Archive of Our Own ^beta

Since leaving the family farm, Dennis has changed a lot as a person. 

It’s an inevitable thing, figuring out who you actually are once you’re out from under the rule of your parents and hometown pastor. College exposed him to new facets of life, and his career path has taught him a lot about his beliefs and his capabilities. He's tried new foods, met people from all sorts of new cultures, and seen tv shows that weren't strictly available on local networks.  

The biggest thing, though, is the fact that he’s not, strictly speaking... human anymore. 

That took the most work to get used to, and really, he’s still coming to terms with the whole thing if he's being honest. Vampires being real, and himself having been turned by one are two separate realizations he’s had to work through, and entirely on his own. It might be slightly more inconvenient than being homeless. Really, the one he thinks is worse depends on the day. 

Thankfully, working in a hospital has its perks and helps make coping with both of those facts a little easier. 

It’s not all bad, really. His heightened sense of smell makes diagnosing easier. He can pick up on things like necrosis and clotting faster than most of his peers. He can sense where blood is pooling in injuries. Hear the subtle differences in respiratory complications and the crackle of broken bones. It’s not a super power by any means, and he’s still learning how to treat all the things he’s identifying, but it’s a useful tool to have in his pocket.  

And the empty wing on the eighth floor is dark and quiet with blinds drawn over all the windows, so sleeping there means he never has to risk going out in the sunlight. He doesn’t actually know if sunlight hurts him, he’s been too scared to try it, but still. He can’t turn into a bat, and religious iconography doesn’t seem to bother him, and eating garlic bread didn’t do anything but give him a bit of indigestion, but some vampire myths have to be accurate, right? It’s not one he’s particularly eager to test out.

On the topic of eating… he can still eat normal food, it seems, it just doesn’t really do anything for him besides taste good. It upsets his stomach a little, like lactose intolerance or a mild allergy, but it doesn’t seem to actually harm him in any way. But it doesn’t stop the thirst, either. Even raw meat pilfered from the hospital cafeteria doesn’t completely solve the issue, not enough liquid content to do anything more than take the very edge off. He’s tried just plasma or platelets too, even lactated ringers once, to see what exactly he can subsist on. 

But it hasn’t been too terribly hard to get whole blood. Blood bags expire all the time. No longer safe for their intended purpose, but they still feed him perfectly fine. 

He’s worked out a system. At the end of his shift, he’ll sneak one on the way back up to the little lair he’s made for himself. He’ll take a shower with the blood bag also in the stall with him to get it back up to at least room temperature from the steam, making it more palatable. Then he’ll settle in with his liquid dinner and the next chapter of his textbook. Rinse and repeat. 

The routine worked for him throughout the entirety of his Family Medicine rotation, but everything kind of fell to shit with his first day in the ER. 

The sheer amount of fresh blood he was around (and sprayed with) even before the mass shooting already had him a little twitchy and thirsty, but he did a decent job at keeping it under wraps. And then Pitt Fest happened, and blew it all to fuck. 

Now, he’s still a competent healthcare provider and a caring person, and he can keep his urges in check, so the calamity of it all actually kept him pretty well distracted from the gnawing pain in his stomach and the alluring call of all that fresh blood. But afterwards, when things started to calm down, and night shift started taking over the remaining patients, it all came rushing back at once. 

And then there’s the fact that the disaster had completely cleared out the hospital’s blood supply. There’s more blood on the floor and in the laundry bins than in cold storage by the end of his shift from hell.

It’s fine, though. He was homeless even before he got bitten. He knows hunger, and how to deal with it. He can ignore it, try again tomorrow after they’ve restocked the hospital. He doesn’t think it’ll actually hurt him to go a day without feeding, and maybe knowing his limits in that regard isn’t a bad idea anyways. By the time he makes it back up to his sad little makeshift home, he’s almost convinced himself everything will be fine. 

The next day, however, it becomes increasingly clear that it is not in fact fine. 

He’s spacy and forgetful, which is not a good look for his second day on rotation. He passes it off as being exhausted and a little traumatized from the day before, but he can tell he’s at the bottom of the pack the entire shift, and it stings. There also still isn’t any surplus blood, the hospital still recovering from an entirely depleted supply. 

The third day without consuming anything, it’s significantly harder to hide. He feels cold all over, and his temper is extremely short. His stomach aches constantly, but so do his teeth, because he has to physically fight his fangs from fully extending. He hides for a few minutes more than once during the day to just give his jaw a break, and every time he retracts his canines it hurts worse than before. 

The fourth day he finally catches the last rat remaining in the hospital and has to bite his own tongue to stop himself from tearing into the little creature’s body in the middle of the ER with dozens of witnesses. It feels like such a waste, disposing of it, though he does apologize to the little guy the same way he did the others. He hopes if someone decides he too needs to die for the crime of existing in a space not meant for his kind, they’ll be equally quick and kind about it. 

The fifth day, Friday, he feels violently ill, to the point multiple people ask him if he needs to go home, and Dana intentionally gives him quick and easy cases, which he hates but is also intensely grateful for. He makes it through his whole shift and blessedly has the entire weekend following it to just hide in his little hovel and be miserable without being on display. 

