Archive of Our Own

“Don’t you have something better to do, Des Voeux?”

Charles slams his phone down onto the break room table. He was doing important things. Very important things until he was so rudely interrupted when the charge nurse with his lip in a curl decided to barge in for coffee.

‘DADDY TOP’ and the delicious video he sent would have to wait.

“I’m on break,” Charles says into a bite of his stale donut.

The charge nurse rolls his eyes sipping his too hot coffee like some demon incarnate. The photo on Jopson’s badge does more to endorse this theory—his ever-staring bright blue eyes bore holes into Des Voeux from across the room. Charles hates this guy.

“Well, you better wrap up. Gore has been paging you and I’m not paid enough to babysit the interns.”

“Resident. I’m a resident.”

“Of the breakroom, I’m sure.” 

Before he can respond, the tell-tale ring of a Grindr notification vibrates Charles’ phone back to life. 

Jopson quirks an eyebrow, saying ‘Really?’ with one glance that is sharp like knives. He takes his coffee as well as Des Voeux’s dignity with him when he leaves. 

It started quite simply, Charles thinks. Just a way to blow off steam. Why should he have to stop doing something he loved? It’s not like he should have to give up cheeky midday hookups or handjobs in the parking lot just because he wanted to be a doctor. Did he even want to be a doctor? He isn’t even sure at this point. He feels like he lost the reason he was even here a long time ago when he signed his soul as well as his dick away to be a resident at St. John’s Hospital a year ago.

 “Surgery is the finest callings one can pursue,” Dr. Fitzjames had said in his residential orientation. “To be willing to venture into the flesh to render it whole and new is the closest you can get to being God.”

Of course, he would say that. Neurosurgeons are always so uppity.

“Took you long enough,” Dr. Le Vesconte says wall prepping for surgery.

“Sorry, I got held up on break.” 

Dr. Collins, the anesthesiologist, mutters to himself, “How can you get held up on a break?” 

Dr. Gore continues through with a smile, “No matter, you’re here now. I remember what it was like as a resident, coveting your break during a 12-hour shift. Get washed up, you will be assisting Dundy and myself with surgery. A right hip replacement for Mrs. Franklin; if all goes as planned, we should be done before the dinner rush.”

“Yes, Des Voux, it shouldn’t be too hard, just remember your retractors this time and you should be fine,” Le Vesconte jokes from his wash station. 

Charles bites his tongue. There are a million things he wishes to say to “Dundy” (as his buddies call him) but none are appropriate for work. Ever since their rendezvous on Grindr where Le Vesconte ghosted him after sending a dick pic, Charles has been feeling rather sore towards the man. Twink on twink death violence, or something like that. But, then again, he really shouldn’t be throwing stones in glass houses.

The surgery goes as well as it ever does. Gore and Le Vesconte really work well together. Their operating playlist is an incoherent mix of metal and pop only they seem to understand, hopping from Charlie XCX to System of a Down with ease, drilling, and hammering away to the beat.

Collins looks shell-shocked by the end of it. It’s a wonder he’s an anesthesiologist, Charles thinks, for a man who truly hates surgery. “He’d be happier being the one put under, if you ask me,” the radiologist Fairholme once joked.

Charles considers it a success and is happy to be out. He passed the right tools, never made any mistakes and they’re out right in time for his dinner break.

“I’d like to devour that hole of yours,” writes DADDY TOP. He’s weird like that, using proper grammar and punctuation. It makes Charles hard in his scrubs.

In the bathroom, Charles rubs one out, taking a video with his fingers in his ass and ‘daddy’ on his tongue before returning to the breakroom.

Dr. Hodgson from oncology sits at the table, picking at his food with a sullen disposition that Charles knows all too well.

“Terminal?”

Hodgson nods into his takeout, “Stage 4 melanoma.”

“Want a handjob in the supply closet?”

They’ve been dancing this waltz for a while. Hodgson was the first doctor he hooked up with at the hospital. Typically a jovial, cheerful man who would put Patch Adams to shame, he took each patient’s case to heart, especially the ones he felt he failed in some way from the inevitably of death. There was only one thing that could cheer him up.

So, that’s how Des Voeux ends up on his knees in the supply closet, mouth full of cock while he is surrounded by cleaning supplies and towels. He savors it. This is something he knows he wants to do. Above him, Hodgson sobs into the sleeve of his lab coat, other hand buried in Charles’ hair.

