Chapter Text
It starts like this.
A hand, pushed out, hard.
A shove, away.
A desperate man in a desperate place with someone willing to save him.
A broken man finally willing to let himself be saved.
Pittfest is the last in a long line of calamities that have crashed down on Robby. He's not the only one to still be feeling the effects of it, the horrors. He has an entire department of traumatised staff. That's the problem. Everyone is looking to him as their leader, as their saviour, to guide them through this, and he's drowning.
He's forsaken. A failure of control, of competency, of leadership. How is he supposed to help people heal when he can't heal himself?
Physician, heal.
He can't.
Things are spiralling. He's circling the drain and no-one can see it. A master of disguise, of deception, and it's all to stop himself being a burden. These people, they rely on him, he absolutely cannot break.
He cannot break. He will not break. He will soldier through with the department on his back, and he will not say a word. This is his duty. Adamson's legacy, passed into his hands, wrested from a worthier man and thrust over to him by lungs drowning in fluids, giving up the ghost and leaving Robby alone.
The rooftop beckons, every night. The trouble is, Jack's up there, too. A hand clutched in the back of his scrubs who won't let him fall. Who demands that he stays.
He doesn't want to be clutched.
He wants someone to let him go.
Here's the rub, though.
He did break, just for a second. He broke, and he's so ashamed, because people needed him. Leah was lying dead and bloodied on the gurney, a life gone because he couldn't save her, but there are so many others in there screaming out for him. He feels their hands reaching out for him, scrabbling and pulling, like he's perched on the banks of the Styx and they're trying, trying, trying to have him pull them out.
They're just going to pull him in with them.
If he could just have been left alone. If he could have been unwitnessed in that moment, perhaps he could shove it back down, dissolve it in acid and pretend it's never happened.
But he is, witnessed.
Stupid fucking kid.
Robby wants to kill him. Wants to erase the whole thing from existence. He's so disgustingly grateful. Whitaker has yanked him up off the floor with only a few words, and who the hell knew that was possible?
He has to go on, because people out there need him, and because this scrap of a child told him to.
So he does.
And does.
And does.
And does.
And does.
Until he wants to die again.
"He's in a damn mood today," Dana is telling Whitaker, voice lowered in a mutter that she doesn't want Robby to hear. "I don't know what's up his ass, but just tread careful, okay?"
Whitaker can handle it. He's no stranger to being snapped at, put down, degraded. Any healthcare worker has experienced that at the minimum, and he's been the target of bullies for a long time before he learned to become one himself.
"I got it," Whitaker brushes off.
Robby is in a mood every day lately. Increasingly irritable, irrational, unfair on the people around him. He demands things that are impossible and then bitches when no-one can achieve them. He doesn't take his breaks, he pushes through every trauma and jumps right onto the next.
Whitaker may only be a first-year resident, but he can see where the wound is, and he can see the infection. It's spreading deeper. Soon it will be in the bloodstream and there's no stopping fatality once it gets there. Robby is oozing pus and red around the edges, and Whitaker wonders why no-one forces the antibiotic on him.
Everyone's scared of Dr Robby, or they respect him too deeply to intervene.
Neither is helpful.
He's a doctor, and his job is to heal the sick in front of him. This is something he thinks he can do.
"For God's sake, I said 42 French, are you an idiot?" Robby is snapping at a fumbling medical student. Dennis can see it unfolding in front of him. Glances are exchanged between nurses, but no-one calls Robby out on it. He's being an asshole, he's treating students like shit, and he's not himself.
Surely there's enough in this differential for someone else to notice.
He waits. Doing this out in the open will achieve nothing but trouble for the both of them, and it certainly won't help Robby.
The moment Robby storms out of the trauma bay, he catches the man by the arm, and firmly pushes him into the waiting empty exam room. He's already lowered the blind in anticipation.
"What in the hell do you think -"
"Be. Quiet," Whitaker demands, his voice low and firm. He knows how to be this man. He's done this for years now. He's also learned how to recognise in a person when they are or aren't going to respond well.
This is a risk, sure, but it's a calculated one.
"What - who do you think you're talking to?" Robby splutters, staring at him, agog.
Whitaker crosses his arms. Stands himself broad in front of the door.
"I said be quiet. Get on your knees."
Robby is staring at him like he's grown a second head, like he's something out of a particularly vivid nightmare.
Whitaker waits in silence. Leaving empty space like this usually lets his partner dangle helplessly until there's no choice but to obey. Robby, however, is stubborn, and stunned.
"Are you gonna do it, or am I gonna have to make you?" he sighs. Disappointment is a hell of a weapon to wield, and he's had a firm grip on it since he was young. He knows the cut of it both ways.
After a painfully long moment, Robby slowly lowers himself to his knees, looking up at Whitaker the entire time with widened eyes. Like he can't believe he's moving, he can't believe he's on his knees, on the slightly grimy floor.
"Good," Whitaker breathes. "Wasn't so hard, was it?"
"What are you doing?" Robby asks quietly.
"I'm going to help you," Whitaker answers him, matches his volume.
"I don't need help," is the immediate reply, like it's pre-programmed in, code that runs in response to set phrases.
Whitaker tilts his head to the side, looking down at him.
"Don't you? Because you just dressed down a first-year intern in front of an entire trauma bay. She's going to go cry in the break room now. Wasn't even necessary. You could have taught her something, but you humiliated her instead. Does that feel good?" he drawls.
He can feel his body beginning to click into place. He keeps this under wraps at work. Here, he has very little authority. He's a subordinate, here to learn, and that's what he does.
But outside this place?
Whitaker took a lot of shit before he grew his spine, vertebrae by vertebrae, and he's learned to wield power so naturally that it extends from him like a limb.
Robby is staring up at him. He's bristling. He's readying to fight.
"It's none of your business how I run my emergency department," he spits. He's still on his knees, but the self-righteous anger straightens his back in a way Whitaker would like to bend.
"The rest of us have to live in your emergency department," he tells Robby calmly. "And you're not doing a very good job running it."
There's that bend. He feels a flicker of satisfaction, as Robby's head drops.
"Don't worry. We're going to fix it," he adds. "When's the last time you weren't the one in charge, Robby? Didn't have complete control?"
Silence, and then.
"Don't remember."
It's a sullen mutter. He's answering as if this is a test he knows he's about to fail.
"I thought so. You just need someone to take it off you for a while," Whitaker says, and steps forward to close distance between them.
He puts a hand on his belt. Unbuckles. Holds Robby's eyes the entire time.
Yeah, he could get fired for this. But he remembers the way the attending responded the last time he had to haul his ass back into line. He did it gentler, then, but Robby had gotten up. Pushed through. Did as he was told.
He doesn't think this is going to backfire.
If Robby wants to say no, he'll say no.
He doesn't.
He swallows, hard. His pupils are blown. It's a nice indicator that his brain is switching off, just like they'd assess in a patient. Whitaker can't separate the brain stem, but he can simulate it temporarily.
"Open your mouth," he says, pulling his cock out. He's hard, but this isn't about him, not really. It's about Robby.
Healing what's wrong.
Robby opens his mouth, with only a small amount of hesitation. Whitaker hums in approval, caresses his cheek and lays his cock against Robby's tongue. Doesn't push in, doesn't thrust, doesn't even force his mouth closed.
Just lets it lie, waits for the reaction.
Robby's a smart man. Whitaker wonders if he's done this before, because he doesn't move an inch. Doesn't close his mouth, or suck, like instinct might tell him to. He just sits there, lets Whitaker slowly, slowly rub pre-come across his tongue, his lips.
"Good," he murmurs again, and this time, Robby twitches hard with it. "I bet people don't say that to you very often, huh?" he adds, conversational as he smears Robby's mouth sticky. "Answer me."
Robby shakes his head, minutely.
"Mm. Not fair, really, when you do so much for the rest of us."
He slips two fingers into Robby's mouth alongside his cock, ratchets his jaw open wide. Lets Robby drool a little, be a mess.
"But then, you haven't been very good lately," he continues. He snaps his hips forward, just once, pushes his cock in too deep, deliberate, listens for the choke.
Robby coughs around him, but doesn't pull back.
He's starting to look a tiny bit glazed.
"I'm going to give you a chance to make it up," he says softly. "You're going to suck my cock, and then you'll be just fine. You won't snap at your staff. You won't be a dick to the students. You'll be nice and calm."
