Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/308214.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Dragon_Age
  Relationship:
      Malcolm_Hawke/Carver_Hawke, Malcolm_Hawke/Garrett_Hawke, Garrett_Hawke/
      Anders, Malcolm_Hawke/Anders
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Parent/Child_Incest, Incest_Play
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-12-31 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 3305
****** with the boys ******
by gingersnapdragon
Summary
     Modern AU; Malcolm has a harem of teenaged boys, two of whom he's
     related to.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Malcolm had thought he was past the point of being surprised by anything his
sons came up with, but he should have known better. He’d taken it in stride
when Garrett had announced that Anders was his boyfriend now, officially.
Carver had frozen, and for a half moment Malcolm had been afraid that the dart
of his gaze from Garrett straight to Malcolm’s face would give the whole thing
up. But Anders, sitting beside Garrett at the dinner table, hadn’t seemed to
notice, smiling down at his plate, practically glowing when Garrett reached
down under the table to hold his hand. There was something especially
vulnerable in his face when he looked up at Garrett, and Malcolm had frowned at
the flutter in his own belly.
It’s bad enough you can’t keep your hands off your own sons, he’d scolded
himself, and he’d smiled and told the boys he was happy for them.
And that night, when Garrett went out with Anders, Carver had come to Malcolm
and climbed into his lap. An hour later they lay naked and sweaty on the couch,
panting and exhausted, and Carver had looked particularly self-satisfied.
“Maybe next time…” he’d said, trailing off, and Malcolm knew what he wanted.
Knew, but couldn’t make himself give it. Not yet. Eventually.
“Maybe,” he’d said instead, and a sweet, fatherly kiss had turned into another
half hour of clinging together, sliding against each other. Carver had come
twice as many times as Malcolm, younger but no more eager, and he came again
then, arching up under Malcolm’s body with a bitten-back cry as their dicks
rubbed together between their bodies.
But that had been a week ago, and this week Carver was gone to football camp
and Malcolm couldn’t believe how quickly he’d gotten used to not being lonely.
Garrett spent more time at Anders’s now, and though they hadn’t talked about it
– that was nothing new; they hadn’t really talked about starting anything,
either – Malcolm assumed Garrett was done crawling into his bed late at night,
tight t-shirt riding up, whispering Daddy please.
The second night Carver was away, Garrett came home late, but Malcolm could
hear Anders’s voice with him, soft and just as smitten as he had been at the
dinner table when Garrett announced their relationship status. Their voices
trailed down the hall and into Garrett’s room, and it was only when the moaning
started that Malcolm realized Garrett had left the bedroom door open. Garrett
was quiet as always – Malcolm could imagine his huffed breaths, the sharp hiss
whenever something was particularly good – but Anders was vocal, low groans and
throaty whimpers sending tremors through Malcolm. He got up to shut his own
door, to give them some privacy, but he ended up just standing in the doorway.
Listening.
*
Later that night, Malcolm woke with a start when he felt the mattress dip with
cautious weight. He opened his eyes just in time to see Garrett leaning over
him, leaning in, and before he could form words, Garrett’s mouth was on his,
pleading and hungry. Malcolm knew he was a strong man, but he was weak when it
came to his sons, and he slid his hand up Garrett’s back, into his hair, and
kissed him in all the ways he was still afraid to kiss Carver.
“Daddy,” Garrett whispered, and Malcolm was instantly hard, surging up for
another kiss, pulling Garrett down into the bed, into his arms.
He hadn’t checked the door, and surprise jolted through him when another body
slid up against his. Garrett broke the kiss, panting, and Malcolm caught the
adoring smile on his face before he turned to see Anders kneeling there beside
them, long blond hair tousled around his face, chest flushed and rising with
choppy breaths, lips parted so temptingly.
“Daddy,” Garrett said again, still smiling. “My boyfriend wants you to fuck
him.”
***** Chapter 2 *****
Anders can’t believe Garrett took him seriously. He’s grateful, but surprised.
“Do you think your dad heard us?” he whispers as they lie tangled together on
Garrett’s bed, Garrett tracing exhausted patterns on his chest. 
Garrett chuckles, finger skipping, missing a patch of skin that tingles with
the loss. “I’m sure. Our door was open, and so was his. Sound carries. And you
were…enthusiastic.”
Anders almost blushes. “You were good.”
