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From the outside, the cabin looked almost normal.
It sat back from the highway down two and a half miles of rutted-out gravel drive, as remote as it could be while still being a twenty-five-minute drive from the nearest small town. The roof was new, slate-gray metal that collected the mid-morning rain, water running through the meticulously kept gutters. The porch was well-tended, two rocking chairs with lumpy, handmade throw pillows giving a homey touch. There was an old Chevy pickup, green and white, parked out front, and next to it, an even older motorcycle, though both were in excellent condition.
If one didn’t know any better, they might guess this was someone’s weekend hunting lodge. Perhaps a retired businessman from nearby Bangor, who came to spend the early morning hours sitting silently in a deer stand down the ridge, and the evenings around the campfire, drinking and reminiscing on days gone by.
But Dennis Whitaker did know better.
The cabin looked almost normal, but Dennis could see what most other people stumbling through the woods would not. There were salt lines on the windowsills, around the foundation. There was a trip wire between two trees near the shed, the doors of which had been padlocked shut. A gun was strapped beneath the table standing between the rocking chairs, within easy reach.
Crude stick figures hung from the rafters at each end of the porch, little bundles fashioned into protective sigils to keep anything ill-intentioned—human or otherwise—away.
To Dennis, the truth was plain as day: hunters lived here.
Standing in the small gravel lot in front of the cabin, his backpack hitched up high on his shoulder and his hair plastered to the back of his neck by the light but steady drizzle, Dennis glanced down at the scrap of paper in his hand again, the ink starting to smear from the rain.
Jack Abbot, the paper read, in Dennis’s own quick chicken scratch, along with a set of coordinates the old hunter in Bangor had given him. There was always a chance the old man had been fucking with him, giving him the wrong coordinates and sending him into a trap—but as soon as Dennis had mentioned the name Jack Abbot and had told the man why he was looking for him, the look he had gotten in return had been one of—trepidation? Fear?
Whatever it had been, Dennis had a feeling the man wasn’t brave—or stupid—enough to intentionally mess with him.
So, the coordinates were probably legitimate. They had led him to some hunter, at least, even if it wasn’t the hunter he wanted. But maybe whoever lived here could point him in the right direction. Somewhere in the vast network of hunters that crisscrossed North America, there had to be someone who knew the whereabouts of the elusive Jack Abbot.
Dennis let out a breath. Hopefully, whoever lived here would let him crash for the night at the very least. He had been walking for hours, days, hitchhiking where he could, but most of this morning had consisted of the trek out here, his starting point a little town that barely showed up on the map, with a population of only about 600. He was tired, he was cold, and his clothes had soaked through ages ago. Even if all they could offer him was a sandwich and a direction in which to go next, it would be better than nothing.
Mind made up, he took a step forward—only for the screen door to bang open, a man stepping out onto the porch. He had a shotgun in his hands, staring confidently down the barrel at Dennis.
“That’s far enough,” he said, his tone a shade of affable that seemed at odds with the ease with which he held the shotgun. “You lost, friend?”
Dennis stared up at him for a moment. He was tall, a little soft around the middle. He had short-cropped brown hair and a beard streaked with gray. Handsome in a way that was rough around the edges, if you liked the gruff, mountain man type. Which Dennis unfortunately did. He also didn’t match the description Dennis’s mother had given him, even when Dennis tried to picture him thirty years younger. This wasn’t Jack. Dennis felt a curious mix of disappointment and relief.
“I’m looking for Jack Abbot,” Dennis said, and he was proud of himself for keeping his voice steady even with a loaded gun pointed at him. Especially then.
The man raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” he asked, as though this were a normal conversation, and not one that could end with Dennis bleeding out on the gravel. “Well, why don’t you tell me why you’re looking for him, and maybe I’ll tell you if I’ve seen him around.”
Dennis squared his shoulders. Tried to look as confident as he could with his soaked, muddy jeans and his damp curls plastered flat to his head.
“I’m his son,” he said.
The barrel of the shotgun lowered a fraction of an inch, the man’s eyes going wide. He stared at Dennis for a moment, and for the first time, Dennis felt like the man was actually seeing him, taking in the details of his face, the line of his shoulders. Whatever he saw must have convinced him, because he called over his shoulder, never taking his eyes from Dennis:
“Jack! Got someone here to see you.”
There was noise from inside the cabin, and then a second man joined the first, stepping out onto the porch with a slightly uneven gait. Even if the first man hadn’t called his name, Dennis would have known, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was Jack Abbot. He matched his mother’s description perfectly—the curls, gone gray where they had once been auburn, shorter than the first man but more muscular, his chest broad, biceps straining the sleeves of his black t-shirt. Dennis could see why his mother had gone against her family, her church, for this man.
A wave of something shameful washed over him, and he pushed that thought deep down into a dark corner of his mind, where it couldn’t distract him.
“That right?” asked Jack. His voice was raspy, pitched so low it almost didn’t carry over the sound of the rain hitting the roof. He glanced from the man holding the shotgun over to Dennis, his gaze calculating. “Well, here I am,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared Dennis down. “What do you want?”
Dennis swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he felt himself wilt a bit beneath the man’s heavy gaze.
“I’m, uh—I’m your son,” he repeated, sounding decidedly less confident than he had the first time.
For a moment Jack said nothing, his eyes boring into Dennis with an intensity that made him squirm, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Only then, when it was clear that Dennis was uncomfortable, did the corner of Jack’s mouth quirk up, and he huffed out a laugh.
“Nice try, kid,” he said. “I don’t know who your daddy is, but it ain’t me. Now, why don’t you run along before my partner here fills you full of buckshot for your trouble, yeah?”
He turned to go back inside, footsteps heavy on the wooden planks of the porch. Dennis felt a flare of panic—he hadn’t come all this way just to be turned away right at the last second, right as he had found the man his mother had told him stories about as a kid.
“Sarah Whitaker!” he cried out, watching as Jack froze, one foot in the door.
He saw Jack and the man with the shotgun exchange a look, and then Jack turned around, coming all the way to the edge of the steps as he glared down at Dennis.
“Come again?”
“Sarah Whitaker,” Dennis repeated, ignoring the lump that formed in his throat as he spoke his mother’s name, the well of emotion that came whenever he thought about her, even after all this time. “Broken Bow, Nebraska. Twenty-six years ago.”
Jack didn’t soften, per se, but the fight went out of him a bit as he let out a breath.
“Yeah, I remember Sarah,” he said, and the look he gave Dennis was full of something Dennis couldn’t quite parse. “You her kid?”
“And yours,” Dennis said, nodding. He had it in writing, a ratty journal stuffed into his backpack that had belonged to his mother, her inelegant, loopy handwriting filling it from cover to cover. Sarah Whitaker, 18 years old. Spring 1999.
The two men on the porch shared another look; Dennis got the distinct impression that they were communicating entirely without words, the way longterm partners—or married couples—tended to do. Jack looked away first, huffing out another breath like he’d somehow been on the losing end of that silent conversation.
“Get inside,” he said to Dennis, jerking his head towards the door. “You look like a drowned rat.”
He turned without waiting for Dennis and went back inside, the screen door slamming behind him. The other man watched him go, and then turned back to Dennis with an embarrassed smile, the shotgun pointed towards the ground.
“Come on, he doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” he said, nodding for Dennis to come closer. Dennis took an apprehensive step forward—was it too late to take off running down the gravel path back towards the highway? How good of a shot was this guy?
As Dennis stepped up onto the porch, the man gave him a more genuine smile this time. His eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that Dennis would have found endearing were he not suddenly overcome with anxiety.
“I’m Robby,” the man introduced himself, holding out a hand. His grip was firm, hand warm where it enveloped Dennis’s completely.
“Dennis.”
“Well, Dennis.” Robby’s gaze swept over him. Dennis shivered, telling himself it was because of the damp and the cold, and not because he felt like Robby was assessing him somehow. “Let’s get you some dry clothes.”
+++
The inside of the cabin, much like the outside, had the appearance of a standard weekend hunting getaway. Rustic furniture, antlers mounted on the wall—it was only when one looked closer that one noticed the antlers looked slightly wrong, like they had belonged to something that was almost a deer but not quite, or that the quilt thrown over the back of the worn-in sofa had sigils sewn into the pattern.
Dennis might not have recognized these things, either, if those same sigils hadn’t been scribbled into his mother’s journal in the margins of almost every page. If she hadn’t drilled their meaning into him from the time he could talk.
He watched Robby set the shotgun in the corner next to the door, a notch worn into the wall where it rested that said the shotgun had been rested in that exact same spot many times over the years. Robby gestured for Dennis to follow without looking back at him—and he did, because he really had no other option. Robby led him through the kitchen, a large, solid oak table taking up most of the middle of the room, and then into a mud room off the kitchen that looked like it had been added to the cabin as an afterthought.
Instead of the dark, oil-treated log walls of the main cabin, the walls of the mudroom were plaster, the floor linoleum instead of smooth wooden planks. An old washer and dryer set squatted along one wall; on the opposite wall was a low bench and a pile of work boots, leather worn and cracked and their soles caked with mud. Two coats of heavy canvas and warm fleece lining hung by the door—one tan, the other army green.
“You can change here,” Robby told him, nodding at the dryer. “Go ahead and throw your clothes in; I’ll get you something to wear.”
“Thank you,” Dennis said, hugging himself self-consciously. There was a puddle forming underneath him where he was dripping onto the linoleum.
Robby disappeared back into the main cabin, leaving Dennis alone. Somehow, he didn’t think it mattered. The skin between his shoulder blades itched like he was being watched, like the cabin itself was keeping its eye on him. When Robby returned, he had a stack of clothes and a towel, which Dennis took gratefully, rubbing it over his curls until they were damp but not dripping. His wet clothes went next, tossed into the dryer.
Standing there in just his boxers, Dennis felt a blush rising on his skin—which he chalked up to the change in temperature now that he was no longer actively wet and shivering.
“Could you, uh…?” he asked, making a turning motion with his finger.
Robby chuckled, giving him an amused look.
“I’m not gonna turn my back on you, kid,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “But I won’t look, if it makes you feel better.”
It didn’t, but Dennis wasn’t really in a position to argue.
Hunching in on himself, trying his best to hide what he could while standing in the middle of an open room—though Robby did keep his word and shift his gaze towards the matching coats hanging on the wall—Dennis quickly removed his damp boxers and kicked them aside, reaching for the pile of clothes Robby had brought him. There was a pair of sweatpants that felt wonderful against Dennis’s chilled skin, and an old t-shirt with a faded graphic of some band Dennis had never heard of. Both items were too large for his lean frame—he had to roll the waistband of the sweatpants down a couple of times to get them to stay on his hips, and the shirt hung off him like a dress—but at least they were dry.
Dennis cleared his throat. “I’m done,” he announced, giving Robby a grateful smile when he shifted his gaze back to Dennis. “Thank you,” he added, gesturing to himself.
“No problem.” Robby let his eyes roam over Dennis again, giving him that same assessing look from earlier. The one that made goosebumps prickle on Dennis’s skin that he could not blame on the chill this time. “Had to raid Jack’s side of the closet. Figured anything of mine would be way too big on a scrawny thing like you.”
Dennis stilled. He had a brief, unwanted vision of himself in Robby’s clothes—the dark green flannel he was wearing right now, buttoned around Dennis with nothing underneath—and then the rest of what Robby had said caught up to him. Jack’s side of the closet. He was wearing Jack’s clothes. The vision shifted; instead of himself, Dennis pictured Jack wearing these same items. He probably filled out the shirt nicely, the soft, worn fabric stretching across his broad chest, and the sweatpants would hang off his hips just right, clinging to his muscular thighs and showing the outline of his—
Dennis’s stomach lurched, and he wrenched himself violently away from that thought before it could take hold.
“‘M not that scrawny,” he muttered, because he had to say something, had to put as much distance between himself and the thoughts in his head as he could before they put down roots and took him over completely.
The look Robby gave him was silently admonishing, Dennis blushing under the scrutiny as Robby’s gaze swept over him again, at the way Jack’s clothes hung off him.
“When’s the last time you had a decent meal?” he asked.
Dennis shrugged. The last time he’d eaten had been yesterday morning at a little roadside diner on his way out of Bangor, but he wouldn’t exactly call that meal decent. Greasy hashbrowns and sausage that had needed a few more minutes on the griddle, but he’d scarfed it down anyway, because before that it had been scraps dug out of a dumpster behind an Italian restaurant, and before that, gas station hot dogs given in exchange for Dennis getting on his knees in a dirty bathroom stall.
He gave his head a little shake at the memory. It hadn’t been the first time, and if things didn’t work out here—if Jack and Robby turned him away, his last-ditch attempt at a family—then it probably wouldn’t be the last.
Realizing he wasn’t going to get an actual answer out of Dennis, Robby sighed, his posture relaxing somewhat.
“Kitchen,” he said, nodding back over his shoulder. “You can help me fix lunch.”
Dennis blinked in surprise, not moving at first, but another look from Robby had his body jolting into action before his mind could catch up. He padded past Robby back into the kitchen, his bare feet quietly slapping against the linoleum.
The kitchen was small and homey and looked like it had been designed to fit the rest of the cabin. Thick butcher block counters sat over open shelving. The appliances were old but well-cared for, all rounded edges and chrome detailing. An old-timey wood stove sat in the corner of the room, but the focal point was the large dining table, its study oak frame taking up most of the floor space. It looked like it could host a whole family, the sort of table people gathered around on holidays, the surface laden with casserole dishes and pitchers of sweet tea.
A sudden pang of homesickness hit Dennis square in the chest, so hard he almost doubled over with the force of it. Homesickness was a ridiculous thing for him to feel, considering he had never really had a home. His mother had never allowed them to stay in one place long enough to put down any sort of roots anywhere. Maybe it wasn’t so much homesickness as the nostalgia for a home he’d never had—the idea of the home and the family he had always wanted.
Oblivious to Dennis’s inner turmoil, Robby moved across the room and went to the refrigerator, pulling out several containers—sandwich meats, cheese, pickles, condiments—and laying them out on the counter before opening a bread box on the counter and grabbing two different loaves, one light and the other dark.
“You like sandwiches?” he asked over his shoulder. Dennis blinked.
“Who doesn’t?” he answered, to which Robby let out a little chuckle.
Looking over his shoulder, he waved at the array on the counter. “We’ve got turkey, sliced chicken, corned beef—there’s a decent kosher butcher about an hour from here, we get all our meat from them.”
“Kosher,” Dennis repeated, creeping closer. “You’re Jewish?”
He didn’t know why that surprised him, except that he had assumed all hunters would be ambivalent towards religion at best, knowing what they knew about the world. But then, his own mother had remained devout her entire life.
“Yes,” Robby answered, and offered no more than that.
Despite his still affable exterior, there was a note of…something in his voice. Defensiveness, maybe. He sounded like a man who was used to a certain reaction, or at the very least a certain line of questioning. Dennis made a note of it, and didn’t ask anything else.
