Orlov Bats

NSFW. DEAD DOVE THEMES. MINORS DNI. He/Him. 21+. Hucklerobby. Hucklerabbot.

[orlovbats]

Logically I understand (or I at least hope) that the comments responding to my stories on here that say things along the lines of "I want a second part of this" and "I would read an entire fic of this" are intended somewhat in a complimentary spirit, but I really do not take them well. I do not like them. I often feel that they are much too demanding. I am much more likely to write about a topic if the request is phrased politely. Thank you.

[orlovbats]

Big fat tears of wanting stream down Dennis' reddened face while Robby teases, "You're just too little to take my cock, baby. There's no room. Your pussy's too small, sweetheart. We have to wait until you're older."

[orlovbats]

This piece is a fourth part to the AU of little Dennis being hospitalised with a mystery illness.

When Dennis is finally discharged from hospital, he isn’t discharged as cured. His doctors gently stress that, without an identified illness to treat him for, the priority is keeping him comfortable. They do also persistently suggest psychiatric consults—something that Robby and Jack are equally as persistent in rejecting. Nothing is wrong with their boy’s head. Nothing like that. 

They up his sedation for the transfer home. The transport team accompanying them look around Dennis’ nursery uncomfortably, perhaps surprised by the ditsy wallpaper, the rocking chair, the toy chest, all of the lovely items that facilitate Dennis’ regression which had, until this morning, been coated in a fine layer of dust. Robby had done a good job preparing the room for Dennis’ return; he knows this because Jack told him so, his voice thick with emotion. 

"Hey, sweetheart. Do you see where we are?" Jack whispers to him. Dennis’ eyes lazily circle around the room. He makes no other movement, shows no sign of pleasure or displeasure, pain or relief. Nothing. 

 Robby squeezes Jack’s hand. "He’ll be tired from all the movement." 

"Yeah. Yeah. That’ll be it."

As doctors, they’re used to advising caregivers on how to look after their bedbound loved ones. Beyond the usual hygiene duties, they must facilitate movement to prevent muscle atrophy and bedsores. Then there’s diet too and coordinating his medicines. They both know how to do these things—they’d just never thought they’d be doing it outside of work, much less to assist Dennis. At last, Robby finally understands the desperate frustration of patients who want to know just how long these measures will be necessary. "Only time will tell" is a cruel, cruel response. 

Of all the items they’d brought home from the hospital today, the cards are some of the cheerier ones. Robby busies himself by arranging them across the top of Dennis’ dresser and his nightstand. "Look, this one is from Santos. It has puppies on it," he whispers to Dennis, who does not respond. The cards are mostly from members of the emergency department staff, people who knew Dennis before all of this happened. Some of them say thinking of you and we miss you; none of them say get well soon. Dennis’ closest friends seem to be more understanding of his mystery illness than of the headspace it has permanently put him in. 

They don’t know how to talk to Robby and Jack either. What card do they buy them: we’re sorry your son’s sick or we hope your boyfriend gets well soon? If someone just asked Robby—if someone genuinely wanted to understand the beautiful nuances of his bond with Dennis—he would tell them. He is dying for someone to simply ask. Please ask, please be awkward, please be offensive—do anything except continuing to assume that we are crazy. 

Dennis’ sedation begins to wear off before the day’s end. "Hey, baby boy," Robby whispers to him, seeing the change in his eye. He repeats Jack’s question from earlier: "Do you see where you are?"

No more sterile, eerie hospitals. No more swarming psychiatrists. The uncertainty remains, as does the fear, but Robby can tell from the way Dennis shivers and sighs that he is relieved to at last be home.

[puppiegracie]

dennis cuts up some fruits to fix a plate of them for robby who immediately breaks down upon receiving it because no one's ever done that for me before. you— you didn't have to, m'not a kid. but thank— thank you. and dennis is just blinking at him and feeling a little sick because it took him like 15 minutes and it doesn't feel like it should be this big a deal.

[pinkypixie23]

med school robby

[orlovbats]

Little Dennis loves Bert and Ernie because they remind him of Robby and Jack (his daddies).

