Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/391794.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Dad/John_Egbert
  Character:
      John_Egbert, Dad_(Homestuck)
  Additional Tags:
      Parent/Child_Incest, Incest, Frottage, Underwear_Kink, Underage_Character
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-04-26 Words: 3435
****** Good Father ******
by Marty_(orphan_account)
Summary
     Two second pause, no sound from his room.
     You walk in.
     You wish you hadn't.
     You have seen more of your son than any father should.
Notes
     on_tumblr
You like to think of yourself as a good father. You know how to respect John's
privacy, and you certainly trust your son, but there are times when he just
gets right on your last nerve and you feel as though you can't trust him with
the freedom he's given.
Specifically, when you get a letter from his school that reads something like,
"Dear parent/guardian, report cards were sent home a week ago, and if you did
not receive your child's mid-semester report, please phone the school." Upon
phoning the school, you discover that he is failing two of his four classes
(one with a twenty—you have to wonder how he let it get that bad) and had tried
to keep it from you.
You're angry with him, but you don't think that will do you any good, so you
take some time to calm yourself down.
You bake for a little while. Two batches of muffins. Nothing too heavy-duty,
really. Something to relax with. You take two muffins and a glass of milk with
you when you go up to John's room, and knock on his door.
Two second pause, no sound from his room.
You walk in.
You wish you hadn't.
You have seen more of your son than any father should. Shakily, you put the
milk and both muffins down on his bookshelf by the door.
He's laying there, legs spread and face flushed, staring at you with his eyes
wide like he didn't even know you were at home.
Well, you can't see why he'd do something like this while you were at home. You
sputter for a second and then say, "I got a phone call from your school,"
because you can't think of anything else to say, aside from pointing out the
obvious.
You don't want to point out the obvious. You don't especially even want to
notice the obvious but it's kind of...
Well, obvious.
After it sort of sinks in that yes, you're standing right there, watching him,
he scrambles to sit up and pull his comforter over his lower half, hide
himself. His face is red right to the tips of his ears and you'd almost tell
him it's cute except that's really the wrong thing to say in this situation.
"Um, y-yeah they said they were gonna call because I didn't bring back a signed
copy of my report card and uh. Yeah. Um." He seems flustered, and with good
reason. You walk over to his computer chair, pull it a little closer to the
bed, and put your hands in your lap because you're having a bit of an
embarrassing (and completely wrong) reaction to the entire situation.
"There's nothing wrong with arousal, son," you say, because you've never really
given him a Talk despite the fact that he's fifteen. He's never seemed all that
interested in having that specific talk with you, though you've talked to him
about how to treat a lady. You've never exactly sat down and had a talk with
him about the idea of... Pleasuring himself. "There's nothing wrong with being
aroused and there's nothing wrong with doing something about it."
He looks positively mortified by the fact that you walked in on him and you're
speaking to him, and you wonder if he's still hard, if you should leave and let
him finish. "Dad I know there's nothing wrong with... with touching myself but
there's... gotta be something wrong with—well, with—y'know."
"The, uh. The undergarments you're wearing, you mean." He nods, just a bit, and
you feel your face flush because catching him in the act, so to speak, has
gotten you just the slightest bit worked up despite how utterly wrong it is.
"There's nothing at all wrong with it, John." He doesn't look reassured.
"Plenty of women enjoy seeing men in—"
"I don't like girls," he says, so blunt, like he's been sure of it for a while,
like he's been trying to let you know. You suppose you aren't surprised—not
overly surprised, anyway. You certainly aren't going to oppose him about it.
You are a good father. A supportive father.
"Well, there are plenty of men who enjoy seeing their partners in... Those
types of undergarments." Yourself included, though you don't add that. The
bulge in your pants adds enough, even if he can't see it.
You wonder, though, if he can't see it. He won't look directly at you and he
seems overly embarrassed. You did just walk in on him masturbating (in women's
panties, no less), but you wonder if maybe he's noticed that you're aroused.