Instead, he stepped up next to Robby at the counter as he busied himself preparing lunch, watching curiously. The first sandwich was simple: turkey and mayo on sourdough, with a thick slice of sharp cheddar, lettuce, and tomato. Dennis had a feeling it was Jack’s, and he was proven right when Robby moved on to the next: corned beef and sauerkraut on rye with spicy brown mustard and a pickle spear on the side.
“Go ahead and make yours however you want,” Robby told him, nodding at the counter.
Dennis hesitated, and then reached for the sourdough loaf, making himself a turkey and cheese sandwich, no lettuce or tomato, with Robby’s mustard instead of mayo. Next to him, Robby huffed in amusement, and Dennis blushed, realizing he’d inadvertently made himself a mix of their sandwiches.
“It’s like you really are our kid,” Robby muttered to himself, shaking his head.
The comment had Dennis chewing his bottom lip, looking over at Robby curiously. He hadn’t wanted to assume—everyone he had talked to had said Jack had a “partner,” but no one had ever specified what kind. A romantic partner? A hunting partner? Looking around the cabin, though, or watching Robby prepare Jack’s lunch as though he had done so a thousand times before, it was pretty easy to see that their partnership was more than just platonic. Still, he felt he had to ask, to be sure.
“Are you and my d—Jack,” he corrected with a slight grimace. “Are you and Jack, you know…together?”
Robby glanced over at him, one brow arched.
“We’re partners,” he said, as though that word encompassed the entirety of what he and Jack were to each other, and then, before Dennis could respond, Robby added, “Jack’s out in the workshop. Why don’t you go tell him lunch is ready?”
At Dennis’s blank look, he chuckled. “Just go out through the mud room, you can’t miss it.”
Dennis nodded, even as the thought of seeing Jack again made his stomach twist into knots. He left the kitchen and returned to the mudroom, his clothes rumbling in the dryer, and hesitated, realizing that he was barefoot.
“Take the boots!” Robby called from the kitchen. Dennis took the pair that looked slightly smaller, trying not to think about the fact that they were probably Jack’s to go with the rest of his clothes, shoving his feet into them as he stepped out the back door.
Robby had been right; the workshop was easy to spot. The squat metal building was only a few yards from the house, the garage door lifted so that he could see inside. Light from bare fluorescent bulbs flooded the space, easily illuminating the interior. A workbench sat along one wall, underneath a peg board holding an array of both tools and weapons. There was an old truck, even older than the one parked out front, with its hood raised in the bay, and he could see Jack bent down over the engine, one of those tall toolboxes next to him with the tray open where he could reach for whatever he needed, like a doctor performing surgery.
It was still raining outside. Dennis hugged himself, his boots sloshing in the mud as he hurried to the workshop. Between the rain pelting the metal roof and the hidden radio playing staticky classic rock from somewhere in the building, Dennis wasn’t sure Jack had heard him approach. He stepped onto the rubber flooring of the shop and cleared his throat.
“Uhm…Jack?”
Jack stilled briefly before resuming his work, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his shirt. “What?”
Dennis frowned. It wasn’t like he had been expecting an outpouring of fatherly warmth or anything, but he hadn’t expected Jack to hate him on sight, either, and yet that was what it was starting to feel like.
“Robby, um—” god, what was it about this man that made Dennis a stammering, incoherent mess “—Robby told me to tell you that lunch is, uh, ready.”
Jack straightened and turned to face Dennis, grabbing an old rag to wipe the grease from his hands as he stared Dennis down. Dennis hugged himself tighter, feeling his shoulders hunch as though to make himself smaller beneath Jack’s gaze. He looked everywhere but at Jack’s face, which is why he didn’t notice Jack move forward until he was right in front of him.
“You look just like her, don’t you?” he asked, and Dennis gasped, stumbling back a step. Jack was close enough that Dennis could count the freckles on his skin, see the days’ worth of gray stubble along his jaw. His voice was raspy and low, and Dennis felt that feeling in his gut again, that hot, twisting desire that made his stomach roll with nausea.
Jack leaned in closer. Dennis held his breath, staring into Jack’s hazel eyes as they roamed over his face.
“Got my eyes, though,” Jack murmured, and then without another word, he stepped around Dennis and started for the house, leaving Dennis staring after him, his heart hammering against his ribs.
+++
There must have been a time, perhaps when Dennis was small, that he sat down at the table to eat a meal with his family—his mother, his grandparents, and the uncles he’d never met but that his mother had told him stories about—but if there was, he couldn’t remember it. All he could remember was meals on the road: eating greasy fast food when there was money to spare, or junk food from the snack machine spread out on a motel bed when there wasn’t.
This, right now, sitting at the heavy oak table with Robby and Jack, was the closest Dennis had ever come to eating a family meal.
It was awkward as hell.
Jack sat at the head of the table, which wasn’t surprising; Robby at his right side, and Dennis at his left. He tore into his turkey sandwich the way a wolf might tear into a real turkey, all aggression and sharp teeth. Robby was calmer, which seemed to be their dynamic in general—Jack, a barely-contained, feral thing, and Robby the only thing standing between him and the rest of the world. Dennis wondered where he might fit in. If he would ever fit in.
Lost in thought, he didn’t realize Robby had spoken to him until he looked up and saw the man watching him with barely hidden amusement.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I asked if your food was good,” Robby repeated, nodding at Dennis’s plate and the half-eaten sandwich he’d been neglecting.
“Oh! Yes,” Dennis nodded, hurrying to take another bite, not wanting to disappoint Robby. “Thank you. I really appreciate—”
“Why are you here, kid?” Jack interrupted. Dennis’s mouth snapped shut.
“Jack,” Robby admonished, but Jack ignored him, those hazel eyes once more boring into Dennis, like if he looked hard enough, he could read Dennis’s mind.
“Did Sarah send you?” he pressed.
The food in Dennis’s mouth turned to ash, and he forced himself to swallow, his throat already tightening with the well of emotion that came with thoughts of his mother. He felt a surge of anger at Jack—he knew it wasn’t Jack’s fault, and that he didn’t know, couldn’t know, what Dennis had been through, but that didn’t make him any less angry—and for the first time, he was able to look Jack in the eye without fear.
“No,” he said, the word flat in its delivery. He felt his eyes start to sting, and he blinked, some of the anger draining out of him. “My mom…” he continued, voice a bit softer. “She…died. Six months ago.”
A brief silence settled over the table, and then Robby made a soft sound.
“We’re sorry to hear that, Dennis.”
Jack grunted in agreement or acknowledgement, Dennis wasn’t sure which, and then asked bluntly, “How did she die?”
Dennis had only just met the man, but he knew enough to know what Jack was really asking: if the thing that he had saved her from all those years ago had come back to finish the job.
“Lung cancer,” Dennis answered. “A perfectly mundane—” painful, horrific “—death.”
Jack frowned, but then nodded, accepting the fact that Sarah’s death had been entirely natural, and not a ripple effect of whatever had happened in Broken Bow twenty-six years ago.
Sarah had never talked much about the circumstances surrounding what had happened to her. How she had met Jack. Just that he had saved her from something horrible, something evil, and in the morning, he’d been gone—no goodbye, not even a note. Only a pregnancy she wouldn’t discover for almost two months. But Dennis had read her journals so many times that some of the pages were starting to fall out, and though her descriptions were deliberately vague, he had his theories.
Of course, his mother wasn’t around to ask anymore, but there was someone else who had been there that night, who knew what had happened back then.
“That…thing…you saved my mom from,” he started, looking between Jack and Robby. “I read her journal. It was a werewolf, wasn’t it?”
“You could call it that, yes,” Robby said, as Jack snorted. “It’s the thing the old legends were based on, anyway.”
“Forget all that Hollywood bullshit,” Jack said. “They were never human, the full moon doesn’t mean shit, and a bullet between the eyes will take ‘em down whether it’s made of silver or not. But they’re fast, ugly as hell, and pure evil.”
He leaned towards Dennis, voice a low growl as he continued: “All that running, and your mother didn’t even bother to teach you what you were running from?”
The anger flared again, but Dennis was grateful for it, as it distracted from the twist in his gut at the low, gravelly rasp of Jack’s voice.
“She did her best,” he said, not about to let this man besmirch his mother’s memory. “She might not have taught me about—werewolves, or whatever, but she taught me how to stay alive.”
Dennis and Jack stared at each other for a moment, neither of them willing to back down, until Robby cleared his throat and reached across the table, laying a large, warm hand on Dennis’s wrist. He tore his gaze away from Jack and glanced down at Robby’s hand, feeling another pang of something hot in his gut at how small and delicate his wrist looked in Robby’s grip.
“I’m sure she did the best she could, Dennis,” Robby said, giving his wrist a single squeeze before he pulled away.
Jack scoffed, but he didn’t argue. Dennis said nothing, still staring down at his wrist, feeling the phantom warmth of Robby’s hand and unable to stop the vision of Robby’s hand on him again, gripping both his wrists in his much stronger grip, holding Dennis down while he—
“So, your mother passed, and you decided to find Jack?” Robby prompted, snapping Dennis out of his thoughts.
“Um! Y-Yes,” Dennis said, clearing his throat, his cheeks burning as he pushed the images from his mind. “Well, my mom always told me stories, um, about what happened in Broken Bow. Vague stories!” he rushed to add when Robby raised an eyebrow, as though he thought Sarah had been recounting how Dennis had been conceived or something. “But she always told me about my dad—” he snuck a glance at Jack, but the man was scowling down at his plate in silence “—and how he saved her. But she, um…she never mentioned you,” he admitted, grimacing slightly at Robby. He’d heard the story enough times; he would have remembered if his mother had ever mentioned a second hunter.
“Ah.” Robby spared a glance at Jack, and Dennis noted that for the first time the man looked…uncomfortable. Robby turned back to Dennis with a tight smile.
“Jack and I were…separated. During that time,” he explained, voice strained. “He went to Broken Bow on his own.”
“If I recall, you left me at the state line,” Jack grumbled. Robby shot him a look.
“You were being an ass.”
“You hopped on your bike and left in the middle of the night.”
Dennis sat back, feeling a bit queasy at their bickering. He had just assumed—foolishly, probably—that Robby and Jack had met and gotten together sometime after Jack had been with Dennis’s mother. It had never occurred to him that they might have known each other before, that they might have been together before. So that made Jack, what? A cheater? And his mom…
“So my mom was a homewrecker,” he said, huffing out a disbelieving breath. “And I’m…”
“A mistake,” Jack said, Robby hissing, “Jesus, Jack!” under his breath as Dennis blinked in shock.
“A mistake,” he said, voice flat. “Right.”
Well, at least he no longer had to wonder what Jack’s feelings were on the matter. He didn’t think it could get much clearer than that.
“I—I shouldn’t have come here,” Dennis muttered, throat working against the emotion beginning to well up. He absolutely was not going to cry in front of Jack Abbot, that was for damn certain. “This, this whole thing, was a mistake. I should—”
He moved to stand before belatedly remembering that he was still barefoot and wearing Jack’s clothes. He ended up hovering awkwardly, half-in and half-out of his chair, feeling like he might throw up all over the shiny, patinated wood of the table. His stomach was a boiling mix of humiliation, shame, and fear. This had been his last hope, his last shot at something even resembling a family. If Jack didn’t want him here, he didn’t know what he would do.
“Hey, Dennis, wait,” Robby said, reaching for his wrist again and all but tugging Dennis back down into his seat. “Just—sit for a second, okay?”
Dennis did as he was told, only because he really didn’t have another choice. What did it matter if they kicked him out now, or an hour from now? Either way, he wasn’t staying, that much was clear to him.
“What was your plan?” Robby asked him, his voice low and soothing, the way one might talk to a skittish animal. “If this didn’t work out.”
“Um.” Dennis took a breath, his chest heaving. He could feel the panic starting to set in, his anxiety rising. He tried to stay above it, to not let himself spiral out of control. “I—just keep wandering, I guess? Do odd jobs where I can.” Do other things he didn’t want to let himself think about when the jobs dried up.
“You can’t go back to Broken Bow?” Robby pressed.
Dennis shook his head, the thought almost as panic-inducing as the thought of leaving this cabin.
“N-No,” he said. “I was little when we left. I don’t remember anything about it. I don’t know anything about her—our family.”
He could only imagine trying to integrate back into rural Nebraskan farm life with what remained of his mother’s family, people he had never met and who had no clue about the things he had seen, the things he had done to survive. No, that was not the life he wanted. It wasn’t the life his mother had prepared him for.
No, Dennis couldn’t go back there. He didn’t even know what he would be going back to if he did. Instead, he would just keep going on like his mother had taught him, because that was all he knew. He would forget the stories about his father, forget about Jack and Robby altogether, let them go on with their lives without reopening the wound in their relationship that may have scabbed over but had obviously never healed completely—
“Hey,” Robby said again, voice low and gentle. Dennis flinched at the sound, turning wide, frantic eyes towards him. “It’s okay. We’re not going to turn you out.”
Jack made a noise, and Robby hushed him with a look. “Stay here tonight,” he continued, “get some rest, and we’ll discuss next steps in the morning, alright?”
Dennis looked from Robby, watching him with a wary but hopeful expression on his face, to Jack. Jack’s expression was harder, but there was something in his eyes—Dennis’s eyes, as he’d pointed out—that Dennis couldn’t read.
Running a hand through his curls, also so much like Jack’s, Dennis let out a shaky breath, some of his anxiety draining away.
“Okay,” he said after a moment, nodding. “Okay. Thank you.”
It wasn’t the outcome he had wanted, but at least there would be a roof over his head tonight. And in the morning, if they decided they didn’t want him to stay…well. He would cross that bridge when he came to it.
+++
The rest of the afternoon passed in a strange sort of suspended quiet. Jack disappeared back to the workshop immediately after lunch, and, after a brief tour of the rest of the cabin—besides the living area, kitchen, and mudroom, there was a bathroom and two bedrooms, one of which Robby had identified as his and Jack’s room—Robby left Dennis mostly to himself, checking in once to see if he wanted the TV on before leaving to do whatever it was hunters did in their spare time. Dennis didn’t ask.
Instead, he spent most of that time curled up on one end of the couch, watching the rain start up again and trying not to think too hard about anything at all.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but eventually the damp gray of the afternoon faded into the hazy blue of early evening. Dinner was leftover stew, reheated on the stove without much ceremony. Jack didn’t come in until it was already on the table, ate in silence, and was back out the door before either Robby or Dennis had even finished eating.
Dennis stared down at his own half-eaten bowl, spoon scraping the bottom, no longer hungry.
By the time Robby walked him back to the spare room, Dennis could feel the exhaustion of the last several days catching up to him. Hitchhiking, hustling for money or food, catnapping at truck stops with one eye open—he’d been running on pure adrenaline since he hit the Pennsylvania state line.
His clothes had long since finished drying by that point, and he was used to sleeping in his jeans, but when he tried to give Jack’s things back to Robby, Robby just waved him off.
