Extremely self-indulgent Hucklerobby "Daddy teaches his little boy how to kiss fic." FT fauxcest, punishment, spitting, degradation, etc. No one look at me.
A record droned on, warming the living room as Robby and Dennis lounged on the couch. Robby was lying down, propped up against the armrest, Dennis tucked in against his body.
After a shift, it took Dennis time to slip into rest. Whenever he tried to tidy up after work, Robby would nag and complain until he could get Dennis off his feet. Now, couch time was mandatory and Dennis supposed that was alright.
Robby was warm and broad. Even after a shift he still smelled faintly of cologne. His hand caressed Dennis’ thigh, fingertips dipping under the hemline of his shorts every so often. It was the kind of rest Dennis had once dreamed of. One rooted in safety and trust, making him feel whole and at peace.
Well, for a while.
Because, inevitably, Robby's innocent touches would escalate to not-so-innocent touches. Then, right on cue, Robby's hand groped under Dennis’ shirt and the older man leaned in for a kiss.
Dennis could kiss. He could. He liked kissing– he liked kissing Robby! He just… never figured out all the tongue stuff. His secret, high-school boyfriends never got that far past chaste kisses and quick hand jobs in a barn. Then, homelessness pretty much dashed all opportunities at romance throughout college and med school. Anything Dennis had done was a far cry from the languid, relaxed making out that Robby seemed to crave so much. Dennis usually tried to play it off, break off the kisses before they got too deep, bury his head in Robby’s neck. That didn't seem to be working this time.
Robby had Dennis’ face in both hands: gripping his jaw and cheekbone. Enough slack to stop kissing whenever Dennis wanted, but not enough to move towards Robby's chest and hide his face. The second time Dennis tried to make a break for it, Robby spoke up.
“Stay up here with me, Den?” Robby asked, his thumb brushing along Dennis’ lower lip. The request was so sweet and gentle… Dennis couldn’t deny his boyfriend. Could he?
“Uh,” Dennis swallowed. “...yeah. Ok.” He nodded. He could do this. He was a grown man. Most people figured this out as teenagers. He was a practicing doctor. He was regularly having sex with this man! Kissing couldn't be that hard.
Robby’s lips landed back on his, warm and soft. Dennis imagined that if he wasn't so scared, he could really come to enjoy this. The heady feeling of focusing on nothing but the man in front of him. The world narrowed down to a single point of contact.
Then, Robby's tongue grazed Dennis’ lower lip and suddenly Dennis was clammy. He didn't know what to do with his hands. His mouth was rapidly drying out. His spine stiffened and instead of doing literally anything he just sort of… stopped moving. Like a body in the cadaver lab, his mind unhelpfully supplied.
Robby broke contact when Dennis stilled.
“Hey,” he whispered, concern hiding in his furrowed brow.
“Hey,” Dennis choked out.
“Is… something wrong?”
“Ah,” Dennis sucked his teeth. “No. No, it's just…” he lifted his eyes up to Robby, praying to god that he wasn’t making what Trinity called his “sad puppy face.”
Robby's raised eyebrow wasn’t promising on that front.
“Den, if there's ever something you don't like, that’s fine. We just have to talk about it.” Hypocrite. Dennis thought– but that was a conversation for another time.
“No– I like… I just–” He closed his eyes and steeled himself. “I just haven't kissed a lot.”
“...What does that mean?”
“The, uh, tongue stuff.” Tongue stuff? Kill him. “I don't really… I don't really know how. I- I want to, I just get nervous?”
For a second Robby didn't respond. It probably didn't help that Dennis had his eyes closed. That was fine. Robby didn't have to say anything. Dennis was running through the logistics of quitting his residency and fleeing the state. He could probably swing it– it honestly didn't seem so hard right now. He just told his boss-boyfriend that he was a 28 year-old man who didn't know how to kiss. This was Robby. The man has been kissing longer than Dennis has been alive– oh god actually don't think about that right now. Jesus Christ, Dennis was spiraling. Could Robby tell he was spiraling?
He cracked his eyes open to catch Robby barely containing his laughter.
“Oh my god!” He shoved Robby in the shoulder. “Don't laugh at me! I'm being really brave here.”
Dennis’ plea had the opposite effect as Robby doubled over chuckling in front of him.
“Dennis!”
“Don't–!” Dennis could feel a blush rise to the top of his ears.
“Den–!” Robby's face was scrunched up from giggling, showing off his crows feet and smile lines.
“Robby!” That was enough! Dennis flipped miserably onto just back and crossed his arms, waiting for his boyfriend to cut it out.
“Oh, don't be like that.” Condescending asshole. “It's okay, Den.”
“No it's not. It’s literally miserable.”
“Oh, hush. A hand came down to raffle Dennis’ hair. It did nothing to help him feel less infantilized and really liking it didn't help either. “You know that I'm okay with you being less experienced.”
“This is different! This is kissing! Everyone is supposed to like kissing. It's natural!”
“Trust me, it takes practice. I just have a lot of it.”
Dennis pouted.
Robby shifted gears, moving close to whisper a sing-song voice into his ear. “You just need a teach-er.”
Dennis felt goosebumps on the back of his neck. “R–”
A hand palmed over his shorts before he could protest. “Daddy just needs to teach his little boy how to kiss,” he teased.
If anyone asked about the sound Dennis made in that moment, he would deny it to his grave.
Weight shifted on the couch as Robby moved over him, pinning Dennis under his hips. Wet kisses landed along his cheekbone, jaw, and neck as Dennis slipped into a whinier, smaller version of himself.
“Daddy–”
“Shh. Just take it.”
Dennis was going to hell. Hard in record time, grinding into his chief attending's thigh.