Robby nods, or tries to, but his mouth is too full and he can barely move his neck.
Whitaker fists a hand in Robby's hair, hard, and slides Robby's mouth along the length of him, slow, deep, a touch painful. He hears a whimper below him.
Has Robby sucked cock before? He thinks he must have, to be so unfazed by the taste, the smell of him.
The thought of that has Whitaker's own control slipping, just for a second, and he curses himself internally as his hips stutter. Robby chokes again, but this isn't one Whitaker wanted.
He regains his control, fast, reminds himself that while this feels good, that Robby's mouth is hot and wet on him, that there's the promise of his throat, this isn't about him. He's not doing this to pleasure himself. He's doing it to help.
"Slower," he instructs, as Robby tries to pick up the pace, suck him harder and faster, chase something Whitaker isn't ready to give him yet. "Take your time. You're not going anywhere til I'm done with you."
A hand comes up to grasp his thigh, trembling. He lets it go. Only so far he can push before this comes untenable.
He lets his head fall back a little as he gives in to the feeling of slow, spreading heat, of Robby's tongue curling around him. He has done this before, he has to have. He can hear footsteps outside the room, and it shouldn't turn him on, but it does. This is so damn dangerous.
"Swallow," he grinds out, and it's the only warning he's willing to give Robby that he's about to come, to spill down his throat. His hand fists harder, harder, tugging and squeezing as he comes with a low groan. Robby is whimpering under him, whether from the indignity of being forced to swallow him down, or the pain of the hand in his hair, Whitaker doesn't know.
He pulls back, releases Robby's hair and his mouth. Looks down.
The older man is panting, wiping his mouth. It's swollen slick, shining with Whitaker's come and his own saliva.
"Clean yourself up," Whitaker demands, throwing him a 4x4 from the trolley behind him. "And don't wait til it gets this bad next time to ask for what you need."
He leaves Robby on his knees, exhilaration flooding him.
The rest of the shift, Robby is pointedly kinder to everyone around him. He doesn't look at Whitaker once.
Shock, more than anything. Shock, then bewildered outrage, and then hot sparks of pleasure and blissful, blissful nothing.
Robby has never felt anything like it.
Sure, he's sucked guys off before. He's bi, he likes sex, he finds it a nice distraction. But beyond a hand in his hair, thighs closing around his head, no-one has ever treated him the way Whitaker had.
He walks around in a daze for weeks after. Weeks.
In one way, the hard cruel words, the way he'd found himself choking on cock and come and wanting nothing more in the world than to keep it up, had clarified things. Made everything a little brighter, a little clearer, his head emptier to fill back up.
In another, he feels like he might not be in the real world anymore. He's in this strange in-between, where he feels watched. Whitaker is definitely watching him, across the department floor, every time he goes to raise his voice. Eyes on him, a silent warning that what had happened before can happen again.
If he lets it.
Fuck.
Where the fuck did that kid get off on hauling him around like that? On forcing him down onto his knees like that? Except, he didn't really force Robby, did he? He told him to do it, and Robby - just did.
Why did he do that?
Because something in the hard edge of the kid's voice made him want to.
Robby can have him fired for that. He can cite sexual harassment, he can have Whitaker out on his ass in minutes.
He doesn't do it. He doesn't want to do it.
It's not entirely true. He didn't say no. He did everything that was demanded of him, and it's not like the power differential here leans in Robby's favour. He's the one with all the power over Whitaker, the one who, in theory, could be exploiting him in exchange for opportunity.
No-one will believe, understand, this side of it.
He doesn't even understand it himself.
What he does know, is that he hasn't been up to the roof since.
He's better at work, he's more patient. He makes better split-decision calls. He doesn't feel the need to numb himself when he goes home to an empty apartment.
He jerks off, a lot.
He strips his cock hard and fast to the thought of Whitaker above him, looking down with a sneer and a hand in his hair.
To the echoes of the sound of his voice, full of disdain and disappointment. Telling him that he's fucked up, that he's been wrong and made wrong calls, flooding him with shame and accountability, things only he holds himself to. Telling him that it's fixable. That he doesn't even have to work out how to fix it himself, that Whitaker will do it for him.
He goes through a lot of lube in the weeks after.
It's not that he doesn't know, vaguely, about these things. He's a grown man, he's queer, he knows about submission and dominance, about all those things people get up to in dingy clubs.
It's just not for him.
Never has been.
He's not vanilla, by any measure, but he's also not that.
Seems like Whitaker is, though.
He can't stop wondering when and how that happened. How does a kid who seems so meek at work, so pliant and obedient, become that? He's so young, too. How did he even learn how to treat a grown man like that?
He wants to know.
He really wants to know.
"Kid. A minute," he finds himself saying as Whitaker passes by him. He puts as much firmness, as authority, in his voice as he possibly can. He still thinks he sounds a little weak.
Whitaker stops, eyes him, and nods. Follows into the empty breakroom.
"Everything okay?" he asks. He's perfectly level, deferential. The picture of a good student.
"Yeah. Just a question."
His palms are sweating, and he doesn't know why.
"Go ahead."
"Why don't you take more of a leadership role with the other students?" Robby asks. He's thought about this. It's the most work-appropriate way to ask, in his roundabout way, about Whitaker's streak of confident authority.
"Because … I'm not the chief resident?" Whitaker answers, slow. "It's not my place."
"You're clearly capable of it."
Whitaker raises a brow at him.
"What does that mean?"
He can tell by the glint in the kid's eye that he knows exactly what Robby is hedging at. Little asshole.
"You know damn well what it means, and don't mouth off with me," he snaps, hackles rising.
The kid's face barely moves, but Robby can see the line of his body straightening.
"If you want something, you have to ask me for it."
Fuck, that makes his blood boil. The hairs on his arm stand up. He sees red.
"Watch yourself, Whitaker," he snarls, and storms out, slamming the door behind him.
Fuck.
His pulse is racing, equal parts fury and built-up anticipation with nowhere to go. He's itchy, restless, snappish for the rest of the shift. The next two shifts.
Dana tells him to get laid or get trashed and come in the next day in a better mood.
Yeah, he'd fucking love to, but even watching porn has lost its appeal.
The fourth shift in a row, Robby wants to crawl out of his skin. He's jumpy, he can't keep basic information in his fucking head, and every time he looks at Whitaker, every time he gets a calm, expectant stare back, he wants to break his fucking nose.
He has to find some other way of dealing with this. Breaking students' noses, not gonna fly.
He could swear Whitaker is dogging him through the halls. He's fucking there, every time Robby turns. Chatting with Santos, working up a history on a chatty bipolar woman off her meds, charting in Robby's chair, at the charge desk.
He looks up when he feels Robby's stare on him that time, and gives him a smirk that Robby just can't - cannot let slide.
"Take your fucking break, Whitaker," he snaps, hard. "How long have you been here? Eight hours already? Don't be a fucking martyr."
Heads snap up to look at him in surprise, and Whitaker's mouth twists. He stands.
"Okay. I'll go take a break. Call me if you need me."
And he leaves without a word of complaint, without any sense of displeasure that he's just been chewed out in front of the department.
Son of a bitch.
Robby waits, waits, waits, long enough that nothing will look astray.
And then he follows, out the ambulance exit. Whitaker is leaning against a wall a few hundred metres down from the entrance. Far enough away that he's no longer on hospital grounds, close enough that he can be called back in an emergency.
Robby stalks toward him.
"What is your problem?" he hisses, stopping just before him. He's taller, bigger, older. It feels like Whitaker is holding Robby's strings.
"I don't have a problem, Dr Robby. I think you do, though," Whitaker answers. He's so infuriatingly calm.
"My only problem is that you keep sassing me," he snaps.
"Your problem is that you want me to take you in hand again, and you don't want to ask for it," Whitaker tells him, matter-of-fact.
Robby splutters. He can feel anger rising. He doesn't want this to be true. He doesn't want this insolent fucking child having this much control over him.
"You know how close you're skirting to me firing your ass right now?" he snarls, and grabs Whitaker hard by the wrist, yanking him into the alleyway, out of sight, pushing him against the hard brick wall.
Whitaker lets out a soft oof, more of surprise than pain, and looks up at him with disbelieving eyes.
"One chance to let go," he warns, voice low.
Robby ignores him.
