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Whitaker keeps his expression as neutral as possible, praying that his awful poker face doesn't rear its nasty head at a time like this. Anything goes horribly wrong and Whitaker can kiss goodbye to ever trying anything risky again.
Ogilvie, despite his appearance, doesn't mind a little risk in their sex life. He's been adventurous plenty of times before and, surprisingly, outperformed Whitaker in courage at some times. No one could call Ogilvie shy.
Unless it came to PDA. No one at work would ever even have an inkling of how close the two became after hours. Ogilvie despised the idea of going public, and Whitaker respected his wishes.
Really, it worked out for the both of them. Whitaker is still cautious about coming out as homosexual explicitly— years of Nebraskan hospitality beating that out of him— and Ogilvie just doesn't like that kind of attention. So they hide it. Not really intentionally, but they just happen to do so incredibly well.
So Ogilvie allowing Whitaker to put a vibrating plug in him for an entire shift is exhilarating to say the least.
Ogilvie stood rigidly still, trying with all his might to focus on Dr. Robby's debrief and not the consistent pressure against his inner walls. He tries not to fidget, but the hem of his shirt feels like it's squeezing him, so he tugs, rubs, and fiddles with it the entire time.
The cock cage keeping him soft is his only saving grace from popping a tent in front of his esteemed coworkers. Thankfully, most people try to ignore him when possible, so his shifting and restlessness go unnoticed.
"Go save the day, people," Robby commanded, waving them off to their respective duties.
Ogilvie sticks close behind Whitaker, trying to stop himself from embracing the man from behind. When he gets horny, he gets a little romantic. All he wants is to breathe deeply into his hair, hold him as he—
"What are you doing?" Javadi eyes Ogilvie as if he's just spit in her food. Suddenly, he notices just how close he got to actually embracing Whitaker.
He stammers momentarily before shooting off a quick, "My job. Don't you have your own?" His sneer almost immediately vanishes from his face as the plug inside him gives a jittery hello, forcing Ogilvie to bite down on his lip to keep any semblance of a moan slipping from his lips.
Whitaker looks at him with what others may interpret as a glare, but Ogilvie knows to be his 'taking control of a brat' look. "Let's be civil." His clipped tone sends a miniature shiver down Ogilvie's spine, intensifying the feel of the vibrations.
He doesn't even notice Javadi's smug expression as he continues to stumble behind Whitaker to their first patient.
Whitaker introduces the both of them— and eventually Javadi when she walks in— in his kind professional manner that gives him such high marks in patient satisfaction. Ogilvie loves how versatile the man can be. That sweet, gentle voice that gives praise and encouragement can also tear him apart with criticism. Tell him how much of a whore he is for just a little bit of attention. How desperate he looks. How filthy he looks—
The intensity of the vibrator suddenly jumps much higher than before, forcing Ogilvie to cough excessively loud just to conceal the groan of delight.
Shit. He was asked a question. What was the question?
"I…" He hesitates, "I don't know." God those words were painful to say. Javadi's mouth hangs open wide at the blatant admission. The patient looks anxiously between all three of them.
God it's pressing so deep inside. The almost agonizing stimulation refuses to relent regardless of how desperately Ogilvie looks at Whitaker.
"You don't know what fatigue and shortness of breath indicate? Not any idea?" Whitaker says, any hint of gentleness abandoning his voice. This is apparently even more surprising to Javadi. If her eyes widen any more, they might be at risk of popping out.
Ogilvie opens and closes his mouth for a second— just to make sure that he's not about to make any inappropriate noises at work— before settling on a hesitant, "Anemia…?"
He's getting sick of seeing Javadi get more shocked with his every word.
"Wait, wait," the patient blusters, "I thought you said I couldn't have anemia!"
"Yes, sir, you're absolutely right," Whitaker quickly reassures the man before shooting a vicious glare at Ogilvie, "You can't because your RBC count is ideal. Anything that causes anemia would noticeably lower your count. A freshman med student would know that." The last statement is so pointed that Ogilvie feels his hear jump start.
God, he isn't going to make it. The vibrator, these biting remarks, the glares… They're enough to kill him.
Ogilvie tries again. "Uh, yes, right. It could be a pulmonary embolism— which is, uh, a blood clot broke off and traveled to your lungs and got stuck, so it's limiting the blood flow to both your heart, and preventing your RBC's from receiving oxygen."
Now, he looks to Whitaker expectantly, almost sighing in relief as the man reaches into his pocket, lowering the intensity to a gentle thrum. Still, though, he doesn't look… pleased.