Robby relented, bringing his face directly above Dennis’.
“Just take it slow, sweet boy.” Daddy's gravelly voice washed over Dennis.
“What if…” He bit his lip. Real vulnerability peeking out behind the faux-innocence. “What if I'm bad at it, Daddy?”
“It's okay, baby. Daddy's gonna take care of you.” He was so close now, Dennis could feel his lips form the words. “You trust me right?”
Yes. Completely. All the time, in everything. “Mhm.”
—
It took a few minutes of Robby stroking his hair for Dennis to find a steady rhythm. When he wasn't so nervous, kissing was actually pretty nice. Robby had soft lips that contrasted the rough scratch of his beard. The sound of his breathing made Dennis’ heart ache. Robby had kept Dennis nestled underneath him. It was overwhelmingly safe. Like his Daddy had eclipsed the whole world; everything that ever mattered was on this couch.
Dennis could feel his own spit covered, swollen lips. They were surprisingly sensitive. Every once and a while, Robby's tongue traced one of his lips. It was soft and wet– yet not as off-putting as before. It was sweet. A skin-to-skin contact he'd never experienced before. Like being held for the first time.
Robby was enjoying himself too. Broad hands stretching over any piece of Dennis that he could touch. Relishing the way one of his hands could nearly encompass Dennis’ whole waist. Watching his boy come apart under him: handing over all his trust like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Eventually, Dennis felt a nibble on his bottom lip and instinctively gasped. Robby's tongue dipped tenderly past his lips, earning a soft moan from Dennis.
“See, isn't that nice?” Robby purred into his ear. “Not so scary huh?”
Dennis moaned, mouth failing to form any actual words. His hips jutted up into Daddy's, chasing friction and making Robby chuckle.
Somewhere in the room, their record had ended. The faint white noise of the needle hitting nothing remained. Dennis hadn't even noticed.
Robby was letting Dennis set his own pace. Showing him what to do but not rushing him to do it. Dennis caught between the anxiety of trying and the desperation of having Robby as physically close as possible.
His hands tangled in Robby's hair and neck, tugging the older man close to him.
“Ah-ah. Don't be greedy.”
Dennis complied before the command even registered to him in his brain. He whined and writhed. Didn’t Daddy understand? Dennis needed him close– needed more.
“Oh, see how sweet you are? My good boy. Following my orders all pretty.”
“Daddy–!”
Robby cut him off sharply: “If you want it, earn it, Den.”
He lowered his lips slowly onto Dennis.
Dennis was brave. He was a good boy. He could earn it. He was good. He was good. He was good–
His tongue tried to peek out and run along Robby's mouth. Wrong. Bad. It was messier than he intended it to be. Tongue flat and unpleasant. None of the finesse Daddy had.
“Sloppy, Den. Try again.” Not mean or angry but directive. The same way Robby instructed him during a trauma. But they weren't in a trauma. They were in Robby's apartment and Dennis had been leaking precum into his boxers for the last 15 minutes.
“M’ sorry,” he gasped out.
He tried again slower this time. Using just the edge of his tongue, earning a groan out of his Daddy.
“Like that?”
“Just like that, Den. Good boy.” The praise made Dennis buck and keen, chasing more closeness.
He and Robby were finding a rhythm: slow, sure, and reciprocal. Dennis needed to focus to make it good, carefully mimicking the way Daddy's mouth felt on his. He started eagerly parting his lips, hoping for Daddy's tongue in his mouth. Keeping his hands balled up in Daddy's shirt so he wouldn't get greedy again.
The wet heat made him sink deeper and deeper, taking in Robby in every way he could. Rough hands under his shirt. The weight of Daddy pushing into the couch. Fingers combing through his hair. Not kissing to get to something better. Just enjoying each other. Slowly, because they could.
Until Dennis got impatient and started whining again. Hitched breaths and whimpers slipping out between kisses.
“What're you crying for, Den?”
“More–”
“More what?”
Frustrated tears slipped out of the corners of his eyes. Why didn't Daddy understand?
Dennis brought their mouths back together, eager and messy. Head too cloudy to focus the way Daddy taught him to. A warning tug pulled at his curls but he didn't care. He needed Daddy close: in his mouth and on his tongue.
“Den–” Robby muttered, patience wearing thin.
Dennis used the moment to push his tongue deeper into Daddy's mouth. Hot and messy, mostly catching Robby's teeth. The older man yanked himself backward, sputtering.
“Stop!” Daddy growled.
“Please–” Robby silenced Dennis with a firm grab on just jaw.
“Nope. None of that. You lost that privilege.”
Dennis felt more hot tears slide down the side of his face. He blubbered and ground up into his daddy– layers of shorts and sweatpants hiding nothing between them.
“What happened to my good boy?” Robby mocked. “You were being so polite. Get too stupid? It's barely been a couple minutes.”
He lowered back closer to Dennis. The younger man responded by craning his neck, fighting the grip Robby had on his jaw. He thrashed petulantly against the resistance. Dennis was strong but Daddy really had him stuck.
“Open,” Robby commanded.
Dennis made a weak, questioning sound.
“Listen to your Dad, Den. If you want kisses, you'll have to earn them back.”
Ok. Ok. His brain was spinning out with desire. He could be good. Dennis wet his lips before carefully parting his mouth. Lips wider than he would for a kiss, jaw opened and obedient.
He panted for a moment, chest rising for small, deep breaths.
Then, Robby licked a broad stripe across the side of Dennis’ mouth and tongue. Dennis gasped as saliva pooled on his skin. He felt used and messy in a way that went straight between his legs.