"Stop whatever you're doing. Stop fucking with my head."
Whitaker moves so fast Robby barely sees it. Wriggles his hand out of Robby's grip, pushes Robby back hard, square in the chest, and uses the moment of instability to take him by the shoulders and slam him hard against the wall, reversing them in seconds.
Fuck.
It knocks the breath out of him, just for a few moments.
This kid is fucking strong. Unbelievably strong. Stronger than he should be for his lean frame. If Robby really fought with him, really pushed all his strength back, he doesn't know if he'd win.
That is a terrifying, shattering thought.
"I said one chance," Whitaker snarls at him. Holds his wrists tight up against the wall. "Blew it."
"I swear to god, if you don't let go, you're done," Robby says. He'd like to have spat it, or snarled it, or growled it, but he says it, and it's quiet.
"I'm not done. I'm just fine. You're the one out here picking a fight with me like a rabid dog so I'll kick you."
Robby doesn't mean to. He really doesn't, but he can't help the moan.
Whitaker's eyes light up.
"Ask me for it," he demands. His fingers tighten around Robby's wrists.
"Fuck you," Robby breathes.
"Not until you ask."
It would be so much easier to give in. To feel that beautiful sink of nothing, to let Whitaker do whatever he wants and not have to fight anymore.
He can't, though. He can't just give in. This is fucked up and insane and he was weak that first time, but he won't be weak now.
"You have a self-inflated sense of ego," he bites. "And maybe you need a trip up to psych."
Whitaker kicks hard between his legs, and he stumbles, spreading without any choice in the matter.
"Fuck," he hisses. He's off-kilter, his centre of balance is gone, and now he's entirely at the mercy of the hands around his wrists to hold him steady.
"You can have anything you want, when, you ask me for it," Whitaker tells him softly. He's brushing a knee in between Robby's spread legs. Barely, barely touching him, but fuck, it feels like the most painful tease he's ever had.
"Please," he mutters. His resolve is crumbling. He's hard, he's desperate, the pressure is building and building and building, and he has to find some way to relieve it. Crike himself, somehow.
So he hands Whitaker the scalpel.
"Please what?"
"Please, just fucking do something," he spits.
He's begging, but he won't be nice about it.
Whitaker laughs.
"All you had to do was ask, Doctor," he purrs, and kisses Robby hard.
It's more like a blow than a kiss. It's teeth and tongue and hard nips, barely giving him time to breathe, teasing his lower lip out and biting down hard enough to draw the tiniest bit of metallic blood.
Robby tastes it on his own tongue and his head swims.
"If you wanted this," Whitaker is murmuring, moving his mouth down to Robby's collarbone, where his scrubs obscure skin, and sucking hard enough to leave an ugly purple mark. "You should have come and begged me for it weeks ago."
Robby wants to protest the mark, now two, now three, but the kid is making sure to keep them where he can cover them, and - Christ, it feels so fucking good.
He's usually the one doing the marking. No-one has ever been game enough to try it on him.
"I don't," he mutters weakly, but his hard-on is betraying him, the way he's arching up into the vicious mouth on his skin.
"Say no, then."
Whitaker stops.
He pulls back, though keeps a tight grip on Robby's wrists.
Robby can feel the loss of wet hot pain on his skin, and he resists the full-body squirm that ripples through him.
"Say no, and I'll stop," Whitaker repeats, staring him down. His mouth is a little pink. Robby wants to turn it swollen and red and obscene.
He opens his mouth to speak, to do it, to end this.
"Don't stop," is what comes out.
Whitaker's face breaks out into a self-satisfied, delighted grin, and Robby feels a shot of approval, headier and sweeter than any morphine drip.
"That's a good boy," Whitaker breathes, and fuck, his cock twitches. "Stay still and let me take care of you."
So he does. He stays as still as he can, while Whitaker leaves mark after mark on him, turning the skin around the top of his pecs a vivid, purpling mess, slick with spit and the remnants of blood in his mouth. Those kinds of bruises, he knows, will eventually turn blue.
He's caused them. Never had them.
He hears someone whine, thinks it must be Whitaker getting off on this, because that sound couldn't possibly have come from him. But it has, high and desperate, when Whitaker palmed his cock through his scrubs.
At some point, Whitaker had let go of Robby's wrists, and he hadn't even realised. Kept them pinned up there without anything but his own obedience holding them.
"You know what to do if you want to come," Whitaker tells him, squeezing a little.
No.
He doesn't want to beg to able to get off. He's not that far fucking gone. He has some dignity left. Scraps, maybe, but his scraps.
"Just do it already," he groans, trying to grind into the kid's hand, get some friction, take back anything he can by force.
Whitaker pulls his hand away entirely, holds it up.
"Ah," he scolds. Patronising little shit. "Use your words, Dr. Robby."
What Robby would like to do is spit in his face.
But the thought of what might happen if he does, is a little too much.
"If you keep going, I'll give you weekends off for a month," he tries. This, this isn't begging. It's one step above it, but the step is important.
Whitaker sighs. He looks disappointed.
"Denial, now bargaining. Cliched. I'm not interested," he says, and turns his back. Starts to walk away.
Robby feels his heart jump.
"Wait!" he hisses.
Whitaker turns.
God fucking damn it all to hell.
"Come back."
"Why should I?"
"Because. Because I want you to get me off."
He has to struggle to get the words out, pull them out with forceps like an airway obstruction.
Whitaker says nothing. Waits, expectant.
"Please. Fuck, please, just get back over here, and touch me," he whines. Plaintive, annoyed, embarrassed.
It works. He's done it right.
Whitaker returns to him, slides a hand down his scrubs, into his underwear, and grips his cock. Robby hisses with pleasure, head falling back.
"Christ," he mutters. Hears the sound of spitting, and then the kid's hand is replaced by a wetter one, and yes, that helps, yes.
"See how much easier it is for you when you just do as you're told?" Whitaker says into his ear, voice velvety.
Robby can't do anything but nod.
"You don't know what's good for you," Whitaker sighs, shaking his head and swiping his thumb hard over the head of Robby's cock, making him gasp. "Better to leave it up to me, don't you think?"
He makes a small, wet sound.
God, but that sounds good. Hand it all over, every decision he has to make, every pressure point, everything that keeps him up at night. Just give it away, put himself in the hands of someone who can make it stop.
Why has he never done this before?
He can feel every muscle tightening as his orgasm builds, going taut and stiff.
"I'm gonna - "
"This time, sure. Next time, you ask."
It's this, and Whitaker's fingers moving to cup his balls, squeezing, that do him in. He cries out, and Whitaker has to slap a hand over his mouth.
"Quiet," he snaps. "You're gonna get us caught."
He can't help the groan against Whitaker's palm, and shudders as he feels the sticky hot come spilling from him, into Whitaker's hand, in his underwear.
Coming in his pants like a fucking teenager again. Jesus.
He's still twitching when the kid pulls back, wipes his hand clean on the wall, and finishes it off on the inside of Robby's scrubs. Disgusting, and yet.
"Better?" he asks, voice a little softer.
Robby can barely speak. Only nods.
"Good. Don't take it out on me in front of the staff again."
Robby can see he's hard in his own scrubs, the outline of his cock just barely visible.
"Don't you want - ?"
Whitaker looks down, and waves it off.
"I'll take care of myself."
He strides back to the hospital, like nothing has happened.
It takes Robby a good ten minutes to catch his breath, be able to stand on his legs without wobbling.
He's … disappointed.
Once, was a fluke.
Twice, is a poor decision.
Three times? That's a pattern.
Whitaker has zero intention of pursuing whatever this thing between him and Robby is. As far as he sees it, it might as well just be - professional development.
He wants a pleasant, productive workplace to be in, and Robby needs a way of leeching out the anxiety and stress infecting him. Win/win.
It really was just supposed to be once, though.
He can't help it if the man had come trotting back to him. Perhaps getting him off 200 metres from the hospital out in the open wasn't the best idea, but - what was he supposed to do?
Robby was snapping at him with sharpened teeth. A feral animal who needed to be held down by the scruff. Whitaker was just doing everyone else a favour.
Sure, he can justify it that way. It doesn't change that he fucking loved it.
That for this second time, he had to struggle hard not to make it about him. To not take the offer of relief, and deal with it himself.
If he lets himself really want it, it becomes something it can't be.