You wonder if he's ignoring it in the hopes that he can forget about it. You
wonder if he's scared of you now.
"There are men and women who enjoy it a lot, John. You aren't strange, I
promise you that."
He makes a noise that sounds like a whimper and then nods, still not looking at
you. He glances at you every so often. Rather, he glances at your groin. You
have this feeling like you've been caught in the midst of something you aren't
supposed to be doing, and you suppose you have. You aren't supposed to be
getting all hot and bothered over your fifteen year old son—and yet, here you
are.
"I... I should leave," you say, standing up while simultaneously trying to
cross your legs over one another as much as possible to hide your erection. His
hand shoots out from beneath the covers, though, and he grabs the sleeve of
your button down shirt, tugging you back.
"No," is all he says, and then he's squirming further up on his bed and patting
the spot just next to his legs, which he crosses so you can sit down.
Despite every voice in your head screaming for you not to do it, you sit down
next to him, your dick straining almost uncomfortably against your pants,
glaringly obvious. He either doesn't care or doesn't mind—it might be a
combination of both. He looks at you for a second, then slides the comforter
down a little.
He's teasing you.
He exposes his chest and plays with his nipples a little. He doesn't really
react to it at all—you wonder, very briefly, if he'd react if you touched him
that way, but push that thought away because you are a good father.
Eventually, he lets you see his entire chest, his stomach, even gives you a
look like maybe he wants you to touch him.
When you reach out for him (slowly, exactly the way you taught him to feed the
goats at the petting zoo when he was maybe six years old, like you'll scare him
off if you move any faster) he almost jumps away, shaking his head just a bit.
That's when you figure he's had it, you should leave, but then he grabs your
hand and just holds onto it. Laces his fingers with yours. Smiles at you.
He knows what he's doing. He knows how to tease you. That thought gets you
hotter than it should.
You give his hand a squeeze and his smile widens, then he pushes the comforter
lower, slow as he possibly can. Little tease.
When he pushes the comforter away entirely, you have to force yourself not to
touch him because he'll just push you away again or you'll freak him out. Then
he takes your hand and presses it against the bulge in the front of his
panties. You pull your hand away because you want to get a good look at him,
backing off a little.
"Son," you say, voice shaking a little. "Touch yourself for me, hmm?" You sound
almost disgustingly fatherly and you should really care that you just asked a
fifteen year old to jack off in front of you but you don't. You should care
more that he's your son. You should care even more that he's failing math and
science of all things but you're putting your own needs first and you think
maybe you aren't as good a father as you like to pretend you are.
He nods, though, whimpering and covering his mouth with one hand, palming
himself through thin white lace with the other. You want to ask him where he
even got panties and what money he used but you instead start to grasp yourself
through your pants.
"Dad," he says, his voice just a whine at this point. "You take your pants off
too. Please?"
It's like a fucked up game of "show me yours and I'll show you mine" but you do
it anyway because you're fucked up and you're going to fuck him up and you
don't mind nearly as much as you should because he's the one asking you to do
it. You wiggle out of your pants until you can drop them to the floor, leaving
you just in black briefs. He leans forward and grabs the waistband of your
briefs, tugging at it, and you give his hand a gentle smack, instead pulling
yourself out through your fly.
He gasps at the sight of you and your face flushes because he grabs onto you
without you even prompting him to, giving you a gentle squeeze. You let out a
breath, far too turned on by the fact that your son has a hand around your
dick.
"You're bigger than me," he says, and he sounds almost disappointed. Like he
thinks maybe he's at all lacking in size. You reach for him and pull him a
little closer to you, feeling him through his panties. He's smaller, maybe,
than he should be, but that does apply to almost all areas—he's a little bit
late in hitting his growth spurt. You were, too. You were sixteen, and you
wound up towering over many of your classmates. You begin to wonder if he'll be
the same way as you press a hand flush against his erection.