“You like that? Feel what it's like? Filthy boy.” Robby made a fist in Dennis' hair before going back down to lick at Dennis’ open mouth.
Dennis didn't dare speak. He didn't do anything to close his mouth. He let Daddy lap across his lips and jaw. He was a very good boy.
Robby felt on fire. His little boy took his punishment so well, he almost wanted to go easy on him. That wouldn’t help though. Dennis needed a firm hand and it made Robby feel like the luckiest man alive.
Dennis was kiss drunk below him. Pupils consuming the blue in his eyes. Face wet with tears and saliva. Sweet desperate sounds that only Robby made him feel safe enough to make. All pried open under Daddy's love.
Robby waited for Dennis’ eyes to flutter closed to spit into the boy's mouth. It landed with a smack as Dennis recoiled.
“It doesn't feel good does it?” Robby chided, a mean edge raising his voice. “It doesn't feel good to be messy huh, baby?”
“M'sorry!” Dennis cried, spit dripping around his mouth and on his tongue.
Robby pressed his fingers into the mess, swirling it around. “My messy, sloppy boy. What would you do without your Daddy to teach you?”
“Dad…” Dennis croaked. Grabby hands clutching the sides of Daddy's face.
“I know, I know. If I wipe you down are you gonna be good?” Robby asked, taking his fingers out of the boy's mouth.
Dennis pushed his chin up slightly, chasing the missing contact. He was flush, cheeks blotchy and wet. His voice was small: “Yes, Daddy.”
Robby brought his sleeve up to wipe down Dennis' face. Soft, gentle motions until the boy was neat and tidy again.
Dennis looked up at him, eyes clear and calming down from his punishment. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
“Thank you for cleaning me up, Daddy.”
“Every time, sweetheart.”
Dennis pulled his mouth to the side, thinking for a second. “I'm sorry if I was bad at it.”
Robby's face lit up, fondness softening every edge. “Not bad, just… learning.” He brought a hand up to sit firmly on the space between Dennis’ neck and shoulder. “You'll just need a lot more practice with Dad.”
rockstar robby "teaching" fan dennis how to play the guitar backstage, but getting him to sit on his lap because its "easier to teach him the chords that way"- so now robby has his left hand over dennis's on the strings, his steadily hardening cock pushing up against the younger man's plump ass, and his right hand carefully slipping under the waistband of dennis's trousers so he can fondle with his dick...
dennis gulps and squirms and tries not to moan at the fact that the rockstar he's been a fan of for years has him settled against his chest and is jerking him off while muttering that hes a good boy and a fast learner... maybe he should be concerned about the fact that the much, *much* older man had essentially herded him backstage and is now feeling him up after giving him almost no choice, but it just feels too good...
he doesn't want to report robby or cry for help, instead he wants those calloused fingers and the firm bulge of world famous michael robinavitch's fat cock deep, deep inside him... he doesn't know it yet, but dennis will be getting all that and more once robby finds a way to slip him out of his pesky clothes..
The first night, after Dennis had told him about the program, about why he had been shoved through Pope’s cell door, Dennis is convinced that Pope is going to spend the night on the cell floor, in the farthest corner from where Dennis sits, stiff and trembling on the only bed.
Dennis didn’t know that much himself, really. Only what he had been told on the way here. A brief explanation he had barely had time to shove into the back of his mind like the meagre possessions he had been stuffing into his backpack. They’d taken that when he’d been strip searched, and it hadn’t been returned. He had no doubt he would never see it again.
But what he knew had been enough. Enough to make Pope’s dark brown, scarred ears fold backwards. Enough to make his face, set in stone and unmoving for so long, suddenly and very fleetingly do something entirely unexpected. It had been like watching a TV screen flicker and glitch - one moment Pope was staring at him with a hunter’s intensity, and the next split second his entire face pinched in pain, mouth downturned and brow furrowed like he might cry. It had been over so quickly Dennis thought he imagined it, but then it had happened again, the process repeating twice more as Dennis’ voice faltered in his explanation.
It had been like a dam crumbling. Once he had lost control of his face the first time, it seemed like it was easier for the holes to widen and the water to come rushing through.
Dennis had flinched when Pope had violently shoved himself off the ground where he had been sitting opposite him - he had given Dennis the bed to sit on while he composed himself and recovered from his initial panic. But as Pope paced the tiny cell with short, rapid, circling steps, Dennis had made every effort to shrink from the crackling energy that seemed to be shoving Pope from wall to wall.
He didn’t yell, he didn’t lash out or throw anything or kick the walls, or anything that other alphas liked to do to show that they cared. His breath was wild and heaving, leaving his chest in something halfway between panic and a growl.
He caught Dennis’ movement out of the corner of his eye, and suddenly drew up short.
“No - no, no. I’m sorry. I promise I’m not - fuck.” He cut himself off, and his voice sounded wrecked. “I’m not - I won’t hurt you. I’m not mad at you. Fuck.”
He resumes his pacing but Dennis can tell he’s making a physical effort to curb some of the violent energy. He turns restlessly to Dennis, jabs a finger at him like he’s suggested something disgusting.
“And I’m not gonna - do that. I swear to you. I’m a lot of shitty things, but I’m not a fucking -”
He chokes himself off, lips rebelling around the words. “I won’t touch you. You can stay over there, I won’t come near you.”
And he had kept his promise, settling in the corner of the cell and staring anywhere but at Dennis, who felt like he was leaving his body. He didn’t know how long he had sat there on the bed that smelled like Pope - clean, somehow, even in this place. It felt like it had been hours. Hours of silence with nothing but the frantic realisation of what had happened bouncing around in his head, his thoughts like frantic sheep, panicking and bleating as the walls closed in. It felt like his life had shattered so quickly, and yet he was so tired he felt like he had been awake for days. He wasn’t sure whether to be terrified or strangely comforted by the alpha sitting in the corner.