So, okay. No more. Hopefully Robby will have got the idea by now, understood that submitting to someone is a good idea for him, that it helps clear his head. He'll go find someone else to do it for him, and everything will go back to normal.
Whitaker can fuck someone off Fetlife and choke the life out of them and get his kicks that way.
It doesn't turn out that way. Of course it doesn't.
Nothing is ever that simple.
Robby doesn't wait weeks in-between this time before he starts panting for more.
Whitaker can see it in the furtive glances aimed his way, the way the attending starts ordering him around a little more, giving him every piece of scut work, every dull chart. Every food poisoning, Foley insertion, and disimpaction.
Whitaker changes his scrubs three times in a day and begins to feel the resentment creeping in.
He's meant to keep this shit under control at work. He's still only an R1 - a step up, but not by much. The grunt work is always thrown his way. It's okay, there's no need to get mad about it.
It's just that, he knows why it's happening more. Why Trinity, Mel, Victoria don't end up covered in bodily fluids, learning nothing but how to con the scrubs dispenser into giving them more than their allotment.
It's because Robby is fucking with him.
He's dealt with this before, just never at work. He's never been dumb enough to dom anyone at work before. At parties, clubs, sometimes a hook-up, he'll take a man down a peg or ten.
He's small, he's unassuming, people underestimate him. They don't always like it when they end up crying under the force of his palm, or begging for something from him that they didn't know they wanted.
Sometimes, those big men will try to take their power back.
That's what Robby's doing. He doesn't like it.
He endures it for a week, then he hits his limit. Enough.
He waits until shift change, until he knows Robby will be leaving alone. Robby always leaves alone. God knows where he's going. Whitaker has to wonder whether the man has friends. A lover? Someone else to get this from.
"Wait for me in the parking lot," he mutters to the attending as he passes by him in the hall.
He's not 100% certain that Robby's going to obey, but, he's close enough to sure that it's worth the risk.
When he makes his way out into the cool, crisp evening air, there Robby is.
Waiting by Whitaker's piece of shit car that he's just managed to save up for, hands in his pockets.
The lot is mostly empty by now, day shift having cleared out, and night shift already inside.
"We need to talk," Whitaker tells him, crossing his own arms.
"About what."
"Oh, you know about what. You're sabotaging my residency because you can't handle one little handjob," he spits.
Yes, it was a lot more than that, really, but this is the phrasing that's going to make the most impact. Whitaker is good with words. He likes them. He uses them to their best advantage.
"I'm not doing anything. You're an R1, I'm an attending. I'm hardly going to stitch up every LOL who lands in here," Robby replies.
He's smirking, leaning against Whitaker's car.
He breathes out. Steadies himself.
He'd learned, when he started fucking around in ways that could cause damage, that losing his control was dangerous for other people. He held the power, and it was his responsibility to use it right.
"Look, if you're being an asshole in the hopes that I'm going to fuck you, it's not going to happen," Whitaker tells him, sighing.
Robby's eyes widen, just a fraction, then narrow.
"I never said that's what I wanted," he snaps, soaked in just enough defensiveness that Whitaker knows he got it right.
"Uh-huh. I'm not gonna be your full-time handler. You want one, go find one. I just showed you the ropes," he drawls.
He watches Robby's hands clench into fists.
"You are a child. You're an arrogant, delusional fucking child," Robby snaps at him. His neck is turning pink.
"I've kept men older than you under my boot for years," Whitaker tells him, dismissive. He doesn't mind admitting it, not in this moment. He's not ashamed of who he is, or what he likes.
A childhood of getting his ass beat, having meals withheld, growing up in a small town with no escape, has given him a healthy appreciation for how heady the feeling of holding that violent power is. So long as he doesn't abuse it - it's fine.
The pink at the base of Robby's throat rises, crawling up to his cheeks in a flush.
"Try it, then," Robby is snarling. Arcing up in a challenge that Whitaker really has no intention of meeting, but -
Fuck, that tone.
He remembers the projectile vomit from the family of idiots who ate sushi at a buffet, the rancid smell of rotting flesh coming off the unhoused man who had been wheeled his way.
He bites.
His eyes flash as he reaches his hand up, just barely, because he might be shorter, but not by too much. He grabs the back of Robby's neck, rough, and yanks down as hard as he can. Hard enough that if Robby doesn't move with him, he'll probably have to see an osteo after this.
He does move. Whether out of sheer surprise, or deliberate choice, Whitaker doesn't know, but Robby's knees hit the asphalt hard anyway.
He grunts, clearly in pain, but makes no move to retaliate. Just lets Whitaker squeeze the back of his neck, force his head down.
"Lick."
He shoves his boot forward, practical steel-caps, good for hours on his feet. They're not clean. They've picked up the dust and grit from the emergency room floor.
Robby's eyes flick up to him, horrified beneath his lashes.
"What?" he breathes, sucked in on a small gasp.
"You want me to do disgusting shit all day and not complain? Your turn."
In truth, he doesn't mind the rote tasks for their gross-out factor. He'd taken care with the buffet idiots, made sure they had enough emesis basins, brought them electrolytes and Zofran.
He'd spent 45 minutes debriding, suturing and cleaning the wound the unhoused guy had. Talked to him about his life, how he ended up on the streets. Promised to come find his spot with the street crew.
He doesn't mind the disgusting shit, if it's to help someone. What he does mind, is being unfairly given all of it.
He takes his hand off the back of Robby's neck, just to see what will happen. If he'll flee, now that he's got the restraints off.
He doesn't.
He just stares, like he can't believe what Whitaker is telling him to do. Fair enough. He'd usually be in a space where this is pre-negotiated, or agreed. He's not much for extended chatting about what he does with partners - he prefers blanket permission, consent.
He doesn't say a word. Doesn't goad Robby into it, pluck the strings of his temper to manoeuvre him into a corner.
He wants to see if the man will do this of his own free will.
After a long, tense moment, their eyes locked in a silent battle, Robby drops his head.
Slowly, very slowly, leans down to Whitaker's boot, extends his tongue, and licks one stripe.
Whitaker can feel himself getting hard just watching it.
Fuck.
He hadn't really thought Robby would do it.
Robby's on his knees, head down. He looks like he's praying.
The thought gives Whitaker a sick thrill.
"Look at that," he breathes, as much for himself as for Robby. This is circling a dangerous drain now. He's wanting.
Robby is trembling, very slightly. He hesitates - maybe he's waiting for Whitaker to tell him to get up, but when he doesn't, he licks again. Again. Again.
It must taste awful. That's not the point. The point is that he's doing it.
Whitaker's chest is rising and falling faster than he'd like. He's too turned on. This wasn't even supposed to happen, he just lost his temper and rose to the bait.
And now, fuck. Fuck.
"If you get in my car right now, we're going to your place and I'm going to fuck you," Dennis warns, very low. He cannot take his eyes off Robby, off his mouth, off the way he looks crouched before him.
Robby twitches, and lifts his head. His pupils are shot. He looks … hungry.
Despite himself, he feels a shiver run down his spine.
"Promise?" Robby quips at him, and Whitaker has the urge to make it so he can't string two words together, let alone quip.
Whitaker lets him rise off his knees, watches him get in the car. Starts the engine with his heart thumping in his chest.
Bad idea, this is a bad idea.
He throws his phone gently into Robby's lap.
"Put your address in."
He follows the Maps instructions, foot on the pedal harder than he should, travelling over the speed limit. He doesn't say a word the entire trip, his cock full and wanting, his head racing with every warning that he should not do this.
Robby stays quiet. God knows what he's thinking.
By the time Robby's unlocking the door to his apartment, Whitaker is so pent up that he can barely hold himself back, pushing Robby against walls, claiming his mouth in a savage kiss, stumbling his way in.
"Bedroom," he orders, breathless, and Robby guides them through a door, barely breaking the kiss, moving by feel.
"Can't believe you really licked my boots," Whitaker is purring, even the words in his mouth heavy and hot.
Robby growls, and even without needing to look too closely, Whitaker knows he's flushing.
"What in the fuck did you think was gonna happen when you said it," Robby mutters, trying his hardest to get his hands up and under Whitaker's scrubs - surgical blue, nothing else left.
"Oh, I thought you'd pussy out," Whitaker replies, laughing. "This is much better."
Robby doesn't like being laughed at - okay. Information obtained.
