When Jack was in high school, he learned magic to impress girls. When he was in college, he learned how to hypnotise them. It was just a fun fact about himself, something he shared during ice breakers that no one ever quite believed until it was later successfully displayed upon demand at bars and frat houses. The first time Robby saw Jack, he was hypnotising a freshman into acting like a kitten. He shook his head, thinking, “Who is this fool?” Jack’s interest in mentalism and mind control faded as their medical studies intensified, but their friendship never weakened. 

When Robby returns from his sabbatical, he drops his bag in the doorway and sighs, “Jack…”

Jack dips his head back and grins lazily. He’s on the floor, by the fireplace, frantically fucking Dennis Whitaker, Robby’s student and housesitter. His boy, usually so bright and attentive, does not seem to notice his entrance. He has the same look that Jack’s college girls got when they were in a trance: his face is soft with a serene sort of blankness and his eyes are heavily-half lidded as if on the verge of sleep. His body, however, seems absolutely awake. There is nothing sleepy or unintentional about the strong doggy-style position he maintains beneath Jack. It is the product undoubtedly, of suggestion, ingrained in him just as easily as Robby’s teachings were. 

His eyes glinting with mischief, Jack pants, “Dennis, greet Robby.” 

“No, don’t you dare—Jack—” Robby jolts back in shock as Dennis instantly detaches himself from Jack, crawling away from him and towards Robby. His blue eyes find Robby, identify him, but they don’t seem to truly see him. He lacks any understanding that he is naked and drooling before his boss. But, when he grips Robby’s thighs, he feels the true power behind the touch. If Robby didn’t know better, he’d think there was desire behind it too. 

Jack comes to a stand and (still pumping his red cock) and ambles over. “Ah ah ah,” he says to Dennis, who is eagerly licking and lapping at the crotch of Robby’s jeans. “You gotta unzip yourself. He isn’t the brightest.” He pets his hair. Dennis does not react to the touch.  

Robby fights back a comment about how truly intelligent Dennis is. If he told Jack about all the quick saves Dennis has made at the hospital, the flawlessly accurate diagnoses he has made, the procedures learned that far outpace any ordinary R1, would he believe him? Robby looks down at Dennis. The denim he’s licking hasn’t been washed in months. His tongue finds the zipper and he delicately sucks on it, sucking it like it is a little penis, and his expression shows a complete contentment about this. Shit. 

“Show me what he can do,” he growls as he unbuttons his pants and tugs down the zip. His cock jerks free, striking Dennis on the nose. It turns him cross-eyed, dumbly stunning him for a moment, before he chases it with his slick, gaping mouth. Dennis’ mouth feels heavenly. Suddenly Robby feels enraged with jealousy that, while he spent three months traveling North America, Jack was here, enjoying Dennis, moulding him into a perfect design of his own making. 

what are your opinions?

I have been hoarding this treasure for almost two weeks because each time I look at it I am arrested by a possessive glee. We understand each other, Anonymous. I especially love that you acknowledge Robby’s feeling of being perverted. In my opinion, this feeling would be heightened if we place this scenario within a world where they have a pre-existing caregiver/little relationship that has never previously crossed the boundary into their sex life. 

Once Robby realises that Dennis is regressing after sex, I imagine that he will stop wanting sex. His sex drive hasn’t withered and died; he is intentionally attempting to kill it, even though it is harming his relationship with Dennis. He says he isn’t in the mood for anything tonight. His back hurts. He’s had a long day. Dennis blinks at him, suspecting there is more to the story but being too hesitant to question him.

Here, we may be able to imagine that this also disrupts Dennis’ age regression. How can he regress with a constant cloud of worry hanging over him? How can he regress when he can’t trust Robby? 

Somehow (exactly how, I am too excited to conceive—perhaps because Robby concedes), their sexual relationship resumes. In the aftermath, Dennis regresses. Robby might soften to it this time. He’s missed his boy, after all. His sweetness. He giggles, “Hi, Daddy. M’bones feel nice.” He wriggles a little, rubbing his legs together. He’s still wet there. “That’s good your bones feel nice,” Robby whispers. “Can Daddy clean you up, then we can go to sleep?” Dennis nods. He spreads his legs. 

I imagine that it would be a new element to their overall relationship that would take a while to fully develop and stabilise. For a long time, Robby might feel discomfort about it, but it could conclude with a realisation about caretaking: that having sex with Dennis is tending to his sexual needs, that taking care of Dennis while he is in littlespace is tending to his emotional needs, and that, when these aspects of Dennis intersect, it may be strange but it is still Dennis, who Robby loves to take care of, however he needs it. 