He also makes a decision. He hates it, but there’s still no discardable blood and he desperately needs to feed. He’ll have to take a unit that’s still in potential circulation, which comes with a hell of a lot of guilt, and increased risks of getting caught. Everything in a hospital is carefully tracked and monitored, especially important, limited resources like whole blood and controlled substances. But he can feel the corners of his vision getting blurry and his entire body aches and trembles. He can’t focus, and the longer he goes the worse it gets. He’s putting his career in jeopardy either way, so he might as well go for the option that keeps him from starving to death in the process. 

Dennis is quick and quiet when he slips into the room bloodbags and other assorted temperature-controlled fluids are stored, tries to look and act like he belongs there and isn’t half an hour past his shift ending and a little wild around the eyes. 

He manages to snag a bag, get through the ER pretending he’s heading to a patient, and into the elevator without being detected, and even gets up to the eighth floor without ripping into it with his teeth, knowing it’ll be better if he can last just a little bit longer to get it warmed up. He’s made it this long, he can handle a few more minutes. 

Except, before he can get around the corner and into the room at the end of the hall he’s claimed for himself, he’s startled by someone calling his name. 

His vision had tunneled down to the narrowest focus, and with the screaming in his brain demanding blood drowning out his sense of hearing and smell, he hadn’t realized he’d been either followed intentionally or intercepted on accident. Doesn’t really matter either way. 

It’s so startling, however, that when he whips around to see who’s behind him, he unintentionally squeezes the blood bag with both hands so tightly it pops like a water balloon, covering himself in cold, sticky blood. It’s embarrassing and frustrating to somehow be the guy who always gets drenched in bodily fluids, but it’s especially devastating now, when that was his entire supply and he hasn’t consumed anything besides his daily sandwich and coffee to keep up appearances in so fucking long. 

He can’t help it when he starts to cry. He hasn’t actually cried since he left Nebraska now that he thinks about it, and months of stress and misery and fear come rushing out all at once now that the floodgates are open. Every time he tries to wipe his eyes it just smears more rapidly-coagulating blood around his face and hands, and the scent just makes his thirst more and more intense as he tries to clean his face. 

“Woah, hey, hey, take it easy, kid.” Suddenly hands are on his shoulders and new, unfamiliar instincts take over. 

Dennis hisses like a fucking cat, bares his fangs as he jerks back, still clutching the now-empty bag to his stained chest. 

Dr. Robby stands there, hands raised in placation, eyes soft and expression neutral. Dennis can see his pulse jumping in a prominent vein in his throat and has to force his eyes to snap away from the steady thrum of it. 

“What–” He has to cut himself off and swallow the saliva pooling in his mouth, and then catch his breath from another pained sob that tries to work its way out. “What are you doing up here?” 

Dr. Robby raises an eyebrow and slowly lowers his hands, gesturing vaguely towards Dennis’ entire situation. “I could ask you the same thing.” 

Dennis doesn’t actually have a good response. The truth is unbelievable, and he’s not a good enough liar to come up with something on the spot that won’t end with him in a psych hold or prison for stealing medical supplies and squatting in the hospital for months. So instead of answering, he just stands there, looking a little stupid and a lot pathetic, shaking in his non-slip arch-friendly sneakers, trying and failing to get his tears under control. 

There’s a long, quiet moment, where neither of them move or respond to the other’s questions, but then Dr. Robby takes a cautious step forward and another low, feline growl rattles in Dennis’ throat. 

“Hey, you’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

Dennis shakes his head no, and steps back to keep their distance the same as it was. “Please just leave me alone…” 

He knows he sounds childish and weak but he just wants to go shower and wallow in self pity alone. The cold blood is just making his skin itchy as it dries, and the smell of it is keeping him on edge and desperate and he hates it. 

“You know I can’t do that. Why don’t you let me help, huh? Return the favor from the other day?” He takes another step forward, hands still up in an attempt at placation. 

A scoff interrupts Dennis’ steady crying, but it’s pitiful and he knows it. He feels like a child throwing a tantrum but with how exhausted and overstimulated and thirsty he is, he’s not much better than a cranky toddler who needs a snack and a nap. “How the hell are you going to help me?” 

He says it as a biting, snarky hypothetical, but Dr. Robby isn’t deterred by his attitude and answers him genuinely, voice steady and calm, like he’s talking to a patient about to go through a scary procedure. “I’m not stupid, kid. Half the night shift aren’t human. And you’re clearly starving.” 

It takes the wind out of his sails to be called out so effectively. Part of him really wants to ask more about the night shift, but now isn’t the time. He shakes his head no, still frowning, tears still dripping down his face. “This was all I had.” 

“That’s okay. Hey, look at me,” he takes a few steps closer again, and Dennis tenses but doesn’t move back this time. He looks up, nervous and sad, but he can’t hold Dr. Robby’s eye contact for more than a few seconds. “Whitaker, seriously. It’s okay. You’re not going to get in trouble, and I’m not going to hurt you.” 

Dennis shakes his head again, not believing him. He is going to get in trouble for stealing blood and living up here and potentially endangering patients by being a horrible monster, and even if Dr. Robby doesn’t… fucking, who knows, stake him through the heart? He’s still going to get kicked out of the program, which will take away his only housing besides public shelters, and his access to a semi-ethical food source, and his source of income, and his career aspirations, and he’ll have to go back home to Nebraska and try to hide that he’s not his mother’s son anymore when he worked so hard to even get to that point, and–

He’s sobbing again, tears cutting tracks through the red splatter staining his face. He hates this so fucking much. He’s never liked crying, but now he’s completely breaking down in front of his boss he’s known less than a week, covered in blood, and so fucking desperate for said blood he can’t even hold his fangs back any more. 