He shoves, tries to step back, but Whitaker is ready for him, pushes him right back and watches as the backs of Robby's knees hit the bed, folding him backward, landing on his back.
"Calm down," he taunts, climbing onto Robby to straddle him. "You wanted this, remember?"
Robby is warm and solid and gorgeous beneath him, a whole expanse of promise. His eyes are dark, and Whitaker can feel him shifting, trying to line up their dicks.
"You're a little psychopath," Robby says, but it's not with malice. Whitaker can hear the - awe?
Huh.
"Been called worse," he shrugs off. "You're hardly the first man I've taken to bed like this."
"You do this a lot?" Robby asks. His breath is short.
"Not with my boss," he retorts. "But yeah, I do this a lot. What, you thought I was celibate?"
"No. Just didn't pick you for - "
He trails off, seemingly at a loss for words.
Whitaker raises a brow.
"A dom?" he fills in. "You can say it. Most people don't, when they look at me."
Robby looks oddly at a loss.
Okay, maybe he's been going about this the wrong way. Maybe Robby really doesn't know anything about what they're doing.
God, maybe he's only ever been a missionary kind of guy.
Awful.
"You do this a lot?" he asks. He can pry this out, he can do it gently. Being gentle is just as much a skill as rough.
Robby shakes his head.
"Not with my student," he jabs. "And - no. Not like this."
"Ever?"
"We're not all deviants," Robby says, heated.
Whitaker laughs, genuine, and the movement rocks them together.
"Mm, but you definitely are. I saw the look on your face with your tongue lapping at that leather," he answers, and waits for Robby to moan.
He does, quietly, like he doesn't want to let it out.
"So you really don't know how good this is for you," Whitaker muses, thoughtful, and rocks their hips together more deliberately.
This isn't an amazing position, he barely has room to move, and Robby's back must be hurting, stretched over the edge of the bed. He sighs, and pushes at Robby until he shifts up, giving them more space.
"I thought you said you were gonna fuck me," Robby bites. He's pointedly avoiding the implication that he's meant to be submissive, that this is his natural state.
Well, okay, they'll come back to that.
"I am. Be patient," Whitaker replies, though he's burning for it, too. He leans back, pulls Robby's scrubs down, and takes a moment to gaze down at his bare skin, belly exposed, thatches of hair leading down into his underwear.
Robby is squirming now, and he pulls his own shirt off, impatient. Whitaker decides not to call him on it, because now there's more flesh exposed, and - well. He's not averse.
He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Robby's trunks, and drags them down, uses his knee to nudge Robby up hard, forcing him to lift his ass.
"Fuck," Whitaker breathes, taking in the naked man beneath him. His cock is already full - he wonders how long he's been this hard. Since he hit the asphalt?
His knees are scraped, there's red marks, brought up even through fabric. Whitaker brushes his fingertips over the reddened skin, and relishes in the slight hiss of pain it elicits.
"Quit looking and do something," Robby snaps. He's not being good at all, and that's not going to get his brain to the level of static Whitaker wants it.
"Talk to me like that again and I'll leave you here hard and wanting," Whitaker growls. "I'll get up and go and you'll never touch me again."
Robby falls quiet. Still.
"Better."
He runs his fingertips from Robby's sore knees, up his thigh, slow, ghosting a half-inch from his cock, then travelling lower, along the curve between his legs. He can see goosebumps erupting everywhere he's touched.
"So good like this. Pretty, quiet, waiting for me," he murmurs. Robby's hips buck up a little.
He sucks his fingers, sloppy, and presses the tip of one finger gently against Robby's hole, barely more than a feather-light brush.
Robby hisses, clenches, twitches.
"Have you bottomed before?" Whitaker asks, pressing a little firmer. "Because I don't have the patience to walk you through it if you haven't. I'll ride you instead."
Robby swallows hard.
"Once or twice," he chokes out. "Not usually what - people want from me."
That makes Whitaker feel a little sorrowful. This big man, this man with so much swagger and power, and this ass, and people don't want to fuck him into a mattress, face-first?
Couldn't be him.
"You want to?" he asks, curious. Usually, he makes the decision for both of them, but in this case, he's more interested in the knowledge.
Robby hesitates, and nods.
"Yeah."
Whitaker presses one finger inside, slow, and takes his time stretching. Sure, there's an appeal to just forcing his way in, hearing the yelps of pain, but that's for experienced lovers. For people who know him and how he fucks. This isn't that.
"You always want to, and everyone wants you to top them?" he continues, conversational and casual, while Robby squirms.
"Not always," Robby pants. "Sometimes."
Whitaker is willing to bet it'll be more often than not after this.
He squirts lube, without warning, cold, against Robby's hole, and pushes another finger inside.
The man makes a not-quite-yelp, and grinds down against them. Whitaker grins, goes a little harder.
Robby lets out a noise that he'd like to record, keep for posterity.
"You just need a cock inside you, don't you?" he hums. "To shut up your brain."
Robby is nodding feverishly, his eyes glazing over. He's sweating, skin slick and shining and Whitaker leans down to lick up the length of his chest.
"Let's shut it up, then," - and he lines his cock up, slick with lube, and pushes inside. He can't help the groan, low and filthy. Fuck, Robby feels good. Tight and hot around him, his back arching off the bed to demand more.
"Fuck," Robby is hissing, and maybe there's a little pain, there's always a little pain, but he sounds hungry more than anything. Wanton.
"God, that's good," Whitaker moans, bottoming out and stilling, letting Robby adjust. He doesn't want to tear him apart. Not on the first go around. "You feel good."
"More," Robby chokes, his face red. "More."
"What do you say?"
He resolutely refuses to move until Robby complies, even as he's straining to hold it back, the snap of his hips that's itching to be let out.
"... Please," Robby mutters, and it's not even all the way out before Whitaker is slamming his hips back and driving them forward again, with all his strength.
Robby howls, scrabbles at his back, desperate to hold onto something.
"Good boy," Whitaker is muttering, and he didn't even mean to let that one slip. He's meant to ration them. "Fuck, good boy, taking my cock so easy."
He doesn't last half as long as he knows he can. It's almost embarrassing, but Robby's in no place to be judging his stamina, not when he's making pitiful, desperate sounds with every vicious thrust inside him.
He'd like to keep going, keep fucking Robby until the man is well and truly brainless, but, fuck, it feels incredible, and the litany of noises, the sight of the man, helpless before him, clinging and writhing, like Whitaker is the only thing holding him together, it's too much.
"Fuck, yes, fuck, Robby," he slurs, hips stuttering as he comes, every hair on him standing up.
Robby moans, deeper than any sound he's made before. His head lolls as Whitaker spills inside him, and his nails dig hard into the soft skin of Whitaker's back.
"Touch yourself," Whitaker pants, still riding the high. "But don't come."
Robby looks distraught, but does as he's told, reaches between them to tug at his own cock, dark deep red and throbbing, neglected.
"That's it," Whitaker praises, still moving slowly inside Robby. "Don't think about it, just do what I tell you. Yeah. Harder - yeah, like that. You need it hard, Robby. I know what you need. Hey - hey. I didn't say you could come yet."
Robby whines. His hand keeps moving, and Whitaker has to place his own, smaller hand over Robby's to stop him.
"If you want to come at all, stop, right fucking now."
He's being cruel, he knows. But sometimes cruel is necessary.
Robby's hand stops moving. His eyes are glassy.
Whitaker waits a few long seconds, a few more, really lets it stretch out, before he spits between them, letting it land above their hands, right at the base of Robby's cock.
Robby flinches. Whitaker moves their hands together, rough, a few hard jerks.
"Ask me to come," he breathes into Robby's ear. "I told you next time you'd have to ask."
There's no hesitation this time, he notes with satisfaction.
"Please, please, let me come, Christ, I need it, I'm gonna fucking lose it," Robby slurs, immediately.
"Of course you can come, Robby," he says, soft and gentle and generous, the other side of his knife.
Robby takes the permission, runs with it, comes hard in their hands, the vein in his neck popping as he cries out, throwing his head back.
Whitaker strokes him through it, mouths at his neck a little, scrapes his teeth just slightly.
"What the fuck," Robby breathes, as he comes down. "What the fuck."
Whitaker laughs, lets himself flop onto his back, panting.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
Robby is still breathing so hard, the kind of hard that Whitaker recognises as the very edge of panic. He takes Robby's hand, pulls him up to the head of the bed, to lie alongside him.
