Explicit Hansencest and no real plot, be warned! ;D No really, it's just an half assed attempt at porn and feelings. Or the fic I wished I had a kink meme prompt to blame. (Though, I do apologize for the lack of Max.)
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It Comes From Down Under
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His father doesn't know how to be sweet, but he tries, and that is a source of Chuck's endless amusement, the kind he refuses to give up, especially when the Kaiju attacks only seem to increase in frequencies, strength, and then numbers too.
It is exactly the kind of first hand despair that Chuck knows he can't work around. So he tries to forget instead when he pushes his mouth over his father's and kisses the man in every way he has yet to learn how.
Their first time is clumsy. Their second time is messy.
And by the third time, Chuck knows he can't not have this.
So Chuck knocks on his dad's door when he should be in his own room. The hall is empty, a stretch of rust and cold, grey concrete. It takes a moment for his father to open the door. But when he does, Chuck is already pushing his way in, all defiant arrogance in the way his t-shirt pulls taut over the broad of his shoulders.
And it is both a silent plead and a dare for his father to stop him.
Because no one sees him go in, and no one will see him come out.
"…Calm down, Chuck." His dad says, a hand resting over his son's chest, his voice firm when they are only a breath apart.
And Chuck stops, like he always does. It doesn't mean he hates himself any less for it when he looks at his dad with his wide eyes like he is still a child caught red handed, doing something he shouldn't be doing.
"Come on."
And then Herc is tugging his son into his room, letting him kiss him until he can't seem to breathe, until the world doesn't matter and they can both feel safe in midst of a raging war.
.
(They know, full well, that they should talk about it but words have been something of a challenge for the two of them. His father never says no, and Chuck doesn't imagine a yes will change anything at all.
And it has always been easier this way.)
.
Chuck has both hands clutching at his father's shoulders, drawing him close, and then closer still. Leaning in, he breathes in deep, breathes in the heady rush of something distinctly them even as the afterimages of their Drift together still lingers a bright blue in his head.
But sometimes, even the Drift is not enough.
So he holds on, blunt fingernails digging deeper into his father's vest while his heart continues to beat just a little bit louder.
.
(And he needs that too because it reminds him that he is still alive.)
.
There is always an underlying strum of desperation when they are together, when he is sliding one hand down his father's arm to grip him tight around the wrist, pushing a fraction before he is finally pulling him down to the bed.
They don't fall in a tangle of limbs, they know each other's movements far too well to let that happen. Instead, Chuck ends up in Herc's lap, straddling him like he belongs before he is pulling his thin grey shirt over his head, revealing bare skin that gets Herc moving every time.
His father runs a hand over his chest, over the fading scars, over the matching scars that they both have across their bodies for all the times they co-piloted Striker Eureka as a team.
Chuck growls, grabs the hand and it is both a demand and a challenge when he pushes his dad to lie flat on his back.
And because they have never taken well with following each other's orders, Herc pushes himself up by an elbow and reaches for Chuck with his other hand instead. It is only when his fingers find the nape of Chuck's neck, his hand steadying when he should have been pushing his son away, that he stills. Pulling him close, he catches his mouth and slicks his tongue up against his, tugging the short ends of the blond hair with just enough force to elicit a groan from between Chuck's lips.
It's a sound that fills the room, one that only seems to urge them on.
.
(Herc swallows around the kiss, bites and soothes away the nipping pain.
And in retaliation, Chuck will push the man further into the thin mattress before shifting his weight to bodily feel for the heat trapped between the two of them, hips rolling just right.)
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He grunts at the slow stretch and the familiar burn, the hand at his hip and the faint brushes of his father's lips over his temples. It makes him see stars. Chuck doesn't remember when he has his eyes clenched shut, or when he is so completely filled to the brim, but he is already leaning forward with a hand braced against his father's chest for support and then he moves.
Chuck sets the pace, like he always does. With his bottom lip between his teeth and his dog tags swinging against his chest, gleaming silver beneath the light. He only opens his eyes when he is in full control.
And he doesn't know what it is when he glances down, but his breath catches in his throat at the way his father is looking up at him.
He doesn't bite out his name or call him dad when he comes, Chuck only tilts his head to the fluorescent light above them before gasping something soft and incoherent as he spills over his father's hand.
.
(He imagines that his dad will wake up one day and come to his sense, knows this to be the terrible thing that it is, beneath all their attempts to convince themselves, and the world, that they could be so much worse.
But today is not that day and the white is a mess against their scars.)
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They lay down in the silence and the dark as they catch their breaths.
Chuck doesn't know how long it takes but when he comes back to himself, he can almost hear the muffled whine of Max in his room, behind the door across the hall from where he is lying spread out on sheets he has grown too accustomed to. Chuck startles only when he feels a cool drag over his bare stomach. He blearily opens his eyes to see his dad leaning over him, a wash cloth in one hand and his other clutching onto the t-shirt Chuck has mindless thrown to the other end of the room.
He means to take the cloth and clean himself up but he catches his father's gaze and it only makes him want to bite his lips, stretch out further on the bed. He doesn't do either though. No, Chuck stays still until his father deems him clean enough.
And then he plucks the dirty washcloth from between Herc Hansen's hand and throws it across the room. His lips twist into a terrible smile at the sight of his father's grimace.
Chuck shifts so there is enough room for both of them. But it isn't until his dad actually gets beneath the sheets that he lets himself breathe again. And just for spite, because he can, because he is his father's son, Chuck drags his cheek across the day-old scruff, a half-ass attempt of the beard that his father has always tried to grow, and bites a bruising kiss along the line of his jaw.
The sight of them makes him shrug on his good days and throw poorly aimed punches at his father's face on his bad days.
But at the end of every day, they fall asleep in the same bed, and it is equal parts terrifying and reassuring every single time.
XXX Kuro