“Does it bother you? That my dad heard us, I mean.” Garrett props himself up on
one elbow, gazing down at him, and Anders looks for any kind of hint in his
expression. He seems curious, almost…eager, and Anders thinks of all the little
quirks he’s noticed before, the hints he thought surely he’d been imagining,
the statements he’d always taken as a joke. Even the times he’d considered that
Garrett might be serious about the kind of relationship he has with his father,
he hadn’t imagined that Garrett would be okay with sharing. But then, he
realizes, he really should have.
“No, it doesn’t bother me.” Garrett’s smile is wicked, and Anders feels his
breath catch when he says, “He’s really hot.”
Garrett grins, somewhere between desire demon and excited child, and shifts so
that his body is more fully over Anders’s, pressing them together.. “He is,
isn’t he?” The bed creaks, and Anders wonders if Malcolm can hear that too. If
he’d listened earlier, imagining them together – imagined Anders getting fucked
by his son. “You’re getting hard.” Garrett kisses his ear and murmurs, “Are you
thinking about my dad?”
“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse, choked.
“I saw you watching him that time at Carver’s football game.” Garrett shifts,
letting Anders feel his excitement. “I think he noticed too. He was so intense
that night after we got home.” Anders bites back a groan when Garrett presses
him harder, confessing roughly, “I thought about you with him that night. It
was so good.”
Anders follows Garrett down the hallway in a daze, fingertips clinging
together, and waits in the doorway while he watches his boyfriend climb into
bed with his father, watches them kiss, watches Malcolm pull Garrett down into
his arms like they’ve done it a dozen times before. More than that, Anders
thinks, now that he knows Garrett has been telling the truth this whole time.
It’s like a dream, slow-moving and breathless and surreal, even the way Anders
finds himself in the bed with them without remembering how he got there from
the door.
But he doesn’t think even his dreams could know how it feels to have such
similar eyes turned on him, Garrett’s adoring, Malcolm’s hungry and a little
hesitant, and he thinks that if he were dreaming, he would have leaned forward
to kiss Malcolm instead of waiting, shaking with anticipation, for Malcolm’s
hand to graze his cheek.
“Daddy,” Garrett says. For a moment Anders can’t untangle the feelings that
gives him – a burst of lust, a sprinkle of envy that he can’t call Malcolm that
and have it mean the same thing – but then Garrett says, “my boyfriend wants
you to fuck him,” and none of the rest of that matters, because Malcolm pushes
his fingers back into Anders’s hair, so messy now that the rubber band he
usually wears it in is lost somewhere in Garrett’s sheets.
 
*
 
The way Anders thinks the word, mouths it silently into the pillow that smells
of Malcolm, of shampoo and night sweat and a vague scent of his warmth, is
halfway to pure fantasy. He knows Malcolm isn’t his daddy, but it feels right,
it feels perfect and good, the same way Malcolm feels inside him, rough hands
holding his hips so like and yet unlike Garrett’s. His beard scratches Anders’s
shoulder as he leans over him, the beard that had sealed Anders’s attraction to
his son, had caught his attention about Malcolm in the first place, along with
the crow’s feet beside his eyes and the texture of time that has made Malcolm’s
flesh less smooth, less firm than Garrett’s. 
Anders thinks this is what Garrett will be like in twenty years, and his heart
double-thumps in his chest with the hope that he will be so lucky.
And then Malcolm is coming inside him, groaning into the loose hair at Anders’s
neck, and Anders closes his eyes in bliss and whispers, Daddy.

***** Chapter 3 *****
When Malcolm goes to work on Tuesday morning, he can’t help wondering if anyone
can tell he’s been up all night, pushing himself past the point of wisdom for a
man his age. And if they can will they know it’s because his son and his son’s
boyfriend begged him and pleaded with him and took him into their bodies until
they all fell asleep together on the bed just an hour before sunrise? Will they
know he hit snooze on the alarm too many times? Will they know that even after
his five-minute shower, Garrett cornered him in the bathroom and wheedled him
into a handjob while Anders went down on his knees on the cold, hard tiles, and
sucked him off to the most painful orgasm he’s ever had? Too much stimulation,
too often, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
During the longest, most boring meeting in the history of the world, he
pretends to scratch his nose and pauses for a moment just to smell the
lingering traces of his son on his fingers.
*

Malcolm is oddly disappointed when he comes home to find the house empty, a
note on the counter that says only don’t wait up, signed xxx, g&a.
*
Carver comes home earlier on Saturday than Malcolm thought he would, trudging
through the door at 2:54 p.m., bag slung over his shoulder, circles under his
eyes, frowning. Malcolm looks over the edge of the laptop, over the rim of his
glasses, and says, “I thought you’d want to stay out with your friends.”