Charles gets him off quick and fast, with expert quirks of his tongue, swallowing him down.

“Feeling better?” Charles asks afterward from his perch at Hodgson’s feet. 

Hodgson lifts him up, bringing him into a crushing hug. They stay like that for a while, Hodgson crying into Charles’ shoulder, wiping his snot-filled nose into his scrubs. His dick hangs limply out.

After a moment, Hodgson is a changed man. He wipes his face with his hands, pushes his hair back into place, and tucks himself back into his trousers. 

“Yes. Much better. Thank you, Dr. Des Voeux.”

With that, the oncologist slips out of the supply closet, something approaching a smile on his face.

“Dr. Little! Just the man I was looking for—” Des Voeux hears the man say from outside the cold, dark supply closet.

His job is done, his day goes on, he supposes. 

Blowjobs always make him horny, though.

“You’re utterly insatiable and gorgeous,” DADDY TOP writes in reply to the video he had sent.

Charles bites his lip. DADDY TOP’s location is less than 200 feet. He’s somewhere in the hospital. Maybe even on the floor.

He grinds his palm onto where his throbbing cock tents his scrubs.

“daddy i need you in me sooo bad,” he writes back.

“You’re hard right now, aren’t you? Slut.”

Charles bites into his arm to quell a moan that slips out. It’s the right amount of pain to be pleasurable.

He pulls his pants down just enough so he can take a picture of his hard dick, wet and red, and sends it with an accompanying “yessss.” He wraps his hand around his dick and starts jerking off, rough with himself.

DADDY TOP is typing his reply…

His phone vibrates with another message: “Don’t touch yourself. I want to see your pretty cock cum for me.”

Before he can type a reply the overhead speaker yells, “CHARLES DES VOEUX TO PLASTIC SURGERY. DES VOEUX TO PLASTIC SURGERY.”

The jolt of surprise makes him thwack his head into a shelf with a curse. In a panic, he tucks himself back in his pants, trapping his dick against his belly so it won’t show. He swipes a hand through his hair, the precum acting as a poor gel.

“DR. STANLEY WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU NOW.”

He is able to slip out of the supply closet with no fuss, beelining to the elevator with a swiftness and professionalism he is sure the others on the floor are surprised to see. Charles pays no mind, his blood feels ice cold and he can barely see straight. 

He hits the button for floor 9 and when the doors close, he slumps against the elevator wall like a deflated balloon.

He’s fucked and he knows it.

He’s never met Dr. Stanley but he has heard about him. Dr. Goodsir in psychiatry hates the man. Dr. Peddie in the ICU seems scared of him. Fitzjames trained under him during parts of his residency and speaks of with warmth and healthy respect; deferring to him in a way Charles had not even seen with Dr. Franklin, the head of the hospital.

Dr. Stanley is like the phantom of this operating theater—omnipresent as he is mysterious and unknowable.

It’s a different world upstairs in plastic surgery. It feels palatial. Calm. Pink marble floors, no blood no crying babies, just rich women with facial bandages waiting in the lobby. 

Before he can open his mouth, a receptionist points to double doors behind the front desk, “Dr. Stanley’s office is at the end of the hall.”

He moves to ask but the receptionist just sighs, flipping through a page in his magazine, bored as ever, “Yes yes Des Voeux, I know who you are. Dr. Stanley will see you now.”

All he can do is mutter thanks as he ducks through the doors like a dog with its tail between its legs.

The hall is empty except for a nurse who hugs the wall as she passes by—offering a closed-lip smile and nod acknowledging his presence. Dr. Stanley’s office is easy enough to find. At the T-intersection where the hall ends, his name in bold letters dignifying him as Head of Plastic Surgery beside a set of rich oak doors. Charles looks down both identical corridors that beset this crossroads, finding no one there. It’s late and it appears plastic surgery operates under a different set of rules than the rest of the hospital.

Des Voeux raises his hand to knock but his phone buzzes to life before he can do so. A message from DADDY TOP, “Come in, I’m waiting for you.”

His heart pounds in his chest and his ears. A sweat builds even in this climate-controlled environment. Charles is as scared as he is horny. His cock throbs in its restraints.

He opens the door a crack, hand pressing it open slightly. He peeks his head in, “Dr. Stanley?”

Dr. Stanley is a strict man with almost translucent hair. With a severe look of finely fit suit underneath a crisp lab coat, he sits at the desk almost bored, looking over files on his computer.