“Keep that stuff to sleep in if you want,” he said. “Jack won’t miss them.”
Dennis looked down at the shirt and sweatpants hanging off his frame and felt that same surge of something hot and shameful in his gut at the thought of actually sleeping in Jack’s clothes.
Shoving those feelings back into the dark where they belonged, Dennis glanced around the room that would be his for the night. It looked like a typical cabin bedroom, small and cozy. There was a bed in one corner with an iron frame and another of the sigil-stitched quilts like Dennis had seen on the sofa. Dennis’s backpack was already on the bed, unzipped. He glanced at Robby.
“Had to make sure you weren’t coming in here armed,” Robby said with a shrug.
That made sense, Dennis thought, even if the violation of it made the skin between his shoulders itch. Not that there was much snooping to be done; the only things he had to his name outside the clothes on his back were his mother’s journal and the pocketknife she’d given him for his sixteenth birthday—a knife he now watched Robby take out of his pocket, twirling it in his hand.
“I’m going to give this back to you,” he said, holding the knife up. “With the caveat that if you use it on me, Jack will shoot you. Understand?”
Swallowing, Dennis nodded, and Robby tossed the pocketknife to him. For a moment, Dennis did imagine what would happen if he used it—how far he would get before Jack found out what had happened, how quickly he would find Dennis after—but felt guilty almost immediately. Sarah had given him the knife for protection, yes, but Robby had been kind to him so far. Kinder than he should have been, all things considered, and far kinder than Dennis was used to.
“There are extra blankets in the chest at the end of the bed if you get cold,” Robby continued, nodding toward it, the words casual, as though they hadn’t followed a direct threat on Dennis’s life. “The window sticks a little, but it opens if you want air. I’d crack it—gets stuffy in here otherwise.”
“Okay.” Dennis hovered near the bed, unsure of what to do with himself. He gripped the pocketknife in his hand, turning it over in his palm in a self-soothing gesture he’d picked up over the years.
Robby lingered in the doorway for a moment, and for the first time since Dennis had arrived, some of the easy confidence that Robby had carried for most of the day seemed to drain from him, leaving him looking almost lost. Like he was trying to work out if he wanted to say something or leave it alone.
“For what it’s worth,” he finally said, leaning against the doorjamb. “I know today probably wasn’t…” He trailed off, shaking his head as he let out a breath. “I know you probably imagined it going differently, finally meeting your dad.”
Dennis huffed something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “It’s fine,” he said. It was his fault, really, for building up Jack as some mythic figure in his mind. The disappointment that Jack was just a man—human, emotionally stunted—was on him.
“It’s not,” Robby said, gently enough that it didn’t feel like an argument. “But it’s the best we can do tonight. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”
He pushed himself away from the door frame, but then paused, looking back at Dennis with an expression he couldn’t quite discern.
“He’s not a bad man,” Robby said, and Dennis had to fight not to scoff. “He’s got thick armor, but underneath that, he’s…”
“Soft and gooey?” Dennis couldn’t help the sarcasm. Robby gave him a reproachful look, and the expression was so—so fatherly that it made Dennis’s breath catch. It felt like Robby was disappointed in him, and for some reason, that made Dennis’s gut twist anxiously.
“Worth it,” Robby said, with the conviction of a man who believed absolutely in what he was saying. “Trust me—took me a while to see it myself. You’re not going to get there in an afternoon.”
Dennis didn’t know what to do with that, so he just nodded, his throat suddenly tight.
Robby seemed to take the nod for what it was. He patted the doorjamb once, and then pushed away from it for good.
“Holler if you need anything,” he said, stepping back into the hallway. “There are extra towels in the hall closet if you want to take a shower. Takes it a minute to warm up—old pipes—but don’t let it fool you into thinking it’s broken.”
“Okay,” Dennis managed around the lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he added after a moment. “For, um. You know. Everything.”
Robby gave him a small, almost sad smile. A smile that for the first time since Dennis had met the man wasn’t trying to be anything other than it was: an apology, an acknowledgement, avoiding promises of the future because there was no guarantee that Dennis would still be here this time tomorrow. Dennis appreciated the honesty in it if nothing else.
With a nod, Robby left, pulling the door closed behind him—only he left it cracked a couple of inches, perhaps out of some instinct that Dennis didn’t want to examine too closely.
For the first time since he had arrived at the cabin, Dennis was well and truly alone. He could hear Robby moving around in the kitchen, and if he looked out the single window of his temporary room, he could see the light on in the workshop still, Jack’s silhouette dark against the fluorescent glow.
With a sigh, Dennis sat down on the bed and reached for his opened backpack. He slipped his knife back into its regular pocket first, and then grabbed his mother’s journal, left undisturbed at the bottom of the bag beneath his worn-out thrift store coat and extra pairs of socks and underwear.
At least Robby had afforded him some privacy, he thought, as he removed the journal.
The worn cover was familiar beneath his fingertips, the pages yellowed and warped with two decades of handling, spilled drinks, rain, cigarette ash. The spine was cracked in such a way that the book fell open automatically on his lap to the entry where his mother had described meeting Jack for the first time. He’d read those words so many times that he could recite them by heart now, the scene playing out in his head like a movie: Sarah being stalked through the cornfields of her family’s farm by some unnamed, unnatural thing. Running into Jack, brash and handsome and too flirty for his own good.
Now, with his newfound knowledge of why Jack had ended up in Broken Bow, alone, Dennis couldn’t help but wonder if the scene so lovingly written out by his mother in her journal had actually happened as penned, or if there had been some…embellishment on her part.
To a young, inexperienced girl from rural Nebraska, Jack might very well have seemed flirty, and surely the possibility of him being gay or bi or whatever he was wouldn’t have crossed Sarah’s mind at the time, but now Dennis wasn’t sure how much of what she had described between herself and Jack had been real, and how much of it had been wishful thinking by a young girl with an—admittedly understandable—crush on the man who had saved her life?
Dennis didn’t know Jack, but he knew his mother. He was sure Sarah wouldn’t have done anything with Jack if she had known he had a partner.
“I think you would have liked Robby,” he muttered to himself, fingertips brushing the brittle pages. “He seems kind. Jack…” Dennis paused and let out a slow breath. “I don’t think he’s the man you met back then. I don’t know if he ever was.”
He traced his mother’s handwriting for a moment, waiting for… he wasn’t sure what. Some sign that she was still with him, maybe. But there was nothing, no sound except for the soft patter of rain on the metal roof, and Robby milling around in the kitchen.
With a sigh, Dennis returned the journal to his backpack, and then stood in a sudden bout of restlessness. He was tired, yes, but almost too tired to sleep, afraid that the moment his head hit the pillow he would be wide awake. He’d always been a light sleeper, especially in unfamiliar places.
He took a turn around the room, cataloguing the details he’d only half-noted when he first walked in. The worn rug underfoot. The quilt with its sewn protections. An unbroken line of salt on the windowsill. There was nothing in the chest at the foot of the bed but extra blankets, just like Robby had said. It was a perfectly ordinary room, but the lack of any homey touches like the rest of the cabin, and the warning from Robby, made it feel more like a prison cell.
Wandering back to the window, Dennis leaned against it, careful not to disturb the salt as he stared out at the workshop in the distance, Jack still working on whatever he was doing to avoid coming back into the house. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, but eventually the light in the workshop went out, plunging the yard into darkness. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and after a moment he could see Jack leaving the workshop, pulling down the garage door and locking everything up for the night. He trekked across the muddy ground with the same uneven gait as before, making Dennis wonder idly if Jack had been injured at some point in the past.
The thought disturbed him, and he realized it was because he had built up Jack so much in his mind that the idea of something hurting him—of a hunt going bad, or even a mundane accident—seemed almost unnatural. He was supposed to be invincible, but of course he wasn’t. Nobody was.
A few yards from the house, Jack stopped. Dennis held his breath, waiting, watching as Jack stared up at the cabin. He wondered what Jack was thinking about. It was too dark to make out the expression on Jack’s face, but then he turned his head, looking directly at the window where Dennis was standing.
Gasping, Dennis stepped aside, flattening himself against the wall. Had Jack seen him? Of course he saw you, he told himself, don’t be stupid. He could feel himself flush with embarrassment at the idea of Jack catching him staring. Embarrassment, and something far worse, something blooming warm in his gut at the idea of Jack knowing Dennis was watching him.
Slowly, he crept back to the window, fingers curling around the frame as he peeked outside. Jack was still standing there, but to Dennis’s relief he wasn’t looking towards the window anymore. Still, he stayed hidden, watching until the tense line of Jack’s shoulders finally relaxed and he made his way into the house.
Dennis heard the door open, heard Jack and Robby’s muffled voices through the wall, and then the sound of their heavy footsteps as they retreated to their bedroom, just across the hall.
Knowing that he, too, needed to rest, especially if Jack and Robby were going to send him on his way in the morning, Dennis settled back on the bed, his fingers brushing the embroidered sigils of the quilt before crawling underneath it. He closed his eyes, feeling the exhaustion of the past few weeks—the past few months, really—pulling him under, and for a blissful moment, he felt himself drift off—
—only to jolt awake a few seconds later as the cabin settled.
Staring up at the ceiling, Dennis let out a breath. It was going to be a long night.
+++
Dennis was still awake.
His eyelids were heavy, but every time he closed them and made another attempt at sleep, something in the cabin would creak, or he would hear faint voices coming from the bedroom across the hall, and he would find himself yanked back from the edge of sleep once again.
With a frustrated sigh, he sat up, swinging his feet over the edge of the mattress. The wood floor was cold to the touch, and he shivered at the feeling of it against his bare feet. He stared at the door, still cracked like Robby had left it, and thought back to Robby’s warning from earlier.
Technically, he had only said that Jack would shoot him if he tried to do anything to Robby—not even to Jack himself, he realized. Just Robby. And he hadn’t said anything about Dennis not being able to leave the room.
Dennis slowly got to his feet and crept across the room, holding his breath as he pushed the door open. It swung out silently, and with a relieved sigh, he stepped out into the hallway, his bare feet making hardly a sound. Across the hall, Jack and Robby’s door was cracked, too, a sliver of light spilling out into the hall. Dennis side-stepped it carefully, eyes trained on the door, waiting for one of them to open it and discover him—but the door remained closed, and Dennis had almost made it to the end of the hallway with a straight shot to the kitchen when he heard his name.
He whipped his head back towards the bedroom, his heart in his throat, but the door hadn’t moved. Neither Robby nor Jack were in the hallway with him. They were still in the bedroom. Talking about him.
Stop, Dennis told himself, even as he took a step back towards the room. Don’t listen to them. Just keep going.
He had never been good about taking his own advice.
Moving to stand against the wall, he crept back towards Jack and Robby’s room, stopping just shy of the crack in the door, his pulse jackrabbiting in his throat. Jack was in the middle of speaking.
“—not some stray you can just feed scraps until he loves you, Mike.”
“I know that, Jack,” Robby snapped. “But you can’t seriously sit there and tell me you’re okay with letting him leave.”
Dennis held his breath. He shouldn’t be listening to this. He should go back to his room now, before Jack answered, because if he said he wanted Dennis to leave—if he didn’t want him here—then he didn’t know what he would do. Leave immediately, probably; gather up his things and abscond into the night without saying goodbye. If his own father didn’t want him, then—
“Course I’m not,” Jack said gruffly, voice low and full of gravel. “I just don’t want you getting hurt when he does.”
Several emotions cycled through Dennis at once. First, indignation at the suggestion that he would purposely hurt Robby. Robby had been nothing but kind to him—guarded, sure; wary the way Dennis would expect any hunter to be—since he had arrived. Robby was…well. Robby had acted like more of a father to him than Jack had so far. No, he wouldn’t do anything to deliberately hurt Robby. Following closely behind the indignation, though, was a sense of hopeful elation. Jack…didn’t want him to leave? And he’d said it like it was obvious. Of course he didn’t feel good about letting Dennis leave.
The tone in the room changed, got warmer. The floor creaked, and Dennis imagined Robby stepping forward into Jack’s space.
“He has nowhere else to go,” he said. “He doesn’t know any other family.”
Another creak. This time it sounded like the mattress.
“He doesn’t know us, either,” Jack said. It didn’t sound like an argument. It sounded like—regret.
“He will,” Robby said. “He’s ours, Jack. I want him here.”
Dennis blinked, his eyes stinging suddenly, and he let out a quiet, shaky breath. Robby wanted him. Robby wanted him, and Jack hadn’t said no. Jack wasn’t going to send him away. No one had ever…had ever fought for him like that before, and the swell of gratitude he felt towards Robby made him almost lightheaded. It overshadowed the other feeling, the one that settled low in his belly at the word ours. With one word, Robby had claimed him as belonging to them, and that—the thought of being theirs—sent a heady rush through him.
Theirs. Jack and Robby’s. A place to lay his head that wasn’t a lumpy motel mattress or the backseat of his mother’s beat-up Corolla. It almost seemed too good to be true.
Dennis stayed pressed against the wall, his throat tight, trying not to break down in the middle of the hallway and alert them to the fact that he had been eavesdropping on them, but before he could deem whether it was safe to creep back to his bedroom, the sounds coming from inside Jack and Robby’s room—shifted.
His eyes widened as he heard the unmistakable sound of skin against skin, muffled moans and bitten-off sighs. Jack and Robby were… and Dennis was trapped. He would have to pass their door to get back to his room.
Inside, the sounds intensified. Something slick and wet. A low growl that shot through Dennis like a bullet, and then Jack’s voice, strained and full of gravel: “That’s it, Mikey—so fucking good for me, sweetheart.”
They weren’t even directed at him, but the words lit up Dennis’s nervous system like a Christmas tree. His thoughts were all jumbled up—he wanted those words of praise directed at him. He wanted Jack’s approval so bad, but the desire was all twisted into something wrong, something disgusting, because he didn’t just want Jack’s approval, he wanted to be good for Jack. Like Robby was being good for him.
And maybe, if he was good enough, Jack might want him enough to keep him.
Dennis felt a wave of nausea wash over him even as he let his head thunk back softly against the wall, splaying his hand on his stomach just above the waistband of his sweatpants. Jack’s sweatpants. God, he thought, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed harshly. He was wearing Jack’s clothes.
Sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, Dennis let his hand drift lower, until he was cupping himself through the fabric. He was half-hard, just from listening to, to his dad and his, his, Robby was basically his other dad—
A loud moan interrupted his thoughts, and Dennis gasped, dropping his hand like he’d been burned, his gut churning with shame.
“Fuck, Mike,” came Jack’s voice, his breath coming out in harsh pants. “Your mouth—”
A vivid picture of what was happening flashed in Dennis’s mind: Robby between Jack’s legs, his head bobbing. Jack sounded like he was about to come, and Dennis—Dennis wanted to see. He needed to see.
Carefully, he turned towards the door, holding his breath as he pressed his chest against the wall and inched towards the open sliver. Through it, he could see the bed, and on top of it, Robby and Jack. His breath caught, his cock twitching at the sight of them together.