[puppiegracie]

robby who's been sitting in a shitty motel room for hours, legs bouncing and stilling, bouncing and stilling, sitting on the edge of the queen bed with an ugly comforter. robby who's been fidgeting with a bottle of pills for the past hour, knowing it's enough, it would be enough. the air conditioner hums, white noise in the otherwise silent room.

robby who knows no one is coming to save him. no one is coming to take the pills from his hands or coddle him or kiss it better, and it's been decades since he's deserved anything like that. robby who knows he's alone, and feels it in every inch of his body, in his marrow, rotting his bones from the inside out. robby who doesn't want to die. he just wants his mom.

rotating the bottle in his hands, over and over, toying with it, with his life. willing his phone to ring, but it never does. jack texts him, sometimes, dennis, even rarer. call me if it gets dark. puts all the pressure on him, huh? to reach out? to lift his phone that feels heavier than it should, limbs frail, hands shaking? to find the contact and press call, knowing that in the seconds it'll take him to do so, he'll succumb to cowardice and not call at all?

it's the closest he's come to resenting jack, truly, wholly resenting him. because fuck him for that, fuck him for not calling. fuck him for offering instead of forcing. fuck him for letting him leave that goddamn hospital. fuck him for ever wrapping robby in a hug if he was just going to let go.

robby crumples in on himself, and he wants his mom, and he always wants his mom, because fuck his dad. he doesn't care if his dad wants him or not. he wants his mom to want him, to want him again. the fuzzy edges of her wanted him, once. she used to pet the back of his head after he had a nightmare, slow and steady, soothing him. his own hand raises to mirror it now, petting the back of his head, sniffling something wet and embarrasing, whimpering like a wounded animal. he wants his mom.

and it's a humiliation ritual, to struggle this hard, to be fucking bad at killing himself. it makes sense, really. he's failed at so many things, so many times, it's in his nature. his legs bounce again, his free hand clutching the bottle of pills, willing himself to just fucking do it.

robby doesn't want to die. call me if it gets dark.

and he fucking hates him for it, hates him for it, and he's dropping the pills and rummaging for his phone, breathing shaky with tears burning in his eyes as he stabs the contact, stabs the call. jack doesn't get a word out.

please just tell me not to do it. tell me you don't want me to do it. tell me you couldn't handle it if I did it. tell me you can't fucking live without me, jack. tell me you couldn't survive a goddamn day without me here. even if you're fucking lying. even if you're lying to me. please. jack, please. tell me not to do it.

[orlovbats]

I need to know which HeyHiHell0 story it was inspired by… for science.

For science, you say? Oh, well, who am I to stand in the way of science? Here you are. I advise you to pace yourself because once you read the end of the series you will be ravenous for more.

[orlovbats]

Narcissistically, I find myself reading my own story tonight: "A Fantasy". I am proud of it. I'm glad I wrote it. It was a brave thing to write.

[orlovbats]

Through the baby monitor, Dennis hears his daddy moan. He knows what that sound is because he used draw out such sounds from his daddy, and he now finds it a somewhat comforting thing to hear. His toes curl against the plastic covering on his mattress in delight. If it weren't for the straps holding him in place, he might hump the air, imagining it were his daddy.

The nice sounds are utterly ruined when Jack joins in. Dennis huffs in annoyance and stills his hips. Jack's sounds are louder than Robby's quiet groans and whines. In comparison, he sounds like an animal. Dennis hates the sounds of him ravaging his daddy, communicated in crackles through the baby monitor that are far too clear for Dennis' liking.

He starts to cry and yell, loud enough that they should be able to hear him without the monitor. He yelps hopefully when Daddy murmurs, "The baby's crying. I'll calm him down." He grunts angrily when Jack responds, "You stay here. Stretch yourself out for me. I'll be back in two minutes."

Dennis snarls and shrieks when Jack—wearing only his underwear, clinging perilously onto his hips—comes and unbuckles him from his crib. He'd rather be tied down there all night. He'd rather be left alone. Angrily, he kicks at Jack when he lifts him and cradles him over his shoulder. Jack's the problem. Jack's the one who shouldn't be here. He's stealing his daddy.

"That's no way to treat your papa," he murmurs. He pats Dennis' rump, bounces him and coos. Dennis hates that it's actually quite relaxing.