“Do come in Charles, I don’t like to wait.” 

He scurries in, closing the door as quietly as a mouse behind him. Swallows down the lump in his throat.

“Dr. Stanley, I—”

Dr. Stanley stands up. Not necessarily strapping or broad, he towers over Des Voeux like a swan towers over a duck. Charles is feeling quite like an odd duck right now, confused, horny, and flustered beyond imagination. He rounds the table, gesturing to a door to a conjoining suite.

“Well, Dr. Des Voux, if you could come with me, we can get this examination underway.”

Like a lost puppy, Des Voux wanders toward Stanley, slowly—his curiosity winning out his apprehension, “I’m sorry, what?”

Stanley rolls his eyes. Walks right up to Des Voux and scruffs the young man by his hair, forcing him to crane his neck to look up. He quirks a smile.

“Beautiful.”

Scared and horny, Charles stutters, “W-what.”

Stanley’s eyes rake over his exposed neck like hot coals, to the collarbones that jut out just below his pale blue scrubs. His sad, weeping cock trapped in its prison leaks into his pants. 

“You’re beautiful. Such a beautiful boy.”

Charles is flustered and blushing, from the words, the situation. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, from the pain on his scalp or so he tells himself. 

“Come with me I need to examine you further.”

He lets Charles go. Like a man released from a chokehold, Charles gasps for air. Falls to his knees. Stanley opens the door, revealing a sterile, white fluorescent examination room. The examining table is prepped with fresh paper, unused and ready to be sullied.

Stanley turns back when he finds his guest has not followed. On his knees, Charles grinds his palm onto his cock, trying to take the edge off.

“I didn’t say you could touch yourself, pet.” 

Charles whines, holding himself on his hands and knees, “P-please.”

“No-no, we won’t have you dirtying up my office.”

A whimper.

“Get up.” Stanley commands. Charles jumps to attention, stumbling over his own feet to reach him. “As much as I’d like to see you crawl, I’d hate to have you ruin my rug.”

The thought almost makes Charles go blind with lust. Once in the examination room, Des Voux lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Stanley closes the door. There are no other ways to enter or exit. It is just them.

In a less horny state, Charles would question his blind trust and the red flags along the way. But now, all he could think about was his hard cock, leaking steadily in his trousers.

“Take off your clothes.”

With his back towards Stanley, Charles fights with his clothes, trying to get his shirt off at the same urgency as his pants. His head is caught in the scrubs, and hands come from behind, pushing his pants down the rest of the way. He is bare. Exposed. The big palms rest on his cheeks, spreading him apart. He’s still a little loose from the escapades earlier in the bathroom. A gloved thumb teases his swollen hole, dipping in just so. 

“Beautiful…” is all Stanley says before he shoves his face forward, licking at his hole, devouring him as promised.

Charles stumbles, tripping on his pants at his ankles, and falling forward onto the examining table. Stanley pulls the pants away but makes Charles spread his legs nonetheless. His dick hangs swollen and needing between his legs. Stanley pulls away after a few enthusiastic licks, spreading his cheeks and spitting onto his hole. Charles moans, biting into the shirt he just barely took off.

“Look at you, a proper whore.” Charles turns his head around, eyes blurry. “What are you doing studying to be a doctor?”

“O-orthopedics.”

“An orthopedic surgeon? I think you would be better like this, a model whore made to be fucked and look pretty.” Stanley shoves two fingers in his ass, finding him suitably loose.

Charles moans, arching his back, legs scrabbling for purchase.

“I fix imperfections on the most perfect runway starlets day after day but you,” Stanley says with the caress down the back, “are positively divine. I’d have you as a proper wife with this ass, coming home to you just so you could warm my cock, milking me so well just by looking that pretty.”

It is overwhelming the sensations and emotions in equal tandem. For once in his meager life, Charles feels cherished. Yes, it is an ill-advised hook-up in his place of employment but never once has he felt so valued and beautiful.

Beautiful is a word that never described him. He has seen others, known others who fit the label of “beauty” more than he, but at this moment, he feels that word in all its magnitude and effervescence. He wants to hold on to it for dear life.

“P-please, please…”

“‘Please’ what, dear?”

Charles wails, grinding his ass back onto Stanley's fingers.

“More…”

Stanley twists his fingers as he goes, pressing into Charles’ prostate every chance he gets. Milking him, his cock dripping a puddle onto the protective paper of the table, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you, what was that?”