"Just breathe," he soothes. "You'll be okay. Drink," he adds, leaning across to the bedside table, where blessedly, there's a water bottle.
Robby fumbles with the bottle, but manages to gulp down a mouthful or two.
"I can't - think," Robby pants.
"That's the point. Stop fighting it. Just give in. It'll feel good, Robby," Whitaker tells him, soft and slow and rhythmic, a metronome Robby can hook into and follow.
He does. He breathes out, shaky, and Whitaker watches his body relax. Soften. His eyes fall closed, and for maybe the first time, Whitaker sees real peace etched into his features.
He strokes his fingers through Robby's hair for ten, twenty, thirty minutes. This is just as important as fucking him to pieces.
He's seen other doms who will ruin a man, leave them a shaking, sobbing mess and walk away. He doesn't understand it. Cruelty has its place, as a tool. Not for the sake of it.
Robby's breath evens out, his body curling toward Whitaker's, though not enough to overlap, to touch. It's just fingers in his hair, and that's enough.
"You with me?" he asks, after long enough that he thinks Robby might be either asleep or fugued out.
"Mm," Robby hums, eyes still closed.
"You okay?"
"Good," the other man breathes out. "Real good."
Whitaker smiles, private and soft, just for himself.
"I gotta go, Robby. Are you gonna be okay if I leave you here alone?" he asks.
He does have to go, Trinity's gonna wonder where he is, they were meant to do pizza tonight. Plus, he doesn't especially want this to turn into a sleepover. He doesn't think he can handle the awkwardness.
"M'fine," Robby says, finally opening one eye. "Thanks."
Whitaker dresses fast. Lingers in the doorway for a second, watching Robby's chest rise and fall. The sheen of his skin, so much of it stretched out on display. Then slips out the door without a word.
First rule of medicine, when in doubt - research.
Don't know the differential? Look it up. Don't know how to place a chest tube? Ask a senior resident and watch close. Scrubbing in on a choleodocilithotomy? Better make sure you know your bile duct.
Well, that, and don't kill anyone if you can help it.
Two rules.
Robby is a good student. He was a star resident when he was Whitaker's age - he learned fast, he asked questions, he absorbed information like a sponge. What he didn't know, he sought out, and what he didn't know he didn't know? He listened when the nurses told him so.
All this to say, when Robby is faced with something he doesn't understand - he learns.
He doesn't understand, at all, why he let himself be walked all over by Whitaker. Quite literally. He can still taste the musty leather on his tongue of the kid's boot. The image of him on his goddamn knees in the goddamn parking lot, degrading himself like - like a dog?
Every time it flashes across the back of his eyelids - often - he cringes from it. Humiliated. Deeply turned on. Confused as all hell.
He doesn't understand why, after the kid fucked him harder than he's ever been fucked (or maybe fucked anyone else), he drifted off into some kind of … fucking trance state, tethered to reality only by the feeling of fingers scraping gently against his scalp.
He doesn't understand why after Whitaker left, he lay in bed alone for a long while, feeling lighter and more peaceful than he has in - god. He genuinely can't remember. There was a sliver of this when the kid had coerced a blowjob out of him, but. It wasn't like this.
There's a lot he doesn't understand. So he makes it his mission to find out.
He researches.
Ends up on some shady fucking websites, filled with shit he'd rather not have seen. For all the medical gore he can stomach, he's learned that sounding is something that makes his stomach churn, and he has to close the tab in seconds.
Still. In a clinical sense, he's learning a lot. He pores over 101 definitions, feels like a wide-eyed child, and gives up.
Returns, an hour later, when he can't stop thinking about Whitaker's cock inside him.
The trance - seems like that was subspace.
It makes sense, medically. He can understand exactly how Whitaker got him there, the mechanics of how the perfectly calculated dose of pain and overwhelm could flood his system and - well, factory reset him.
Medically, he gets it. He's still not sure why and how he let it happen.
Or why he's never thought to try it before. With someone his age, preferably. Someone not his direct report, who could undo him with a well-placed HR complaint, even though he's the one who instigated it. Someone not - fucking Whitaker.
The thought of asking someone else to turn his brain off, though? To treat him like shit and yank him around and purr praise into his ear?
It feels impossible. Wrong. His chest seizes up just considering it.
So what is he supposed to do now?
He feels - like an addict. Is this how Frank felt, about benzos? Impossibly pulled to something he knew was bad for him? Craving more every minute and trying not to give in?
Fuck, Robby feels guilty, if it is. Because this? This is unbearable.
Just slightly less unbearable than the feeling of life suffocating him.
Whitaker hasn't mentioned shit about it, not for weeks. He's gone back to being perfectly normal, something Robby envies in him and resents. He's walking around fundamentally fucking changed, and Whitaker just goes on with his life?
How is that fair?
He supposes it was a - thrice-off? Not gonna happen again.
It feels like three times is enough to expect more, though.
He wants more. He needs more.
He can't breathe with the wanting it.
Figuring he's already committed enough HR violations, he logs into the staff database. Finds Whitaker's number. This would be fine if he was calling him in to work, or for an emergency.
Not so fine when he's trying to organise more fucked-up sex.
Hey. It's Robby.
He hits send, and then realises he doesn't know what the fuck else to say. Please come fuck me ASAP? Explain how you make me do the shit you make me do? My head is too fucking loud and you're the only one who knows how to silence it?
He leaves the pause too long, spiralling, and his phone buzzes.
Hi? Something wrong at work?
Fuck. Well, he's really doing this.
No.
Need to talk to you about what we did.
This is so stupid.
We had sex. Not a big deal.
Robby feels himself scoff, irritation prickling. That, he's quite sure, is a lie. Whitaker might be used to screwing around and fucking with men's heads, but fucking his boss wasn't not a big deal.
Bullshit.
You have plans tonight?
It's been a long time since he sent someone a booty call. That's what this is, he guesses. A really fucked booty call, and he's used to getting his way, an instant yes.
Maybe.
You want to get fucked again?
Yes, of course he fucking does, why else would he be asking. He thumbs out the reply angrily.
What do you think.
He's not going to make this too easy. He's not entirely spineless. He's the one with - theoretical - power here. He's a grown man. Whitaker is a child.
You're so fucking rude.
We shouldn't do it again.
Robby feels his stomach swoop, surprise and loss.
He hadn't expected a no.
Maybe some fucking with him, drawing a plea out of him, that was the precedent. But a no?
People don't say no to him.
Why the fuck not.
Okay, he's pissed. He's embarrassed and he's pissed and how dare Whitaker turn him down.
Because you're my boss, and I don't usually fuck people more than a few times.
They get attached. I get attached. It's too messy.
Oh.
No danger of that. You're a pain in my ass.
The reply is instantaneous. Robby kind of wishes he could type that fast.
You have no idea how much of a pain in that ass I could be.
Robby grins.
Flirting. He can work with this.
So come show me.
There's a long pause, long enough that Robby thinks Whitaker might just be ignoring him now, that the conversation is over.
Fine. Tonight, your place, after your shift.
But we're talking about this. I have conditions.
By the time Whitaker arrives on his doorstep, Robby is electric all over. If anything were to brush against him, he thinks it would sizzle.
"Come in," he says, letting the kid in and breathing out, trying to keep it subtle.
Whitaker has a bag slung over his shoulder. Robby eyes it. Says nothing.
"Sit down, Robby," Whitaker tells him, quiet. He's already made himself at home on the sofa. Looks entirely at ease. Is it a front? Surely it's a front.
He sits.
"You said you had - conditions."
He doesn't see the point in small talk. They both know why he's here. They both know what this is about.
"Yeah. Look, Robby. If we're gonna keeps screwing around, this can't affect me at work. I mean it. No more cherry-picking the shitty charts for me. And don't do it the other way around, either. Just treat me like normal," Whitaker tells him, sighing.
"Same goes for you," Robby shoots back, a touch defensive. So he was a little petty? So what? "Don't use that fucking voice on me at work. You let anything slip, and - "
Whitaker shakes his head, serious.
"I won't. Seriously. I don't want anyone knowing about this any more than you do. It's my private life, it's not anyone's business. And I don't out people," he says, firm.
Robby believes him.
"Anything else?"
"Mhm. Do not catch feelings."
"What the fuck does that mean."