Jack was on his back, his legs spread—Dennis’s eyes caught on his right leg, missing below the knee, and the prosthetic limb propped against the nightstand by the bed—and stretched out between them was Robby, mouthwatering in his nakedness, his body big and hairy. Dennis wanted to run his hands all over him, feel that thick, wiry hair, his thick thighs and solid stomach. He imagined Robby’s weight on top of him, his broad body covering Dennis completely. Jack was different but equally appealing, hair sparser and lighter, freckles dotting his skin. His chest was broad and muscular, heaving as he neared his climax, his fingers gripping Robby’s hair as he thrust up into his mouth.
A pang of—something; jealousy, maybe—went through Dennis. He wanted to be where Robby was, wanted Jack’s fingers gripping his curls—curls that were just like Jack’s own—as Jack used his mouth. But he wanted Robby there, too. Wanted Robby with his big, broad body behind him, opening him up while Jack told him how good he was.
Dennis was so lost in the fantasy of it that he didn’t notice Jack looking up until they were already making eye contact. He gasped, stumbling back from the door and those eyes boring into him the same way they’d been doing all evening. He ran to his room, not even bothering to be quiet as he slammed the door shut and leaned against it.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought, his heart hammering. Jack had seen him. Jack had seen him watching them and he—he hadn’t even stopped, he’d just kept going, his eyes locked on Dennis, knowing that Dennis was watching them. The same way he had at the window, looking at Dennis knowing Dennis was looking at him.
Getting caught hadn’t dulled his arousal; in fact, he was fully hard now, cock straining against his boxers. He pressed the heel of his hand to it and groaned, tipping his head back against the door. He could not touch himself here, not in Jack and Robby’s house, not wearing Jack’s clothes. He half-expected them to pound on the door any minute and demand he pack up his things and leave—but they never did, and soon the sounds from their bedroom started up again, only… were they being louder this time?
Dennis squeezed himself again and willed himself not to come right there. They knew he had seen them. They knew, and they liked it. Why else would they get louder? Like they wanted him to hear?
The moment the thought crossed his mind, Dennis felt a wave of nausea so strong he had to slap his other hand over his mouth, afraid he would throw up then and there. Of course they didn’t want him to hear them. Even if Jack had seen him, he probably hadn’t said anything to Robby. They wouldn’t still be going at it if he had, right?
They’re my… Dennis stopped the thought before it could fully form. He’s my dad, and that’s his…
Dennis was sick. He was a sick, sick man. It was one thing to want his dad’s partner—that would make him an asshole, sure—but to want them both? To be jealous of the man sucking his father’s cock because he wanted to be in his place? There was something deeply, deeply wrong with him.
But… Jack hadn’t stopped. Jack had seen him, had known he was there watching, and he hadn’t stopped.
If Dennis was sick, what did that make Jack?
He stood there for a moment longer, listening to the sounds of Jack’s grunts and Robby’s loud moans, until he couldn’t take it anymore. He crossed the room and threw himself down onto the bed, rolling onto his stomach and pulling the pillow on top of his head to hopefully drown out what was happening across the hall.
Muffling the sounds didn’t stop him from replaying what he’d seen in his head, though. His hips hitched forward almost of their own accord, his body seeking to manufacture some friction, some relief for the arousal gnawing at his insides. Hating himself, he plunged his hand into his boxers and wrapped it around himself, fucking into his fist as he imagined what was happening now—Jack fucking Robby from behind, the muscles in his back and thighs rippling with each thrust, or maybe Robby still between Jack’s legs, rocking into him, Jack’s blunt nails scratching down his back.
And where would Dennis fit in, he wondered, trying to imagine it. Maybe riding Jack’s cock while Robby knelt between his legs or taking Robby in his mouth while Jack fucked him. Where was Dennis’s place in the unit that was Jack and Robby?
His release took him by surprise, and he spilled into his hand, hot and shameful. He took a moment to catch his breath, and then he got up, wiping his hand with the t-shirt he’d been wearing earlier before collapsing back onto the bed. Exhausted, nauseated, and staring up at the ceiling guiltily.
It would be a long time before sleep found him.
+++
The rain had stopped sometime during the night, and the light coming through the bedroom’s single window had gone from the hazy gray it had been when Dennis had finally succumbed to sleep to the soft golden light of a morning after rain, where the world is fresh and new.
For one blessed moment when Dennis opened his eyes, he didn’t remember where he was or how he had gotten there. Then it all came back in a rush, and he had to lie very still, fighting the urge to curl in on himself in shame.
The cabin. The shotgun. Robby staring calmly down the barrel at him. Jack. The word mistake still sitting like a lead weight in his chest, and underneath all that, raw and aching, what had happened last night. What he had seen. What he had done. The horror and elation that came from knowing Jack hadn’t stopped.
He didn’t know how he was supposed to get up and face them today like nothing had happened. Like he didn’t know what it looked like when Robby was between Jack’s thighs with Jack’s cock in his mouth, like he didn’t know what Jack sounded like when he was on the verge of coming down Robby’s throat.
He didn’t know how he was supposed to face them, knowing that he had gotten off to the thought of them together.
He was still trying to work up the nerve to get out of bed when the bedroom door opened without a knock.
Jack was standing in the doorway. Dennis scrambled into a sitting position, pulling the quilt up around him as though he wasn’t fully dressed—as though if Jack saw him, he’d see the evidence of what Dennis had done in this bed, in his clothes, and change his mind about letting Dennis stay. Not that he probably hadn’t done that already.
He searched Jack’s face on instinct, looking for—something. Some sign or acknowledgement of what Dennis had seen last night, any indication that he was as rattled by what had happened as Dennis was. But there was nothing. Jack’s expression was shuttered the way it had been yesterday, giving nothing away. His eyes didn’t even linger on Dennis; he scanned the room the way Dennis imagined he did every room he walked into, passing over Dennis and towards the window where the mid-morning sun was sparkling off the wet leaves of the trees surrounding the cabin.
“Back porch, five minutes,” he said, and Dennis noticed, finally, that he was carrying a rifle case and a box of ammunition. “Bring a coat. Mornings get chilly this time of year.”
He was gone before Dennis could respond, his uneven footsteps retreating down the hallway. Dennis’s heart did something complicated in his chest, something that felt like fear and hope twisted up into a single emotion that drove him to his feet, feeling like no matter what he did, he could not disappoint Jack.
Dennis dressed quickly, in his jeans from yesterday and his ratty sneakers, but—for some reason he didn’t want to examine too closely—he kept Jack’s shirt, pulling his shitty thrift store jacket with its worn fabric and its sleeves held together by safety pins on over it. When he entered the kitchen, he found Robby brewing coffee, looking sleep-warm and comfy in only sweatpants and a t-shirt, and glowing in the way that only someone who had been well-fucked the night before did.
“Hey, kiddo,” he greeted, and the nickname did something weird to Dennis’s insides. “Sleep well?”
Dennis froze. He could feel his cheeks warming as he stared at Robby, but he didn’t know how to answer. Yeah, I slept great, after getting off thinking about my dad fucking you, thanks. You?
“Uh—f-fine, yeah,” he said instead.
Robby smiled over his shoulder at him, lines around his eyes crinkling, and Dennis felt his heart trip over itself. “That’s good. Room comfortable? Anything you need?”
“N-No, thank you,” Dennis said, dropping his gaze to the linoleum floor.
Jack came in from outside, then, his gaze finding Dennis almost immediately. He looked him over, eyes lingering on the shirt. Dennis shifted nervously. Was Jack upset that he was wearing his clothes? Did he want his shirt back? But Jack said nothing, just finished his sweep of Dennis’s body, and then, his voice flat: “I thought I told you to grab a coat.”
“Uh.” Dennis looked down at himself, grabbing the flimsy denim of his jacket. “I did?”
Robby turned to look at him fully now, his brows furrowed in concern. “That’s the only coat you have?” he asked.
Dennis went red, this time from pure embarrassment. It wasn’t as if he could afford to have an extensive wardrobe or anything, and after he sold his mom’s car for extra cash, he didn’t have any place to store what little clothing he did have. He had to be able to carry whatever he had on his back, and that severely limited his options. Sometimes, if he was lucky, he was able to exchange his clothes at a shelter somewhere and get something new-to-him, but a lot of the time, he was making use of the tiny sewing kit in his bag, trying to make whatever he had last as long as he could.
“Uh, yeah,” he answered. “It’s fine, though.”
Robby and Jack exchanged a silent look. Dennis got the distinct feeling they were talking about him again, in their weird telepathic language that he wasn’t privy to. He shifted again, feeling vulnerable and exposed as he watched whatever they were discussing pass between them.
“You can use mine for now,” Robby finally said, nodding towards the mudroom, where the green Carhartt was still hanging by the door, Jack now wearing the matching tan one. “And take my boots, too. You’ll sink straight into the mud in those shoes.”
“Oh, um… okay,” Dennis said, glancing down at his ratty canvas sneakers. They were already stained from yesterday’s trek up to the cabin; a little more mud wouldn’t hurt them, but he did like the sound of not getting his feet wet the moment he stepped outside.
Jack grunted, which seemed to signal that the matter had been settled, and jerked his head towards the door. “Come on, kid.”
The word hit him like a punch to the gut, just like Robby’s kiddo had, making his breath catch for a moment as Jack turned and walked outside. Dennis found he couldn’t move, staring after him with his mouth half-open; after what had happened last night, with Jack knowing what he’d done, what he’d seen, he was just going to call him kid like it was nothing? Like nothing had happened? Like Dennis wasn’t haunted by the knowledge of what he looked like when he—
“You’d better get a move on,” Robby said, interrupting his thoughts. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were crinkling at the corners again like he was amused. “I’ll have breakfast ready by the time you’re done.”
Done with what? Dennis wanted to ask. He had no idea what Jack was planning, other than it involved a rifle and ammunition—which, slightly terrifying thought, to be outside alone with Jack and his hunting rifle, but he doubted Robby would be talking about feeding him breakfast if Jack was planning on killing him this morning.
Instead, he just nodded, his mouth feeling dry as he hurried after Jack.
Jack was already outside, and Dennis quickly pulled off his sneakers and slipped his socked feet into Robby’s boots before joining him, pulling on Robby’s coat as he went.
It was chilly outside, despite the sun shining overhead, and the yard was still mostly mud. It sucked at Dennis’s borrowed boots as he followed behind Jack, wrapped up in Robby’s coat. Ducking his head, he inhaled subtly, parsing what must have been Robby’s scent on the collar, pine and musk and something that was utterly masculine, utterly Robby. It made Dennis’s mouth water, imagining he was burying his face in the crook of Robby’s neck instead.
Jack led him out past the workshop towards the tree line, and the old, rotted fence row that had been turned into a makeshift firing range. Metal cans had been set up on the fence posts—Jack must have come out here and set all this up earlier, while Dennis still slept—and the posts themselves were pockmarked with old bullet holes, the ground behind them torn up from hundreds of stray rounds.
They stopped a few yards from the fence, next to a weathered, rickety table, sitting lopsided on the uneven ground. A spinning stool had been welded to one of the legs, and the surface was burnt and melted in places where spent rounds had touched down.
“Ever held a gun before?” Jack asked, slinging the case onto the table and popping it open.
Dennis eyed the case and the large rifle nestled inside it. “No,” he admitted.
Jack made a sound in his throat that could have meant anything. Dennis heard the unspoken of course not, anyway.
Indignation flared in his chest, white-hot. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t know these things. If he had grown up right, the way he was supposed to, with… well, a father to teach him, he might have learned how to do all kinds of things. Shoot a gun, fish, ride a fucking bike—anything besides just survive.
The rifle turned out to be older than Dennis, maybe even older than Jack. Its dark walnut stock was patinated with age, worn smooth in places from decades of being handled, and nicked in others, little divots and scratches carved into the wood. It looked powerful and intimidating in Jack’s hands. Even more so when he handed it to Dennis.
“Put your hands here, and here,” he instructed, and Dennis did his best to follow directions, placing one hand beneath the stock and the other at the trigger guard, with Jack’s warning to “never put your finger on the trigger unless you intend to fire,” ringing in his ears.
“It’s not loaded,” Dennis argued, and Jack fixed him with such a withering look that he had to fight the urge to drop to the ground and curl up in the mud.
“You’re not getting away with any bad habits on my range,” Jack told him, voice hard. “In our line of work, bad habits get people killed.”
It was the first time, outside of their conversation about Dennis’s mother, that he had heard either of them acknowledge what it was they did, why they lived in a remote cabin in the mountains, why every window and doorway had a line of salt stretched across it and why runes and sigils had been carved into every other tree surrounding the property.
“Do you…?” Dennis asked cautiously, swallowing nervously when Jack just arched a brow at him. “Still work, I mean.”
Jack was silent a moment before answering.
“Sometimes,” he finally said. “When we need to.”
Dennis wasn’t sure what that meant, and Jack didn’t seem keen to offer up any explanation.
Taking the rifle back from Dennis, Jack demonstrated how to load it, and then went through the various parts and mechanisms as though Dennis was going to retain any of this. As he worked, he rattled off about the history of the rifle, almost as though he was speaking to himself and Dennis just happened to be standing there. It was the most Dennis had heard him speak so far, and it occurred to him that Jack was trying to fill the silence.
“She’s an M1903 Springfield,” he said, sliding back the bolt and looking down the barrel through the sight leaf. “Bolt action. They used these as sniper rifles during World War Two.”
He pulled the trigger, and there was a loud click as the firing pin sprang forward, no bullet for it to strike against.
Lowering the rifle, he pulled the bolt back again. “Found her in a pawn shop. Had to replace the barrel. Rusted out from decades of sitting around in someone’s grandad’s garage. But now she works good as new.”
He reached back for the box of ammunition on the table and grabbed another round, sliding it into the chamber and locking the bolt into place before handing the rifle back to Dennis.
Dennis held the rifle with even more trepidation than before. It felt heavier in his hands this time around. Before, he had just been holding a gun; now, he was painfully aware he was holding a loaded weapon. A weapon that could do serious damage, that had been lovingly, painstakingly restored by the man next to him into an efficient killing machine.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dennis wondered if Jack would do the same to him.
He gripped the rifle like Jack had showed him, hands beneath the stock and the butt pressed into his shoulder.
“No,” Jack said, and reached out. Dennis held his breath, and Jack hesitated for only a second before putting his hands on Dennis. He shoved his elbow lower, tucked it into his side, and straightened his spine with a large hand splayed between his shoulder blades. Each point of contact burned through the fabric of Robby’s jacket, Dennis’s skin buzzing.
“You can’t act like you’re afraid of it,” Jack continued, voice a low murmur right next to Dennis’s ear. “Your weapon has to be an extension of you.”
Dennis gave a shaky nod, feeling lightheaded. Between his legs, Jack’s boot tapped against Dennis’s, forcing his feet further apart. Dennis was so surprised—Jack’s thigh was between his—that he gasped and jerked backwards right into Jack, who righted him easily.