“MORE.”

Stanley lets go, removing his fingers. Charles collapses onto the examining table, grinding his dick onto its edge.

“Ah, Ah, Ah,” Stanley hums, grabbing Charles’ dick with the ring of his fingers behind his balls, pulling it forward to hang off the edge, “I said not to touch yourself.”

“Please. Please.”

“I’d love to just tie you up like this. Have my way with you. Flip over.”

Charles flips over onto his back, his legs spread wantonly, his arms grasping for purchase at his sides. Stanley stands above him, taking a pen out of his pocket, and removing the cap with his teeth. 

“Look at you, how majestic.” Charles’ dick twitches and weeps at the compliment.

“Imagine, you with a cute pair of tits,” Stanley brings the pen down onto his chest, drawing dotted lines and curves. Finding his sketch suitable, he tosses the pen into the sink. Looks upon his creation and plays at Charles’ nipples. He looks broken, wanting, and twitching like a void of want, a vacuum that consumes and consumes with no end. “I’d make sure your nipples would be as rosey and sensitive as they are now.” 

“Fuckmefuckmefuckme.”

“Oh, that’s what you want.” Stanley chuckles.

Charles palms down his chest and rubs his legs on his body looking for contact. Reaching the doctor's hard bulge through his trousers, Charles caresses, worships, and gropes, “Pleasepleaseplease.”

Stanley backs up, out of the needful embrace, shushing as Charles whines in his absence. “Now, now, pet. Are you sure you’re ready for me?” He unzips his trousers, devilishly slow. 

“Yesyesyes–”

“Then prove it.”

Charles falls over himself, onto the floor of the examining room, the slap of skin on linoleum deafening. Whatever pain he may have felt, he ignores, crawling forward to Stanley until he is able to bury his face and nose in the man’s crotch. He inhales like it is the freshest mountain air. Mouths at the bulge, nudging his balls with his nose. 

“Well?” Stanley asks with a quirk of an eyebrow.

Charles leans back onto his haunches, pulling down Stanley’s boxer briefs like a Christmas present. He licks his lips, salivating at the site. Oh, if there is one thing Charles loves in this world, it's a middle-aged man's dick.

He ducks his head, sucking one of the man’s balls into his mouth with a hum. Stanley hisses behind his teeth, gently cradling Charles’ head as the resident makes eye contact.

“Charles.”

He pulls away with a pop. The older man’s dick hangs heavy between them, precum beading at the head. It’s too tempting. Charles licks at it like a kitten to a saucer of milk. He licks and licks, eventually sucking it into his mouth.

Stanley moans, deep and rumbling from the chest.

“Christ, just like that,” he mumbles, pulling Charles’ head forward. The resident puts up no resistance, eyes rolling behind his skull as he takes the man to the hilt with a moan. Stanley holds him there, gently rocking into him.

“You suck dick like a Dyson vacuum,” Stanley states plainly, voice airy and light. Charles languidly suckles and plays tricks with his tongue before pulling off, a string of saliva between them.

“You taste so good,” He says, jaw loose and slurring, “I need you in me.”

Stanley pulls Charles up by his shoulder until they are standing face to face, one man in full suit and lab coat with his dick out, the other as naked as the day he was born.

If you were to ask either at a later date who went in for the kiss, they would not be able to tell you. It’s like two bucks charging into each other, fighting for dominance. Like waves crashing onto a rocky cliffside, one following after another with the tide. They kiss, and bite at each other's lips, drawing blood and saliva. Charles has the man pulled down by his ears, devouring him, each tasting himself on the other man's tongue. 

Stanley tries to lift Charles up, to have him wrap his legs around his waist but Charles turns them around and backs Stanley onto the examination table until he is splayed out, gasping for air.

Charles crawls on top of him, sitting himself into Stanley’s lap and grinding onto the other man’s cock.

“Who said you could do that?” Stanley asks with a smile on his face, gripping Charles’ hips and ass.

Charles grins, hair hanging into his face, “You were taking too long.” He reaches behind himself, lining up the older man’s cock before sinking down.

Both moan, guttural. Charles’ back arches and he grips Stanley’s knees as the other man fucks up into him.

‘It is magical, this,’ Des Voux thinks in a moment of clarity, ‘an examination room looks a whole lot different this way. I could get used to it.’