Through the baby monitor, Dennis can hear Robby stretching himself open. He knows that wet and sumptuously slow shlick, shlick, shlick sound. The accompanying visuals, however, do not appear in his mind. He finds that he cannot remember what Robby's bare body looks like. His memory has faded, and now he only recognises the signs of Robby's pleasure from the sounds Jack brings out in him—sounds he can only fear artificially through the medium of the baby monitor.

"Hey, hey, hey. Shhhh. Don't cry, baby boy. You don't like to hear your daddy like that? That's okay." Dennis isn't sure how to feel when Jack reaches out and silences the volume of the monitor's output audio. Jack secures him back into his crib, then ruffles his hair. "Back to sleep," he says tenderly. "Don't worry your pretty little head about what you hear Daddy and Papa do. It's big boy stuff. You wouldn't understand."

Dennis' nursery is so far away from Daddy's bedroom that any sounds he makes with Jack—if he makes any at all—are inaudible. This is almost worse than actually hearing them. Does Jack pleasure him better than Dennis ever did? Does he make him scream louder? Babies aren't allowed to be privy to such things, and Dennis truly feels like a baby while he cries and weeps all night, wishing for his daddy to come get him.

[bochedogmeat]

Pov you were staring at Rabbot’s puppy for too long

[eggcompany]

Okay and little dennis who likes being spoon fed because he doesn’t have tot think about food. His daddies make him goop, and all he has to do it is open his mouth and swallow.

Ice cream, oatmeal, stew, soups, yogurt, doesn’t matter what it is. When he’s little, Dennis doesn’t want food, he doesn’t want to think about food on a plate or flavor or feeding himself.

It had taken a while for Robby and Jack to figure it out, why everytime they had a meal, having to first coax Dennis away from a cuddle or away from his coloring book, break the news he couldn’t just have another bottle, no he couldn’t have a smoothie or a milkshake, he needed to eat, and Dennis would start to cry. He’d cry at his plate, cry as he held a fork, cry so hard he turned red and choked on his own spit without taking a single bite.

Dennis couldn’t tell them about those terrible nights as a kid when he’d force down food that hurt his stomach, hurt his throat, make him sick all night. He didn’t know how to tell them that even daily when he wasn’t little he had trouble eating. Could tell them thinking about eating made him nauseous.

But Robby and Jack wouldn’t stop till they knew how to take perfect care of their baby. So they watched him, asked Santos what kinda of stuff Dennis ate at home. They watched what he picked for himself to eat when he was big. Smoothies, meal replacement shakes, protein drinks, and so much juice. So much juice. Bottles and bottles from the vending machines, the debit card they'd given him getting used over and over again, finally answering "why is there seventeen $3 purchases on the card today?".

But as for solids, Dennis had a pack of crackers, a few candies, and he picked at some chips that one of the nurses offered him.

After a few days of the same kind of diet, they had figured him. He just didn't want food. He just... was adverse to anything that caused food noise. So they sat him down and told him that they could feed him, cut his food, feed him, and that worked for when Dennis wasn't down to as small as he got.

Little Dennis just couldn't do the whole chewing and savoury and all that. But blended up and spoon fed? He could do that.

And Jack and Robby would be lying if they said they didn't enjoy it, Dennis perched on one of their laps, the other spooning soft food to his lips, talking to him to distract him. It was.... cozy.

[robnvitch]

fem dennis for @laceoddity

[puppydogwhitaker]

thinking about robby manipulating dennis into giving him a prostate exam…

“i don’t know robby.” dennis uncomfortably shuffled while putting a glove on. “maybe-maybe you should get your PCP to do this.”

robby pretended to sympathetically furrow his brows. “i mean, you don’t have to do it. i just can’t get an appointment on a day off for at least a couple months.” he looked down at his feet, appearing nervous. “i’m already a couple years past the recommended age to get the exam, and i can’t shake that there’s something wrong.”

and dennis did what he always did. he empathized. it was scary getting older, and the exam was invasive in a way most older men were uncomfortable with. “i-um-i don’t want you having care delayed if you think something might be wrong.”

robby had to suppress a smirk. his sigh of relief at the successful manipulation could be passed off as gratitude. “thanks, kid.”

next thing dennis knew, his boss was turning around, sliding his own pants down, and leaning over.

dennis tried to remember what he learned on his rotations. “you’ll feel some pressure, let me know if it hurts.”

