
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/308303.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Dragon_Age
  Relationship:
      Malcolm_Hawke/Carver_Hawke, Garrett_Hawke/Anders
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Parent/Child_Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-12-31 Words: 1060
****** picnic ******
by gingersnapdragon
Summary
     malcolm and carver have a nice date. at home.
One thing about your lover also being your son is the restriction on things
like public displays of affection. And even though Garrett is the one who is
Malcolm’s spitting image, Carver got enough of him that there’s no hope of not
being recognized for what they are, even far away in another town. The sneaking
around in the shadows makes things exciting, but as months wear on and this
thing with Carver becomes firmer, more solid, more normal, Malcolm wishes the
excitement were a choice, not a requirement. Takes some of the spice out of it.
There’s nothing to be done for it. Theirs is a permanent affair, a scandal that
will never become acceptable, and as such, concessions have to be made in the
area of romance. Concessions, Malcolm reminds himself, not surrender.
They haven’t really done anything special since Garrett moved out with Anders,
so Malcolm understands Carver’s confusion when he comes in to a house that’s
mostly dark except the warm glow coming from the living room – the fireplace
and a half-dozen candles around the edges of an old tablecloth. A bottle of
wine waits on one checkered corner, gleaming in the golden glow, and Carver
pauses in the door, bookbag on his shoulder, gym bag in his hand. Malcolm can
tell even in the low light that his hair is wet, curling over his forehead. He
took a shower before he left practice, then, and Malcolm smiles at the thought
of smelling his fresh skin.
“Uh, Dad? What’s going on?”
Malcolm snorts. Garrett would have known immediately, sly smirk and a thumb in
his belt loop, but Carver is a different beast. Malcolm loves both of his sons,
but it’s no surprise to him that one of them has gone on to play house with his
own boyfriend while the other stands in the doorway, baffled and aroused.
“Put your bags up and come sit down,” Malcolm says. “We’ll have dinner in here
tonight.”
Carver still looks confused, and Malcolm thinks he mouthes On the floor? But he
doesn’t ask out loud, so Malcolm lets it slide. When Carver comes back, he sits
farther away than Malcolm would like, but Malcolm decides to let him have his
space – for now. Dinner is just a simple pasta dish, white wine sauce and light
vegetables mixed in, but Carver devours it like he’s starving. And after
practice, maybe he is. After his third helping, he groans and sets his plate
down, leaning into Malcolm’s space now, happy and sated, and maybe a bit drunk.
He’s on his third glass of wine as well, and he’s not used to drinking the
stuff.
Malcolm reaches over and brushes his still-damp bangs back, one thumb tracing
the beloved lines of his son’s face, and Carver smiles, pliable but still
confused.
“What’s all this about?” he finally asks, a question he hasn’t voiced since
before they started eating.
“I just thought it might be nice to have a romantic date,” Malcolm says, and he
tries to ignore the way worry and tension curl in his belly. What if Carver
thinks that’s stupid? What if what’s between them is just sex and a twisted
kind of parental affection, not the kinds of feelings that Malcolm is starting
to feel? (And how ridiculous would that be, falling in love with his own son?
He can’t decide if it’s better or worse than putting his cock up his ass.)
“That’s…that’s nice,” Carver says, flush obvious even in the low light. He
ducks his head, but Malcolm catches his chin and tilts his face up, leaning in
for a kiss. Carver closes his eyes and melts into the contact, and Malcolm
thinks he might have to break out a bottle of wine more often. More corruption;
more bad parenting. But the sweetness of Carver’s mouth under his, slowly being
coaxed out of urgency and into just enjoying long, deep kisses, is enough to
drown out Malcolm’s doubts and guilt.
“Dad,” Carver whispers when they break apart, eyes heavy-lidded, voice soft and
slurred. “M-make…” He trails off, choked by his own words, and finally says,
“F-fuck me, please.”
Despite the phrasing, Malcolm knows that what he wants isn’t a fast, dirty fuck
on the floor, and he takes his time undressing them both, piece by piece, his
mouth tasting every inch of Carver’s firm, smooth flesh that he can. Seventeen.
So young. Malcolm has so much to feel guilty for.
He doesn’t fuck Carver, not right away; he takes his time touching and kissing,
tonguing him open until he writhes, pressing inside him with loving fingers.
Carver is red and sweaty, twisting on the carpet, by the time Malcolm takes
himself in hand and pushes in, so slow, so gentle, shaking with his own
restraint.
“F-fuck,” Carver whimpers, drawing his knees up to take his father’s cock
farther into his body. “Please.” They’ve done this enough that Carver’s learned
how to hook his ankles over Malcolm’s lower back, but they haven’t done it so
much that Malcolm is used to the pressure of Carver’s heels against his ass or
the heat of his body or the way he willingly takes every thrust and asks for
more. “Please,” he says again, starting to fuck back now, clinging and
desperate like he can’t get Malcolm far enough inside.
“You’ve got it,” Malcolm pants, strokes long and deep, and Carver throws back
his head and groans. “You’ve got me.”
“Love you.” Carver gasps and convulses, still so young, still so quick to come,
and his fingers dig into Malcolm’s shoulders. “Love you so much…Daddy!”
And Malcolm’s not young but he’s just a man and there’s only so much he can
take, and he comes inside his son, shuddering, shaking, growling. His hips keep
thrusting even after his cock is empty, as if he’s unconsciously trying to bury
himself there forever. He finally collapses, having just enough sense to brace
himself on his elbows so he doesn’t crush his son – although Carver’s bigger
than he is through the chest these days.
Carver kisses him on the forehead, and Malcolm thinks he feels a hesitation in
the touch. He lifts his face and smiles down at Carver’s exhausted expression.
“I love you too,” he says, and Carver’s lips tilt upward, just barely, before
he leans up for a kiss.
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