"That's certainly an option," Whitaker agrees, though he's clearly not impressed, "But something else seems more likely. Something you might have guessed if you'd read the chart?"
Chart… shit, did he even read the chart? His hormones are making him lose his mind.
He's about to shock Javadi for the umpteenth time until he smells it. That faint smell of smoke… No way Javadi smokes and Whitaker only smokes on rough days…
Ogilvie gets it. "COPD…?"
"Is that a question or an answer?" Whitaker replies coldly.
"Answer. It's Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease— most likely, anyway. This condition is actually two conditions that present simultaneously. The alveoli sacs in your lungs can't stretch properly, and your bronchial tubes are inflamed," Ogilvie's mouth moves quicker than his mind.
Finally, Whitaker smiles, clicking the vibrator off completely. "Yeah, that's it! Javadi, what makes COPD the most likely issue?"
"It's because—"
Ogilvie jumps in, "Because he smokes." Javadi glares at him, sucking at the inside of her cheek to stop herself from saying anything rude.
Whitaker sighs, reaching in his pocket and clicking the plug on, certainly enjoying how Ogilvie freezes up and clamps his bottom lip between his teeth.
Jokingly, the patient remarks, "Guess it takes a hell of a lot of patience to teach, huh, Doc?"
"You have no idea," Whitaker groans playfully before walking through the steps of lessening the effects of COPD. The damage to the lungs is irreversible, but it's not fatal.
The sound of Whitaker's competent, beautiful voice, lulls Ogilvie into a dazed pleasure. The buzz no longer sends violent, sharp spikes of lust through him, but, rather, gentle waves that lap at the edge of his mind.
It's almost soothing him. He numbly realizes that another question is being asked to Javadi, but he doesn't even register the words. There's no need. All he's good for is to just sit still and look pretty for Whitaker.
Judging by the way Whitaker's eyes drift over to him so often, he's doing a damn good job.
"Pretty boy."
"Gorgeous."
"Such a sweet thing."
"Good boy."
Ogilvie's cock strains uselessly against the cage, sending his mind into deeper spirals. Every brush of their arms, every glance sent his way, and ever whispered sweet-nothing has him considering bending over for the man in front of all their coworkers.
If he knew that doing sexual things in public could get him this worked up, he would have thrown all his reservations out the window the moment Whitaker batted his beautiful lashes.
Whitaker sidles up beside him, whispering, "Can't wait to see you come tonight. You've been so good for me today." Since his slip-up with Javadi earlier, Whitaker hasn't shut the vibrations off once. The thing hardly twitches inside him, but it feels like a saving grace. Never before has his mind felt so tranquil.
His behavior hasn't gone unnoticed.
Before she could even think about it, Joy had actually accepted a high five from him after she'd completed a risky procedure perfectly. Afterwards, she had looked at her own hand like it had stabbed her in the back.
Dr. Robinovitch actually fist-bumped him! Willingly!
People weren't actively avoiding him anymore. Dr. McKay went as far as complimenting how he was being a great team player today.
Of course, their praise felt nice, but it wasn't like he was making a conscious effort.
As Dr. Whitaker had put it, he's much more agreeable when he's fucked stupid. That's how he likes Ogilvie and, apparently, that's how everyone else likes him too.
The image of being nothing more than Whitaker's sex thing flits across his mind so often that his head is starting to hurt from all the blood being diverted to his dick. Head so fucking numb from pleasure that he's always an absolute delight. Whitaker having to order him around.
Fuck.
Well, he kinda does that anyway.
Ogilvie once again allows himself to be guided to another patient's room. Distantly, he hears Whitaker briefing Joy and him on the situation. A kid that had been tackled by cops for pick pocketing.
Apparently he's a bit of a kleptomaniac with a record, as he manages to nick Whitaker's watch right off his wrist without drawing any attention.
Ogilvie only realizes that it's been stolen as the kid sheepishly returns it, claiming that he can't control it. The saint as always, Whitaker forgives the kid, slipping the watch into his back pocket with a smile.
The three exit the room to visit their other patients. The kid has, at worst, a broken arm. All they can do now is wait on the X-ray to determine the type of break and where exactly it is.
Ogilvie begins to dutifully chart— if only to get home earlier to Whitaker— when it starts. A violent jump from the soft and sweet buzz to a vibration that forces him to cough roughly into his arm to hide the scream that comes out.
Holy shit. If he thought it was going to kill him earlier, it's definitely going to kill him now. The unforgiving plastic pounds roughly into his prostate.