He feels like he’s going to shatter like glass, or maybe throw up, or maybe just drop dead of embarrassment and frustration and starvation. 

“Okay, c’mon. Let’s get you home and cleaned up, yeah?” 

One of his hands rests heavily on Dennis’ shoulder, and he doesn’t have it in him to move away again, accepting defeat. Through sniffles and heavy breaths he manages to whisper that he’s been sleeping here, and Dr. Robby’s face softens from concern for a colleague to something painfully gentle. Dennis wants to hate him for it, but he’s too tired to find that big of an emotion anymore. 

Dr. Robby just accepts it and rubs his thumb over Dennis’ collar bone through his once-again drenched scrub top in what might have been a comforting motion to anyone who didn’t actively feel like a fox caught in a snare trap. 

“When’s the last time you actually left this hospital?” 

Dennis frowns, swallows hard, and actually has to think about it. “Um.” He wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm again. “Not since before I got bit.” 

It happened less than two weeks into his Family Medicine rotation, so it’s definitely been a while. But with his pervasive fear of the sunlight being deadly and not really having any money, or friends, or hobbies outside of studying and work, he hasn’t really felt the need to leave. 

Dr. Robby makes a noise that sounds equal parts surprise and disappointment, and Dennis flinches like he’s been struck. 

“Shh hey, hey, it’s alright. Here’s what we’re going to do, okay? You’re going to come home with me, get some blood, take a nice hot shower, and sleep in a real bed. Monday we’ll talk to Kiara and get you some more stable housing and a source of food that isn’t a felony, maybe some counseling? There’s resources for you here. You’re not alone anymore.” 

That… doesn’t sound awful. A bed that doesn’t hurt his back, a shower with real water pressure, a meal he doesn’t have to pilfer. 

His face is still pulled into a tight frown, fang tips digging into his lower lip, but with a final sniffle he nods and lets himself be led towards the elevator again, until he freezes halfway there. 

“W-wait, is it dark out yet?” 

Dr. Robby pauses and looks down at him, head tilted a little. “Should be soon, why?” 

“The… the sun?” 

If they weren't directed at his own, apparently dumb, question, Dennis would think the increased wrinkles in Dr. Robby’s forehead were funny. 

“You’re killing me, kid. I’m also adding ‘get information pamphlets’ to the to-do list.” He chuckles a little, to himself and under his breath, but Dennis still frowns deeper. “But here. Just in case.” 

Dr. Robby shrugs off his hoodie and offers it to Dennis, who hesitates for just a minute before taking it gingerly and slipping it on. If nothing else, the extra fabric and hood help hide how much blood is splattered on him, and make it harder for anyone to recognize him as they make their way through the hospital and out into the employee parking lot. 

Dennis follows Dr. Robby like a sad stray puppy, not entirely sure why he’s letting himself be bossed around like this. He’s not a child, he doesn’t need to be coddled. 

But he trusts Dr. Robby. And being taken care of isn’t the worst thing in the world. So. He’ll tolerate it. At least for tonight. Just to get his head back on right. 

Nobody stops them on the way to Dr. Robby’s truck, and the drive to his place is quiet. He’s got the radio on an easy-listening station, and keeps the cab comfortably warm. Traffic’s a bitch this time of day apparently, so they’re stuck at a stand-still for a little bit getting onto the freeway. Neither of them say anything, which Dennis really doesn’t mind. He doesn’t know what topics of conversation are normal or expected after getting caught squatting and stealing blood by your senior attending, and he’d rather not have any of them if he gets to choose. 

He must nod off for a little while, because one minute he’s slow-blinking at the long line of tail lights on the off-ramp, and then he’s being startled awake by the sound of the driver’s side door slamming shut. He jolts, panics briefly when the seatbelt locks up on him, and then stares up at Dr. Robby with what surely must be a pitiful expression when the passenger door is opened for him, revealing his current state. 

Mercifully, he doesn’t get teased again even though he can see it in Dr. Robby’s eyes, and is allowed the dignity of undoing his own seatbelt and getting out of the vehicle by himself. 

Dr. Robby blessedly doesn’t waste time with a tour or pretending like they’re doing anything besides getting Dennis out of the hospital’s walls for the first time in literal months. He just gets them inside, shows Dennis where to leave his shoes, and which doors lead to the bathroom. Dennis finds towels exactly where Dr. Robby said they’d be, and as soon as he’s behind a locked door, finally lets out the breath it feels like he’s been holding since he got caught. 

He forces himself to look in the mirror, really take stock of his own appearance. 

It’s not great. The bags under his eyes are more like suitcases, dark and puffy from the exhaustion and malnutrition and crying. He’s even paler than he thought, especially under the bright overhead lighting in here. The pink stains from the blood he got on his face do nothing to hide the unnatural pallor. His hair’s limp and a little matted from when the blood bag burst, but even then he can tell that his self-inflicted haircuts with surgical snips in the bathroom mirror aren’t exactly great. 

And that’s just the surface level stuff. Opening his mouth and poking at his fangs, he can see how swollen and irritated his gums are around them, the way his nails are bitten and cracked, how dry the skin on his hands is from constant picking and fidgeting. He’s always been on the small side, but now he looks truly gaunt from exhaustion and lack of nutrients. 