His eyes were heavy and they stung and he felt like thinking was becoming too much.
“You can lie down.”
Dennis' whole body jolted with that unpleasant feeling of being yanked from a darkened room into broad daylight. He could feel his pulse fluttering at his neck as he forced his eyes back towards Pope, who was looking at him like he harboured some great guilt.
“Sorry.” He modulated his voice, lowering it to something that Dennis found oddly, pleasingly scratchy. “I was just saying - you're tired. You can lie down. Look, I'll show you something.”
Dennis didn't twitch this time as Pope stood up, heading towards the corner of the bed slowly with his hands raised. He made no protest as Pope shuffled towards the metal post on the furthest corner and proceeded to swiftly work the top open, withdrawing something from inside.
He turned to Dennis, a little shard of jagged metal, the end wrapped in dirty fabric, resting in the palm of his hand. His eyes were severe as they pinned Dennis' own in place.
“I'm going to give this to you, and you're not going to immediately take a swipe at me.”
It wasn't a question, but Dennis very much felt like nodding was the best option. If he wasn’t sitting down, his tail would have been firmly planted between his legs. Pope studied him for a moment, eyes slowly taking in everything from Dennis' own bugged out pair to the feet he was trying to tuck underneath him.
“Don't put your shoes on the bed, it's not hygienic.”
Dennis immediately uncurled, shoes hitting the floor with a soft splatting sound, because the soles were so worn they barely counted as shoes anymore. Pope nodded once, satisfied, and dropped into a half crouch in front of Dennis, where he could tilt his head to keep his gaze locked on the omega’s face.
“You take this. I'll show you how to keep it in your waistband without stabbing yourself, but just hold it for now.”
Dennis reached out and delicately took the makeshift blade between finger and thumb, holding it there while blinking up at Pope, waiting for the next instruction.
Pope’s brow furrowed as if he was distressed.
“Jesus Christ - okay, it doesn't matter.” He shook his head as if to clear it, refocusing on Dennis. “You ever want to use this? Grip the covered end in your fist, and put all your strength into stabbing. It's not a slashing weapon, okay? And it's not strong, it might break or stay in the guy after the first stick, so you make sure the first one is a good one.”
The words pattered down against Dennis’ face like raindrops on the sea surface. He was numb, they registered like abstract, wet things in a drowning world. He felt like he'd fallen asleep after all, because this - this was all so far outside his realm of experience or expectation that his body felt like it was lagging. He felt his head listing, and Pope clicked his tongue sharply.
“Hey.” Dennis jolted, head bobbing like he was trying to stay afloat. Pope’s eyes burned and stung and refused to let him sink. “Stay with me. You can’t go off somewhere else now. Are you listening?”
“I'm - I'm listening.”
“Good. Look at me.”
Dennis looked. Pope straightened from the half-crouch he'd been in, stepping back so Dennis could take in his whole body.
And even partially-hidden beneath the blue, rough jumpsuit that all the hybrid inmates wore, Dennis could tell it was an impressive body.
Broad shoulders, big arms (big, clever-looking hands), a chest that looked sturdy and a little bit like Dennis would struggle to wrap both arms around them. Legs that made Dennis realise what ‘tree trunk thighs’ actually meant.
He felt the distant memory of something old flicker in his belly. Maybe he deserved to be here after all.
Pope waited until Dennis' eyes drifted back up to meet his before he straightened his shoulders. He pointed at Dennis' hand, which was still cradling his knife like an injured butterfly.
“You see someone walk towards you like they're looking to take something from you - if they're tense, if they're staring, if their veins are popping - you don't wait. You use that, and you make it count.”
Dennis shuddered, unsure whether it was the words or Pope’s stare - head tilted down but eyes fixed up and forward and unwaveringly on every twitch Dennis made - that lifted all the hairs on the back of his neck.
Pope gestured at each of his thighs, tracing a line down near the middle of each expanse of muscle.
“Important arteries are right here. Can’t remember what they’re called, we’ll get my brother to teach you when I call him next.” Dennis nods, like all of this is sensible and natural.
“Arms are good, right up here.” He points to the softer inside of his own arm, and Dennis’ skin tingles in sympathy. “You manage to get a good swipe here, it’s gonna bleed like a stuck pig.”
“Throat’s always a safe bet. For you, not for them.” The corner of Pope’s mouth does something that looks remarkably like a rapid uptick, there and gone again in the blink of an eye.
“You get either side here,” Pope grips his own windpipe with a force that makes Dennis wince, “and you get bleeders. Get the middle, and they’re gonna be distracted by their new blowhole.”
Dennis feels his own lips twitch frantically, unexpectedly. Like it was tugged out of his skin by a fishing hook lodged at the corner of his mouth, the line held securely in Pope’s hands. He thinks he makes a noise, somewhere between a shrill, distorted giggle and a shameful whine.
Pope glances down briefly, then back up at Dennis, something almost bashful but…oddly pleased on his face. His shoulders relax, and his hands drift down to pat his own stomach firmly.
“Belly’s usually a pretty good bet. It’s soft, and people are more focused on trying to throw punches so they’ll leave it unguarded. It needs to be fast, repeated. As many times as possible before their brain catches up to what’s going on. It’s especially good if they’re trying to get on top of you.”
Pope tilts his head slightly, seems to be weighing something up before crouching in front of Dennis again. He has his empty hands spread out, and he moves slowly closer to where Dennis sits. Keeping his eyes fixed on Dennis’ face, he very gently, very slowly lowers his hands so his fingertips just make contact with each of Dennis’ knees. He swallows, bows his head to maintain eye contact, and all of a sudden there is a strange softening of his face. His mouth thins and then relaxes, brows beetled in a look of something almost vulnerable.