His vision blurs as his eyes roll up. Ogilvie hides his expression by staring intently at the keyboard on the desk. It isn't quick and it isn't painless.
Fuck! Where the hell is Whitaker?! This is too much.
Grabbing his phone, Ogilvie sends their safe word to Whitaker in addition to several exclamation points.
Just as it sends, EMT's burst through the doors with a seizing patient. Ogilvie's heart sinks as Whitaker's phone is set down and the man himself is whisked into Trauma 1.
FUCK! The pressure is almost unbearable now. On legs that mimic a doe, Ogilvie makes his way to the bathroom to take care of the problem himself.
Nurse Dana is the first to notice, stepping in his way with her hands held up.
"You feelin' alright kid?" Unable to speak properly, Ogilvie only waves her off, placing his other hand over his mouth. She seems to get the message.
Dana hooks his arm over her shoulder, helping him to the bathroom. Every breath he takes is spent keeping his voice down.
Thankfully, she doesn't insist on taking him into the actual bathroom because he's not going to throw up, he thinks he's gonna fucking cum. At work.
Locking the door behind him, Ogilvie braces his arm against the wall of the bathroom stall, feeling his breath come in short, ragged pants.
Fuck, the cage. If he takes it off, there's no way he's not coming, but then he has to put it back on. It takes him a minute to flag, so wrestling it back on may be more trouble than it's worth.
Ogilvie can't usually see the stars— living in the city and all— but he imagines that he's just seen the entire galaxy as the plug in his ass stops for just a moment, then switches right back to the highest setting.
Biting into his forearm, Ogilvie whines and huffs pathetically, feeling his mind go numb. If Whitaker could see him now, he would call him beautiful. Or filthy.
God, he must be fucked up if both sound equally enticing to hear.
The back and forth of the intensity encourages him to buck his hips against thin air. His cock cries through the bars of the cage, begging for him to take it off. Release him.
Ogilvie's free hand shakily reaches backwards, palm pressing against the base of the plug. His touches are tentative for a moment, but he allows his palm to move farther.
He almost blacks out. The bipolar plug feels as though it's bruising his prostate with its aggressive pounding. Ogilvie has never felt this desperate— this fucking horny— from a toy. Obviously, Whitaker surpasses this lump of plastic, but Whitaker doesn't torture him for an entire shift in front of their coworkers.
Though he's certainly able to pull the damned plug out and have this entire experience over with… he just wants to feel it one more time.
Drawing a long moan from his covered mouth, Ogilvie forces the plug in deeper yet again. Then he does it again. Then again. Then he's developed a rhythm of fucking himself with the plug, shivering as the tempo of the vibrations continue to fluctuate dramatically.
The lustful feeling in his groin continues to build, forcing his teeth farther into his skin. His hand works faster, fucking himself like a common whore.
"Filthy fucking whore." It's all in his head. Whitaker calling him these awful things. If he's being truthful, Whitaker's words never go much more vile than 'bad boy'. Ogilvie's never been called a whore, a slut, nor anything to truly hurt him.
If his internal Whitaker is anything to go by, he'd definitely like to be hurt.
Another time. Right now he just needs…
The plug moves in and out of him with a breathtaking speed as the button is left alone, letting the plug fuck him senselessly. He's so fucking close.
So close.
The bathroom door swings open just as Ogilvie's vision goes blank. 6The most overwhelming dry orgasm of his life leaves him moaning mindlessly, senses offline for the foreseeable future.
"Ogilvie, shit, I'm so sorry!" Whitaker rambles, "I had no idea the remote was missing! I should have kept my things close with that klepto—"
Blissed out, Ogilvie shushes him with a drunken finger as he presses his body to Whitaker's, sloppily making out with the man in what has to be the most unsanitary place he's ever been.
After a few moments of a— if he's being completely honest— filthy, teeth-filled kiss, Whitaker pulls away, his beautiful face red with both arousal and, he guesses, shame.
"The, uh, our kleptomaniac picked the control out of my pocket. Since you were being so good, I thought I'd take it easy on you," Whitaker mumbles pressing a more thoughtful kiss to his temple.
Ogilvie's smile sends a jolt of arousal down his spine. "I'm glad he had the guts to make it hurt."
"It hurt?!"
"I shouldn't have said it like that," Ogilvie admits sheepishly, "It hurt… good? Like when you asked me to slap you."
Whitaker blushes, the color traveling underneath his scrubs. "I was- I just wanted to try it."