He tears away from the mirror with a groan, not wanting to look any more and wind up crying again. 

Before he gets the water started, Dr. Robby knocks politely and lets him know he left out some clothes Dennis can borrow on the bed. They’ll definitely be big on him, but he never actually had a chance to grab his bag or change at the end of his shift, so anything beats the dirty scrubs he’s still in. Dennis strips down the rest of the way while he waits for the water to get warm, leaving said ruined scrubs in a pile in the corner of the room to deal with later. 

The shower itself is fucking divine. 

In reality it’s probably mediocre at best, but compared to the lukewarm, weak-pressured shower in his borrowed hospital room, it’s a five star spa. The steam gets some color back in his skin, and Robby’s products are surprisingly nice. He scrubs himself down with a rag and body wash that smells warm and herbal, watching the orangey-tinged water spiral down the drain as the wasted blood is washed away. He lets the water hit his back while the conditioner soaks into his curls, and has to suppress a moan at the feeling of tension leaching from his body. 

He has no idea how long he’s actually in there for, but the water stays hot the entire time. When he finally feels clean, he reluctantly turns the spray off. He’d stay in there forever if he could, warm and surrounded by nice smells and white noise. He’s a little worn out when he steps out and wraps a towel around himself, like washing away the mess and stress also sapped his energy. But that might also be because it’s still been several days since he’s actually had any blood, and now that he’s not in constant flight-or-fight, it’s really starting to catch up with him. 

His eyelids droop a little as he makes his way to the clothes left out for him. A crewneck sweatshirt that hangs loose off his shoulders but is delightfully soft inside, a pair of boxers that fit okay and athletic shorts that sit low on his hips. It’s all slightly oversized and cozy, worn-soft with age. It’s perfect.

Once he’s dressed he uses the towel to dry his hair enough to not drip on the floor, and hangs it up on the hook in the bathroom. 

Part of him just wants to ask where he’s sleeping tonight and forget about everything else. He’s in that soft, sleepy twilight, comfortable enough that he can ignore the ache in his teeth and stomach for a little while longer. But a bigger part is afraid that if he waits too long, Dr. Robby will take back his offer of also feeding him, and he’s too desperate to care about seeming selfish right now. 

When he opens the door, back into the living room, he’s not entirely sure what to expect, but what he finds is Dr. Robby sitting on his couch, reading glasses low on his nose while he scrolls his phone. There’s a mug of something steaming on a coaster on the coffee table, and he’s changed his own clothes into a t-shirt and cozy looking flannel pants. He looks up at the sound of the door and a surprisingly gentle smile spreads across his face. 

“Feeling a little better?” 

Dennis nods and looks away, bashful to be called out for how much of a mess he was before, but Dr. Robby doesn’t poke fun at him for it. Just tacks on a “glad to hear it” and sets his phone on the table next to his mug. He’s staring expectantly at Dennis, but Dennis has absolutely no idea what he’s waiting for, so he just stands awkwardly in the doorway. 

The silence goes on just enough that Dennis starts to feel awkward and clears his throat, fidgeting with his hands just for something to do. “Um. Sorry. I don’t… I don’t know a polite way to bring this up but. You mentioned some blood? Do you have a bag, or…” 

If it was happening to anyone but him it would be really funny how he can go from confidently performing complex medical procedures on difficult patients to stuttering and stammering like an idiot like this. The duality of man, or something like that. 

Dr. Robby raises an eyebrow and takes his glasses off, setting them aside. “A bag? No, I was just going to let you feed on me.” 

Dennis chokes on his own saliva, and has to smack himself in the chest with the side of his fist to clear his throat. “What? No, no way! I could seriously hurt you!” 

He gets laughed at for his troubles, and just glares. There’s no real power behind it, but he doesn’t appreciate being made fun of. 

“You’re not going to hurt me, Whitaker. You’re not the first vamp I’ve let bite me, I know my limits, and you clearly need a good, real meal. It’s fine. You’ll stop when it’s too much, I trust you.” 

Dr. Robby seems incredibly confident about that last point, but Dennis isn’t convinced. He frowns and looks down at the floor. “I don’t… I’ve never… I’ve never bitten a real person before,” he mumbles, just barely loud enough to be heard. 

The couch creaks when Dr. Robby shifts his weight, leaning forward, concern now visible in his eyes. “What do you mean never?” 

“I’ve only ever fed off blood bags at work. I don’t know how to do it.” Admitting it feels like more of a failure than the first time he’d gotten lost after moving to Pittsburgh for school and had no idea how to read a bus route to get back to campus. At least he had the excuse of being a farm boy who had never left his hometown for that. This is admitting he doesn’t even know how to do the, like, main part of being a vampire. It would be like telling someone at work he doesn’t know how to use a stethoscope. 

But Dr. Robby doesn’t laugh at him again. Shifts back into mentor-mode instead. “Okay. Well, it’s a pretty simple concept, and your instincts will probably kick in once you bite down. Come here, we’ll walk through it together.” Dennis hesitates, pulling a little further into himself, and Dr. Robby offers a kind smile and an outstretched hand. “Come on kid, you let me walk you through a REBOA, you can trust me to teach you how to do this, too.” 