Carver’s answer is a non-committal grunt, the thump of his bag hitting the
floor outside Malcolm’s office. “Seen ’em all week,” he says with a shrug.
There’s a tension in his shoulders that Malcolm doesn’t know how to read. 
“We’re on our own tonight. Garrett’s staying over at Anders’s,” Malcolm says, a
tiny shiver in his hips at the memory of the two of them in his bed, begging
him, crying out into his pillow. “Anything special you want to do?”
Carver’s eyes light up, and Malcolm tries to feel shame for the way his dick
jumps when Carver licks his lips, all nervousness and anticipation.
He fails.
*
Despite everything, Malcolm and Carver spend the afternoon apart, in their own
rooms. Malcolm is distracted, finds himself chewing on a pen and staring into
space instead of reading spreadsheets, e-mails, things that demand his
attention but can’t quite hold it. If this was Garrett, they would have already
been naked by now, but Carver is a different beast, his own man, and Malcolm
doesn’t know how to initiate things with him. He never has to with Garrett.
Carver is in his room, listening to music. Malcolm can hear the quiet beat of
it down the hall, but it’s not familiar, and he can’t make it out very well. He
wonders if Carver is alone because he wants to be, or because he thinks Malcolm
would rather sit in his office undisturbed than have his son there. And Malcolm
doesn’t know how to find out, doesn’t know how to ask without making it seem
like there’s a “right” answer. The right answer is the truthful one, but Carver
wants so badly to please him, Malcolm isn’t sure he knows what is truth. He’s
afraid of hearing I want whatever you want, because that gives Malcolm so much
power, too much, the kind of imbalance he has been afraid of since the
beginning with this.
It’s dinnertime by the time he sees Carver again, and he hasn’t heard a word
from Garrett, but he got a text from Anders on his phone that just said thank
you, and it made him blush and made him hard, because he still remembers how
eager Anders was beneath him, how hungry his cries, the way he squirmed and
writhed and pushed himself down on Malcolm’s cock as far as he could.
Carver wanders into the kitchen just when Malcolm is beginning to chop the
vegetables, and he looks a little lost and mumbles, “I was going to cook
dinner.”
“You’ve had a long week,” Malcolm says, but before Carver can turn and shuffle
out of the room, he offers him the cutting board and the knife. “So why don’t
you just sit at the table and chop the ingredients for me?”
Carver hesitates, but he nods and takes them, and while he’s slicing through
the red pepper, Malcolm starts mixing the marinade for the chicken. Malcolm
waits for Carver to speak, but he doesn’t, and eventually Malcolm is the one
who says, “How was your week?”
It’s enough to start him talking, and even though Malcolm doesn’t understand
half of what he says, he responds to things he does understand, and the light
in Carver’s eye, the tentative curve of his smile, is worth every tackle and
first down and off-sides that goes over Malcolm’s head.
And when he’s done chopping, Carver brings the vegetables to the counter beside
the stove, and he stands so close to Malcolm that their arms brush and tingles
spread through Malcolm’s body from that point of contact. He scrapes the onions
and peppers into the frying pan at Malcolm’s direction, and when he’s finished,
Malcolm looks up to finding him gazing down intently, lips parted, eyes hooded,
fingers twitching by his sides.
Malcolm swallows past his own dry mouth and smiles. “Thank you, Carver,” he
says, and Carver nods instead of kissing him like they both want.
*
Dinner is quiet but not peaceful, tension choking every attempt at conversation
until Malcolm finally gives up and focuses on chewing and swallowing, on not
being too obvious when he has to shift in his chair to get more comfortable.
He’s not sure why he’s trying to hide the effect Carver’s attention is having
on him, but it’s just instinct, habit. Carver’s never had a poker face, though,
and there’s a flush high on his cheekbones that gets deeper every time he
glances at Malcolm. When their feet bump under the table, Carver jumps, and the
flush goes all the way from his ears to his neck.
Malcolm isn’t sure whether they finish dinner or just give up on eating, but
they take their dishes into the kitchen, and just when Malcolm is getting ready
to tidy up and put things away, Carver catches his wrist.
“Dad,” he says, voice strangled, eyes burning. “Please.” His grip is like a
vise, and he doesn’t let go when Malcolm nods, not until Malcolm turns his hand
over gently and spreads his fingers, inviting Carver’s into the spaces between.
