. I saw your picture, I knew it was you, and I still..."

He can't say the rest. They both know what he did.

Mortification settles over Dennis like a heavy blanket. His shoulders turn in and he hides his face again, newly flushed with the realization that Robby is telling the truth, that this really happened. He starts and stops talking over and over again.

"I can't...I said...all that stuff...how the fuck..."

Robby closes his eyes against the sight of him like this, the guilt making his eyes sting.

When Dennis finally raises his head, his eyes are red and watery. He looks wounded, pissed, and scarily resolute.

"So that's what this has been?" he demands. "You...you did all that stuff to me, and now you're so disgusted with me that you can't even stand to be in the same room?"

What?

"No-- Jesus, Dennis, no, absolutely not," Robby tells him once he's finished reeling. "I took advantage of you. You consented to anonymous sex, not sex with your attending. I knew it was you, that should have made me leave, point-blank, period."

The older man sighs, clasping both hands behind his head now, heels of his palms pressed hard into the back of his skull like he can physically keep his mind in once place.

"You didn't do anything wrong. I'm not judging you, if that's what you think this is. I'm trying to tell you that I fucked up, and I don't-- I don't know how to fix this. But it isn't your fault. I stepped way out of line, and you're right to be mad at me. Report me, even. If you say I assaulted you, I wouldn't argue."

The embarrassment on Dennis's face is still there, but it gets folded in with something else. Confusion and, absurdly, concern.

"I don't feel assaulted," the younger man says after a long moment. "I mean, I went there on purpose, I wanted that."

"Not with me," Robby asserts.

Dennis shifts slightly on the edge of the bed, suddenly looking guilty himself. His throat works for a moment before he speaks. "Yes, with you. That's why I went there in the first place."

Robby stares at him and goes very still.

"I didn't think you would actually be there, but I've been...thinking about you a lot, pretty much ever since the start of this rotation," Dennis confesses, his eyes dropping to the floor.

"It was getting distracting, I guess, and I thought...maybe if I did something stupid and horny and reckless, maybe if I acted on some deep, dark fantasy, then...it would make me think about you less."

Before Robby can stop himself, he asks softly, "Did it?"

Still looking at the floor, Dennis shakes his head and scoffs. "No. Not even while I was there."

Robby feels almost dizzy as it dawns on him that Dennis had already been imagining him on the other side of the wall the entire time. The fact that he had really been there wasn't so much a betrayal as it was a fulfillment.

That should make him feel better. It doesn't. It only makes his chest ache.

After a long minute, Dennis looks up again. His eyelashes are clumped together with moisture now.

"And then, your solution to...all of that," Dennis goes on, his voice scratchy, "was to start treating me like crap at work?"

Robby opens his mouth, but Dennis continues, like the words can't stop now that they've started.

"You know I look up to you, right? Like, as a doctor? A teacher? So when you suddenly treat me like I'm a safety hazard in your department, it's--" his voice cracks, "--it's really not a good feeling."

The words land like a cold slap.

You did this. You're a selfish, depraved fuck, and look what it's gotten you.

"This isn't on you," Robby tries to reassure him. "This is all me. You're good at this, Dennis, really good. That's part of the problem."

"Why is that a problem?" Dennis asks, eyebrows wrinkling again.

"Because I am wildly, inappropriately attracted to you, and I have been trying to ignore it for months. And I have failed. Spectacularly," the older man finally snaps. "I had the choice that night to be a good man, a good doctor, or to give in and be selfish and do whatever the hell I wanted."

He laughs once, sharp and bitter. "You know which one I picked."

Dennis studies him for a moment, and then he stands up. To Robby’s surprise, he takes a step closer.

"I don't regret that night," the student says, sounding more certain than he looks. "I regret not knowing it was you. I regret you having to carry it around by yourself and twisting yourself up into knots over it. But I don't regret it. Especially now that I know."

Deep down, Robby knows this is his cue to do the right thing. He has another chance, an opportunity to stop digging this fucking grave he's made for himself.