He’s got a pretty good point there, actually. Any particularly scary or complicated procedures in the ER, Dr. Robby or at least someone else he trained or trusts has been there to guide him, and it hasn’t failed him yet. 

Dennis lets his feet take him across the room and around the coffee table until he’s standing directly in front of Dr. Robby, working through a breathing exercise trying to reassure himself that he won’t bleed his boss to death or accidentally turn him too. Dr. Robby pulls him down onto the couch by his elbow, and adjusts how he’s sitting so they’re facing each other a little bit. This close, Dennis can smell his blood and hear his pulse. It thrums steadily, no sign of nerves or anything like that, and he tries to let that be a comfort. 

Dr. Robby isn’t scared. He doesn’t need to be either. 

Once they’re both as settled as they’re going to get, Dr. Robby holds his left arm out, palm up so Dennis can see the blue webbing in his wrist. The skin there is thin and fragile, one of the better spots to find a vein for a reason. He swallows hard, looking up and finally meeting Dr. Robby’s eyes to search for any hesitation or cruelty. Any sign this is a trap. 

He finds nothing but endless patience and intense focus, everything that makes him a good mentor in the ER just as present here in the quiet of his living room. 

Dennis pulls Dr. Robby’s hand in just a little closer and leans forward into his space, feeling his mouth rapidly fill with saliva and his fangs extend again. When he opens his mouth, he can feel spit drip from them like a snake and it makes him shiver, still coming to terms with the fact that he is a predator. 

“That's it, all you’ve gotta do is bite down.” 

One more deep breath, and he does just that. 

Dr. Robby makes a grunting sound at the pain of the bite itself, but Dennis barely notices anything other than the bloom of fresh blood across his tongue as he gets his first real mouthful. It’s hot, way more so than he usually gets it in the bag, and the taste is rich and full, like a savory stew or expensive wine. He definitely moans and can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed, it’s so fucking good. 

He swallows, greedy and ravenous, and Dr. Robby coos at him, runs long fingers through still-damp hair. “There you go, take what you need.” 

There’s tears in his eyes again, but they’re good this time, overwhelmingly satisfied, finally getting something he didn’t even realize his body was craving so desperately. Only a few swallows in and he already feels better than he has since before he got turned. 

Really, he starts feeling alive again, like he’s literally stealing Dr. Robby’s life force with each drop he consumes. Pervasive aches and pains receding, senses coming into clearer focus, the trembling in his hands eases off. He also, embarrassingly, starts feeling a little wet. It’s been so long since he’s had the time or desire for anything of that nature, so of course the universe would decide to embarrass him with it now, in front of his boss. 

Dennis has no idea how to tell how much blood he’s taken, so he forces himself off with a pathetic little noise, using his thumbs to apply pressure to the twin puncture wounds. His breath comes as heavy pants around deep swallows, using his tongue to get every last bit of the blood still in his mouth, not wanting to waste any of it at all. 

His eyes flick up to check in on Dr. Robby, and he swallows hard again at what he sees. His mentor’s dark eyes are half-lidded, pupils fully dilated, lips slightly parted and wet, a pinch between his brows. There’s a slight heave to his shoulders as he pulls in even, deep breaths. 

Oh, and he’s clearly hard in his pajama pants, tenting the soft-looking material. 

Dennis blushes and blinks rapidly, licks his lips to make sure his mouth isn’t messy.  

“Does it… feel good? To be bitten, I mean?” He doesn’t really remember much of his own attack, just the fear and his body getting cold, waking up alone sore in an alleyway hours later, confused after being sure he was dying. 

Dr. Robby hums, one side of his mouth creeping up into a lopsided, almost-drunk smile. “Bite itself hurts, but your venom is a mild A2-agonist. Relaxes the vessels, dulls the panic response, makes better prey.” 

Scientifically, it makes sense, and something about getting a medical explanation for it makes it easier to accept the fact that he is apparently venomous. Christ. 

He still flinches at taking the lord’s name in vain but, fuck, there’s really so much he doesn’t know about his new life. 

Dr. Robby still has his wrist held out, though, which is making it hard for Dennis to think about anything else let alone pre-surgical drug classifications. The bite mark has already stopped bleeding, but Dr. Robby hasn’t tried to pull his hand away. 

“You can take a little more.” 

The way he says it makes Dennis shiver and adjust how he’s sitting. Voice low and husky, eyes still not fully open but intently focused on Dennis. The thought of hearing him say that in the exact same tone as he buries himself in Dennis’ pus–

No. No no no. He is not going to start getting horny about his boss who is already extending him a massive kindness. 

He shakes his head no and pulls back, rubs his jaw where it aches from letting his teeth extend, closes his eyes tight so he can’t see Dr. Robby’s twitching erection in his pajama pants. It doesn't mean anything. No way. It’s just a natural response to stimulus. Patients have reactions like that all the time, and the professional, polite thing to do is to just ignore it. 

A strong thumb and index finger suddenly grip Dennis by the chin, tilting his face back up. Dennis cracks one eye open, and has to swallow an embarrassing noise before it can escape his throat. Dr. Robby is staring at him so intensely in burns, head tipped slightly to the side to expose the thrumming pulse of his carotid. 

“Dennis. Come here.” 

Oh. 