“You always this jumpy?” Jack asked. Was it Dennis’s imagination, or did he sound… amused?
Bastard, Dennis thought, feeling his face heat. He wasn’t sure what sort of game Jack was playing—was he punishing him for last night? For watching them? Did he somehow suspect that Dennis had liked what he’d seen?
“‘M not,” he mumbled, notching his cheek against the rifle, the wood nice and cool against his flushed skin.
A puff of warm air hit the shell of Dennis’s ear, followed by Jack’s low, gravelly purr. “Sure, kid.”
Dennis’s grip on the rifle’s stock was so tight that he could feel his fingernails digging into the decades of patina. He forced himself to relax, and then took aim at the first can on the fence row, Jack speaking instructions directly into his ear the whole time.
“Don’t close your eye to aim, that’s Hollywood bullshit. You always want to be fully aware of your surroundings. Good. And don’t lean back—” he pushed between Dennis’s shoulders again to adjust his spine “—she kicks. You lean back, she’ll put you on your ass.”
Dennis tried to internalize each correction, because despite whatever sick and twisted game Jack was playing with him, he still wanted Jack’s approval. He wanted Jack to praise him, wanted Jack to be proud of him. But it was a struggle. Each time Jack touched him, Dennis grew more tense, until he was practically vibrating. There was no way Jack couldn’t feel it, as close as he was standing, but just when Dennis didn’t think he could take it anymore, Jack finally, finally, stepped back.
“Now, take a deep breath,” he said, “and as you exhale, squeeze the trigger.”
There was no world in which Dennis didn’t obey. He dragged in a breath, his shoulders rising, and then let it out slowly, waiting until he was almost out of breath before he did as Jack said and gently squeezed the trigger.
The rifle went off with a boom that shook the trees around them, Dennis’s ears ringing with the sound. The force behind the shot was more than he had been expecting, and the rifle jerked in his arms, the shot going wide and churning up mud a few feet from the target. Dennis stumbled back into Jack again, who caught him by the hips, his big hands curling over the prominent bones beneath Dennis’s jeans.
Dennis didn’t realize how hard he was breathing, his chest heaving with each gulp of air, until Jack’s voice floated to him over the sound of his own surprised gasps.
“—hey, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Jack said, his thumbs rubbing at the jut of Dennis’s hips soothingly, his breath warm against Dennis’s ear. “Told you she’d knock you on your ass if you weren’t careful. Good thing I was here, huh?”
Dennis froze, his heart hammering in his chest, pulse thudding in his still-ringing ears. He was aware of every point of contact between him and Jack—Jack’s hands on his hips, his firm chest plastered against Dennis’s back, the way the curve of Dennis’s ass fit perfectly against his crotch. If Dennis pressed back just right, he would be able to feel—
The thought brought Dennis crashing back down to reality. He expected Jack to let go of him, to push him away and tell him to fire again, but he didn’t. He just… kept holding Dennis, his fingers digging into the denim at his hips, his warm breath hitting the back of Dennis’s neck. If Robby happened to look outside—well. Dennis could only imagine what the two of them looked like right now.
Blinking, Dennis swallowed the lump in his throat, confused and a little wary. What the fuck was Jack doing, actually? Was he—was he coming on to Dennis? His own son? That wasn’t—that couldn’t be—he was married! And even if he wasn’t, even if Robby wasn’t inside right now making them all breakfast, Dennis was his son. He had slept with Dennis’s mother—a fact Dennis did not want to examine too closely—and made him! Dennis was alive because of him. Wouldn’t that cause some sort of—of psychological barrier to attraction?
It didn’t for you, said a nasty little voice in the back of Dennis’s mind, and he realized his mistake almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind.
Jack may not have raised Dennis, may not have even known about him until he showed up on their doorstep, but Dennis had lived his whole life up to this point hearing stories about his dad—how brave he was, how handsome. And Dennis had worshipped the absent figure of Jack from the time he was small, begging his mother to tell him about Jack over and over again, until Sarah had gotten exasperated enough that she just handed him her journal and washed her hands of the whole thing.
His entire life, Dennis had longed for Jack, had wished and prayed for Jack to show up and whisk him away to a better life—not that he didn’t love his mother, he did, but he hadn’t loved the constant moving around, never having a permanent home. Never having a permanent father figure beyond whatever man Sarah was hustling for money at the time. He wasn’t proud of it, but at his lowest point, he had wished more than anything that his dad would come and save him. Like he had saved Sarah.
Somehow, that feeling had gotten all twisted up inside him, had soured and turned into something rotten, something that burned inside him at the thought of Jack, something that craved, hollow and hungry.
Dennis was in love with his own father.
Or in love with the idea of him, anyway. All that hero worship had morphed and shifted, and the moment Dennis had laid eyes on Jack, just as handsome as Sarah had said, if a bit older and rougher around the edges, that lifelong desire for a father had met a physical desire for Jack, and now he could not separate the two. He wouldn’t even know where to start.
Silence stretched as Dennis stood there, having a minor—major—existential crisis at the realization that he didn’t just want Jack physically, he wanted him romantically, as well, and Jack was still touching him, his thumbs having found their way beneath Dennis’s shirt, his shirt, to rub circles into the skin above his waistband. Dennis wanted Jack, and Jack was… what? Toying with him? Getting back at him for spying on him and Robby last night?
Or was it possible that Jack actually… well. Dennis must have gotten it from somewhere. Must have inherited this sickness inside him, because the thought of it forming organically made him ill.
How many seconds had passed, Dennis wondered, that they had been standing like this? How long had Jack been holding him, back to chest, ass to groin, the way a father should never hold his son, but that Dennis desperately wanted? They needed to stop, before Dennis did something he could not take back, like drop to his knees for his father right here in the mud.
He sucked in a breath, shaky and wet. “Jack—” he choked out, and that seemed to break whatever spell was over them. He felt Jack flinch, his grip tightening just briefly on Dennis’s hips before he stepped back altogether. The sudden loss of contact made Dennis shiver, and he tried to tell himself it was only because Jack was warm, and the morning air still carried a chill from yesterday’s cold front.
Behind him, Jack cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice was low, raspy and full of gravel.
“Again,” he said. “Load it yourself this time—show me you remember how.”
Nodding, Dennis reached for the box of ammunition, his hands shaking as he mentally talked himself through the steps. Load the round into the chamber. Slide the bolt into place. Safety off. Eye open. He took aim and fired again, the rifle pulling wide again, the bullet churning up mud about three feet away from the target. The kick still knocked him back, but he caught himself this time.
Jack made an encouraging sound. “Closer,” he said, and there, in his voice, was the barest hint of approval. Dennis soaked it up like a flower soaking up sunlight. “Again.”
Dennis ejected the used cartridge, loaded a new round, and took aim. This time the bullet found its mark, the can spinning and toppling off the post. Lowering the rifle, Dennis whipped around to look at Jack, who was—not smiling, but looking at Dennis with something akin to… well, Dennis didn’t know what a proud father looked like, but he imagined it was something like what Jack looked like right now.
“Not bad,” Jack said, and Dennis knew that was as close to a good job as he was going to get this morning. “Again.”
+++
For the first time in his life, Dennis had a routine.
Wake up in the same bed every morning. Shooting lesson with Jack. Breakfast as a family. Help Robby around the house. Help Jack in the workshop. Study lore with Robby. Sit pressed next to him on the sofa in the evenings while Jack did puzzles or whittled—the man whittled—in the armchair across the room. Go to bed without being hungry, or wondering if he would need to find someplace else to sleep the next day.
Touch himself to thoughts of Jack and Robby, of his parents, listening to their grunts and moans in the otherwise quiet of the cabin, teeth digging into his bottom lip to keep himself from answering their sounds with his own.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
There had been no more spying on them—accidental or otherwise—since that first night. Neither of them had ever mentioned it, and Dennis wasn’t sure if Jack had just never told Robby, or if they were trying to spare him the embarrassment, or… something else entirely. Because sometimes Robby would give him a little knowing smirk, or Jack would make some offhanded comment that seemed innocuous, and Dennis would think—they’re taunting me. They had to be.
Robby was… handsy, touching Dennis all the time, his hands on Dennis’s shoulders, patting, squeezing, manhandling him around the cabin. Once, notably, his hand had found its way to the back of Dennis’s head, fingers curling through the sandy blonde hair, and scratching at Dennis’s scalp in a way that had all the tension draining from his body, his shoulders dropping as he practically melted into Robby—and then, to his mortification, he’d moaned. Jack, watching from his chair, had cleared his throat and left the room, retreating to the workshop, where he’d stayed until sundown.
And that was another thing: Jack was always watching. Dennis was used to Jack’s gaze on him during their shooting lessons—and he was improving, despite the way Jack taunted him each time—but he would notice Jack staring at the most random times, watching Dennis wash the dishes, or sitting on the porch like a guard dog, rifle on his lap, while Dennis cleared branches from the yard.
He was handsy, too, but only sometimes—on the makeshift range, or in the workshop. Never when Robby was around. Dennis didn’t know what to make of it, of him.
None of it felt malicious, though. It felt like they were trying to keep what he had seen at the forefront of his mind, like they didn’t want him to forget. As though he could. As though he didn’t think about them together every time he closed his eyes.
Other than that, though, things were good. Things were great, actually. Dennis was safe, and he was fed, and for the first time in a very long time, he was… happy. Sometimes it felt like a betrayal of his mother’s memory, how happy he was. How contentedly he found himself slotting into Jack and Robby’s life, as though he should have been here all along. With them.
He found himself writing in her journal almost every night, in any blank space he could find—along the margins of the pages, filling the inside covers with his own half-cursive scrawl. He talked to Sarah through his writing, updating her about his days, about his life now. About how much he missed her, and how sorry he was that he liked being with Jack and Robby so much. He hoped sometimes, late at night, with her journal tucked beneath his pillow where he kept it, that she would forgive him. That she would just be happy he was safe.
About a month after Dennis arrived, the routine changed.
He was lounging on the sofa reading one of Robby’s tomes of lore—he had so many—when Robby walked past him towards the mudroom, pulling on his coat and his boots. Dennis sat up, book forgotten in his lap.
“What are you doing?”
Robby glanced at him with an amused expression. “Going on a supply run, kiddo,” he said, straightening as he finished lacing his boots. His back popped, and he grimaced slightly. “Cabinets are getting pretty bare.”
“Oh.” Dennis set the book aside and swung his legs over the side of the couch, planting his bare feet on the cold wooden floor. “Can I come?”
None of them had left the cabin since Dennis had arrived. Perhaps under normal circumstances he might be going stir crazy, but Dennis was just so happy to have a roof over his head that getting out of the house hadn’t really occurred to him. It wasn’t really that he wanted to now, but with Robby gone, Dennis would be here all alone.
With Jack.
Robby just laughed, smiling at him like Dennis had said something particularly endearing.
“You’re just like your dad,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about me, Den. I’m a big boy, I can handle a supply run on my own.”
That hadn’t really been Dennis’s issue, but he couldn’t help the slight blush that colored his cheeks at Robby’s assertion that he was just like his dad, worrying about Robby the way his partner did. He’d been doing that a lot lately, referring to Jack specifically as Dennis’s dad. Did you have a good lesson with your dad, Den? Or: Go tell your dad dinner is ready, Den. It really wasn’t helping with Dennis’s feelings, that sick, twisted thing inside him that looked at Jack and said want.
It said the same thing about Robby, but at least Dennis could justify his attraction to Robby.
There was nothing justifiable about the way he felt towards his own father.
Getting to his feet, he padded over to Robby, watching as the man patted his pockets for his keys and wallet.
“I could still go with you,” he offered. “Just for company.”
Robby glanced up and gave him another one of those smiles, soft and maybe a little amused, the skin around his eyes crinkling. He reached out, curling his hand around the back of Dennis’s neck, his fingers carding up through the curls at the base of his skull. Dennis had to fight not to close his eyes, a shiver running down his spine.
“Sweet boy,” Robby said, and the words spread through him, warm and gooey, settling low in his belly. “I’ll only be gone a couple of hours, okay?” He jostled Dennis slightly, fingers digging into the back of his neck. “Be back before you know it.”
A couple of hours, alone with Jack. The warm, gooey feeling sharpened slightly, turning darker, more insistent, and Dennis couldn’t help the images that flashed in his mind: sinking to his knees for Jack in the workshop, surrounding by the scent of grease and metal and man, or bent over Jack’s workbench, the tools rattling on their pegboard overhead as Jack pounded into him.
An immediate wave of shame washed over him, turning his stomach. Not only was he sick enough to want his own father, but to want Jack without Robby, to think about sneaking around behind Robby’s back and fucking Jack while he wasn’t home?
There was something terribly wrong with him, something in his brain that was broken beyond repair.
He pushed the thoughts of Jack away, trying to reason with himself. It was still early; Jack was in the workshop like always, and probably wouldn’t come in until Robby got back. All Dennis had to do was stay inside and avoid him, and he could get through the next couple of hours without doing something he would regret. Something he couldn’t take back.
Easy.
He trailed after Robby, following him out onto the porch as he made his way to the old green and white Chevy.
“Be good for your dad, now,” Robby told him, Dennis freezing at the top of the porch steps. “And make sure he doesn’t stay out there all day! Try to get him to eat some lunch, at least.”
Robby waved, and as Dennis watched the Chevy disappear down the gravel drive, Robby’s words ringing in his ears, all he could think was, fuck.
+++
Robby had been gone for forty-five minutes.
Dennis knew because he had been sitting on the sofa since Robby had left, counting every single second that ticked by. He’d tried going back to his reading, but he couldn’t concentrate. He’d turned on the TV, but trying to find something to watch was more annoying than just sitting in silence. Instead, he’d pulled up the GPS on his phone and tried to figure out Robby’s route to and from town. An hour there, an hour back, plus whatever time he spent shopping.
By the time he’d done all that it was almost noon, and that meant Dennis would need to go check on Jack. Try to get him to come inside and eat, like Robby said.
Dennis’s stomach was twisting itself into knots as he pulled on his sneakers and made his way out the back door. There was a persistent chill in the air now, as autumn settled over the mountains, and he fiddled with the too-long sleeves of Robby’s sweater that he was wearing, pulling them over his hands as he approached the workshop. The garage door was lifted, the sound of classic rock spilling from the open bay.
“Jack?” Dennis called, craning his neck to see around the old truck that he was pretty sure didn’t run anymore, despite how many hours Jack spent out here working on it.
“Back here, kid,” came Jack’s voice from deeper in the shop.
Dennis sighed. So much for trying to avoid Jack.
He made his way towards the back of the shop. Jack was sitting at the workbench against the back wall, cleaning one of the many weapons he had stashed around the place. He was very particular about his guns, as Dennis had come to learn, spending time helping Jack clean them, learning how to take them apart and put them back together. The man was meticulous in his care, calloused fingers deft and careful. It made Dennis wonder what it would feel like to have Jack’s hands on him, if Jack would take him apart and put him back together with the same attention to detail.