“I - I won’t let that happen.” His voice is soft, uneven like grit, but Dennis hears the promise underlying it all, and god help him, he believes it. He leans forward a fraction of an inch, and Pope nods minutely, almost keenly. “I’m going to look after you. I won’t let anything happen to you. While you’re with me, you won’t ever need to use that, I swear.”
He nods down at the shiv still cradled in Dennis’ hand, reaches carefully to curl Dennis’ fingers more firmly around it. His hand is scarred and rough and huge around Dennis’ own.
“I’d appreciate it if you don’t stab me while I’m sleeping or takin’ a piss, you know? But this is - insurance. For you. I promise I won’t hurt you, but I don’t expect you to believe that. You’d be smart not to.” Pope’s eyes haven’t lost any of their intensity, but there is something very close to beseeching in them when he looks at Dennis now, something like a twisted form of hope. “If you ever think I’m giving you a reason to doubt that promise, I want you to use it. I expect you to use it. You understand?”
Dennis doesn’t know why it’s suddenly hard to swallow, or why his eyes sting when Pope gives him a gentle shake when the only thing he can produce is thick, jagged breathing.
“Answer me.”
“I don’t wanna -”
“Answer me.”
Dennis’ shoulders tighten, feeling like a sapling in a galeforce wind. Pope’s eyes don’t leave his.
“Okay. I understand.”
The words, and all his remaining energy, leave him on an exhale that feels like it’s his last.
Pope nods, satisfied, smooth expression back in place as he rises.
“You’re tired. Lie down. I’ll be over here.”
“No!”
If he’d had the energy to think about it, Dennis might have questioned whether lunging at someone like Pope was a good idea. But he had nothing left except a senseless, prey-drive desire to stop Pope’s warmth from leaving his little bubble of stale air.
Later, Dennis will think back and have the wherewithal to marvel at how someone like Pope, brimming with tension and straining at his own awareness like a dog on a fraying rope, had the discipline not to do any of the things he had just taught Dennis to do.
But when Dennis’ hand catches on Pope’s wrist - white-knuckled, probably pinching at his skin unpleasantly - he doesn’t knock Dennis away, bear him down to the ground and smash his skull against the floor. He doesn’t snarl or growl, or even bare his teeth.
For one second, his whole body tenses up. His ears dart back briefly, before slowly creeping back upright. Dennis can feel the sinews in his wrist gradually release their tension, can see the moment his shoulders relax.
“Please, can you - stay here? Just - we can share. You don’t have to sit on the floor. Please.”
Pope stares down at him for a long time, and Dennis wonders what he’s looking for. He can feel that his own ears are plastered to his head, trying to tell Pope something he’s not sure he could find the words for.
Pope heaves a sigh, and Dennis doesn’t quite manage to contain his cringe. Pope wordlessly shoves his way onto the bed, using his own body to gently nudge and shove Dennis where he wants him. Pope stays sitting at the head of the bed, making no move to lie down. He uses one hand to easily pry Dennis’ own off his wrist, and the other to guide Dennis’ legs up onto the bed - shucking his shoes off - and roll him over onto his side, until he’s lying with head on Pope’s legs.
“Thank you.” He believes for a moment that the words are so small, they might get lost in the cracks between the walls before they reach Pope’s ears.
But he sees the way they flick backwards, sees the way his face tightens like the words hurt. He thinks he hears a soft sigh as he finally lets his eyes fall closed, but it sounds like something small and wounded, so probably not.
what if you were a MED STUDENT and it was you FIRST SHIFT in emergency medicine and then you spilled MYLANTA on yourself and you had to CHANGE YOUR SCRUBS and then a patient BLED all over you and you had to CHANGE YOUR SCRUBS and RIGHT AFTER THAT a boy BARFED BLOOD all over you and you had to CHANGE YOUR SCRUBS and then a some guy PEED on you and you had to CHANGE YOUR SCRUBS and you looked like a BABY OWL
Dennis who is crazy touch starved and just. Does not notice. He’s been cuddling pillows his whole life and wanting for something that he couldn’t name, so he figured when he finally got with Jack and Robby that the feeling would go away. It, stubbornly, did not. Whatever itch it was remained unscratched.
Jack and Robby, oblivious to this, were trying to let Dennis ease into the relationship. The two of them had been together for years, and had kind of forgotten what it was like to be new to a relationship. So, if Dennis didn’t explicitly ask, they didn’t do a whole lot of physical touch. But, he rarely asked.
Robby was sitting on the couch with him one night, Dennis curled up against the arm of the plush fabric and his legs bend by Robby’s side. Robby’s hand brushed his knee, and his leg extended to lay across his lap. A little amused, Robby rubbed his leg and watched him absolutely melt into him.
Then, Jack had a similar experience. They were in the kitchen together, he he just needed Dennis to move over a bit so he could get into a drawer, so he guided him to the side with a hand on his back and hip. Dennis blinked up at him and leaned into his side, pressing their ribs together. Jack chuckled, “Sorry, baby, just needed you to move.” Dennis’s cheeks flushed and he shuffled to the side. Jack was sure to run a hand over his spine a few more times that night.
It all culminated one night as the three were lying in bed together, trying to sleep. Dennis was kinda wiggly most nights, but tonight especially he just couldn’t get himself comfortable. Jack patted his arm. “Sugar, get comfy. Bedtime.”
Dennis gave an annoyed little whine and pushed his arm up into Jack’s hand. Experimentally, he wrapped his whole arm around Dennis, who snuggled into it.