robby tried to relax in spite of his anticipation. he told himself that this was just a taste. just one finger. it wasn’t even supposed to feel good, a prostate exam. this was just to quell an urge inside of him. it was the least invasive alternative for robby’s overwhelming need to have dennis. one finger, maybe a minute of contact, it was all robby really wanted, he was sure.

robby felt the overly slick finger slip in. dennis maneuvered around until he located the gland. robby grunted, and whispered, “shit.”

dennis took that as what it usually would be. “it’s normal to feel some discomfort. i just need to feel a little more for irregularities.” he sounded sort of urgent, like he was doing robby a favor by rushing. that thought made robby clench.

these exams were not pleasurable for the vast majority of people, but robby bet that most people weren’t borderline-obsessed with their physician and well-versed in anal play. dennis’s finger methodically slid over his sensitive nerves. robby’s jaw dropped.

then, the finger started sliding out. and robby made a sort of keening whine that stilled the room. dennis’s retreat faltered, leaving him with about a knuckle and a half still in before he remembered where he was and continued.

robby had to collect himself. he schooled his voice and asked, “feel good?”

a snapping noise followed as dennis took off his gloves. “yep, you felt good.” dennis corrected himself. “um-i felt no irregularities.” dennis watched robby slowly slide up his underwear and then his pants like a reverse strip tease. “i’m gonna draw your blood still, just for the prostate specific antigen test. i’ll be right back.”

dennis was grateful robby didn’t turn around, scared his fascination and arousal was evident. he scurried out the room, not realizing that robby was in a similar state.

the exam didn’t do what robby was hoping. he wanted more.

maybe he could convince dennis the new recommendation was a two fingered exam in a couple weeks. his most eager student would probably need coached on the technique…

[hrast-ika]

hey hey hey, it's angst a clock!

[blueangelbby]

your writing's so good i've been thinking about it for HOURSSSSS

i submit for this au: the idea of meltdown vs tantrum :3

meltdowns are normal for little boys who have Big Emotions about his dads leaving him for work, about having to take a bath or go to bed without his favorite blanket. they can be solved by giving dennis a stuffed bear that has his dad's voice in one arm and his daddy's in the other so he can still hear their voices if he misses one of them. they can be solved by his daddy holding him close and cuddling him, dennis listening to his heartbeat and the vibrations of his voice. they can be solved by his dad keeping dennis in his lap, feeding him with the baby-safe utensils dennis has to settle for and pausing only to clean his face or kiss him. it's about the comfort and reminder that he's safe and oh so loved by his dads here.

but Tantrums...those are saved for truly bad days where dennis can't bottle anything up anymore, swiping at any arms that come close to him and working himself up over everyone and everything he misses that he's supposed to just forget about. missing trinity and her apartment (having his own ROOM all to himself where no one watches him and it locks from the inside!!) so much he makes himself physically ill. he misses seeing her, having someone who cared about him and Didn't want some fucked up dynamic out of it...the idea that robby and jack---actively policing his thoughts to make sure he doesn't slip in remembering who they Really are---can go into work and not feel haunted or guilty at what they're putting trinity through by dennis just being Gone all of a sudden...he thinks he might hate them for that. coming out of the fuzzy daze and ache celebrating father's day gave him and remembering his Actual father---feeling disgusted at himself for not trying harder to escape---for feeling Comfortable at points. those are all meltdown thought patterns and those can go for hours or an entire day. sharp displeasure and anxiety that leave his tongue with intent to hurt or just be Heard... or the equally heavy sullen withdrawn dead weight where Nothing seems to make dennis feel better, or even respond at all.

meltdowns are more frequent than tantrums, thankfully.

EXACTLY EXACTLYYYY

Meltdowns happen a lot, mainly because Dennis is, as his daddy puts it, "A fussy little thing." He likes his routines and his rules and his schedule. He clings to the normalcy that he can get and protect in this new role, this new life. The normalcy of daddy works Monday through Thursday, and every other Sunday. Dad works three on, three off, and occasionally an extra fourth. When daddy has to go in on a day he's not supposed to, that's a meltdown; tears and fast sobs and fists curled up in daddy's shirt because he's supposed to be home today, not at work, not away from Dennis.