Knowing better than to interrupt Jack when he was deep in concentration, Dennis stopped just shy of the workbench, leaning back against the rear bumper of the old truck while he waited for Jack to acknowledge him.
“Need something?” Jack asked after a few minutes, not looking up from what he was doing.
Dennis fiddled with his sleeves, trying not to think about the way Jack’s voice went all quiet and gravelly when he was focused.
“It’s lunchtime,” he said. “Robby told me to make sure you eat something.”
“Did he,” Jack muttered. His eyes flicked over to Dennis, then, giving him a once-over, his gaze lingering on Dennis’s chest and the sweater Dennis knew he recognized as Robby’s. Dennis knew—or at least, he had a suspicion—that it didn’t matter which side of the closet he borrowed from; Jack just liked seeing him in their clothes, always staring at him with that same sort of quiet approval that he did whenever Dennis made several good shots in a row, or managed to put a pistol back together in under the time limit Jack had set for him.
Dennis couldn’t help it; he blushed, shrinking into the oversized material a bit, making himself smaller under Jack’s gaze. His hazel eyes narrowed, flicking up to Dennis’s face before moving back down his body, slower this time, as though cataloguing every inch of Dennis. He shivered under the weight of Jack’s full attention, feeling himself start to stir in his jeans.
Abruptly, he stood, tugging the hem of the sweater down to hide his reaction as he cleared his throat.
“I’ll just—um, inside,” he said, turning to head back to the cabin, needing to get out of this workshop and out of proximity to Jack before he did something truly reckless, only to yelp in surprise when fingers closed around his wrist, yanking him back.
He ended up sitting on Jack’s lap, the stool he was perched on creaking beneath them from the added weight. Jack’s arms roped around his waist, strong and immovable, grip tightening as he squirmed.
“Jumpy today, aren’t you, son?” Jack murmured, and Dennis had to bite his lip to keep from gasping at the shock of pleasure that sent through him. Jack had never called him that before. It was always kid, or occasionally Den. Never son. Never an acknowledgement of what they were to each other.
“Jack, what’re you—?” he started, but Jack shushed him, bouncing him on his knee the way one would an actual kid.
“Not Jack,” he corrected. “You know better than that.”
Jesus, Dennis thought, his eyes fluttering, barely resisting the urge to throw his head back and moan, just from the way Jack was talking to him.
“I—” he tried, choking on the words as he felt one of Jack’s hands sneak its way under his sweater, fingers brushing the bare skin of his stomach. “I don’t, uh, don’t know—”
“Yes, you do,” Jack interrupted him, voice low and a little condescending. “What’s my name, Den?”
Dennis knew what Jack wanted him to say. He knew, because Robby had been pushing it for weeks, making sure it was at the forefront of Dennis’s mind. Go outside and check on your dad, Den, he’d say, or, you look so much like your dad, you know that, kiddo?
“I can’t,” Dennis said, shaking his head. If he said what Jack wanted him to say, then that would be it—there would be no coming back from it. He would have acknowledged that dark, twisted thing inside him, named it for what it really was. Accepted it for what it really was. “Don’t make me, Jack, I can’t…”
“You can, Den,” Jack argued, his breath warm on the back of Dennis’s neck. His fingers pressed into the soft skin of Dennis’s stomach, tracing along the waistband of the jeans he wore. “Come on, baby. Just say it.”
Dennis closed his eyes, biting back a moan. He was so turned on he could feel it everywhere, at the base of his skull, the tips of his fingers. Low in his belly where it settled white-hot and heavy. He was straining against his jeans now, his hard-on hidden by the baggy sweater, but he knew Jack could tell. Jack had been able to see right through him from the start.
He wasn’t sure what it was, if it was Jack calling him baby that finally wore down the last bit of resistance in him, or if he was just tired of fighting it. Tired of pretending he didn’t feel what he felt for Jack, that he didn’t want what he wanted.
That he didn’t know Jack wanted him just as bad.
“Dad,” he breathed, voice barely above a whisper, like he was afraid to say it any louder. The reaction was immediate. Jack groaned behind him, his hips rocking up against Dennis’s ass. Dennis could feel the jut of Jack’s cock, hard beneath him. His arms squeezed Dennis’s waist, and he buried his face at the back of Dennis’s neck.
“Again,” Jack rasped, lips pressed to the nape of Dennis’s neck, breath warm on his skin. Dennis bit his lip, tipping his head back and to the side invitingly, silently directing Jack to the long, exposed line of his throat.
“Dad,” he said again, more confidently this time, feeling Jack’s answering groan rumble in his own chest, his cock stiffening beneath the curve of Dennis’s ass. “Please—ah—touch me…”
The hand that had been petting Dennis’s stomach, blunt nails scratching Dennis’s soft skin, moved lower. Dennis’s toes curled in his sneakers as Jack cupped him through his jeans, his hand big and warm as it closed over the outline of his cock completely.
“Does that feel good, baby?” Jack’s voice rumbled in his ear as he squeezed Dennis’s cock. Dennis gasped, nodding where his head was resting on Jack’s shoulder as he squirmed on Jack’s lap.
“Y-Yes,” he said, throat working, feeling completely overwhelmed, surrounded by Jack’s voice, his touch, his scent, his mind narrowing rapidly to nothing but Dad, Dad, Dad.
“Yeah?” Jack’s tone was condescending, just shy of mean. “You need more, baby? Ask me nicely.”
“Please!” The cry was immediate; there was nothing in Dennis that would be able to refuse Jack anything right now. “Touch me, I need it, need more, please…”
“Please, what?” Jack goaded, squeezing Dennis through his jeans again.
“Ah—please, Dad,” he whined, and Jack pressed a kiss to the side of his throat.
“Good boy, Den,” he murmured, his fingers making deft work of the belt holding up Dennis’s borrowed jeans, unbuttoning them and shoving his fingers into his boxers to wrap them around his slender cock. “Good fucking boy.”
Dennis whined, his back arching as Jack began to stroke him, the callouses on his fingers dragging roughly against the sensitive skin. He let his legs fall open, gripping Jack’s arm and feeling the tendons moving beneath his skin as he jerked Dennis off, splayed across his lap like a wanton, desperate thing. He was already close; all these weeks of dancing around each other, knowing what they knew, playing this cat and mouse game—it had all been leading to this moment, Jack’s hands on him, his mouth at Dennis’s throat, hurtling him towards a release that had been building since the day Dennis had arrived on Jack’s doorstep.
His release hit him suddenly, his fingers digging into Jack’s arm around his waist, holding on for dear life as he spilled into Jack’s hand, Jack working him through it, murmuring words of praise into his neck as he gathered Dennis’s release in his palm and brought his hand to Dennis’s mouth.
“Clean,” he commanded, and Dennis was too boneless and floaty to argue, his tongue darting out to clean his own mess from Jack’s fingers. “Good boy,” Jack praised him again, Dennis practically purring in his arms. “Such a good boy for your dad, baby.”
Dennis’s eyes fluttered open, the words bringing him back down to earth a bit, now that the haze of lust was fading. He had just let his own father get him off, and he had loved it—had begged for every second of it. And if Jack pushed him to his knees right now, or bent him over the workbench, he knew he wouldn’t say no.
Whatever line he had been trying to maintain, whatever barrier he thought might exist between him wanting and him giving in, it was gone now.
Dennis straightened on Jack’s lap. Jack was still hard, his cock poking into the back of Dennis’s thigh, but he didn’t seem to be in much hurry to do anything about it, so Dennis refastened his belt with trembling fingers, while Jack petted him, smoothing down the curls at the back of his head.
When he was finished, he looked over his shoulder at Jack, nodding down to his lap. “Do you want me to…?”
“That’s sweet of you to offer, baby,” Jack said, squeezing his waist gratefully. “But I’m good right now.” His lips quirked up into a smirk. “More than good.”
Dennis blushed, and Jack finally let him go, patting his hip as Dennis stood on shaky legs, hand on the workbench to steady himself. He turned towards Jack, who had already gone back to cleaning the pistol lying in pieces on the bench.
Biting his lip, Dennis tugged at the hem of his sweater anxiously. “Um…Dad?”
He braced for Jack to berate him for calling him dad outside of—whatever had just happened between them—but all he said, without looking up, was, “Why don’t you be a good boy, Den, and go fix us something for lunch. I’ll be right behind you.”
“I—yeah, okay,” Dennis said, nodding. He turned to leave, and yelped as Jack smacked his ass to send him along.
The second he was inside the cabin he shut the door and leaned against it, giving himself a moment to catch his breath, his head spinning with everything that had just happened. Jack had touched him. Dennis had begged Jack to touch him. The lie that Dennis had told himself, that he could exist here as Jack and Robby’s son, and that would be enough, had crumbled into dust, blown away by the heat of what had happened between him and Jack just now.
The line had been crossed, and no matter what happened next, there was no going back. For either of them.
+++
Jack came in a few minutes later acting like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t pulled Dennis into his lap and shoved his hand down his pants, like he hadn’t gotten Dennis off by making Dennis call him Dad and beg for it.
Like Dennis hadn’t loved every second of it.
It had been easy to give in, in the workshop. That was Jack’s domain. It smelled like him—or rather, he smelled like the workshop, the scent of motor oil and sawdust clinging to his skin when he came in for the evening. When Dennis was out there helping Jack fix traps or cleaning weapons, it was easy to imagine it was just the two of them. Just Dennis and his dad, learning all the things he should have learned from the man as a kid. Making up for lost time.
And now… this.
Dennis didn’t think he’d ever be able to step foot in the workshop again without thinking about what had happened. Without wanting it to happen again. But he could avoid the workshop; he didn’t spend that much time out there. Not like he did in the cabin with…
Robby.
Thinking of Robby—Jack’s husband, Dennis’s surrogate father—was what twisted Dennis’s stomach into knots now. Not the fact that he had let his own father jerk him off; no, that ship had sailed. He could no longer justify the shame of wanting it when he had just sat there and let it happen. Not when he had begged for it, squirming on Jack’s lap and saying whatever the man wanted to get him to just touch him already.
No, it had happened, and he had let it happen, and if he was honest with himself, he would let it happen again. If only it wouldn’t hurt Robby.
He couldn’t imagine what Robby would think if he knew. If he ever found out. He had spent these past few weeks trying to hammer home the fact that they were a family now, that as far as he was concerned, he and Jack had all but adopted Dennis. If he knew what they had done, if he knew Jack had cheated on him again—fuck, it was just like Sarah all over again, Dennis thought, feeling ill.
He may have been like Jack in many ways—at least, according to Robby—but deep down, Dennis knew the truth: he was just like his mother.
“Dennis.”
Dennis glanced up. Jack was sitting across the table from him, eyeing his plate pointedly. Dennis realized he hadn’t actually been eating, just pushing last night’s reheated leftovers around on his plate and worrying.
“Yeah?” he muttered, unable to stop the pout from forming on his lips. The guilt was eating at him, and he felt the sudden urge—inexplicable, a little kid urge—to go to his dad, to have Jack make it all better.
But Jack couldn’t make this better. Jack was part of the problem. Jack had caused this—or at least, had been partly the cause of it, along with Dennis’s own sick desires. They were in this together. The thought wasn’t nearly as comforting as he’d hoped it would be.
Instead of answering, Jack stood, chair scraping across the wood floor. Dennis watched, unsure what to do as Jack made his way into the living room. Should he follow him? Leave him be? He had no idea where the line was anymore, had no idea where he stood with Jack, or what he even was to him now, if he was son or lover or—or just another mistake.
He was still sitting at the table, staring down at his plate dejectedly, when he heard Jack’s voice from the living room: “In here, son.”
Dennis was on his feet immediately, like his body had responded before his mind was even made up. He padded after Jack, finding the man sitting in his favorite chair, the one he occupied most evenings while Dennis and Robby all but cuddled on the sofa. Leaned back in his chair, his legs spread, he looked every inch the handsome, cocky hunter Dennis’s mother had described.
Grimacing, he pushed thoughts of Sarah away with a little shake of his head, and only then did he notice that Jack had taken one of the throw-pillows from the sofa and placed it on the ground between his feet.
His breath caught in his throat as he looked from the pillow to Jack’s face. Jack said nothing, watching him expectantly, and then, he jerked his chin towards the open space between his thighs.
Dennis didn’t need to be told twice.
He sank to his knees between Jack’s legs, grateful for the pillow to soften the hard, unforgiving floor. Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, he glanced up at Jack from beneath his lashes, unsure if he was meant to—to touch him, or just sit here, awaiting instructions. That seemed the more likely choice; he had a feeling Jack liked telling him what to do.
Reaching out, Jack carded his fingers through the curls at the back of Dennis’s head, the way Robby did sometimes, blunt nails scratching along his scalp. Dennis melted into the touch, the line of his shoulders drooping—and then let out a gasp as, unlike Robby, Jack tightened his grip, yanking Dennis’s head back to expose the long, slender line of his throat.
“You weren’t eating,” Jack noted, his voice casual the way he might note the fact that it was raining outside, as he leaned over Dennis. “Why?”
Dennis swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I, uh, I was th-thinking,” he stammered.
“About?” Jack prompted, his grip tightening ever so slightly.
Dennis hesitated, weighing the truth of what he wanted to say—that he was feeling guilty about fooling around with his own father behind his stepfather’s back—with what he thought Jack might want to hear in this moment.
“Y-You,” he answered, and the corners of Jack’s mouth quirked up, like he knew exactly what Dennis was doing.
He used his grip on Dennis’s hair to gently shake his head in reprimand. “And?”
“And…”
Dennis’s tongue darted out to lick his lips, Jack’s eyes zeroing in on the movement, a muscle in his jaw ticking. Despite where he currently was—on his knees, Jack holding him by his hair—Dennis felt a small rush of power knowing that Jack wasn’t completely unaffected.
“I…I was thinking about…R-Robby,” he finished, his breath hitching as Jack used his grip on his hair to drag him closer, close enough that he could feel Jack’s breath on his lips, feel the vibration in his chest as Jack let out a pleased hum.
“Good boy,” he murmured, the words going straight through Dennis, molten hot. “What about Robby, baby? What were you thinking about?”
Was Jack going to make him say it? Could he really not guess what Dennis was feeling? Robby had taken Dennis in—because he wasn’t so naïve as to think that Jack would have let him stay that first night without Robby’s intervention—had fed and clothed him and given him a sense of security and stability that he had never had when his mother was alive. And how had Dennis repaid him? By seducing his husband. By driving a wedge into their marriage for the second fucking time.
Something in his demeanor must have changed, some outward manifestation of his spiraling thoughts, because Jack’s brow furrowed. His grip on Dennis’s hair loosened—though he didn’t pull his hand away completely—and his other hand came up to curl around the side of Dennis’s neck, his thumb just barely pressing against his fluttering pulse.
“Breathe, kid,” he said. “What are you worried about, huh?”