“Is that what keeps you from tossing and turning?” Robby hummed. “Cuddles?” He wrapped Dennis up in his arms too and watched the boy fall asleep within the minute.
From then on, they didn’t hold back with the touching.
The three alphas- Robby, Pope and Jack- had been settled in their cabin for a good 20 years.
The thing that stalked their cabin has been settled there for much longer.
They don’t know when they first noticed him; the lines between thinking it’s animals, then wishing it’s animals, then knowing it wasn’t have run over the years.
Their routine usually goes as follows; Jack, up the earliest before dawn starts coloring the sky. He carries his lantern and a satchel of salt and dutifully pours it in a circle surrounding their cabin and the tiny farm behind it. And- dutifully, every morning- it walks alongside him on the other side.
Human if you didn’t look hard enough. Blue eyes a touch too big and sandy curls the color of a dried mud bank. Skin as pale as a corpse’s, fingers too thin to be hand-waved as dainty. Always barefoot, always dressed in a dirty beige shirt and blue jeans. When he talked it was like there was mud in his throat, the words coming out garbled and wet.
“Do you like being a doctor? How did you lose your leg? You look very strong, a very capable alpha, is Robby your mate? Do you have an omega? Well what kind of home doesn't have one?”
They both politely ignore the salt line that sits between them both. Jack stays silent as Dennis babbles, broken up by soft, warbly cooes and cackles that make Jack think of the crows that circle the house. Sometimes he doesn’t talk in anything but borrowed words, garbled and throaty, sometimes a woman’s panicked call for her husband and sometimes a boy explaining how to get through the passage near their house. Sometimes a man, sleazy and growly asking why a pretty little thing was out here at night.
He doesn’t talk to Pope, but Jack thinks it’s because Pope takes his axe with him when he goes out to chop wood. It suits them- Dennis stares, wide blue eyes taking in every detail while Pope stares right back as he dutifully splits the logs.
Robby’s last to wake, as the sky starts to lighten, when the smells of cooking meat and coffee waft out the open window. Robby always throws the bones out into the woods, and Dennis always comes to retrieve them like they’re something precious. On quiet mornings, Robby could hear the scrape of teeth on bone, and the cracks of an animal breaking them open.
Once the morning light broke through the canopy, Dennis would retreat into whatever den he’s made for himself by their home. Only then is it safe for the Rural doctors to make their house calls.
Their hours are very strict- do not come before the sun is up. Do not leave after the sun went down.
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idk Rural Appalacian horror!Dennis trying to court the pretty alphas in the salt line enclosure brought to you by @crazyamoeba
While Robby is away on sabbatical, his coworkers all start texting him pictures of Dennis.
It takes him a minute to realize that's what's happening. Of course, they all send the Dennis pics along with texts and photos of other people. Sometimes Whitaker's in a group shot, or caught in the background of a selfie. It takes Robby a beat to realize that the pattern is Dennis-centric.
It only occurs to him that it's deliberate after a pic from Dana. At first, Dana sends weekly updates about the Pitt and an occasional word of support. Lets him know the Pitt's not on fire without him there to put it out. Then, after he's been gone a month, the first week of September, she sends a shot of Dennis at the backyard barbecue she hosts on Labor Day each year. Whitaker is wearing shorts, armed with a squirt gun, laughing, a passle of little kids crawling all over him. The accompanying text just says: missed u at the bbq this year boss. Casual, like Dana didn't just send him an image custom designed to hit him right smack in the Daddy issues.
Robby almost drops his phone.
Pretty soon, they're all doing it. Week five, McKay sends a question about some paperwork and a picture of herself, Dennis and Mateo in the park after work. Then, Dennis apparently does a week of Night Shift because Shen sends a selfie with Dennis, each holding enormous Dunkin iced coffees. Javadi sends him a group shot that so happens to have Dennis front and center of the Pittlings, captioned that they all miss him. Princess sends a candid pic of Dennis and Jack, heads together during change over. Dennis is gesturing to something on a chart and Jack is listening with a slight frown of concentration. They're standing with the same stance. They look like two of the same letters in a slightly different font. Robby is struck by how similar they are from that angle and he ignores they way his stomach clenches with suppressed desire for both of them. Mel King sends a shot of Dennis and Santos obviously doing a round of Rock Paper Scissors to see who has to do some sort of unpleasant procedure. Even Langdon, of all people, sends Robby a photo of Dennis leaning on the desk, arms crossed, caught for a split second between patients. The kid seems unaware of his picture being taken, probably looking up at the board. His shoulders and arms look absolutely magnificent. But that surely can't be the reason why Langdon sent it?
If it were only a few people sending them, he would consider it a coincidence, but by the six week mark, it's almost everyone who is aquatinted with the both of them. Robby can't miss the pattern. It's quite clear, all his people think Robby wants to know how Dennis is doing in his absence.
He does want to know.
Of course, he does, despite the fact that it makes him feel like the butt of a group joke. It's embarrassing actually. Realizing they all know he's infatuated with Dennis, Robby feels called out and transparent. Like everyone must think he's such a ridiculous, old perv to be pining over a young guy like that. Thinks they must be sending these texts to make fun of his pathetic "secret" crush that was apparently obvious to everyone in the ED (except maybe Dennis himself). He doesn't know how to respond to the pictures. Usually changes the subject and asks the sender how they're doing. Or sends a pic of the scenery from his road trip.