There are marks on Malcolm’s wrist, bloodless white fading to red, when Carver
finally lets go and holds Malcolm’s hand instead.
“Okay,” Malcolm says, and the relief on Carver’s face is so sharp it cuts.
*
It’s different with Carver. Malcolm suspects he knew it would be; he suspects
that’s one reason he’s been putting this off. With Garrett it’s easy; he never
has to take the lead unless he wants to. But Carver is still watching him for
cues, waiting for his direction. It puts more responsibility on Malcolm’s
shoulders than he’s sure he’s ready for with this – but Carver asked, and
Malcolm agreed. He won’t break his promise now, not when he’s had to break so
many others.
He directs Carver into the bed first, their fingers still clasped together
until Malcolm lets go to tug off his shirt. Carver shifts against the quilt,
restless, eagerness and apprehension in equal measures visible in the movement.
Malcolm hesitates, guilt and uncertainty swamping him. He never had time to
think about this with Garrett; never had time for second-guessing. Carver
watches him closely, and just when Malcolm thinks I can’t do this, Carver sits
up and fumbles for the button and zipper on Malcolm’s trousers.
His fingers are cold against Malcolm’s stomach, and the muscle there jumps as
he sucks in a breath, but then the pants are sliding down, Carver’s hands
trembling at the waistband of his briefs. He looks up, determination and
something else, something softer, something submissive in his face.
“Please?” he says, and Malcolm can only nod, throat tight, as Carver pushes the
fabric down his legs. 
*
The last thing Malcolm was expecting – although really, he hadn’t dared to
expect much of anything – was for Carver to lean forward and slide his lips
over the head of Malcolm’s cock. Malcolm’s hips jerk, though he tries to still
them, tries not to choke his son. He braces one knee on the mattress for
balance and can’t help sliding his shaking hands into Carver’s hair. He doesn’t
hold him down, doesn’t push, just bites his lip and tries to keep his eyes open
to watch as Carver explores him without skill but with flattering enthusiasm,
eyelashes dark against his flushed cheeks. When Malcolm can’t hold back a
groan, Carver looks up, startled but pleased, and smiles around his mouthful.
“Baby,” Malcolm breathes, stroking his hair, and Carver’s expression turns
blissful. It’s enough that Malcolm doesn’t even remind him to watch his teeth,
doesn’t do anything that might discourage him from sucking his father’s cock so
lovingly. His hips are trembling with the effort to hold back by the time
Carver pulls off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and glancing away
self-consciously.
“You did good,” Malcolm tells him, and can’t resist leaning over to kiss him,
sucking on his swollen lower lip, finding and stroking his tongue before
pulling away, gasping for air, still wanting more. “You did so good.”
Carver beams, though he’s still shy, eyes downcast. He rubs his thumbs over the
skin stretched tight across Malcolm’s hipbones, not as tight as it was when he
was younger, not as tight as Carver’s. “Do you think…we could…” He licks his
lips, nervous and embarrassed, and normally Malcolm would wait for him to spit
it out, would wait so that he would know he wasn’t putting words in Carver’s
mouth. 
But right now he’s aching with the need for his son’s body, and he rubs his
thumb over Carver’s mouth as he rasps, “Do you want me to fuck you?”
Carver’s nod is jerky but not hesitant, color flooding his skin down his throat
and over his chest and shoulders. “Yes,” he says, “please.”
It’s been a long time coming, and Malcolm feels the weight of all their self-
control weighing on him, filling him, making his skin tight and his dick hard,
and when Carver is finally undressed, the beautiful rosy flush standing out at
obvious points on his body, it’s almost too much. Carver starts to turn over,
but Malcolm stops him.
“I want to see you,” he says, and Carver nods, pleased.
Malcolm takes his time on the preparation, afraid of hurting him, intent on
pleasing him, and when Carver is writhing on two fingers, Malcolm finally
presses the head of his dick against him instead. They both still, taking deep
breaths, drawing out the moment.
When Malcolm pushes in, it’s tight, so tight it nearly hurts, and he pauses
halfway to let Carver catch his breath – and to catch his own.
“So tight,” he gasps, mind clearly gone if he’s breathing out porn lines now,
but Carver hides his face in Malcolm’s shoulder. 
“You’re my first,” he whispers. “Daddy.” 
Malcolm’s hips jerk, he can’t help the sudden shove, and then he’s balls-deep
in his son’s ass, taking his virginity, and it’s all he can do not to come like
a teenager.
 
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