At 8:23AM, St James Street has not woken for the day yet. The quaint residential street, lined with trees and well-kept lawns, is almost silent. Jack enjoys the short walk from his car to his home, relishing the sweet sounds of birds singing. In this part of Pittsburgh, at this hour, the daytime can be nice. However, as he walks up the ramp, a frown grows on his face. Behind the door’s frosted grass, he can see shapes moving. More startling are the sounds coming from inside, growing in volume with each second that passes.

The sounds, muffled behind the door, sharpens as he enters, becoming a familiar noise that makes Jack’s heart clench. Dennis is sitting on the staircase’s bottom steps, dressed in overalls with a striped T-shirt beneath. More notable is what he is not wearing. His socks and sneakers lie haphazardly across the entryway as if they’d been tossed away in an explosive motion. He is also screaming and crying. 

“Welcome home,” Robby groans. He reaches out and collects Dennis’ sneakers, then wearily rises to his feet. He looks on the verge of tears himself. Dennis’ scream stretches out into a high-pitched peak, and Robby’s face pinches. “Our darling babe wants to go to the park but doesn’t seem to understand the necessity of footwear. I have been trying with him for an hour. I am going insane.”

When Jack was in the army, he’d completed a hostage negotiation training course. He’d never had to put those learned steps into practice—not until Dennis. “Go make yourself a coffee,” he tells Robby. “He’ll be ready to leave once you’re done.” 

Robby’s departure makes Dennis cry harder. Jack quickly slots himself beside Dennis on the stairs. He wraps his arm around him and kisses his head. While close, he asks, “What’s going on, buddy? Why are you crying?” Communication is key, but it’s also hard to communicate with a distressed little. That’s why patience is so important. Jack rubs Dennis’ arm comfortingly while he gathers himself to speak. It takes a lot of coughing, some grunting and sniffling, and there are three false starts before he is finally calm enough to answer the question.

“Socks,” he weeps. “Hurty.”

“Socks hurty.” Jack nods in understanding. He reaches out and swipes up the nearest sock, then shushes Dennis when he immediately starts to yell again. “No, no, baby. Papa’s not making you wear them. Papa’s only looking.” With one hand, he continues to rub Dennis’ arm; with the other, he blindly prods inside of the sock, feeling for any foreign object that might be hurting Dennis’ feet. He feels no pebbles nor stray strands of hair, but he does feel an awkward seam where the toes are meant to rest. Bingo.

“Do you want to go to the park, baby?” Dennis nods desperately. Mention of the park makes him cry even more desperately. “Papa can tell. I want you to go to the park. But I also want you to wear shoes so your feet don’t get dirty and sore at the park.” 

At this, Dennis’ hopeful look quickly fades. “No,” he whimpers. “No socks.”

 “No socks. You don’t have to wear socks. You only have to wear shoes. Can you pick out a pair of Crocs to wear to the park?”

Despite speaking slowly and clearly, it takes a few additional moments for Dennis to understand his words. It’s clear when he does, though, because he crawls towards the shoe rack while determinedly mumbling, “No socks. No socks.” From the shoe rack, he picks his Mickey Mouse crocs to wear. “No socks,” he confirms with Jack as he puts them onto his feet—all by himself.

Robby watches from the doorway, his coffee still steaming. Eyeing the porcelain mug, Jack raises his eyebrow and challenges, “Oh, ye of little faith. Go pour that into a travel mug,” he says smugly. Then, taking Dennis’ hands and victoriously raising them into the air, he adds, “And get ready to go to the park.”

“Park!” Dennis squeals in response. It’s equal in volume to his screams but it is a much, much better noise to hear. Jack loves Dennis’ joy, just as much as he loves Robby’s eyerolling and exasperation. 

“Don’t act so smug,” Robby calls while he walks through to the kitchen. “Or if you’re so confident then you can take on bedtime duties.”

“You ready for bed, Denny boy?” With this signal, Dennis springs up from the couch and races to the bathroom. It’s a breathless sprint to complete his bedtime routine, to brush his teeth, to comb his hair, to pick his pyjamas and wrangle them onto his energetic body. “Whoa, whoa, slow down,” Robby laughs. He catches Dennis by the waist, stilling him, and soothes out the nightshirt which had gotten tangled around his aloft arms. When it is successfully pulled down over his head, it reveals Dennis and his big, starry eyes, eager for what is to come—the favourite part of his bedtime routine.