Tell him to go. Tell him you can't.

But then, because Robby hasn't stopped him yet, Dennis steps even closer. Their chests almost bump.

"What are you doing, kid?" Robby whispers roughly. He finds himself unable to look away from the younger man's eyes, his mouth.

"You can tell me to go," Dennis replies quietly, and Robby can almost feel the puff of the boy's breath against his neck. "I'll go. You can go to the director and have me moved if you want. I'm not going to report you. But if I stay in your department, you're going to treat me just like everybody else. And you're not going to decide you know what I want better than I do."

The breath that leaves Robby is humiliatingly shaky. He feels knocked off-center, like the floor under him is starting to tilt.

"Do you want me to go?" Dennis prompts.

Not trusting his voice, Robby shakes his head.

Dennis sags slightly as some of the tension leaves his shoulders, like he'd been expecting a different answer.

"Okay," the younger man says softly. He tilts his chin up, trying for stubborn instead of terrified. This close, Robby can see the faint tremor going through him, how his fingers flex at his side, unsure if he's allowed to reach. "I'm staying."

"You should be mad at me," Robby says helplessly.

"I am," Dennis replies. "Just not for the reasons you think."

There's a long stretch of silence between them before Dennis finally reaches up and rests his hand against Robby's chest. He flinches at the contact but doesn't pull away.

"Is this okay?"

Robby barks out a dark, humorless laugh. "No."

Wounded again, Dennis starts to pull his hand away. Before he can, though, Robby quickly grabs his hand with his own, keeping it pressed to his chest.

The meaning is clear: Don't stop.

Dennis stares up at Robby and aborts the step he was about to take away from him. His fingers curl slightly, gripping the fabric of the older man's scrub top. His eyes darken with want and he starts to lean up, and that's all the permission Robby needs.

The slide of their mouths together is a hot, filthy kind of relief. They waste no time with easing past each other's lips, Robby immediately licking into Dennis's mouth like he wants to taste every inch of it. If he's being honest, that's absolutely what he wants.

Dennis is warm and pliable against him in an instant, his slender hands making their way under Robby’s shirt to explore his furred stomach and chest. His cool touch makes the older man hiss softly, his stomach flinching.

"Cold hands," he mutters against his student's mouth.

"Sorry," Dennis laughs breathlessly, but he doesn't stop. His hands continue moving until his fingers find Robby’s nipples, and they both groan as he tweaks them to hardness.

"Fuck, we really-- we shouldn't be doing this, not here," Robby pants, even as his hands move their grip from Dennis's hips (when had he done that?) to the curve of his ass instead. He pulls the smaller man against him, and just that brief friction between their hips is enough to chase away all of that pesky logic and rationality.

"I know," is all Dennis says, his cheeks sweetly pinked and his lips swollen from Robby’s teeth.

Just like that, Robby gives up. None of the thrashing against his instincts that he wanted to believe he might give. He simply pushes down that part of him that's begging him to give a shit about ethics, about doing the right thing, and gives in to the animal in his brain that wants nothing but to tear this boy apart.

He groans as they sink into another kiss, and before long he's bending slightly to put his big hands on the backs of Dennis's thighs and lift him up like he weighs nothing. The younger man yelps against his mouth in surprise but quickly clings onto him, his arms wrapping loosely around Robby’s neck and legs around his waist as he lets his attending press him against the wall.

"That's a good boy," Robby purrs as he rocks up against him, and the noise Dennis makes in response is both pathetic and precious. Robby rewards him by ducking his head to begin an onslaught of sucking, biting kisses to the pale column of his throat, which has Dennis trembling in his arms as he melts against him.

"Please, Dr. Robby, please," Dennis whimpers just above him, so pretty that Robby wants to agree then to anything, yes, whatever his boy needs.

When he pulls back to look at him, Robby can't help but groan at the sight.