"Please, don't be embarrassed. I liked hitting you. I wanted you to hurt me. I still want you to," Ogilvie whispers into the shell of his lover's ear.
Nodding, Whitaker brings his arms around Ogilvie's neck. "Consider it done. I think they'll let you go a little early if I vouch for your sickness? I'll be right behind you, so get ready for me… slut." Ogilvie almost bursts out into laughter at the unnatural name sounding even more awkward coming out of Whitaker's mouth.
"Okay. I'll wait for you."
James' hole has been getting stretched all day, so all he's left to do at their shared apartment is lazily circle his rim, pushing lube inside and reveling in the feeling of it leaking out.
He hears the telltale signs of Dennis getting home… but something sounds off. It sounds like he's running—
"—You fucking safe worded! Damn it, James, I'm so sorry," Whitaker cries out, his expression distraught.
James looks awkwardly around the room as he mumbles, "I changed my mind."
"Jesu— I mean, who cares! You were terrified and I was doing who knows what."
"Dealing with a trauma," James reminds him.
Frustrated, Dennis retrieves a pillow from the ground and tosses it at James' head. "That shouldn't matter. I convinced you into doing this for me and I betrayed your trust. I said I would stop."
"Then you get to make it up to me," James replies coyly, feeling his cock harden almost immediately.
Dennis gives him a deadpan glare. "Me fucking you isn't the answer to this, James."
In just a fraction of a second, James has Dennis pinned under his weight, leaning fully onto the man so they can both feel James' boner pressed firmly into the cleft of Dennis' ass.
"So I'll fuck you. I'll fuck your goddamn mind out just like you did mine, and you can scream and cry all you want, but I won't stop." It's absolute bullshit. The second Dennis even mumbles a phrase similar to their safe word, he'll stop, but Dennis doesn't need to know that.
Placing his canines on Dennis' pulse point, James feels his excitement build at how quickly his lover's heart is pounding.
With eyes that have already begun to glaze over in the way he's certain he looked before, Dennis breathes out, "Even if it hurts? You promise?"
"Even if you start to fucking bleed," he huffs back, putting his full body weight onto the man below. Dennis wheezes, as the pressure becomes almost unbearable.
James brandishes two of his fingers, pressing them firmly into Dennis' mouth to be slicked by his saliva. Dennis happily accepts the digits, lapping at them eagerly.
Just for laughs, James jabs his fingers roughly at the back of Dennis' throat, grinning as he gives a full body retch. James' hand grips the root of Dennis' hair as he removes the fingers.
Now, unfortunately, he has to actually get off Dennis to go any further. Flipping Dennis onto his back is much easier than it should be, but getting his pants off is a little more difficult. His mind is elsewhere, so he's not really helping the process go any smoother.
With a swift slap to the face, Dennis is forced back into the present.
James spits on his bewildered face. "Stay with me. And stop being difficult, thanks." Dennis hits him right back, lifting his hips with a smile.
As soon as they're both as bare as the day they were born, James is on Dennis, kissing and sucking little spots from his pectoralis muscles to his hardened cock.
James licks a thick stripe on his taint as he brings his slickened fingers to Dennis' hole, pressing one of them inside. Dennis sighs breathily, holding his thighs open for easier access.
James happily obliges, working in another finger. Then another. The three stretch the ring of muscle quite aggressively, allowing the room to be filled with stuttered gasps and moans.
Once Dennis is deemed properly prepared to the absolute minimum, James wastes no time in coating his cock in saliva, sweat, and precum.
Bracing his hand on the headboard, James guides the decent appendage to Dennis' puckering hole, pushing past the initial tension that he normally eases into.
With a sharp gasp, Dennis pulls James closer, thighs properly clamping onto his sides to hold them both steady. The two of them breathe so closely to each other's mouths that long-term exposure could result in carbon dioxide poisoning. The thought makes James dizzy. Both of them poisoned by their passion and lust.
His hips snap forward, sinking deeply into Dennis' ass. Both of them groan as James pulls back before setting a bruising pace. His cock-head viciously attacks Dennis' prostate, sending his head craning backward.
Dennis' nails find their way into the flesh of James' back, digging crescents into his shoulders. This encourages the blonde man to pull them closer together so they're hardly even separating as he thrusts.
Bringing his hands away from the headboard, James grasps the back of Dennis' neck and forces the two of them to practically fuse into one unit. One soul. One person. Every inch of their skin contacts the other until their sweat has been thoroughly mixed.