Dennis blinked, feeling a bit of whiplash between dominant, slightly mean Jack, and whatever this was. But his fingers did feel nice playing with the curls at the base of Dennis’s skull rather than pulling, and Dennis allowed himself to relax. To be comforted.
“Robby is going to hate me,” he whispered miserably.
A puff of warm hair hit Dennis’s lips as Jack huffed a laugh.
“Oh, baby,” he cooed, and there was the mean tone again, almost comforting in its familiarity. “I don’t think there’s anything you could do that would make Robby hate you.”
Dennis frowned. He wanted to argue. Of course, Robby would hate him when he found out; he had obviously never forgiven Jack for the mistake of Dennis’s birth in the first place, and now Dennis had done the unthinkable. Jack had, too, but in his current state he couldn’t help but place the blame squarely on his own shoulders. Mistake.
“But I—” he started, but Jack shushed him, his fingers tightening in Dennis’s hair again.
“Don’t you worry about Robby, baby,” he said. “Just focus on me right now. Focus on your dad.”
The words should not have affected him like they did. Nothing about Jack should have affected him like it did. Dennis melted into his touch anyway, pliant and eager, so starved for a father’s love that he would take any scrap of affection Jack threw his way, no matter what it was.
“There you are,” Jack cooed softly, still managing to make his tone sound a bit mocking, “that’s a good boy.”
He tipped Dennis’s head back, one hand still fisted in his hair while the other curved around his throat. He pressed the pad of his thumb to Dennis’s lower lip, tapping expectantly until he parted his lips and let Jack’s thumb slip into his mouth.
Dennis’s eyes fluttered shut, a moan rattling in his throat. It was just Jack’s thumb, but it felt good to have something in his mouth, the calloused digit pressing down on his tongue, Jack’s fingers hooked under his jaw as he held him, stroking along the inside of Dennis’s mouth. Dennis swirled his tongue around the tip, wanting Jack to know what he could do, how good he could be for him.
Suddenly, Jack’s fingers tightened in his hair and his fingers dug in underneath his jaw; he held Dennis in place, forcing his thumb deeper, fucking it into his mouth. Dennis gagged as Jack pressed down on the back of his tongue, coughing and sputtering when he withdrew.
“Good job, baby,” Jack said, that low, raspy murmur making the warmth in his belly spread. He was already straining against his jeans; he could feel a wet spot forming at the front of his boxers. He wanted more. He wanted Jack to touch him again; he wanted to get his hands on Jack. He wanted whatever Jack would give him.
Jack gripped his chin, smearing Dennis’s own saliva on his skin as he turned his head this way and that, almost like he was examining him.
“Got my mouth, too, don’t you,” he muttered, almost like he was talking to himself. Like he was cataloguing all the ways that he and Dennis were the same.
The thought was dizzying. He was so turned on he could barely see straight.
“Ja—ngh, Dad,” he whimpered, correcting himself at Jack’s sharp look. “Please, I need…” He trailed off, throat bobbing. He watched Jack’s eyes follow the movement, looking like—like something he would hunt, some feral, evil thing, staring at the pale skin of Dennis’s throat like he wanted to lean in and bite.
“I know what you need, baby,” he rasped, keeping one hand on Dennis while the other reached for his fly, deftly opening his pants one-handed before reaching into his boxers and pulling out his cock—not too long, but thick, the head flushed and red. Pretty the way the rest of Jack was pretty, something delicate hiding beneath all that gruff masculinity.
Dennis’s mouth watered at the sight of it, his eyes tracking the movement as Jack stroked himself lazily. He wanted to lean forward, wanted to take Jack into his mouth. Wanted to sink down on his cock until Jack was deep inside him, filling him with the same stuff that had made him.
Fuck, he thought, feeling himself twitch in his jeans. Jack’s cock had made him. He should have been horrified at himself for wanting it so badly, but he was too turned on, too eager, to care.
“Poor thing,” Jack cooed, so condescending that if Dennis hadn’t been so laser-focused on his cock, he would have flinched. “Just needed your dad to take you out of that pretty little head, didn’t you?”
Dennis found himself nodding before he’d even really thought about it. He thought he would probably agree to anything Jack said right now, just for a taste of him.
He whined—whined—when Jack finally let go of his hair, pouting as Jack settled back in his chair, still stroking himself lazily as he stared at Dennis.
“Aww, you want it, baby?” Mean, he was so mean, and every word out of his mouth just turned Dennis on more, the fire burning low in his belly growing hotter with each second, his own cock so hard that he wasn’t sure one brush of Jack’s hand wouldn’t have him coming undone then and there.
Dennis nodded, and Jack’s lips curled into a smirk.
“Then you’re gonna have to come get it.”
Dennis moved forward immediately, ending up half-off the pillow Jack had so generously laid down for him as he slotted himself between Jack’s tree-trunk thighs, leaning in to lick a stripe up the underside of Jack’s cock.
He heard Jack groan above him, could feel the way the muscles in his thighs twitched around him as he took Jack into his mouth, eyes closing with a moan at the taste of him. Clean, warm, a little salty. Jack’s scent was all around him, that heady combination of sawdust and motor oil, and now, Jack’s natural musk. Dennis relaxed his jaw and sank down onto Jack until he could bury his face in the graying curls at the base of his cock, inhaling deep, like taking a hit straight from the source.
“Fuck, kid,” Jack groaned, his fingers finding Dennis’s hair again, twisting into his curls. Dennis hummed encouragingly, swallowing around Jack as he reached up and curled his hand around Jack’s own, squeezing.
Jack took the hint immediately, tightening his grip until tears stung at the corners of Dennis’s eyes. “Liked that, did you?” he murmured, Dennis moaning in response as Jack used his grip on Dennis’s hair to take control of his movements, working Dennis’s mouth up and down his cock.
Dennis was in heaven, his eyes blissfully shut, lips stretched wide around Jack’s thick cock, perfectly content to let Jack use him like this, would let Jack use him like this every day if he could, down on his knees for him, mouth open and waiting, just like this—Jack alternating between moving Dennis along his cock and holding him still so he could fuck up into his mouth, leaving Dennis to just focus on breathing through his nose and keeping his jaw relaxed.
Leave it to his dad to do all the work; all he had to do was be a good boy.
He could tell Jack was getting close; his thrusting into Dennis’s mouth grew more erratic, his grip on Dennis’s hair tightening to the point where tears were spilling over, streaming down his cheeks. The little grunts he’d come to recognize from listening to Jack and Robby through the cabin walls were being punched from Jack’s throat with each thrust, growling praise in a running commentary under his breath, almost like he was unaware he was speaking at all.
“So—fuck—so fucking good for me, baby, taking my cock so well—‘s ‘cause you were made just for me, isn’t that right, Den? Made you just to take it, baby…”
Dennis hummed in agreement, drool beginning to leak from the corners of his mouth. He felt like such a mess, drool and tears and a steady stream of precum leaking from his cock like a faucet, and he fucking loved it, loved how much of a mess Jack hade made of him, because Jack was right—Dennis had been made for it, had been made just for this, Jack’s fingers in his hair and his cock in his mouth and his gravelly voice whispering filth into Dennis’s ear.
Through the lust-filled fog in his head, he had the deranged thought that they had wasted so much time. They could have been doing this for a month. They could have been doing this for years, if only Dennis had found Jack sooner.
“Gonna come,” rumbled Jack above him, lifting Dennis off his cock. Dennis let out a sound that was almost a sob—so fucking mean, so unfair that Jack wasn’t going to let him have this—but then Jack added, “Deep breath, baby,” and Dennis barely had a chance to do what he said before Jack was pulling him back onto his cock, gagging him on it.
He held Dennis down, grip firm in his curls, and then he filled Dennis’s mouth. Dennis swallowed automatically, not wanting to waste a drop, wanting every bit of what his dad could give him, wanting, perhaps, a little piece of Jack for himself.
Jack was breathing hard as he came down, his hand still resting heavily at the back of Dennis’s head, no longer tugging at his hair, just petting. Dennis held Jack’s softening cock in his mouth, still sucking gently at him, enjoying the way Jack jolted around him, oversensitive.
Neither of them heard the crunch of tires on the gravel outside, or the heavy footsteps crossing the porch, or the turn of the key in the lock.
Then the door swung open, and Robby walked in.
“I see you two are…getting along,” he said, the sound of his voice making Dennis flinch so hard that he jerked away from Jack and lost his balance, falling back onto the floor with a loud thud. He grimaced, and looked up at Robby, meeting his gaze guiltily.
Fuck, he thought, as the panic began to set in. They were so fucked.
Dennis wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, aware of how he must look—lips swollen, face splotchy and wet with tears, curls disheveled from Jack’s grip—how there would be no mistaking what he and Jack had been doing, Dennis on his knees between Jack’s spread legs, Jack’s hand still curled lazily around his spent cock.
“Robby—” he choked out, the name catching in his throat.
“You’re home early,” Jack interrupted, and Dennis shot him a glare. How could he be so calm about this? His husband had just caught them together. He was Jack’s son, for fuck’s sake. Surely, he understood how fucked this was.
Robby scoffed. “I’m home exactly on time,” he said, crossing the room towards them.
Dennis scrambled back, unsure what was happening. He had never seen Robby truly angry, so he wasn’t sure what it looked like, but maybe Robby’s anger was quiet like this. Calm. He was fully expecting Robby to punch Jack, or maybe him; he hadn’t grabbed the shotgun in the corner next to the door, so that was a good sign, at least. Dennis held his breath, steeling himself for whatever Robby’s reaction would be… and then blinked as Jack tipped his head back, and Robby leaned over him, pressing their lips together in a quick kiss.
Frozen in place, Dennis watched them, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Robby should have—he should have been fucking furious with them. Disgusted. He should have been shouting, or at the very least telling Dennis to pack his bags and leave. But he wasn’t doing any of that. No, he was kissing Jack like everything was fine, like he hadn’t just walked in on his husband and his son together.
He didn’t know what this was—he didn’t know what kind of game Robby was playing—but he started to shake, all his anxiety and fear getting twisted up inside him because this was it, he had ruined everything. He finally had something good for himself—a stable home, a family—and he’d fucking ruined it, because something inside him was broken, and sick, and now he was going to lose the only thing that mattered to him because he couldn’t keep a handle on his own disgusting feelings—
A noise that was halfway between a whimper and a sob escaped his throat before he could stop it. Jack and Robby both turned their attention towards him, still on the floor, ready to crawl over to Robby and grovel if that was what it took to make the man forgive him, to atone for the grievous sin he had committed—not against God, but against Robby.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Robby said, crouching down in front of Dennis and reaching out to comb his fingers through Dennis’s mussed curls. “Look at you; you’re shaking. Shh, it’s okay. Breathe for me, Dennis. In, out. Good.”
Dennis forced himself to follow the sound of Robby’s voice, so warm and soothing. He didn’t deserve even an ounce of Robby’s kindness, not after what he’d done, but he appreciated Robby talking him down from what he was beginning to recognize was a panic attack.
“That’s it, sweetheart, just breathe,” Robby murmured, continuing to comb his fingers through Dennis’s hair. Dennis couldn’t help but lean into the touch; he was going to soak up as much of Robby as he could while he still had a chance. Before Robby kicked him out, and he lost this forever.
Slowly, the panic began to subside. Dennis followed Robby’s breathing, in and out, aided by the fingers in his hair and Robby’s voice, his tone never faltering, never turning to anger. Dennis still didn’t understand why he wasn’t getting angry.
“Why—” he started, forcing the words out past the lump lodged in his throat, “aren’t you—you should—aren’t you mad at—at us, at m-me—?”
The look Robby gave him was almost pitying, and—something else, that Dennis couldn’t quite parse.
“Oh, is that what this is?” Robby asked him, brushing the curls back from his forehead. “Did you think Daddy would be mad at you?”
Dennis froze, his eyes going wide as he stared up at Robby. What the fuck?
“I’m not mad, baby,” Robby continued, oblivious to the inner tumult his words had caused. “I told you to be good for your dad while I was gone, didn’t I? And look at you, doing just what Daddy asked. My good boy.”
Jack leaned forward in his chair, having finally tucked himself back into his boxers.
“You have no idea, Mike,” he said, his eyes locked onto Dennis. “Kid’s got the sweetest little mouth on him.”
“I have some idea,” Robby smirked, gaze flicking over to Jack for a moment, and in the back of his mind, Dennis thought, somewhat hysterically, oh, because we’re related. Because Jack and I are the same.
“I—” he tried, struggling to form a coherent sentence out of the mess in his mind. “You… you really… you’re not mad?” he asked again, voice coming out small. He just didn’t understand. Robby should hate him. Robby should be turning him away. Robby shouldn’t be calling himself Daddy and acting like all of this was some sort of—
Oh.
The realization hit suddenly, cutting through the fog of confusion in his mind. Robby wasn’t mad at him, because Robby had planned this. Leaving him alone with Jack, timing his return. He’d even said it: he’d arrived exactly on time. He’d been dropping hints for weeks, the constant emphasis on Jack being his dad, calling Dennis his sweet boy. And Jack had been right there with him. They’d been doing it on purpose, the whole time.
He couldn’t even blame them, not really; it wasn’t as though Robby and Jack had planted the thought in his mind. He’d found them attractive the moment he’d showed up on their doorstep, when it had still been a question of whether Robby would invite him inside, or shoot him. It was only after he’d watched them that first night—something he had no doubt now that Jack had told Robby about—that they had started really playing up the whole “we’re a family” schtick.
And all of it to bring him here, on his knees in front of Robby, the taste of Jack still in his mouth.
Dennis should have been angry. He should have been horrified. Yet the only thing he could feel was an overwhelming sense of relief. It washed over him so quickly that it made him dizzy, and he slumped forward into Robby, who caught him with a little chuckle.
“There he is,” he murmured, tucking Dennis’s face into his shoulder with his large hand on the back of his head. Dennis was shaking again; he clutched Robby’s coat, fingers curling into the rough canvas fabric. “You’ve been wanting this so bad, haven’t you, baby? It’s okay. I’ve seen the way you look at your dad.”
Dennis raised up, a pout on his lips as he felt the urge to deny it, even now, but Robby just smiled at him.
“I’ve seen the way you look at me, too,” he continued, and whatever protest Dennis might have managed died in his throat. “It’s okay to want us, baby. We’re your family.”
It was wrong. It was wrong, and it was fucked up, and… and Dennis wanted it. He wanted them, and the only clear thought in his head was—they wanted him, too.
“Daddy,” he said, his voice breaking, as he buried his face back against Robby’s neck. He didn’t see the look Jack and Robby shared over his head, Robby’s lips curling into a smile while Jack smirked.
“Oh, baby,” Robby said, feeling his shirt collar grow damp with tears. “It’s okay, let it all out. That’s a good boy.”