Dennis is beautiful like this, all breathless and flushed down to his neck, his eyes half-lidded with want and his lips parted and shiny with spit. Robby wishes he could take a picture, but he also knows he's already pushing his luck. Besides, they're on borrowed time as it is.

It’s near the end of the shift, sure, but that doesn't mean someone won't come looking for him for something-or-other anyway. And once they realize he's not in any of his normal hiding places, that the only place left to check is the on-call room, and god forbid anyone finds out Dennis is in there with him...well, the rumors would be enough to do him in.

So, as much as he wishes he could stay here all day and slowly take Dennis apart piece by piece, as much as he would love to see his student on his knees with a mouthful of cock, Robby knows they have to be quick.

He pulls back slightly from the kiss Dennis leaned in for, his heart twisting with a ridiculously fond kind of warmth when the younger man whines softly and chases his lips.

"Dennis, you have to tell me to stop," Robby pleads half-heartedly. One of his hands is already fingering at the waistband of Dennis's scrub bottoms.

"Please don't stop," Dennis breathes against his chin. "Please, I wanna keep going."

Robby’s tone is absolute. "Then I'm going to fuck you right here in the on-call room."

He feels Dennis's breath stutter, feels the hold around him tighten just a fraction, and his own grip responds in kind. He leans forward and rests their foreheads together for a moment, and it feels so tender that Robby’s eyes feel hot for a second.

"I really want that," Dennis says at last, looking back at Robby with those big puppy eyes. "Please."

Who could possibly say no to that?

Robby moves Dennis from the wall now, walking him over to the bed to lay him down on the bottom bunk. Looking down at him like this makes him seem smaller, vulnerable like a lamb under a wolf's gaze, and Robby tries hard not to think about how that makes his cock throb in his pants.

He pulls Dennis's pants and underwear down to his knees with more care than he thought he was capable of in the moment. The younger man's cock is hard already, curved sweetly towards his stomach and dark pink at the head. Robby can't help but stare for a moment.

Dennis must take his sudden stillness the wrong way, though, because suddenly he sits up on an elbow. "Hey."

Robby’s attention snaps back to his face, and he feels surprised at the worry he finds there.

"You...you sure you want to?" Dennis asks softly. "I-I don't want to make you do something you don't want to do."

So precious.

The attending can't help the laugh that leaves him, his eyes sparkling with both hunger and amusement.

"I want to. I-- fuck, I want to, baby, don't you worry about that," Robby tells him, leaning down to kiss him hard again.

Dennis moans happily into the kiss and melts again, drunk on the older man's attention.

Robby tries not to think about how good it felt to call him baby.

He breaks from the kiss with little pecks to Dennis's nose and chin before looking down at his lower half again.

"God, you are perfect," he mutters as he caresses a large hand over one of Dennis's soft thighs. "Look at you."

Dennis shivers at the praise and spreads his legs, no prompting needed, keeping his knees up so Robby can look at him.

Robby has to remind himself not to get hypnotized by the sight again and quickly reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a small packet of medical-grade lubricant. His compulsive preparedness is finally starting to pay off.

"Such a little slut, I didn't even have to tell you to open up for me," Robby taunts as he slicks up his fingers, and it's like he can see the effect the dirty talk has on his student beneath him.

Dennis's eyes go hazy and beautifully stupid, and he reaches down to spread his ass cheeks for the older man, exposing the pink bud of his hole.

"Yes, sir," he breathes. "Just wanna be a warm place for you to put your cock."

Oh, how is he ever supposed to let this kid go now?

"Yeah? You wanna turn your brain off and just be my fleshlight again?" Robby grunts as he teases Dennis's hole with the tip of one finger, barely dipping inside of him before pulling back again.

Dennis bites his bottom lip to keep in a high-pitched whine, his hips rocking, seeking Robby's finger for some relief against this burning lust.

