#graveyard-date

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"Hey, can I crash with you for a few nights? Big event at the hotel."

Dexter resists the urge to place his palm over his own heart, feel the way the it leaps suddenly. Any time Harrison needs him, any time he gets to be a Dad, seems to send it into overdrive. "Of course," he tells him, trying not to sound too eager.

He gives Harrison the bedroom, and almost, almost regrets it for how uncomfortable his shitty couch is, waking up every ache in his chest, his shoulder, his back. He feels old, grumbling to himself while he twists and turns for any position that that doesn't make him wince, when a sound from the bedroom snaps him fully awake.

Dexter crawls off the couch and sneaks toward the door, concerned. On the other side of it, Harrison gasps.

Maybe he's masturbating, Dexter's mind supplies, but he listens and hears none of the tell-tale signs, no rhythmic shuffling—nothing at all for a while, until Harrison cries out softly, startled and high.

It sends Dexter through the door against his better judgement, and he finds Harrison asleep with his chest heaving, hair sticking to his temples, dark with sweat, whimpering—

"Harrison. Harrison!" Dexter attempts to rouse him with a hand on his chest, shaking him gently. Harrison wakes abruptly, body seizing up with a gasp.

"Dad?!"

His son's eyes are wide as saucers in the darkness, locked on his. "You were having a nightmare," Dexter explains gently, Harrison's pulse hammering under his palm. "You okay?"

"M'fine," Harrison grunts, shoving Dexter's hand off him. He twists away from Dexter harshly, curling around on his side, this conversation clearly over. "Goodnight," he mumbles pointedly, and that's Dexter's cue to leave, but he lingers for a moment, eyes roaming over the shape of Harrison's body in the dark—a tense comma under the sheets, breathe rattling fast through his nose.

"Goodnight," Dexter answers, and leaves.

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Dexter goes to change the sheets the next day while Harrison's at work when he eyes his laptop on the bedside table. Don't do it, he tells himself, even as he's opening it and navigating to the search history, ravenously curious.

I'm not the first parent to violate their kid's privacy like this, and I won't be the last, he justifies to himself. Harrison is such an enigma to him, still. What's a little research going to hurt?

But when his eyes register what he's seeing, he stops breathing. He slams the laptop shut.

It gnaws at him though, even through the shock rippling through his system. Tugs at his brain until he finds himself carrying the laptop to his kitchen table, and carefully, like it might bite him, opening it up.

He devours what he finds. Google searches, articles, reddit threads.

incest dream meaning dream interpretation incest what to do when you have a wet dream about a family member sex dreams about father wet dreams about father how to stop attraction to family member what to do when you're attracted to a family member genetic sexual attraction genetic sexual attraction normal genetic sexual attraction help pornhub gay father son pornhub step dad son fucking

Dexter closes the laptop in a daze, hands trembling, trying not to think about the swirl of horror and heat rolling in his gut, his groin. He shuffles to the bathroom like a ghost and runs the shower, as if he could wash himself clean of this, of...

Don't.

The spray is too hot, and Dexter lets it burn, eyes closed under the stream. He doesn't think about it as his hands slide down his body to palm his erection. Doesn't think about Harrison's soft whimpers through the door. Harrison's lips parted in sleep, the flush on his face, the sweat curling his bangs. Doesn't think about Harrison's pulse, rabbit-quick under his palm, the way he'd shoved Dexter away like he'd been burned. Doesn't think about Harrison, Harrison, Harrison—

He comes with a miserable groan, and lets himself tip forward to press his forehead against the cool tile.

Fuck.

---

Harrison freezes when he comes in later that night, eyes landing on the laptop on Dexter's table. "Can I borrow that?" he attempts to recover, already moving to grab it, a little too rushed.

"Sure," Dexter says easily, playing it cool. "Just don't leave any porn for me to find later," he adds darkly. It's a sadistic thing to say, but he can't resist, watching Harrison raptly for his reaction. Harrison turns paper white for a moment, and then furiously red, all the way up to his ears. He stuffs the laptop under his arm and stalks to the bedroom door with a scoff, closing it behind him just a hair too hard.

Dexter's heart hammers under his skin.

What am I doing? He thinks dangerously. He doesn't know.

That night on the couch, he doesn't even attempt to sleep. Lying stock still, he listens. And waits. And waits.