Hearing his first name out of Dr. Robby’s mouth makes his cunt clench involuntarily, and his next breath comes as a reedy little gasp. The authority in the other man’s tone is well past mentor-mentee. It’s dipped into something far more casual, and yet vastly more intense all the same. This isn’t an attending helping a med student. It’s barely even someone who knows what’s going on helping a confused fledgeling vampire. 

It’s a proposition. 

Dennis nods, just a little, giving in. He goes to take Dr. Robby’s arm again, but instead of passively holding his wrist there, he grabs Dennis by the shoulder and yanks him directly into his lap. Dennis scrambles, trying to put literally any amount of space between them, but he’s not given any leeway. 

“Wait, Dr. Robby I–”

“Just Robby,” he interrupts, sounding far too amused for Dennis’ liking, head still tilted to show off that oh so tempting blood vessel. “You’re in my house, wearing my clothes, you can call me Robby.” 

Dennis feels himself flush brighter and squirms in Robby’s lap, gasping at the feeling. 

“Go ahead. It’s okay.” One of his hands settles on Dennis’s waist as he says it, and Dennis has no idea if Robby’s referring to biting his throat or humping him like a dog or both. 

It doesn’t matter though, because one is going to lead to the other no matter what right now. 

Biting down again is heaven. Everything in his mind goes blank and his body slumps into Robby’s hold like a scruffed cat. His newfound instincts are suddenly satiated, allowing him to actually relax probably for the first time since he was turned. The rush of blood into his mouth is quick and hot, and he savors it more this time, taking slow, deep pulls that coat his mouth and throat like honey. 

He moans into Robby’s neck, filthy and loud, and can’t help but grind against Robby’s thick, strong thigh. Robby matches his noise with a pleased groan and tightens his grip, encouraging both the feeding and the grinding in equal parts. If Robby notices or cares about the fact that Dennis very clearly doesn't have a dick, he doesn't mention it. 

“That’s it sweetheart, make yourself feel good,” is all he says instead, sounding like pure sex, voice velvety and deep and all-encompassing. 

Dennis whines and sets his fangs in deeper, shivering at the next rush of blood as it bubbles up around his teeth. Robby shifts his leg up a bit, giving Dennis a better angle to seek friction. He has never felt this good. It’s actually insane. He’s not a virgin, but fumbling around with other equally inexperienced, repressed theology majors has nothing on this. 

This feels like the lust talked about in the Bible, the raw, debilitating greed and hunger of the flesh. Robby’s blood is better than anything he’s ever tasted, and to have it while also getting physical pleasure? Especially after such a long dry spell? It’s incredible. 

He loses himself in it, unashamed of the wanton sounds he’s making or the way he’s soaking Robby’s borrowed boxers. 

Robby keeps talking to him through it, voice pure sin, and when he starts to slur his speech a little, Dennis knows it’s time to stop drinking from him. Robby comes to the same conclusion at the same time, his other hand tugging at the shorter hairs at Dennis’ nape to get him to pull off. Dennis whines, but lets himself be moved. 

What he’s not expecting is for Robby to kiss him. It’s sloppy and rough, and the realization that he’s sharing the taste of Robby’s own blood with him fully knocks Dennis out of his head and into an orgasm that leaves him trembling and twitching in Robby’s lap, whimpering directly into his mouth. 

“Fuck, look at you. Pretty boy, so good for me.” Robby pants out when he finally pulls back, cleaning some smeared blood off Dennis’ lower lip with his thumb, then holding it still so Dennis can lick it off. He does without shame, chasing every last drop, still grinding against Robby’s leg, drawing out the pleasure into the beginnings of overstimulation, but he finds he likes the little bit of pain it causes. 

“I–” Dennis cuts himself off with a whiney moan, his own hands finding Robby’s shoulders. “I wanna make you feel good too,” he admits in a voice that’s more heavy breathing than proper vocalization. 

Robby slips a hand up underneath Dennis’s borrowed sweater, tracing the planes of his stomach, groping at his chest. One of his fingertips trails along the scar there under Dennis’ pec almost reverently while Robby kisses up the side of his neck just to make Dennis squirm in his lap again. His other hand kneads at Dennis’ ass, testing the give of the muscle and feeling the curve of it in his palm. Dennis shivers and lets himself be felt up like a prime cut of meat, only just managing to hold back the most embarrassing of his noises. Robby smiles against Dennis’ throat and it feels predatory, despite him being the human here. 

“That so?”

Suddenly Dennis is being lifted, and he may or may not squeak and flail a little bit in surprise. Robby stands up and Dennis wraps his legs around his waist, holding on tighter to his shoulders. Carefully, Robby makes his way around the coffee table and back into the bedroom, where he drops Dennis down onto the bed, leaving his limbs splayed apart, sweater rucked up exposing his stomach and the fair blonde curls that trail from his belly button down below his waistband. 

He gets yanked back towards the edge of the bed by the hips, Robby standing between his legs. He releases his tight grip with one hand just to tease his fingertips over the visible wet patch on Dennis’ shorts. It makes him shiver and his breath hitch. Robby’s hands are so warm, and he’s seen them pull off incredible things. He bets they’d feel amazing inside him. 

But what’s got him even more eager is the erection that somehow hasn’t flagged despite Dennis stealing so much of Robby’s blood. 

“Please? Robby, please?” Dennis hits Robby with the biggest puppy eyes he can imagine, biting his lower lip and putting a little arch into his spine, making it incredibly obvious what exactly he’s begging for. 