Naturally, Trinity Santos is the most egregious Dennis pic sender. Unlike the others, there is nothing about Santos's pictures that stays within the mentor/mentee bounds. Hers are far too personal to send the man's boss. She doesn't even bother to pair the pics with a question about emergency medicine. She sends a pic of Dennis singing karaoke in a bar, wearing a crop top and smeared black eyeliner. A week or so later, she sends a pic of Dennis at an outdoor concert, toasting the camera with a plastic cup of beer. The later summer sun has brought out the freckles across his nose. A week after that, it's a pic of Huckleberry hard at work out on what must be Amy's farm. He's wearing a faded blue T-shirt that perfectly matches his eyes, stained dark with sweat. Then, there's another shot of Dennis behind the wheel of the farm truck, wearing a battered, straw cowboy hat, grinning at something the photographer was saying or doing, that little gap in his teeth showing. A few days later, she sends one that shouldn't be as hot as it is, a scowling, grouchy Dennis, obviously hungover, hair a mess, unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his pretty mouth, cooking breakfast while wearing nothing but a pair of dark sunglasses and some baggy blue boxer shorts. He's flipping off the camera. It makes Robby's heart do something strange when he realizes that one was taken in his own kitchen. Because of Santos, he sees sides of Dennis that he never gets to at work.
There's nothing like that sent from Dennis himself, of course. Texts from him are a few carefully worded questions about the plants. Once, a question about working the dishwasher. Every week, he sends a picture of Robby's house plant collection, to show him they're all still alive and well. He sends occasional updates about Duke's post surgery recovery. It's all very Midwestern polite. Robby's replies are the same, professional and appropriate.
He suspects that poor, innocent Huckleberry has no clue his friends and co-workers are doing this to them. Robby wonders if Dennis would be embarrassed or angry about the photographic teasing if he knew. If he would be disgusted by Robby's inappropriate crush. It makes him cringe to think of Dennis finding out. Perhaps he should tell them to stop sending the pictures, but he doesn't. Can't quite address it directly because that would make it A Thing.
It should be noted that Jack Abbot is suspiciously quiet during this whole pictorial onslaught. Though he's well aware of Robby's crush. In fact, Jack was the only person Robby openly spoke of Dennis to. Abbot sends no pics. Just a brotherly word or two, checking in around sunset each day. He thinks of calling Jack to say something about what the others are doing, find out if it's a prank, but just rehearsing the conversation in his mind is so awkward that he doesn't dare do it.
After weeks of it, gradually, Robby starts to see how sweet all the messages really are. No one ever says "gotcha" or admits it's a gag. He begins to suspect it's not actually a joke, because people send him Dennis stories, too. They don't violate HIPAA by talking about the patients, but they all send little tales of Dennis's good deeds. His moments of kindness or brilliance. Robby comes to realize that it doesn't actually feel much like teasing, no one seems to be mocking either one of them. In fact, there's something endearing about the gesture.
To be known is to be loved, so people seeing his attraction to Dennis is maybe not such a bad thing after all? Perhaps this is their odd way of accepting and supporting him, inappropriate as it is to surveille his resident for him.
They keep coming. Dennis petting a golden retriever on a coffeeshop patio. A slightly embarrassed Dennis appearing in one of Javadi's tiktoks. Dennis asleep on the too short sofa in the break room, a curling mustache drawn on his upper lip in what Robby hopes is eyeliner and not magic marker. Even Duke sends one, a shot of the two of them, both giving a thumbs up to the camera.
By the end of the second month, Robby has dozens of pics of Dennis saved to his phone, sent from atleast ten people. At that point, it feels a lot like they're all trying to lure Robby back home with adorable pictures of his favorite person.
He starts to look forward to receiving them. Downloads each one that comes in. During lonely nights on the road, he looks through them all before sleep. The cowboy hat pic becomes his phone lock screen. Why not? There's no one out here to see it and tell on him. Or perhaps, because the "secret" is so obviously out now, he no longer feels ashamed of it, feels no need to keep hiding. There's still lingering guilt, because innocent Dennis has no idea.
But he does not turn the bike around and head home just yet. No, that comes after Jack finally sends his Dennis text.
Agent of chaos, Jack sends it without warning, on an otherwise unremarkable, sunny Tuesday afternoon. Robby opens it while he's stopped, gassing up Bonnie. It's not a pic. It's a link. A long line of random numbers and letters, an anonymous, encrypted website, the kind with private accounts and log-ins. The kind that hosts invitation only videos that disappear after the log-in expires. He knows how this is supposed to work, but it's not something they've ever done, he and Jack. To open it would definitely cross a line. And Robby knows, Jack loves crossing lines. He wouldn't be Jack if he didn't.
The temporary log-in is Robby's birthday. That definitely reminds him that he is far too ancient to be clicking on whatever it is he's about to see. "Thanks for that, Jack", he thinks. He puts his phone up and gets back on the bike.
Once he's alone in his hotel room, though, of course, Robby clicks the link. He watches.
A video. Dennis and Jack in Robby's own bed. Looks like the phone is propped up on the bedside table, probably leaning against his Bubbe's lamp. This time, Dennis is fully aware he's on camera. On all fours, he makes direct eye contact and preens as Jack pushes into him from behind. His mouth is open, he's saying something. Robby catches only the words "want you to see", he can't hear the rest over the slap of their skin and Jack's panting groans. Never taking his eyes off the camera, Dennis goes up onto his knees, Jack's arms circle his chest, holding him up. Dennis bouncing with each thrust. Dennis only looks away when he twists his upper body to turn his face towards Jack, who kisses him, deep and messy.
The next clip is Dennis on his back on Robby's kitchen table, Jack standing between his thighs, his legs propped up on Jack's shoulders. Dennis's actually holding the phone himself in this one, so it's close to his mouth when Dennis cums, unmistakably calling Robby's name along with Jack's. Dennis pans to Jack who looks down the barrel of the camera, face framed by Dennis's legs. Still pounding away, Jack says, "Get your head out of your ass and come home, brother."