Robby’s eyes flick towards Dennis while he pulls out his phone and opens the FaceTime app. Beneath the bed sheets, his legs are restlessly quivering. Robby doesn’t reprimand him  for the way he eagerly leaps, squealing, “Daddy!”, when the app announces that their call has been answered.

Jack’s voice projects from the phone’s speakers. Robby smiles at how he has the camera held a little too closely to his face, at an awkward low angle. He’s in the ambulance bay, it seems, with one AirPod in his ear. “Hey, there’s my little man,” Jack purrs. “How was your evening?”

“Daddy!” Dennis repeats, giggling. He points at the screen while looking joyously at Robby.

“Yes, that is Daddy. Other Daddy knows it’s Daddy,” he croons. He loves how little Dennis gets before bed, when the day’s tiredness catches up on him and turns him sleepy and silly. Looking at the screen, he tells Jack, “Our evening was good. He got a brownie for eating all his broccoli at dinner. How’re things on your end?”

“Honestly, I needed this distraction,” Jack sighs. His attention is suddenly diverted, and Robby understands why as the scene gradually is flooded by flashing red and blue lights. “Alright, that’s my cue. I gotta go. Kisses, baby.” 

Robby moves his phone closer to Dennis face, and he smiles affectionately at the unabashedly passionate manner in which he blows wet kisses at the screen. Jack sends a quick, subtle kiss to his screen too and quickly says, “Sleep tight. Love you, boys.” 

Robby squeezes in an elongated, “bye,” before Jack hangs up. The phone screen darkens. He lets it fall lifeless onto the sheets. Dennis flops back onto the bed with a happy, breathy sigh. “Daddy,” he says sleepily. The call, the phone had said, had lasted a little under three minutes, but Robby knows by now that any call of any length with Jack is enough of a treat to satiate Dennis and send him swiftly to sleep. He'll probably dream about his daddy. Robby thinks he might too.

Upon reflection, Robby and Jack may have been too casual about the death of Dennis’ father. Jack tells Robby that they can hardly be blamed for their nonchalance: after all, everything they knew about Dennis Whitaker Sr.—as told by Dennis Whitaker Jr.—led them to understand that his death was ultimately a good thing. If not that, it at least had benefits. Now Dennis would no longer receive threatening phone calls at odd hours of the night. He would be freed from flinching each time he heard the clang of a belt buckle. His name would be his own. They realise, with a startling suddenness, that they had approached the loss entirely incorrectly.

He’s not by the roof’s railing, though this confirmation doesn’t fully cure their concern. With some searching, Jack finds him crouched behind an empty dumpster. Its high sides shelter them from the wind, and Dennis is further protected by the elements by the two jackets piled on top of him: Robby’s Carhartt is draped over his knees, while Jack’s field jacket loosely covers his shoulders. His tear-soaked, red face does not shift at all on their approach.

Excluding Robby’s soft grunt involuntarily expelled as he settles on the ground beside him, no one makes a sound. Jack passes Dennis a tissue that he does not accept. Snot dribbles down onto his quivering lips, which do, eventually, form words. "When I was little, when I got upset, I used to leave the farm and run out to the land’s border. I’d camp out there for hours. And, even when he was my reason for getting upset, and even though it made him madder, I always took my dad’s jacket to cover me." He curls his legs closer to himself, then turns to press his cheek to the worn green fabric of Jack’s field jacket. Midway through the motion, something in him shatters, and his sobs begin anew. Merged into the meaningless moans, one warbling word emerges: "Dad."

Like it’s his first time actually being little around anyone and it’s really hard for him to let go and trust them. But he had a really hard day, is mentally worn out, maybe even on the verge of a breakdown, and to rabbot is obvious that he needs this right now. They just want their boy to be safe, coddled and cared for. warm, freshly bathed, fed and in his fluffiest pyjamas with his favorite stuffed animal <33 Thanks, much love!!

There’s something in the hesitance you suggest. There’s something there. 

Dennis had been mortified to tell Robby and Jack about his age regression. He wept until the point of breathlessness before he was even able to stutter the words to them. They were patient, God bless them, but he could see the startled concern on their faces. That made it worse. Confession was hardly cathartic because he’d been made so thoroughly upset by his own mind that he’d almost immediately had to retire to bed to recover from the emotional toll of it all. 

What was even more embarrassing was that—after making such a big deal about it—he didn’t regress for weeks afterwards. He simply couldn’t. It was bizarre and inexplicable and awful, but, even though he saw a hopeful glint in Robby and Jack’s eyes when he neared any vaguely sort of sleepy and comfortable headspace, he was entirely unable to sink into true littlespace. If anything, their eagerness hindered it further. It brought a certain degree of pressure he was unfamiliar with. For the first time, his regression wasn’t something to be hidden at all cost, and his mind had no idea how to function with this new reality.