Phasing in and out of moments of lucidity, his dick bouncing up and down with the trusts, Charles finally clues into the words Stanley is muttering, repeating like a near-religious chant, “ Beautiful .”

He gasps. Stanley’s hands have wandered up his chest, cupping non-existent breasts with love and care. “So beautiful. Such a beautiful wife.”

“Your’s,” is all that Des Voux can manage.

“Mine,” Stanley responds in kind, “All mine. Going to fill you up and make you mine.”

“Yes, please,” Charles weeps, “Fill me up.”

Stanley pulls Charles down against his chest, thrusting up and muttering into his hair, “You’d be such a beautiful mother. Wouldn’t that be nice, keep you pregnant and full. No notions of being a doctor, just a delightful housewife.”

Charles cries, nodding. It’s all he could ever want at this moment. “Yours, yours, yours.” 

The plastic surgeon’s hands wander down his hips and Charles lifts himself up, pushing his hands on his chest as he rides him.

They stare into each other's eyes like a standoff, like a staring contest, like it is infinity and like it only exists in this exact moment, as easily broken as the most delicate porcelain.

“Cum for me darling,” Stanley says and Charles is gone. In bliss, in pleasure, he is lost in the feeling of a good fuck. Stanley continues to fuck into him as he comes all over the both of them, continues to fuck into him even when he's done. Charles normally would hate it, would be too sensitive, but this time he can’t be bothered, it feels divine. Total bliss and satisfaction.

Stanley pulls him back down, rutting into him as he comes with grunts and half-whispered moans, “Just like that. Perfect, just like that, pet.”

They lie like that for a second afterward, a warm embrace becoming awkward as it is prolonged. Charles can’t tell because he is just crying, sobs wracking his body. Fingers card through his hair, soothing and comforting. The hand slides down his neck, to his shoulder, shaking him gently.

“Alright, pet, enough of that.”

Charles blinks. He must have forgotten himself. He’s crying over a hookup it's not that serious, and it’s not that deep, it’s just Grindr. He’s a freak, isn’t he? So depraved that he finds connection in these fleeting moments of animalistic lust and passion? 

“Right. Sorry.” Des Voeux winces when he lifts himself off of Stanley’s cock, the rapidly cooling excess cum trailing down his leg. He hops down from the examination table with a stumble. Looking down at himself, all Des Voux can see is a mess; he just wants to go home and take a shower but he knows he has hours to go in his shift. 

The examination room is the same as it is in every examination room it seems. At the sink, there is a paper towel dispenser. He takes a few to wipe up the mess on his belly and between his legs. Charles sees himself in the reflection of the trashcan—rosey flushed, pale, and scrawny with off-white stains. 

He’s cleaning the mess between his legs when Dr. Stanley mutters in that condescending tone of his, “You got cum on my suit.” Charles closes his eyes, and all he can say is, “Yeah. Sorry.”

Into the biohazardous waste, these napkins go.

There’s an awkward silence again. Des Voeux hates this, the afterwards, but this time it's even worse. He needs to leave. Now. He makes a quick job of it, and already has his shirt on and one leg into his boxers when Stanley asks “When can I see you again?”

Charles freezes, like a shoplifter caught in broad daylight. 

Oh. What an odd thing to ask. 

He can’t be serious. “You want to see me again?”

“Well, yes.”

Charles coughs a bitter sort of laugh and gets the rest of his pants back on. Thank god for scrubs in a time like this. 

“I ruined your suit.”

“Suits can be replaced,” Stanley says, tone matter of fact. When Des Voeux turns around to face the man, he is leaning on the examination table, wiping the residual cum off his suit with something approaching a grin, “Besides, I’m sure you can make it up to me somehow.” 

“Oh.” 

Oh, indeed.

The feeling in Charles’ chest might be love but he smashes it down as soon as he can name it. This is a hookup. At the hospital. With a plastic surgeon who could be his mentor.

Nope. Not horny about that whatsoever.

“So, what do you think?”

This’ll be causal, Charles decides. With a grin he thinks is flirty, he pulls out his phone, “I’ll send you my number. I’m free whenever.”

Stanley nods, walking over to face Des Voeux directly. He is really quite tall like this. “Free to me only.” It isn’t a question. 

This possessive streak, even outside the deed, tickles a flame inside of Charles he didn’t even know existed.

“Yeah. Just you.”

“Good,” Stanley said as he cupped his face, running a thumb across his cheek. “You're beautiful. I don’t like beautiful things going to waste.”