Meltdowns happen when he's not ready for bed yet because dad hasn't left for work so he can't go lay down. When the one plate he likes to use is still dirty, when dad has to put him to bed alone because daddy isn't home yet, when his blanket is still in the wash for naptime, when it's raining outside so he can't go play, when the toys he wants have been put away because of a previous behavior issue; those are meltdowns.

Those are usually easy fixes. A few well placed kisses and cuddles stop the tears from flowing. Dad can grab one of daddy's shirts to substitute his blanket. Daddy can pull him into his lap and feed him by hand. They can distract and persuade and pull Dennis away from those teary, hiccuping sobs, those nights where he might end up crying himself to sleep.

(Sometimes the meltdowns are when he wants them to touch him like an adult. When he needs someone to touch him or fuck him or something, anything. But those aren’t touches he can initiate or even ask for. Little boys don’t need to think about things like that)

Tantrums...it doesn't help that dad tells him in that calm, stern voice, "You want to keep having a tantrum or do you want to be our good boy again?"

Like it's a choice. As if Dennis has a choice.

Which, technically, he does. The choice is to be good or to be bad.

But it's hard. "It's so hard, sweetheart, I know," daddy coos while Dennis is trying to gather his words about why he did whatever he did. Threw his food. Kicked at his dad for trying to cuddle him. Launched one of those books at story time across the fucking room and screamed. Curled up in a corner and started crying whenever they try to touch him.

Because he doesn’t know how to sort out his feelings and his words and his actions. He doesn’t feel anything but sick to his stomach when he realizes that for as upset as he is, for as angry as he is, for as much hate he has for daddy and dad, they’re the only two that can bring him comfort in this moment. In any moment, ever.

Daddy and dad can bring him comfort and pleasure. They can also rip it all away. And that’s what scares Dennis the most. And they know it because daddy will kiss the top of his head when Dennis finally crawls back to them, lashes wet with tears, cheeks rosy red, bottom lip just trembling. Dad makes sure he has Dennis’s blue baby blanket ready to wrap around him.

“Silly boy,” they always tell him. “We did so much to get you here. Why would we ever send you back?”

Dennis doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He just falls asleep and hopes those thoughts don’t come back tomorrow.

[orlovbats]

Dennis has had a daddy for five weeks now. He thinks Robby's the best. He's been the perfect guide into the world of pup play, lulling Dennis into the most peaceful and hazy mindsets where he feels entirely safe and adored.

"Who's a good boy, puppy? Who's a good boy? Show Daddy your tummy. Roll over!" Robby cheers and coos when Dennis bears his belly up to him. He squirms on the carpet, wriggling his hips, stretching his limbs outwards while Robby rubs over his navel. "There's a good boy. There's my good boy. Daddy's good boy."

Puppy loves it. He feels lost in his puppy headspace, as truly loyal and dumb as a dog. He yips and whines and pants and pushes his tummy up to meet Daddy's hand, chasing his touch, when suddenly—Daddy pulls his hand back. Why? Puppy wonders. Why isn't Daddy touching me? Where did Daddy's touch go? Why am I wet?

Dennis realises with a painful shock that, lost in his ecstasy, he hadn't noticed that he was pissing. As soon as he has the clarity to do so, he stops the stream. "I-I—" What is he meant to do? Apologise? Get up and leave? Five months—five good months—with Robby can't suddenly be wasted, can they?

"Oh, puppy, it's okay," Robby coos. "You just piddled a little. It's okay, baby. Puppies piddle. Do you want to finish your piddle?"

Hesitantly, Dennis nods. Puppies do piddle. Warm urine spurts out against his heaving belly, and Robby whispers, "There you go, puppy. There's a good boy."

The piss trickles down onto the carpet, creating a small, soaked patch of darkness. Dennis stares at it while the stream stops, then shakes off into it. He stays there, panting, blearily wondering what is happening—when a force from behind suddenly shoves his face into the floor.

Dennis yelps and struggles while Robby smears his face against the sticky, wet fibres. "Oh, you really are just a little puppy, aren't you? Too new to be housebroken. Puppies can piddle but then they must face the consequences." When finally his hand retracts, Dennis feels like his face is raw and burned. He can't remove the stench of urine from his nostrils. He feels dirty and ashamed.

But, more than anything else, he feels like Daddy's stupid dog. He loves it.