I do not think the idea bears enough meat to make an entire meal, but because you asked very kindly, Anonymous, I will give you this short piece. 

During Dennis’ week-long admission to PTMC’s regression clinic, there are numerous instances where Robby must fight the urge to go visit him. Dana gently advises that Dennis might benefit from seeing a friendly face, but Robby silently shakes his head in response, fearing that his appearance may trigger Dennis, reminding him of the unfortunate scene that resulted in his forcible regression and perhaps inspiring him to fight it. Visiting him, even just to view him through the glass screen of the nursery, would be selfish, Robby decides.

During the long, gruelling week, he spends his scant free time communicating with social workers, lawyers and the HR department. If Dennis is released from the clinic after this mandatory period, Robby wants him to come into his care. He also wants to ensure that, once Dennis returns to work, he will receive the standardised breaks throughout the workday that all registered littles in the state of Pennsylvania are entitled to. Encouraging Dennis to make use of these breaks will be another battle, but Robby knows it won’t be as hard as initiating the forcible regression. Nothing will ever compare to the agonising guilt he’d felt then. 

Although he repeatedly reminds himself that the forcible regression was initiated in Dennis’ best interest, it’s difficult to truly accept this until he at last sees Dennis again at the end of the week. He’s nervous upon entry to the clinic, but he soon realises that he has nothing to worry about. The staff here have worked their magic, and Dennis has improved immensely. An adoring nurse tells him that, although Dennis had initially struggled, he has since taken wonderfully to his regression, no longer screaming to drown out the educational audios nor spitting out his pills.

The medication, he is told, is necessary to keep Dennis drowsy and pliant. This detail worries Robby somewhat. “Is his regression dependent on the medication?” He worriedly asks the nurse. 

“It’s too early to state anything definitively, but I seriously doubt it,” she responds warmly. “The meds only dull his motor skills and mental capacities; there’s nothing that will impact his mood. He’s genuinely a very happy, very sweet little boy. Would you like to see him?”

Just as Robby had expected, it is a wonderful relief to reunite with him. In the nursery, Dennis is resting in a sterile-looking crib (Robby understands that it must be plain for sanitary reasons but he doesn’t like to see Dennis in such an environment—he won’t be for long, he reminds himself). He is wearing nothing except a plain white diaper. It takes a moment for his wandering eyes to attach to Robby, then for his babyish gurgles to form words, but eventually he manages to mewl, “Ooooobby!” 

It’s an unsettling contrast of elements, Jack thinks. The abandoned eighth floor of the hospital is an austere, unpersonable place, all stiff plastic and rusted metal, but here, in this former observation room, there are traces of softness. He takes his time processing these details: the small stack of incontinence pads on the shelf, the stash of hospital-issue blankets padding the bed’s thin mattress, the PTMC-branded teddy bear on the pillow—still with the security tag fixed to its ear. They are attempts at softness. Not very successful ones, Jack thinks. When his eyes trail across to Whitaker, whose chest is still heaving in fright, it is clear that he also recognises how pitiful the scene is. 

He still tries to excuse it. “I will—on occasion, after a long shift—”

“Shhh,” Jack interrupts. He scrubs his hand over his face, sighing. “Now, I know no one is meant to be squatting here, least of all a little. How am I going to explain this to Robby?”

“To Robby? Wh—H-He doesn’t need to know. Why would Doctor Robby need to know?” Whitaker begins the mad scramble to collect his belongings, swiftly shoving them into a large duffle bag. Jack feels angry at how quickly he manages it, how all of his things fit in one measly, shabby bag.

He doesn’t stop him, though. He just stands with his arms over his chest, looking seriously at the boy. “Well, it would be courteous to give my husband a heads up if we’re taking in a foster. Not that we’ll have the time to set up the nursery, or buy supplies, but I like to keep him in the loop.”

It’s slightly endearing to watch recognition burst across his face. “You and Doctor Robby? I never would have—That’s great. That, and that you foster as well.” He holds his trembling gesture for calm. “Listen, I’ll find a shelter. I’ll never do this again. I promise. Please just don’t—”

“We’re fostering you,” Jack snorts. Taking Whitaker’s bag and slinging it over his shoulder, he nods towards the door. “Now, c’mon. Or do I need to carry you?” It’s a rhetorical question, a sarcastic remark, but he sees how it crashes into Whitaker, how it turns his mind blank and sends his rambling mouth falling open dumbly.