When Robby’s question registers, the boy nods frantically. "Yes, please, please, I missed it so much--"

Robby growls and interrupts Dennis's babbling by pushing his middle finger inside of him, immediately curling the thick digit to nudge against his prostate. The pleasure is immediate, making Dennis slap a hand over his own mouth to keep his noises in as his eyes roll back in his head.

Somehow, even though Robby knows Dennis can't be a stranger to fisting or big toys, he's so fucking tight around his finger that Robby worries about hurting him for a second. For all that experience, his body still clamps down on him like it’s the first time all over again.

That fear dissolves, though, when Dennis parts his fingers over his lips to whimper, "More."

Robby quickly obliges, pressing in another finger and a third soon after that, unable to hold back once Dennis's thighs start trembling. He's mesmerized by the glistening tip of the younger man's cock, moaning low in his throat when a fat drop of pre-cum dribbles onto Dennis's stomach.

He can't help it when he leans down and licks that drop from the boy's skin, the contact making Dennis shiver and mewl behind his hand.

Given an inch, Robby takes a mile, wrapping his lips around the head of Dennis's dick and suckling at it, his tongue prodding out more of that sweet nectar.

"O-Oh, oh, fuck, Dr. Robby," Dennis gasps, his hand abandoning its attempts to quiet him and instead flying to grip the back of Robby's scrub top at the neck. All the while, the attending's thick fingers pump in and out of him, stretching and filling him. "I-I-I can't, I'm--"

Robby pulls off of him then, licking his lips as he looks up at Dennis with a wicked sort of satisfaction. He holds his student's gaze as he turns his head to kiss and bite a mark into his inner thigh, murmuring against his flesh, "You taste even better than I thought you would."

Dennis seems utterly defenseless to that, his mouth dropping open as he grinds his hips down onto Robby’s fingers.

"Sir, please, I'm gonna cum, I can't--"

"Ah, ah, ah," Robby interjects, torturously pulling his fingers out of Dennis, making the younger boy whine and squirm. "Not yet."

The older man reaches to unbutton his cargo pants, pushing them down enough to pull his stiff cock from his boxers. He slicks himself up with the rest of the lube, smirking when he catches Dennis staring.

"Missed it that much?" Robby teases as he grabs Dennis's thighs and pulls him closer. He nudges the tip of his dick against the boy's hole and makes him gasp.

"I just...can't believe it's really you," Dennis breathes out, reaching up to bury his fingers in Robby’s chest hair.

Stubborn affection makes Robby’s chest feel too tight, and he leans down to press a kiss to the younger man's mouth before it takes him over completely.

His gruff reply comes, "Well, you can believe it now."

Gripping Dennis's thighs, Robby sinks into him once again, and if he weren't so high on how good it was, he'd probably hate how much it felt like coming home.

Dennis is still deliciously tight, enough that Robby sucks a breath in through his teeth and has to still himself for a moment once he's fully seated.

Again, though, Dennis mistakes his stillness for real hesitation. Even though he's panting and shaking under Robby right now, concern colors his features and he reaches up to cup the older man's jaw against his hand.

"Are you okay?" the boy asks softly, searching the older man's eyes for any signs of premature regret.

Robby has to bite back another sarcastic laugh. Is he okay?

"That's my line, baby boy," he settles on, letting out a breathy chuckle under it. He rolls his hips and it makes Dennis arch his spine and tip his head back. "What about you, huh? Does that feel good?"

"So good, so good," Dennis chants in a whisper, squeezing his eyes shut as Robby starts moving, thrusting into him with slow, deep strokes that make every thought scatter.

"Of course you would be worried about me. Such a sweetheart," Robby continues, his tone somehow both fond and mocking at once. "You just can't help it, can you?"

Dennis keens and shakes his head. When he opens his eyes, little crystal tears have formed in the corners. "I-I h-have to make sure you're okay."

Those words settle like a stone in Robby’s chest.

The younger man really can't help it, can he? He sees Robby like this, a sick version of the doctor he's supposed to be, and still wants to make sure he's alright. That, as long as Dennis is here, he isn't hurting.

That should make him stop.