“I’ve got you sweetheart, hang on.” 

Dennis finds he really likes it when Robby calls him that. He does want to be sweet and good for him, wants to give back some of the pleasure he’s already been feeling, wants to offer something in proper thanks for Robby feeding and bathing and clothing him for the night. So he forces himself to be patient, let Robby take his time enjoying the view of him flat on his back and needy like this. 

And then when Robby starts stripping himself down, Dennis doesn’t hesitate to do the same. He manages to squirm out of the borrowed clothes and toss them off the side of the bed while Robby shucks his t-shirt and bottoms to some unseen corner of the room. Dennis is aware he’s fucking soaked, can feel and hear the way it clings to his inner thighs as he spreads his legs open again, and blushes hotly when Robby also locks in on it, eyes burning. 

“Fuck, just look at you…” There’s awe in Robby’s voice Dennis doesn’t entirely feel worthy of, but he’s not going to argue right now, not when he’s so close to getting what he wants. 

The first touch of bare skin to Dennis’ swollen little cock makes him jolt and whimper, sensitive and surprised. Robby shushes him, calls him a “sweet little thing” and keeps the stroking gentle and rhythmic. 

Before long Dennis is rolling his hips up into it and gripping the sheets tightly, head tipped back, moaning openly. 

It doesn’t take long at all, an embarrassingly short time really, for Dennis to be on the edge again. He can feel it in the way his thighs tremble and his stomach clenches, he’s going to make a mess. 

He tries to warn Robby, but every time he tries to speak, the older man just smirks and doubles down on what he’s doing, cutting off Dennis’ pitiful attempts at words with pitchy gasps and whines. He’s working Dennis’s cock over in tight circles with his thumb, incessant pressure and stimulation that essentially just forces the orgasm right out of him. 

And he was right. He damn near jack-knifes off the bed when it hits, and he squirts all over himself and Robby’s hand. He can feel his hole clenching down on nothing as waves of pleasure roll down his spine, and he can’t catch his breath until Robby leans down and kisses him again, whispering praise in between. 

He keeps up the constant stroking, though, never letting Dennis fully settle down. Aftershocks ripple through him, leaving him desperate and overly sensitive. 

“Robby, please, need you inside,” he begs, nearly in tears again, and Robby must hear it in his voice because he doesn’t keep teasing. He does keep up the stroking, but his other hand wraps around Dennis’ thigh and yanks him in closer, encouraging Dennis to wrap his leg around Robby’s hips for a better angle, and then he’s grabbing his own cock and smearing it through the mess of fluids to ease the slide in. Robby’s got him spread wide open, thumb pulling back the hood of his little cock so he’s completely exposed for Robby’s viewing pleasure, and Dennis preens under the attention rather than hiding away like he’s used to. He has no idea what’s gotten into him, but he’s not unhappy with it. 

Robby notches the head against his dripping entrance and presses it in with an audible pop that makes Dennis flush beet red, but just that first bit alone feels so good he can’t be too upset about the humiliation. 

With each slow, exploratory thrust Robby pulls out until just the very tip is still inside, then pushes in a little farther each time, feeding Dennis his cock one inch at a time until he’s a shaky mess, all higher thought and capacity for speech blown out of his mind. The last little bit is a stretch, far bigger than anything Dennis has taken before, but Robby keeps talking him through it, hunched over to whisper right in his ear how well he’s doing, how pretty he looks, how perfect he feels. Dennis matches his breathing to Robby’s and forces himself to relax, to take that last inch so he can feel Robby’s pelvis flush against his own. 

When he hilts, it aches in all the best ways. He can feel Robby’s cockhead kissing his cervix, and how tightly his entrance is gripping around him, stretched taught around his girth. Robby gives him a minute to breathe and adjust to the feeling of being so split open, spends it caressing his cheek and talking to him in that steady, reassuring voice. Dennis doesn’t even really register the individual words anymore, just the tone they’re delivered in, clinging to it like a lifeline. 

“You ready, sweetheart?” 

It takes Dennis a second to realize he’s been asked a question, but when it clicks, he nods with a whine. Robby kisses him again before standing back up to his full height, and then slowly pulls back. 

With a smooth roll of his hips, he hilts himself again, stealing Dennis’ breath, like there’s not enough room in his chest for Robby’s cock and full lungs. 

He starts slow and steady, splitting Dennis open over and over with loud, wet noises, just holding constant pressure on Dennis’ cock rather than actively stroking it. Dennis already feels like he’s ascended to some other plane of reality where only good things happen, a little high on pleasure and oxygen deprivation and probably also a little from the fact that he’s full and comfortable for once. 

And then Robby starts speeding up, finding his footing and driving in deep. The slap of his hips against Dennis’ ass is loud each time. It feels like he’s carving out a home for himself inside of Dennis’ body, jackhammering away like that. 

His thumb starts up its agonizingly wonderful circular motions again too, a mutli-fronted assault on the pleasure center of his brain– nucleus accumbens, a somehow-awake part of his medical training helpfully reminds him, like this is going to help him study for his neurology exam. 

Dennis squirms and bucks up into each thrust, a messy mantra of Robby’s name and “please” and “fuck” spilling from his mouth. One of his hands comes up off the bed to grab Robby’s forearm, not to stop his movements but just to hold onto. Something grounding and stable while it feels like he’s falling apart. He might dig his nails in a little deeper than he means to, but Robby doesn’t flinch away or stop him, just grunts and keeps fucking him like a machine. 