James' glutes flex in an increasingly more punishing pace, driving both of them mad. Dennis' teeth find more and more skin, drawing blood with every harsh bite.
Dimly, James realizes that with every thrust, he's pushing their bodies closer and closer to the edge of the bed. Even before the idea fully forms, he's encouraging it to happen. To bruise them both. To hurt them both.
He relishes in the pained yelp that escapes his lover, never breaking their contact nor his pace. Dennis seems to get the message as his scrambling hands find flesh yet again.
Feeling the man below him start to tense, James can sense that he's not going to last much longer and, if the increase in volume means anything, neither is Dennis. James removes his hands from the back of Dennis' neck and places them cautiously around the man's throat.
He knows how to safely do it, but that doesn't stop him from putting the slightest bit of pressure on Dennis' windpipe if only to watch the man shake in exhilaration like he's on a roller coaster without a seatbelt.
With two more thrusts, James feels himself empty into Dennis' depths, slowing his pace just slightly. At this, he's suddenly manhandled onto his back with much more force than required.
"Dennis?"
A swift backhand to his face shuts him up immediately. "I'm not done yet, James. Stop being difficult, thanks." Both of them smile as Dennis rides him like a man starved of physical contact.
Judging by how Dennis' voice cracks every time James' balls meet his skin, they're both enjoying the slight twinge of pain. Truthfully, James' balls feel so empty that every squeeze from Dennis' walls has him losing his voice.
Between getting his brain fucked out and his ragged moans, Dennis remembers James' request.
He whines out, "Such a good fucking whore for letting me use you. I could ride you forever and you'd just sit there and— fuck— take it." Another hit to James' face sends him further into the depths of overstimulation as his cock desperately tries to get hard again.
He hits James again. The man bucks his hips, meeting Dennis halfway as blood starts rushing against his will.
Another hit. Grabbing Dennis' hips, James pounds roughly into his hole, earning another hit.
Dennis slaps him once more before he's coming right alongside James who lets out a silent scream at the biting mix of pleasure and pain.
Catching their breath, Dennis brushes James' sweaty curls out of his face, kissing his face with a blissful tenderness.
After a moment more of rest, James cautiously maneuvers them off the floor and into the bed, never allowing his spend to escape from Dennis' fluttering hole.
"No," Dennis drawls, "We need to get cleaned up."
With a whine, James collapses on top of Dennis. "In the morning."
"No, we're gonna regret it."
"Not our problem," James argues.
With an unimpressed glare right back at him, Dennis mumbles, "It absolutely is our problem. We'll be gross in the morning."
"Wanna see it drip out of you tomorrow."
Dennis tenses slightly, hiding his face in the crook of James' neck as he shyly agrees, "Fine. But you're cleaning me up."
"With my tongue?"
"With a towel," Dennis snaps with no real bite, "You creep." Another firm kiss to his brow has James melting on top of his boyfriend, pushing his semen deeper inside.
The two of them kiss slowly, none of the earlier urgency seeping into the gentle motion. Fingers card through hair, separating tangles and rubbing circles into the scalp.
This afterglow has always been their favorite part. Regardless of how hard they go at each other, piecing each other back together surpasses any form of intimacy.
Another kiss is shared.
"Fuck, James," Dennis groans, a deep ache settling deep into his bones. James watches intently as his seed does indeed drip out of Dennis like he had hoped.
Dennis huffs out a laugh at his lover's awestruck expression. "Is it everything you ever dreamed of, cowboy?"
"And so much more… do you think we have time… before work to—"
With a fierce bark of laughter, Dennis shakes his head. "You're insane. I won't be able to walk right for weeks, Jamie."
As the two slowly trudge to the bathroom to get ready for work, James suddenly sucks in a breath between his teeth.
"What?" Dennis asks, frightened, "What's on me?"
The man turns around to look at his back in the mirror and his mouth hangs open. Bruises litter any observable surface area of his skin, but his glutes and scapular region burn an aggressive purple.
"Holy— Oh my G— I don't even know what to say, James. I look like I got attacked with a truck!" Dennis catalogues the bruises around his neck and thighs with a perverse interest.
Then he sees James.
Dennis can't stop his baffled laughter from bubbling from his chest. The man's face is completely bruised. From his cheeks to his eyes, he looks like he got into a fight with a meat tenderizer and lost horribly.
James sighs, "Dr. Santos is going to kill me for this."
"Probably," Dennis agrees, kissing the bruise on his cheek before they get ready to explain away their injuries.
Written by a human in Ellipsus.