❞He is now resting. He is now at peace. Our nation hast lost its greatest son. Our people have lost its father.—
Nelson Mandela has died, South African President Jacob Zuma announces. (via think-progress) - South Africa was the first nation of the continent to recognize GLBT rights in their constitution (via thebacklot)
Rest in peace Madiba, you’ll never be forgotten.
Teaser - Chuck survives Pitfall… sort of.
The news is on in the lounge room; the PPDN, the tributes to Pitfall’s fallen playing for the third time today. The Kaidanovskies. The Weis. Stacker Pentecost. Chuck Hansen.
The only one Scott cares about is Chuck’s.
He hasn’t been invited to the memorial, but he’s going anyway.
His right, as the kid’s uncle, isn’t it?
And who doesn’t want to see their own funeral?
Art by frikadeller, accompanying ficlet by driftingwolf
Chuck loves this cottage. He loves the snow he can see falling outside the window, the low beams that they both keep walking into, and the huge fireplace in the front room. He’s sprawled naked across the collection of blankets and pillows that they dragged down here simply because of the huge fireplace, and he’s happy as a pig in shit.
He hears the door open, the rapid thudding of his dad stomping the snow from his boots, and he shivers at the brief, sudden draft that gets sucked into the room, the gust of air making the fire flare up for a moment.
"Let’s spend Christmas somewhere it snows, he says. It’ll be fun, he says. What a great idea…" Herc’s grumbling as he comes into the room, shrugging out of his heavy coat, unwrapping his scarf. Chuck watches him, makes a noise as Herc goes to pull his gloves off too.
"No. Leave ‘em on, dad."
Chuck’s been thinking about it a lot, about his father’s hands, and the way the leather of his gloves has softened and moulded to the shape of them, and how unbelievably fucking hot it would be if they fucked and Herc was still wearing them.
"Leave the gloves on. For me."
"Come on, Chuck, I’m frozen to the bone here."
"So get down here and I’ll warm you up," Chuck says, a promise behind the words.
Herc gives in, kneeling beside him on the blankets, and cries out when Chuck pulls him down, rolling them both and straddling him in two quick moves.
"Gotcha," Chuck laughs. Herc’s outrage melts into a softer look, and he doesn’t fight too much when Chuck pins his arms down and leans in to kiss him. "Yeah," Chuck says, against his mouth, "you are bloody cold. Soon fix you right up, though.”
He pulls at his dad’s sweater, putting warm hands on the skin beneath, still kissing Herc and groaning as the hands he’d released stroke over his thighs, grab at his ass. “Fuck, I want your fingers.” He adds, “dad” because he can, because he knows it goes directly and shamefully to Herc’s cock. “Screw me with them, I want to feel this leather in me.”
Herc bucks against him, shoving his tongue hard into Chuck’s mouth and that’s good, it feels awesome and Chuck’s been craving this since they got here.
The kiss softens out, and Chuck relaxes, reaching for the slick he’s kept close at hand before Herc can even ask for it.
His dad just lifts an eyebrow, smirking. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
"Max needed a walk." And neither of us would have left this place if we’d started earlier. He shifts, pulling at Herc’s fly, wanting a handful of his dad’s cock, too.
"Jesus, Chuck, what’s got into you?"
"We’re here. Alone. Nobody else around to bother us, and you… You look good, okay?" Chuck’s jaw juts out for a second, but he turns his attention back to Herc’s cock and his expression softens. "Fingers," he mutters, a reminder.
"Yeah, yeah… Not gonna do these any good," Herc complains, hissing as Chuck squeezes the slick directly onto his cock, starts stroking it in, coaxing him into full hardness. He offers his own fingers, and Chuck grins, slicking the gloves well. He crawls forward a little, wrapping his hand as far around both of their cocks as he can, and groans when Herc slides the edge of one hand down the crease of his ass, pressing in.
He can feel the leather, even past the lube. Soft and rough at the same time, the palm warm where Herc cradles his buttock, forefinger circling now and thumb digging in, pulling.
"Fuck me with ‘em, dad. Please…"
Herc’s cock pulses in Chuck’s grip, and he says it again, lower, bending to press kisses in against Herc’s throat. “Fuck me. Hard. Deep, I want it. Please, dad. Three fingers. Fuck, I’ll take four. Just do it.”
His rhythm falters when Herc presses in, and he opens his mouth over freckled, stubbly skin, breathes and breathes when Herc adds a second finger almost too soon. But it’s good, it’s what he wants, what he’s been aching for, and he yields, squeezing their cocks together.
"You okay?" Herc asks, and he answers in a rumbling whine, his skin shivering as Herc presses gently at points on his spine with his other gloved hand.
Chuck keeps stroking, but at the third finger he gives up, just rubbing his dick over Herc’s, hearing the wet sounds of the slick and feeling how hard this is making Herc, too. He shakes his head into Herc’s shoulder at the hushed offer of another, a noisy and ragged exhale escapes him when the three he’s taken press in to the second knuckle. The leather feels incredible to him - not the same as having his dad’s cock, just different - and he pushes back against Herc’s hand, shuddering hard.
"My boy," Herc murmurs, rolling his hips up into Chuck’s. "Come on, Chuck. For me."
Nodding, breaths hitching, Chuck concentrates on the fingers buried in his ass, on Herc’s hand resting at the base of his spine, on the feel of Herc’s sweater under his chest, the heat of his skin where it’s ridden up. He comes with his cheek pressed to Herc’s cheek, shivers wracking him, and can only mumble something meaningless when Herc follows a moment or two later, quieter than Chuck had been. Chuck lifts his head to watch the way Herc’s eyes close, the wrinkles in his brow deepening for just a second with the buck of his hips, and how it’s all followed with a slow, shaky exhale. Then it’s just his fingers dragged slowly free, both hands on Chuck’s skin, the whisper of leather as he strokes, comforting and holding on at the same time.
"God, dad," Chuck says, burying his face in Herc’s sweater again. "Fuck."
"Uh huh. These are ruined," Herc grumbles, lifting his hand into the firelight to look at the glove he’s still wearing.
"Maybe Santa’ll drop you off some new ones," Chuck says, snuggling in. He knows they both ought to get up and clean up, but his limbs are too heavy right now to even think of moving.
"Don’t care if he does, I’m still keeping these. Sure we can still get some good use out of them, eh?"