"You're still growing," you remind him, "You're perfectly average for a boy
your age." All at once you feel like you're the worst father a boy could
possibly have but you ignore that in favor of whispering an encouragement
against his hair. "Come on, now, just like that." Your free hand is on his
around your dick, guiding his hand.
"I can do it," he tells you, so you let go and he starts doing it on his own
and it feels a million times better than it does when it's just you. He does it
just like you taught him, maybe better now that your hand isn't in the way. "Is
this good?" You just nod and give a breathless groan in response and he smiles.
After a while he seems to get bored with that, and you hold your tongue when
you want to express your disappointment. He climbs into your lap without
missing a beat, straddling your hips. You want to touch him but you don't want
to push him too far so you settle for wrapping your arms around his waist and
pulling him against you a little harder.
There's something very wrong with the entire situation, but you want to
convince yourself that it's alright. Just once, it would be alright, and it
wouldn't be hurting anything, and he's the one initiating it. He can tell you
to stop if he wants to.
You want to believe that it's okay for you to touch your son this way.
So, you do.
"Dad," he sighs, wrapping his arms around you and pressing harder against you.
You groan, hands moving up higher on his back.
"Yes, son?" You've got to make an actual effort to keep your voice even now
because your son is in your lap wearing nothing but panties and you've never
imagined quite this scenario but it's perfect anyway. It's perfect because it's
John. One time, you promise yourself again.
"I love you."
Hearing that from your son in the midst of getting intimate with him is nearly
enough to make you whimper but you hold the noise back, just gasping.
"I love you too, John."
He presses down into you harder and moans. He's more vocal than you ever
imagined he'd be and it's beautiful. Perfect. He's perfect.
He whimpers and then pulls himself out of your lap, backing off a little bit.
You think, for the millionth time, that you've messed up and now maybe he's
going to call the authorities on you or maybe you should call the authorities
on yourself or maybe you should just apologize and leave quietly and forget
that it ever hap—
He kisses you, his lips parted a little bit and his teeth scraping against your
lip in a way that's just a little bit uncomfortable. You realize he's never
kissed anybody so you bring a hand up to rest on his cheek, your thumb stroking
little circles into his cheekbone. You part your lips just a bit, teeth
scraping against his lip right back. He whines and you figure you've proved
your point that it doesn't feel very nice, so you stop, letting your tongue
pass your lips. You stop, tongue just barely against his lower lip in a silent
question that he answers by pushing his tongue right into your mouth.
You're almost elated at the fact that you have the privilege of teaching your
son to kiss.
When he climbs back into your lap he's still (badly) kissing you, and your
hands start to explore his body until you discover he's taken the panties off.
You gasp into his mouth and he giggles into yours.
"Is this okay?" You can only nod because you're sure if you speak it'll come
out as a whine or some other ridiculous sound that you'd rather not make.
"...Are you sure?" He pulls back and looks at you, looking like he's genuinely
worried.
This is most definitely okay, but you're beginning to wonder why he initiated
this with you. That's a conversation for later, you think. You don't want to
have that conversation at this moment. You're hard and you're practically
aching for release and you'd rather touch your son's cock than ask him why he
wants to touch yours.
"It's fine," you breathe, kissing his neck. "Unless you'd like to stop. We can
stop if you want."
He shakes his head immediately. Always so enthusiastic, even when he's letting
you do something that's morally and legally wrong.
You change the position you're in with him, laying on your side and pulling him
with you because you can get more comfortable that way. He's small but that
doesn't mean he's small enough to fit in your lap comfortably for that long.
You wrap your arms around him and kiss him, chaste and slow. You feel like one
sick man but it doesn't matter because he's rocking his hips against yours.
"Dad, please, I don't wanna stop."
"Have some patience, son."
He whines but gives in, nuzzling his face against your shoulder and kissing
your neck, mimicking your earlier actions, giving your neck a little suck.
"Don't leave a mark. I wouldn't want to have to explain to the other men at the
office why I've got a hickey on my neck." You smile and he smiles back, giving
your neck a little bite and then pulling back, looking at you like he's waiting
for something.