"It means I'm gonna make you feel better than you've ever felt in your life, and it's easy to mistake that for love. Don't do it. This is sex. I'm just helping you out."
Robby feels a shiver threatening. Arousal, and irritation.
"Shouldn't I be saying that to you?" he bites. "You're the 25 year old. You ever even been in love?"
Whitaker levels him with an unimpressed stare.
"None of your business. And trust me. You're the one who's gonna need to remember."
He sounds so cocksure. Robby wonders if he was ever this confident at that age. He knew he was a good doctor, handsome, a good fuck. But god, was it ever like this?
He rolls his eyes.
"Don't worry. No danger of it."
Whitaker looks skeptical, but nods.
"So it helped, then," he says, leaning back. He looks far too comfortable for someone who's about to fuck his boss. Again.
"What?"
"This. You, submitting. It's helping. You wouldn't want more if it wasn't."
Robby works very hard not to flush.
"I guess. Yeah."
"Kind of wild you're twice my age and you haven't even tried this before," Whitaker says, looking genuinely bewildered.
Robby scoffs.
"I think you're overestimating the general public's kink levels," he replies, dry.
"Straight people, maybe, but you're clearly some kind of queer. I kinda thought we all did this a little bit."
Fuck, this kid is so young. Robby's sure he doesn't know his own history. Wouldn't be able to name a single Stonewaller. Doesn't know what it was like to be terrified of your own feelings.
Then again. Religious kid, small town.
Maybe he knows that, at least.
"Not all of us," Robby says, rolling his eyes. "You're an anomaly."
"Not really. Join Fetlife, go to a club, there's plenty of men who'd be over the fucking moon to get a hand around your throat," Whitaker says, eyeing him as he speaks.
Fucker.
Robby swallows hard, tries to hide the movement of his throat. Clearly fails, because Whitaker is watching it with darkening eyes.
"I should have just told you to do that in the first place," he adds, eyes never moving from his Adam's apple, bobbing.
"So why didn't you?" Robby snaps. He's being studied, and he doesn't like it.
Whitaker shrugs.
"Because in the moment, you needed help, and - I was there."
Hm.
"And the time after that? And that? And this?"
Whitaker's confidence finally, finally falters.
He looks down.
"I guess I liked fucking you," he says, quiet.
That sits between the two of them, like an unexploded bomb. Ready to go off at any minute.
"So. Fuck me."
If he can just steer them back toward sex, transactional, none of this conversation, he might feel better. He can do sex. He knows how to feel good, make others feel good.
"Not yet. If you just wanted a quick hook-up, you wouldn't have called me," Whitaker says.
He spreads his legs wide, at ease on the sofa, arm thrown over the back of the cushion. So, that's why he was making himself at home. His legs look - longer, like this. A wide valley between which Robby thinks he might like to bury his face.
"I'm not gonna just chat with you for hours," he snaps. "I called you to get off."
Whitaker looks at him like he's a naive child.
"Robby. We're not going to chat," Whitaker tells him, and flicks his eyes from Robby to the floor between his legs. "Sit."
Sit. On the floor. Like a loyal hound.
"And if I don't?"
"Then I can go. You're the one who asked me for this."
Fucking damn it, he's right. Whitaker can walk right out the door, deny him everything, and he can't say a word about it, because he wants this.
He slides to his knees. It instantly feels … good.
Sits himself down on his haunches between Whitaker's legs. Looks up.
What's he supposed to do now? He doesn't have any fucking parameters. Suck his cock? He can do that, gladly, but -
"Good. No, don't touch. Just sit at my feet, like a good boy," Whitaker murmurs, snaking a hand down to tug gently at Robby's hair. "We're going to watch some TV. I'm behind on Traitors."
In disbelief, Robby watches as the kid reaches for his remote, navigates through his stupid smart TV menu that he honestly wishes was just cable again, and flicks on his absurd show.
"Are you fucking kidding me."
"Shush. I'm watching. If Alan Cumming is on the screen, you be quiet."
Whitaker's mouth does twitch into an amused grin at that.
Robby stares. He's supposed to just - sit here?
He lets his legs out from underneath him, ass hitting the floor. Whitaker's hand is still in his hair, and he shifts to settle his back against the edge of the sofa. He's still between Whitaker's legs, and this must be acceptable, because the kid says nothing, just tugs absent-mindedly at his hair every so often.
"I don't see the fucking point of this," he mutters. He wanted to have sex. He wanted to get off. This is just - mundane. He could have done this on his own.
"I'll gag you if you keep that up," Whitaker tells him in a cheery voice. "I brought one."
Fuck.
Robby feels the low swoop he's beginning to associate with oh, okay, maybe.
He's tempted to mouth off again, just to see if that gag will really come out, but he keeps his mouth shut this time.
Sits quietly, eyes on the screen. God, this shit is drivel. He can't follow half the storylines going on, and is this even reality, or is it all made up? He can't tell.
Whitaker seems engrossed, laughing in places, swearing under his breath at various contestants. Robby would almost swear he's completely forgotten him, sitting here at his feet, except for the way he's started rubbing gentle circles into his scalp.
He finds himself, without even noticing when it happened, zoning out. The drone from the screen becomes a faint murmur, and he's focused entirely on the sensation of fingertips against skin. His muscles have loosened. He's not even hard, and he really thought he was going to be, sitting here waiting for something.
He stays like this, sat between the kid's legs, on his own floor, for - god, how many episodes has he sat through now? Two? Three? It's blurred together. His eyes have fallen closed several times, and when he opens them again, there's entirely new people arguing with each other.
Whitaker hasn't spoken a word to him, this entire time, not after his little threat. This should be dull, he should be feeling impatient and pent up, but - he doesn't. He just feels quiet. At ease. Pleasantly warm and a little floaty.
"How you doing down there?" he hears, finally, and the sound of Whitaker's voice is like hot sweet honey.
"Mm," he hums. He doesn't need more words, he doesn't need to do anything at all right now except just sit. Be still.
He hears Whitaker laugh softly above him.
"See? There was a point to this."
Robby with his brain switched all the way on might have bitten back a sarcastic response, but as it is, he just hums again, low in his throat.
"Speak, boy," Whitaker says, tone coloured with light mocking, mostly gentle.
Robby looks up at him, slow, blinking.
"Woof. Motherfucker," he rasps, and is surprised hear Whitaker burst out laughing, real and loud and sincere. He feels that shot of approval again, flooding his veins. Addictive.
"C'mere," Whitaker murmurs, and gently pulls Robby to move, shifting on his ass so he's turned inward, facing the kid's crotch.
He's hard.
When did that happen? Robby isn't even hard. He's just - calm.
"You wanted cock, right? Here you go."
Whitaker slowly unzips his jeans, shimmies them down and off, and Robby is delighted to find him bare underneath.
"You do that often?" he asks quietly. He hasn't moved to touch. It hasn't even occurred to him.
"What, go commando? When I know I'm going to get laid, yeah."
He wraps a hand around his cock, lazily strokes himself, watching Robby.
"Come on. C'mere."
Robby feels himself crawl, crawl, closer. It's like watching himself from above, somehow. He's not even fighting. He's not snapping, or snarking, or trying to pretend like this isn't exactly what he wants.
He lowers his head, ghosts hot breath over the head of Whitaker's cock, and waits.
The look of pride and joy on the kid's face might honestly be enough to get him off, on that alone. He shudders.
"Look at you, waiting for permission. You learn fast. Go on, go ahead."
Like he's doing Robby a favour. Giving him something precious, a treat.
As soon as he closes his mouth around the kid's cock, he realises, that's exactly what Whitaker was doing, because fuck, his toes curl, his blood sings.
The hot, heavy weight of cock in his mouth feels more right than it ever has. He moans, and shifts himself in even closer, placing his hands palm-down on Whitaker's thighs to steady himself.
"Fuck, your mouth is insane," Whitaker mutters. Robby thinks maybe he wasn't meant to hear that, but he has, and it only spurs him on.
He uses every trick he knows, every swirl and curl of his tongue, relaxing his throat to take the kid in deep, feels him everywhere, fucking everywhere. His fingers curl into soft flesh, and Whitaker groans above him, loud.
"Oh, god, yeah, just like that. Fuck. Don't even have to tell you, you just - unh."