As Robby gets closer to his peak, he gets louder about his own pleasure, all that lovely dirty talk falling away to primal grunts and moans and heavy breaths as he keeps Dennis pinned securely beneath him and stuffed full. If Dennis didn’t know better, he’d assume Robby was the inhuman creature here with how feral he sounds. His face is bright red with exertion, a fine sheen of sweat covering his hairy chest and arms, flush spread down on his neck just enough it almost reaches the scabbed-over puncture wounds on his throat. 

“Give me one more,” he damn near growls, pressing down harder on Dennis’ aching cock. 

He’s close again, he can definitely do that, even though the overstimulation is going to be a bitch if he does. 

Dennis manages to choke out a pitiful sounding “yes sir”, nodding dumbly and spreading his legs just a little wider, making sure Robby can get as deep as possible with each thrust. The mix of pleasure and pain has him encroaching on an endorphin high already, it won’t take much else for him to go off again. 

With his eyes rolled back as they are, Dennis doesn’t see what Robby does, but suddenly the scent of fresh blood is hitting his senses again, and saliva pools in response. He opens his mouth to say something, and two bloody fingertips force their way in instead, smearing the taste of rich iron across his tongue, and that’s all it takes. 

The fingers gagging him are the only thing that stop him from screaming when he cums for the third time. 

His entire body locks up, spine contorting to arch his lumbar region up off the bed, driving Robby that much deeper so when he cums himself, orgasm practically ripped from him by the sudden way Dennis clamps down on him, it floods Dennis’ womb and makes the poor vampire feel so impossibly full it knocks him completely out of his brain for a bit. 

He knows he squirts again, can feel the rush of fluid and the heat and tackiness it leaves as it mats the hair on his crotch and thighs. Robby moans long and low, something that kind of vaguely sounds like Dennis’ name but is also just garbled sounds of pleasure. But the thing he’s most focused on is the blood in his mouth. It’s not a lot, just two little pinpricks, not enough to worry about it being too much after he already fed on Robby properly, but he suckles at the fingers like a pacifier and feels his cunt clench in time with each swallow, milking Robby for his blood and seed in equal measure. 

Robby’s hands wander as he collects himself, massaging over Dennis’ thighs and hips and chest, a warm palm sliding over his lower stomach feeling the heat of his still-twitching cock and spend still buried inside. A lingering, sweet kiss to his cheek makes Dennis sigh dreamily around the fingers in his mouth. 

He floats for a little while, somewhere above the clouds, nothing bad in his brain. It’s all soft and quiet, free from worry about things like disappointing his parents and paying bills and not being human anymore. He’s too pleasantly exhausted to worry about anything.

Robby doesn’t pull out until his cock has gone fully soft, and it slips free with a flood of their combined mess that makes Dennis shiver and whine. He gets chuckled at, but there’s no heat to it, all fondness. 

He does pout a little when Robby takes his fingers away, well after they’ve stopped actively bleeding, but he doesn’t have the energy to keep it up for long. His eyelids feel like they weigh a ton now that everything is starting to catch up to him, and Robby’s bed is comfortable underneath him. He lets himself stay in that half-aware, cozy headspace for as long as he can, only flinching a little when a wet rag rubs over still-sensitive skin, taking the stickiness away and making it even easier to relax. 

“C’mon, let’s get you tucked in properly.” Robby sounds like he’s smiling, which is nice. 

Dennis doesn’t exactly help the process of getting him up to the top of the bed and under the covers, but he does his best to not actively hinder it. Once he’s bundled up and cozy, fingers card through his hair again, a thumb rubbing his temple and lulling him down deeper, just barely still conscious. 

Robby disappears for a little bit, then. Dennis can hear noises in the kitchen. The sink running, the fridge opening and shutting, some sort of dish or utensil getting taken out of a cabinet and set on the stone countertop. His best guess is Robby’s doing his own post-bloodloss aftercare, getting some protein and electrolytes back in his system to avoid any sort of crash. Which is good. A little weird he seems to have an established routine for this, but also nice that Dennis doesn’t have to feel too guilty about everything that happened. 

He knows he’s probably going to have a little breakdown in the morning about this, and all the conversations that should have happened before he drank blood from his boss, and then let said boss fuck him unprotected, but for now, he’s too tired to be anything but blissed out. 

Just as he starts to really drift off, limbs heavy and breathing slow, the bedroom door opens and shuts again, and Robby quietly pads his way back over to the bed. Whether he thinks Dennis is already asleep or not, he’s light on his feet as he turns off the lights and then gingerly slides under the covers on the other side. 

Dennis smiles sleepily and throws a limp arm back, seeking. He manages to whisper “c’mere”, although his face is pretty thoroughly smushed into the pillow so it barely sounds like real words. The point gets across though, and a strong, delightfully fuzzy arm worms its way around his waist, pulling him tight to Robby’s chest. He hadn’t realized how touch starved he really was until Robby started manhandling him on his very first day, and now that he’s getting proper skin-to-skin contact he’s soaking it up like a sponge. 

He finally falls asleep safe and comfortable for the first time in months, with a lingering press of lips and the ghost of a contented sigh to the back of his neck, and calloused fingers entwined with his own.