Your hands linger on his neck, his chest. Your fingers graze his nipples and he
bucks up against you. "Dad, please!"
"Patience," you say, hands continuing to move down. Briefly, you rub his
stomach, pale and just the tiniest bit rounded out. It's almost like he's still
got a little bit of baby fat or something, though you doubt it will still be
there when he gets taller. He bucks his hips and tries to urge your hand lower,
and you comply only because you're just as needy as he is.
Your hand wraps around both your cock and his, pressing them together. The
difference in size bothers him, but you find that you enjoy it, as disgusting
as that thought makes you feel. You tangle your fingers into his hair and moan,
and he catches your mouth in another kiss.
Your mouth moves against his, trying to make his tongue move with yours, trying
to teach him how to kiss just a little bit better. Not that he's bad, not at
all—he's not bad, but he's not good either. Teaching him is something you'll
have to do another time.
No.
You're doing this one time. Just this one time, never again. You are a good
father and you aren't going to permanently fuck your son up by... Well, by
fucking him in the literal sense.
That isn't what you want for him. It isn't your choice to make but you aren't
going to encourage it, either.
You push the thoughts from your head because dear lord is there anything less
sexual you could possibly think of right now? You rock your hips and let him
press sloppy kisses along your jawline and against your mouth. He moans and
whines and then his hips start to move, muscles tightening, eyes shutting and
face contorting itself into an absolutely beautiful expression as he comes into
your hand.
His hands tighten around your shoulders as he rides out his orgasm, clinging to
you and kissing you.
"Dad," he gasps, burying his face against your chest. "I love you."
That's what sends you over the edge in the end, your hand tightening around
your dick and his, making him moan and whine as you spill onto his bed sheet
and then go limp, one arm wrapping around him.
You need to wash his sheets. Ask him if he's alright, if that upset him. You're
an idiot, of course it would've upset him. You're his father and you just...
You pull away from him a little, sliding out of his bed and grabbing the box of
tissues off his computer desk, taking two to wipe your hand and one to wipe
your groin. Then you set them on the bed and clean him off, then wipe the sheet
as best you can, nudging him in the side until he gets off his bed so you can
pull the sheet off. You let it fall in a heap to the floor and tuck yourself
back into your underwear, sitting back down on his bed after he does.
"John," you say, wrapping your arms around his shoulders in a hug that feels
less like you want to be his lover, more like you want to be his parent—how you
should be hugging him, far from how you want to hug him. "John, I'm so sorry."
He looks up at you like he doesn't know what you're apologizing for and you
shut your eyes.
"Son, I shouldn't have done that. That was incredibly... immoral. Illegal.
Disgusting. I could go on." You pinch the bridge of your nose. "I'm so sorry.
I'm beyond sorry. I can't even—"
"Dad, I was the one who wanted it." He stands up and moves so he's in front of
you, still exposed.
"Get dressed," is all you say, sounding a lot harsher than you intended to. He
looks a little wounded as he grabs a pair of boxers from his dresser and then
returns to standing in front of you.
"I was the one who wanted it," he repeats, putting a hand on your shoulder. You
feel awful. Disgusting. Like you shouldn't even really have John.
Really, you shouldn't.
He wraps his arms around you, though, burying his face against your hair.
Reluctantly, you wrap your arms around his waist, kissing his stomach.
"That can't happen again," you tell him, voice firm. "It can't. I don't care
how badly you want it to—it isn't going to happen again."
He nods, like he understands. You know it's going to happen again. John will
probably do everything within his power to make it happen again, judging by how
easily he agreed not to let it happen.
You practically cradle him in your arms, kissing him on the cheek.
"I'm sorry, son. I love you."
"I love you, too, dad."
You should feel more guilty about thinking about what will happen "next time."
If there even is a next time. You'll tell him no, of course, but if he
persists, you're going to give in. You'll always give in.
You like to think of yourself as a good father.
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