Then, it's Dennis kneeling on the soft carpet at the foot of Jack's bed. It's been a few years, but Robby still remembers the feel of it under his own knees. There are purple love bites on his pale thighs and chest. He looks wrecked and needy like Jack's been edging and overstimulating him for hours. Dennis is looking up at the camera, big blue eyes welling with tears, he simply says, "Please, Robby."
The next morning, he's on the road back to Pittsburgh by sunrise.
(Whole thing is Dennis's idea, btw. He posed for and approved every single one.)
thinking about bunny!hybrid dennis who is just so perpetually embarrassed about it, and then he meets rabbot…
first of all, he resented how absolutely non-threatening he was. a fucking prey animal? he had to be born a prey animal? he’d never been particularly lucky and it sucked that that dirth of good fortune seeped down to his genetic code.
he hated how close to his instincts he was. how his ears telegraphed his moods, how his nose crinkled on its own, how easily scared he was.
the worse thing about it was that the stereotypes were completely true. he was horny near-constantly.
people would ask him about it. sometimes it was friends who were just a little more liberal in their ideals, and sometimes it was complete strangers who were fucking creeps. but either way, dennis would stammer out how that particular fact was just a rumor.
it wasn’t.
the first and only time dennis had a boyfriend, he was getting off every day. his boyfriend wouldn’t even have the energy to actually fuck him half the time, but that didn’t sway dennis. he would lie on top of him and just hump. his boyfriend would play with his tail with one hand and scroll on his phone with the other. dennis always felt terrible about himself afterwards, even if mark always said he came so fast, it was barely even an inconvenience.
that was another thing he hated about it.
so, when he got the the pitt for his rotation, he was prepared for the humiliation ritual that was meeting new people. older women were going to coo over his ears, assholes we’re going to sneak up on him for his exaggerated jumping reaction, people would make slick comments about what he was going to be doing after work. he was used to it, at this point.
he wasn’t prepared for his attendings to take an…interest in him.
at first, dennis thought it was more scientific. they were only human, and male bunny hybrids were rare. something about the XY chromosome meant that having all the mutations necessary to express the phenotypes was rare. robby would ask him mostly silly questions. did he really like carrots? did the wolf hybrid in central 7 make him nervous? did he need different scrubs to accommodate his tail?
his time on night shift was slightly more illuminating. jack was more transparent, asking if his nose twitched like that anytime he got ‘overwhelmed,’ and if trinity was ‘helping him with his baser needs.’
dennis agreed to go out with them. his stupid fast heartbeat got quicker the moment they cornered him in the locker room to ask him.
and he tried to go slow, he really did. these men were older and his bosses and his libido was quite frankly embarrassing, but, for the second date, they invited him over for a night in. dinner and a movie, they said.
just sitting in between them, all full and safe, smelling their home (den, his animalistic hindbrain corrected), it made the two orgasms he’d wrung out of himself in the shower earlier absolutely useless.
and maybe it wasn’t exclusively scientific, but robby and jack were always observing him. finally, after minutes of squirming, jack asked, “is something wrong?”
“no!” dennis answered quickly. “i’m having a lot of fun.” it was true. he was happy to be there.
robby smiled. he could guess the predicament. he’d read up on literature, and bunny hybrids, in the presence of newer ‘mates’ could experience some intense urges. “dennis,” robby loved the way dennis’s head snapped towards him. “are you…aroused?”
dennis quickly looked down, ashamed. he was sure these mature men didn’t want to deal with this on a second date. “we don’t have to do anything about it. it’ll go away.”
jack, having read the studies too, questioned, “is that not uncomfortable? it’s a biological need for you, right?”
“not really!” dennis wasn’t exactly telling the truth. “i’ll just ignore it and it’ll be fine.” it would be slightly painful, but it really was fine.
jack shimmied a hand in between dennis’s back and couch, resting it right above dennis’s cotton puff tail. “you don’t gotta ignore it with us, bun.”
dennis closed his eyes in pleasure, despite himself. his brain was hardwired to submit to those touches. “i can, though,” dennis insisted. he could ignore how horny he was. he wasn’t some fucking mindless idiot.
robby leaned over and put a hand on the side of dennis’s neck. “you can, baby. we know,” robby soothed. “however, you have two very willing partners here who are, quite frankly, very excited to test this refractory period we’ve been reading about, so…”
robby’s hand moved to rub at the base of his ears, jacks hand moved and he lightly pulled on dennis’s tail. dennis’s started panting a little.
for the first time in his life, he was happy about being a bunny.
new hc, robby spends the days before leaving for his sabbatical carefully creating several of those dildos moulded in the shape of his own cock, and leaving them tactfully in the top draw of his bedside table.
he's not naive, he knows dennis will poke around a bit, and he knows he'll find them pretty soon. and, not to be vain, he knows his cock is fucking hot. it's big, and veiny, and the perfect thickness to stretch a first year intern out nice and good.
he leaves ample lube in the draw too, setting the trap perfectly. he knows dennis won't be able to resist fucking himself to an orgasm on robby's bed, not with the hungry eyes the boy keeps giving him. he wonders if dennis will realise the dildos aren't standard models from the Internet, if his cut cock head will give it away...
either way, when that pretty little intern does go poking through that draw, robby will be waiting, phone connected right to one of the hidden cameras in the room corners- rest assured, he's going to get every angle of dennis stuffing himself full in robby's bed, prostate getting abused by robby's cock even when he's hundreds of miles away.
when robby comes home weeks too early, that's when he'll really pounce.
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