Dennis sobbed, sniffling into Robby’s neck as he clung to him and trembled. All the fear, all the shame he’d been feeling these past few weeks, felt like it had been lifted away, the massive weight that had been crushing him gone. In the back of his mind, he still knew it wasn’t right—that there was something deeply, irreparably wrong with the three of them—but, if he wanted it, and they wanted it, and they weren’t hurting anyone, then… it would be so easy, to just give in. To let himself have what he wanted.
“Sorry… ‘m sorry,” he muttered against Robby’s neck miserably, not sure what he was even apologizing for—for crying, or for wanting them so much. For not being able to resist his own feelings.
“You have nothing to apologize for, sweet boy,” Robby said. His hand stroked along Dennis’s spine, the movement soothing. Fatherly.
After a moment, when Dennis’s tears had slowed and he wasn’t trembling quite so hard, Robby hooked his hands under Dennis’s arms.
“Come on, kiddo, up we go,” he said, groaning as he stood, his knees cracking. “Daddy’s getting too old to crouch on the floor like that.”
Dennis let Robby lead him over to the sofa, pulling Dennis onto his lap as he sat down. He wrapped his arms around Dennis’s waist and hauled him against his chest, so that he was laying against him rather than just sitting. Dennis thought that perhaps he should pull away, that he shouldn’t give in so easily, but Robby’s arms were strong and sure around him, his chest broad and comfortable, and Dennis was exhausted—mentally, emotionally—from all of it, the shame and the guilt and the weeks of pretending that he wasn’t so sick and fucked up and he just… couldn’t, anymore.
He wrapped his arms around Robby’s neck and snuggled against him, letting his father—his Daddy—comfort him.
“Oh, you really are a sweet boy, aren’t you?” Robby mused, chuckling softly as he resumed stroking Dennis’s spine.
The armchair creaked, and Dennis turned his head to see Jack leaning forward, staring at him and Robby with that same sort of hungry look in his eye that he’d had earlier. Like a wolf about to pounce.
“You look real pretty sitting in your daddy’s lap, baby,” he murmured, and Dennis blushed, squirming as his cock—hard-on killed by Robby’s arrival—twitched back to life.
There was a rumble in Robby’s chest beneath him. “You like it when your dad talks to you like that?” he asked, jostling Dennis on his lap. Dennis nodded, his cheeks feeling like they were on fire. He might as well admit it; there was no going back now.
Jack stood, then, and made his way over to them, sitting next to Robby on the sofa, the cushions dipping beneath his added weight. He leaned into Robby, his arm resting on the back of the sofa, his other hand coming to rest on the outside of Dennis’s knee.
Sitting there between them both, Dennis realized that it was always going to come to this. Jack and Robby were hunters. They were used to tracking, stalking, and waiting out their prey. They had pursued him with the same cold, calculated patience they had honed over decades, and had trapped him just as thoroughly as they would one of the creatures out of Robby’s books.
With their hands on him, and the taste of Jack still in his mouth, he found that he didn’t really mind all that much.
Gently taking him by the chin, Robby turned Dennis’s attention back to him.
“Can I kiss you, sweetheart?” he asked, and Dennis was nodding before he’d even finished the question, already leaning in, surprised but pleased that he’d asked.
Robby’s lips were warm and slightly chapped, and his beard scratched Dennis’s skin. It was perfect. Dennis made a muffled noise into Robby’s mouth, and Robby responded with a groan, the somewhat chaste kiss deepening. Robby’s tongue flicked against Dennis’s lips, and Dennis opened for him sweetly, melting against him with a sigh. He combed his fingers through the hair at the base of Robby’s skull, shifted on his lap to get even closer. He could feel Jack’s hand moving up the side of his leg, fingers curling around the back of his thigh.
“Fuck, he’s so sweet,” Robby muttered when he pulled away, his voice low and rumbly. Dennis whined at the loss, chasing after his lips and pouting when Robby gripped him by the back of the neck to stop him. “He tastes like you, Jack.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jack smirked, squeezing Dennis’s thigh. “You hear that, baby? Your daddy thinks you taste good.”
Dennis whimpered, squirming on Robby’s lap. He could feel Robby starting to get hard beneath him; he felt big, maybe even bigger than Jack, and the wave of want that washed over him at the thought was enough to make him lightheaded.
“Rob—Daddy,” Dennis whined, feeling Jack squeeze his thigh again for correcting himself. “Touch me… please…”
“Polite boy,” Robby said, pleased. “Where would you like us to touch you, Den?”
Dennis pouted. He didn’t want to think, he didn’t want to try and concentrate on forming coherent sentences. He just wanted them, wanted their hands and mouths on him, wanted them, he realized as the heat in his belly began to spread, inside him.
“Here,” he huffed, grabbing Robby’s hand, the one resting big and warm on his hip, and placing it over the bulge in his jeans, his cock once more straining against the fabric. “Need you, Daddy, please...”
It was a calculated plea, but one that paid off. Robby’s eyes darkened, and his fingers tightened around the outline of Dennis’s cock.
“Bedroom?” Robby asked Jack, barely turning his head, his gaze focused on Dennis.
Jack nodded, and stood, reaching for Dennis. “Come on, kid,” he said, hooking his arm under Dennis’s legs and hoisting him into the air.
Dennis yelped in surprise, wrapping his arms around Jack’s neck, afraid the added weight might throw Jack off-balance, but Jack was steady beneath him, shifting his weight expertly as he carried Dennis down the hall to his and Robby’s bedroom, Robby trailing behind them.
Jack dumped him on the bed, Robby immediately crawling over him and beginning to pull off his borrowed jeans and sweater, muttering the whole time about how good Dennis looked wearing their clothes.
“Looks better out of ‘em,” Jack rumbled from where he was standing next to the bed. He pulled his own shirt off, revealing his thick, muscled chest, freckles dotting the skin from his shoulders down his arms. Dennis whimpered looking at him; he wanted to feel those muscles beneath his hands, feel those thick arms caging him in as Jack fucked into him.
Hooking a finger along his cheek, Robby turned Dennis back to face him, ducking down to kiss him, nipping at Dennis’s bottom lip as he immediately opened for him, groaning into Dennis’s mouth at how pliant he was.
Soon Dennis was nude and Jack was halfway there, while Robby was fully dressed. It made Dennis a little dizzy, being naked under Robby while the man still had all his clothes on, but he didn’t have time to examine that right now. Now, he just needed Robby to get with the program and take his clothes off.
“Not fair,” he said, tugging at Robby’s shirt. “Take it off… I wanna see you, too.”
Robby smiled indulgently and sat up, peeling off his shirt, Dennis’s mouth practically watering as he watched. Robby was so different from Jack—muscles a little less defined, stomach a bit softer, his chest covered in dark hair where Jack’s was mostly smooth—but he was perfect. Big and hairy and like a walking wet dream straight out of one of Dennis’s fantasies—or at least, the sort of fantasies he’d had before he’d started lusting after his fathers.
“Fuck,” Dennis muttered, running his fingers through the thick hair on Robby’s chest.
“Language, baby,” Robby chided, but he was practically purring beneath Dennis’s hands, one of his own coming to rest atop Dennis’s as he guided it back down towards the tent in his pants. Dennis fumbled with the buttons, eager to get his hands on Robby, or preferably his mouth, pushing Robby back as he got to his knees and pulled the man’s cock out.
Robby was longer than Jack, but not as thick, obviously circumcised where Jack was not. The tip was flushed dark red, and Dennis couldn’t help but lean in and taste it, Robby’s fingers immediately finding his curls as he guided Dennis’s head further onto his cock. He was gentler than Jack had been, holding him still while he thrust into his mouth, rather than working Dennis up and down his cock like a toy. He didn’t really prefer one way or the other; he was just happy to let them use him, happy to make them feel good in whatever way they wanted him.
Caught up in the taste and sensation of Robby in his mouth, Dennis didn’t hear Jack digging around in the bedside drawer, or the snick of the lube bottle as he popped open the lid. One moment he was moaning and swallowing around Robby, and the next, he felt a slick finger circling his hole.
He pulled off Robby with a gasp, instinctively rocking back against Jack’s hand. “Oh, fuck,” he said, feeling the tip of Jack’s finger breach him.
“So fucking tight,” Jack muttered, free hand spreading Dennis open while he worked his finger inside. “You ever done this before, baby?”
Dennis flushed. “Yeah—ngh—a couple of times,” he answered, not really wanting to get into the details of things he’d had to do to survive, not when Jack and Robby were touching him like he was something that—that mattered, and not just a means to an end.
Above him, Jack made a sound that was practically a growl, and Dennis imagined it was because he hated that he wasn’t going to be the first one inside him, hated that Dennis had let other men touch him, touch what was Jack’s. He hoped Jack fucked him so hard that he erased the memory of every man who had come before him.
Jack pulled out, and Dennis whimpered at the sudden empty feeling, the sound morphing into a cry as Jack bullied two fingers back into him, the burn and stretch making his breath catch for a moment before he adjusted. He slumped forward, his forehead pressed to Robby’s hip, while Robby combed his fingers through his hair and told him how good he was being.
By the time Jack slipped a third finger in, Dennis was trembling, little cries punched out of him each time Jack fucked his fingers into him, curling to rub over his prostate and making him see stars.
He realized, vaguely, that he was babbling to himself, clutching at Robby’s thigh like a lifeline, little pleas spilling from his lips. “Please, please, Dad, please…”
Behind him, Jack groaned, thrusting his fingers into Dennis a few more times before pulling them out, wiping them off on the back of Dennis’s thigh. Dennis clenched around nothing, whining at the sudden feeling of emptiness.
The mattress shifted beneath him as Robby moved to sit against the headboard, tugging Dennis into place over his lap.
“Come on, baby, let’s make things a bit easier for your dad,” he said, rearranging Dennis until he was on his knees, draped across Robby’s lap with his ass towards Jack, who was standing next to the bed. Calloused hands curved over his ass, spreading him open, and he felt Jack’s thumb press at his hole, slipping in easily.
“Pretty thing,” Jack muttered under his breath as he slicked himself up, the blunt head of his cock replacing his thumb. Dennis keened, trying to push back against him, but Jack’s hands on his hips held him steady, forcing him to take it as Jack sank steadily into him—not fast, but not slow enough to let him adjust as he bottomed out, hips flush against Dennis’s ass. Dennis sucked in a wet-sounding breath, bowing his forehead to rest on Robby’s thigh as he breathed through the burn.
“Doing so good, baby,” Robby said above him, his hand stroking down Dennis’s spine, feeling the ridges poking through his pale skin. “So good for us, our perfect boy.”
The praise helped. Robby’s fingers tracing along his spine helped. Dennis felt like every one of his nerve endings were on fire, heat sparking at each place where they touched him. His cock hung heavy between his legs, drooling onto the blankets. He fisted one hand into the fabric beneath him and grabbed Robby’s arm with the other, a broken whine leaving him as Jack began to move behind him, pace rough but steady as he fucked into him.
The room filled with the sounds of Dennis’s broken little whines, Jack’s grunts and the slap of skin against skin, and underneath it all, Robby’s voice, low and soothing.
“That’s it, baby, let it all out,” he murmured, stroking Dennis’s sweat-damp hair. “Your dad is being so rough with you, isn’t he? It’s okay, Daddy’s got you, baby. You just hold onto me while he takes what he wants.”
He reached beneath Dennis and took hold of his cock, stroking him in time with Jack’s thrusts. Dennis keened, his back arching, body clenching around Jack, who groaned behind him, his fingers digging into Dennis’s hips hard enough to bruise.
“Feel fucking amazing around my cock, baby,” he ground out, smoothing one hand up Dennis’s spine, pulling him back onto his cock roughly. “Knew you would… fucking made you for it, didn’t I… my baby boy, made just for me…”
Dennis let out a sob, his cock throbbing in Robby’s grip; he was so close, and right as he started to tense up, Robby wrapped his thumb and forefinger around his base and squeezed.
“Fuck!” Dennis cried out, while Robby tutted.
“Not until we say, Den.”
Bending forward, Jack tangled his fingers next to Robby’s in Dennis’s hair, but instead of petting, he gripped and pulled, yanking Dennis’s head up and ripping a cry from his throat.
“Who do you belong to, baby?” he asked, grinding against Dennis’s ass, fucking him so deep Dennis felt like he couldn’t catch his breath—or maybe that was just from how far Jack had his head pulled back.
“You…” he answered, gasping when Jack let go of his hair and his head fell forward. “You, Dad…!”
“That’s right, me,” Jack said, hips resuming their rhythm, though it was a bit erratic now as he grew closer to his own release. “And who else?”
“D-uh—Daddy!” Dennis sobbed, clutching Robby’s arm.
He didn’t see the nod Jack gave Robby over his back, but at that moment Robby resumed stroking him, falling in time with Jack’s thrusts, and it was only a few seconds before Dennis tensed up, his whole body going taut as he spilled into Robby’s fist. Jack groaned, burying himself deep inside Dennis as he came, too, Dennis feeling the warmth of it spreading through him.
Dennis was trembling, vision blurry with unshed tears as the aftershocks rolled through him. His whole body felt like one raw nerve, like the slightest touch would set him off again. But of course, they weren’t done with him. Jack pulled out—Dennis whimpering at the sudden emptiness—and together they manhandled him onto Robby’s lap, situating him so that he was straddling Robby’s thighs, Jack’s hand pressed to the small of his back as they sank him down onto Robby’s cock.
Robby wrapped his arms around Dennis’s back and pulled him to his chest, letting Dennis slump against him and bury his face in his neck as he rocked up into him, meeting no resistance, Jack’s spend making the slide easy.
By the time Robby spilled into him Dennis had already come again, painting his and Robby’s stomach, his cock trapped between them. Robby held him as he came down, pressing kisses to the shell of Dennis’s ear and whispering praise to him. He was vaguely aware of Jack moving, the sound of clicking as he removed his prosthetic limb, and then Robby was shifting Dennis off his lap, moving them over to make room for Jack on the bed.
“Bed’s a mess,” Jack muttered as he slid back onto the mattress.
“You can clean it later,” Robby said, and Jack scoffed. Dennis made a soft sound from where he was lying between them, his limbs feeing like jelly.
Robby looked down at him with an amused lilt to his lips. “We can talk later, too,” he said, brushing Dennis’s damp curls back from his forehead.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jack groused. “Talk later, nap now.”
He rolled Dennis over so that he was curled against Robby’s side, his head pillowed on Robby’s chest, while Jack spooned him from behind, his residual limb slotting neatly between Dennis’s thighs.
Vaguely, in the back of his mind, Dennis knew they would need to talk later—about this, about them. About what it meant now that they had all but obliterated the barrier between parent and child and… whatever they were now. But all that could wait.
For now, Dennis just wanted to enjoy this feeling while he had it, the feeling of being safe and sound in the arms of the men he had come to care about so deeply in such a short amount of time. After all he’d done to survive, the loss he’d suffered, didn’t he deserve it? The sense of contentedness, of happiness he’d found because of this, because of them?
After all this time, he had finally found exactly where he belonged, right here, with Jack and Robby.
With his family.