He's already hard.

The gentle moan through the door, when it comes, draws him like a magnet. Dexter's body moves of it's own accord, and he doesn't interrogate it, can't face his own horrific behavior as he reaches for the door handle. He can barely feel the knob in his shaking hand as he twists it, slowly, silently, his entire body nearly numb with excitement; with heat.

Harrison's legs are tangled up in the sheets, breath coming in hot little gasps through his open mouth, body lax. Asleep. Dexter looms, frozen at the edge of the bed, watching, his own perversion making him that much more aroused, until he can't stop himself. He reaches out.

Carefully, so carefully, he begins to lift the sheet and pull it away. A shudder rolls through Harrison at the sudden cold, and Dexter freezes. But Harrison doesn't wake.

Dexter slides the sheet back and nearly moans at what he reveals. Harrison is hard, the tip of his cock, cherry red even in the dark, peaking out from under the waistband of his boxers. It glistens wetly, trapped and swollen against Harrison's belly, leaking into his happy trail.

Dexter's eyes are glued to it, his mouth dry. His lizard brain screams at him—DANGER DANGER DANGER—and that only eggs him on as he shoves a hand down into his sweats to stroke himself, hard and fast, feeling sick with how much he wants.

Harrison whimpers, his erection twitching, a line of precum stretching thin between his tip and his belly. Yes, Dexter thinks, as if he could encourage Harrison's dreams, fisting his cock with frantic desperation. His head swims with the degeneracy of it all as he fights the impulse to crawl on top of Harrison and rut against him, his toes curling into the carpet at the thought. He slips his sweats and underwear down instead, freeing his erection, and the cool air against it makes him all the more aware of what he's doing—how depraved this is, but he can't seem to stop.

Harrison's breath picks up, coming out in soft, needy little grunts now, body loose with sleep except for his twitching hips. Dexter breathes harshly through gritted teeth, the sound of his hand flying over his cock too loud, harsh in the quiet room. Harrison's erection throbs helplessly. Dexter wants to touch it so bad, so fucking bad, and finds himself leaning in closer, tilting his own erection down over Harrison's so that their cocks could touch if he just closed the distance. He wants to, wants to kiss the underside of Harrison's swollen tip with his own, feel the heat and slickness of it, slide their erections together, and then—oh fuck—he does, he does. Crouches awkwardly for balance and just barely, barely rubs the head of his cock against the underside of Harrison's. It's so hot that it burns where their bodies touch; on fire, and Dexter feels like he could pass out.

Harrison makes a choked little noise, like a hiccup, and Dexter watches the cum bubble out of him, his body trembling with it, dick twitching up against Dexter's. Dexter's vision nearly whites out as he strokes himself through his orgasm, gasping and delirious with it as he marks Harrison with his cum, spraying it all over Harrison's cock, his boxers, his thighs, his tummy where it mixes with Harrison's own into an absurd, unlikely mess of jizz.

Reality hits Dexter like a truck as his arousal fades, replaced with sick, rolling revulsion. Some emotion that he realizes must be shame, so rarely felt, crashes through him as he scrambles to figure out how the hell he'll hide this, how he'll clean up enough of this literal mess without waking Harrison, without Harrison knowing—

Harrison will know. That thought punches him in the gut, and for the first time maybe ever in Dexter's life, his flight response wins. He tosses the sheet back over Harrison and tears out of the room too fast, shutting the door hastily, but carefully behind him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

He lands on the couch with a huff, horror dawning on him, sliding through his bones. He feels like he could throw up.

He should have killed me. I wish he'd killed me, Dexter thinks, staring at the ceiling. Maybe I'll just kill myself. He'd be better off.

The sound of the bedroom door opening cuts like a knife through him. Dexter's eyes snap over to look at Harrison, who is poking his head out. His disheveled, violated body blessedly hidden from sight. Dexter thinks his heart might stop.

"Dad...?"

Dexter can't speak. He can't. But he has to.

"Yeah?" Dexter chokes out.

Harrison's eyes hit the floor for a second. He looks shy and soft in the dark, but Dexter can see, even from a distance, that his face is still flushed.

"I... I had another... nightmare," Harrison admits like a little kid, but there's a sensuality; a filthy eagerness in his voice. "Can you come?"

Dexter lets out the breath he's been holding. Something dark and warm uncurls in his chest.