It only makes Robby fuck him harder.

Robby leans down, putting a hand on the back of Dennis's head to bring their foreheads together again, holding his gaze with an intensity that borders on reverence, the backs of his eyes suddenly stinging with the urge to cry. He can feel Dennis bracing for an onslaught of dirty talk, maybe teasing him for being so soft when his only job should be to lay there and take it.

What comes out of Robby's mouth instead is, "You're such a good doctor."

Dennis's eyes go wide with surprise, and his hands tighten their grip where they rest on Robby’s biceps now.

"Wh-- what?" the younger man pants. "Don't-- you can't say stuff like that--"

"You heard me," Robby goes on, never breaking from the hard pace he's worked up to. "Such a good fucking doctor. You're so good with patients, you listen to what they need, you look for things other people wouldn’t--"

Dennis is flushed bright red down to his chest now, tears freely spilling down his cheeks as he wraps his arms around Robby to cling to him. "Dr. Robby, I'm-- please, it's too good--"

Robby buries his face into the crook of Dennis's neck as he fucks into him with abandon, his stomach pressing against the younger man's cock with every thrust. He feels the boy's muscles tightening and fluttering around him just as a familiar heat begins building low in his own gut.

"Gonna breed you, baby," Robby breathes raggedly against Dennis's neck, making the younger man whimper and cling to him even tighter.

"Yes, yes, please breed me, sir, want you to fuck it so deep inside of me--"

"Oh, fuck, Dennis," Robby grunts, bottoming out with one last hard, deep thrust, his cum flooding the smaller man's insides with sticky warmth.

Dennis cums seconds after, shuddering and gasping under Robby with an adorable startled expression on his rosy face. He looks so pretty like this, all dazed and breathless, and Robby knows the image will be there every time he closes his eyes for quite some time.

Robby collapses next to his student and they lay like that for a while, maybe a minute or two, just breathing hard and staring at the bottom of the top bunk.

It's Dennis who moves first, still trembling when he sits up to gingerly start pulling his underwear back on.

Robby is quick to get up then, telling him, "Hey, I've got you."

Dennis looks at him, surprised, but allows Robby to re-dress him without any resistance. Robby tucks his own cock away and stands to zip his pants again, and the silence between them shifts from unsure to uneasy.

Robby looks down at his student and is somewhat confused to see him looking back at him with that worried, hopeful look again.

"You...you're not still mad at me, are you?"

The timid question makes Robby’s heart break just that extra bit more.

He knows Dennis is expecting more cold treatment out on the floor. And maybe that's Robby’s first instinct- to put as much distance between him and whatever the hell this is turning into as possible.

But that face, that stupid, precious look, renders him completely weak.

Robby leans down, puts a hand on Dennis's shoulder, and presses a firm kiss to his temple.

"No, kid," he mutters. "I was never mad at you. I won't do that again."

Dennis relaxes immensely at that, and he can't fight the lovestruck smile that splits his expression. "Okay."

Straightening, Robby checks his watch and adds, "We really can't do this on shift again, though. We're cutting it pretty close."

With a bit more pep in his step, Dennis hops up from the bed, smooths his curls back into semi-order, and takes a steadying breath. "Right. That's a compromise I can live with."

They both turn for the door, but Dennis stops again, another question bubbling up as he looks back at Robby.

"You weren't just saying that stuff, right? Like, the stuff about me being a good doctor," he says carefully. "That wasn’t just trying to get me off?"

Robby frowns a little at the idea, shaking his head. "No. No, I was being honest. A little too honest, maybe."

Dennis smiles again. "Good. Okay. Um...yeah. Thanks."

Robby lets Dennis back out onto the floor first, and he follows a minute or so after. No one seems to have noticed their absence beyond a few loose ends for Robby to tie up.

Over the rest of the shift, he catches glimpses of Dennis here and there, talking with patients or getting feedback from the residents. Acting like a good doctor. Because he is a good doctor.

At least one of them is.