Robby's pulled his mouth off, but only for a second, before he nuzzles himself lower, flicking out his tongue to lap at the kid's balls. The sound it elicits, god, he'll live on that for weeks.
"Robby. I didn't - say - fuck. Okay, whatever, yeah, keep going, don't fucking stop," Whitaker slurs, and Robby's riding on pure euphoria.
He widens his jaw, takes Whitaker's balls into his mouth fully, suckles, gentle for the most part. It's not comfortable, and it's not especially hot for him - it tastes too much like sweat and musk, but what it's doing for Whitaker? More than enough for him.
He feels the hand return to his hair, tighter this time, rough, yanking and pushing until he's choking hard, spluttering with his mouth too, too full.
"Stop, okay, stop, god, I'm gonna fucking - "
He's let go, his hair released, and he pulls back, coughing and gasping in deep breaths of air. Whitaker is panting hard, his face red. Robby feels sharp, delicious satisfaction.
"Get up here," Whitaker breathes, ragged, patting the cushion next to him, and Robby scrambles to comply.
He sits, legs spread a little to accommodate the raging fucking hard-on he's now dealing with, and hisses in surprise when Whitaker swings his legs over him to straddle him, hovering over his cock.
"Christ!" he swears, and god, he wants to buck up into the kid so fucking bad. Impale him on his cock, make him cry out.
He doesn't.
"Settle," Whitaker warns, catching his breath. His core strength must be insane, because he really is just holding himself like that, thighs tensed. "I got myself ready before I came over."
Robby moans, involuntary, picturing it.
"You want to fuck me, don't you, Robby?" he coos, voice saccharine now.
He nods, staring up with desperate, hungry eyes.
"Use. Your words."
"Jesus, yes, of course I fucking want to fuck you," he snaps. That fuzziness is starting to dissipate, and he wants it back so badly, he's fraying.
"And do you think you deserve to?"
Robby pauses, because - yes, yes he does. But it seems like Whitaker doesn't, if he's asking. He's off-kilter. He doesn't know what to do here.
"I - "
Whitaker rolls his hips, brushing his hole ever so slightly against the tip of Robby's cock, and he groans.
"C'mon. Think about it. Have you been good to the people around you, hm? Fair? Patient?" Whitaker purrs, in that same sickly sweet tone.
Oh.
That's what this is.
It's a fucking performance review.
He swallows. He doesn't want to do this.
"Just let me fuck you," he grinds out between gritted teeth.
"That's not the point of why I'm here. I'm here to keep you in line. Keep you grounded."
Robby thought he was here to fuck, actually, but.
Maybe he could do that. Let himself be handled.
"Guess I've been kinda on edge," he concedes, muttering. His eyes down.
Whitaker circles the tip of his cock again, and fucking hell, it's so hard not to just grab his hips, drive into him, fuck him so hard they both scream.
"Mm, kinda. Why?"
They really are just going to fucking talk while Robby is so close to getting inside that ass.
"I don't fucking know. This. Hospital bullshit. Frank's coming back. Everything."
Whitaker pauses, his brow furrowing.
"Langdon's coming back? Really?"
Robby scowls.
"Yeah. Next month."
He can hear the flat displeasure in his own voice.
"Huh. You sound not jazzed."
"Why are we talking about this when you could be riding my cock."
"Because I want to be talking about it. Because you act like a bitch when you're stressed out, and I'm finding out why you're stressed out."
Robby huffs.
"I didn't sign up for fucking therapy."
"Oh, shut up, you knew when you called me over here that you'd do anything I wanted. This is what I want."
Robby snaps. His hands move, he grabs Whitaker hard by the waist, shoves inside him.
Whitaker yelps, high and shocked, and for a moment, it's worth it entirely just to see the look of surprised pain melt into pleasure as Robby pushes into him.
And then there are consequences.
"You little bitch," Whitaker hisses, and puts a strong hand around his throat. The kid's a doctor - he knows exactly where to squeeze, not to press down, to tighten around. Robby's airway is cut off almost completely, and he chokes, eyes welling with involuntary tears.
"Fine. You wanna fuck so bad, fine," Whitaker's snarling, and grinding his hips so rough and hard that Robby sees sparks behind his eyes. Though that could be the lack of air, too.
He tries to buck up, to take what he wants, but Whitaker is ruthless with him, setting the pace and keeping it. Robby might be inside him, but he's not the one doing any fucking here.
"Can't - breathe, kid," he chokes out, because fuck fuck fuck, this is getting really fucking painful now, actually.
"Should've thought about that, huh?" Whitaker spits, riding him hard. He doesn't loosen his grip in the slightest.
At least the fuzziness is returning, though - god, potentially that's the onset of dizziness, about to turn into unconsciousness.
He wonders, briefly, if Whitaker would just keep fucking him if he blacked out. Riding his cock and taking his pleasure with no regard for Robby's presence at all.
The thought makes him gasp against the hand at his throat, on fire.
"You are such a stubborn, impulsive son of a bitch," Whitaker is half-moaning, half spitting. "I should milk your cock ten times over for this. Make you come dry and sobbing."
"Oh, fuck," Robby pants, but the words are just slurs, held down by Whitaker's hand. "Fuck, yes."
"Oh, you think it sounds good now, it won't when you're screaming for me to stop."
It sounds good, it sounds so good. It sounds so good Robby can't even think except for yesfuckyespleasemoregodyesfuckkid.
He comes with a strangled scream, straining so hard against Whitaker's hand that he really does feel his vision slip for a second.
"That's one," Whitaker warns, riding him through it hard, and fuck, it's so much. "I'm sure you have some Viagra around here, old man. Maybe I go get it. Keep you hard for me, for hours."
Robby wants to argue, that no, he sure fucking doesn't, he's not that old, but he can't speak. Can only gasp and shake.
Finally, Whitaker's hand loosens, and he coughs, coughs, coughs, splutters and he can feel tears trickling out of the corners of his eyes, just from the sheer relief of air.
"Someone should muzzle you," Whitaker mutters, slowing the pace of his hips but still rocking, deep and rhythmic. He's clearly not done with him. He's going to milk every second.
"Okay," Robby breathes, barely aware he's spoken. He's boneless. Melted. Done.
Whitaker laughs, dark, and Robby feels him tightening above him, muscles tense. The kid's fingers trace along the base of his throat, almost painfully soft now, gentle. He shivers. What a fucking contrast.
"M'gonna come inside you," Whitaker murmurs, leaning down to pour promises into his ear. "Gonna fill you up with me, til you're nothing but what I give you."
Robby can't do anything but moan softly, his toes curling, and then - fuck, yes, the kid is filling him up, with a low groan that Robby wants to swallow.
Whitaker is murmuring filthy things to him, but Robby is beginning to slip. His eyes fall closed, and he can't … stay … here.
It's possible Whitaker pushed him a little too far. He'd thought they were doing okay, that it was rough, sure, but that's why Robby asked him for it.
He might have fucked up.
Robby wasn't supposed to fucking pass out underneath him. Whitaker had given him his air back, was just playing with him a little, but -
Damn it. He'd underestimated how deep into subspace he'd been pushing Robby, and how fast. Of course he was going to disappear inside himself.
Despite himself, Whitaker feels guilty. Really guilty. He should have been looking out for this sooner, better. Not just - relishing in how fucking good Robby's cock felt inside him, how much he was enjoying telling the man the terrible things he wanted to do to him.
God, he wants this too fucking badly. Clearly.
He gently climbs off Robby's cock, pleasantly sore and well-fucked, and eyes the man. Robby is not unconscious, but he's certainly not here in this moment. He's gone somewhere else, inside himself, which, if that had been what Whitaker was aiming for, would have been great.
As it is, it's too intense for Robby this soon.
He leaves the man, briefly, to retrieve a damp cloth. Cleans himself up, and perches beside Robby to gently, slowly, rub him down.
"Sorry, old man," he murmurs, barely more than a whisper, taking care to be gentle now.
He can't possibly move Robby to bed without the man's help, so, here on the sofa it is. He grabs a blanket off the end of the sofa, gently manoeuvres Robby to lie on his side, and drapes it over him.
He shouldn't leave Robby alone like this. He should hang around to help bring him up out of this space. That's what a good dom would be doing.
But Whitaker sees the vacant, gone look on Robby's face, and his chest constricts.
He wants.
He wants to stay. He wants to take care of the older man. He wants, he wants, he wants.
So he leaves.