Fic: Rebels Without a Clue; Dermott/Hank; R
Title: Rebels Without a Clue
Fandom: Venture Bros
Pairing: Dermott/Hank
Rating: R
Word Count: 1983
Spoilers: Season 3 spoilers
Author's Note: This was originally supposed to be a tiny little thing for the VB kink meme, but the idea really grabbed me.
Summary: Some things Hank did because he wanted to be cool, some things Hank did because he was angry at his dad, and some things Hank did simply because he was a seventeen year old boy.
They'd taken to sleeping in the tent because it was private. No Dean to harsh their groove, no Dad yelling, no H.E.L.P.E.R trying to...well...help. They could just sit back and be guys. It was nice.
Hank didn't protest when Dermott took out a pack of cigarettes. Pop could say whatever he wanted, but cigarettes were cool. Brock smoked. And so did Dermott. And they were both totally cool.
He didn't protest, either, when Dermott took out other things he knew his dad would kill him over. Beer, usually, or a bottle of cheap hard liquor in a paper bag. And sometimes even drugs. And Dermott always offered, but Hank always said no. It was one thing to hang out with a guy who was a total rebel, it was another to engage in the activities himself.
But it had been a bad day. Pop still wouldn't let him have his own room. He was seventeen, and there were plenty of rooms in the compound! And he was never allowed over Dermott's house. Heck, he couldn't even on adventures anymore! Pop had become insanely over-protective lately.
So when Dermott offered him a sip of whatever booze he'd stolen from his mother, Hank finally said yes. It burned and he coughed and Dermott laughed at him but he didn't care. He took another drink, and he asked for a cigarette, and he sat there smoking and hiccupping with tears threatening to leak out of the corners of his eyes.
He hated feeling like a little kid. He was almost a man, after all. But nothing was right anymore and he was miserable and he thought again about running away. He knew he was talking, but he didn't know what he was saying, and then he was crying. Dermott was going to laugh, call him a baby, and probably never want to see him again.
But Dermott surprised him. Instead of scoffing or teasing, the larger boy put a hand on Hank's shoulder, and then Hank hugged him. He didn't mean to. But it was so nice to have someone to comfort him for once. He clung to Dermott, his mouth tasting awful and his throat burning. He'd never really hugged anybody except for his brother and his dad, and Dermott was bigger than both. And it was different. This was what friends did, and Hank had realized that he’d been denied something important all of his life.
When he pulled away a little, Hank figured now Dermott would tease him. But Dermott looked as miserable as he felt, his usually harsh expression softened. Hank thought it was like looking into some sort of warped mirror.
“Life fucking sucks sometimes,” was what Dermott finally said. This was what friends did, too. They showed each other the secret parts of themselves, and it was okay. They accepted each other.
“We’ve got sorrows,” Hank said, in what he hoped was a sage voice. And they did, didn’t they? Seventeen and sixteen years old, and they’d both had crappy childhoods. Hank without a mom, Dermott without a dad, both of them outsiders and maladjusted in their own way.
Hank didn’t protest when Dermott kissed him. He thought he would, when he realized what the other boy was doing. He thought he’d freak out, pull away, something. But he just sat there, eyes still wet, realizing that this was his first kiss. Dermott’s lips were a little dry, and much larger than Hank’s. His skin was rough. Hank could feel Dermott’s hair tickling his cheeks.
It wasn’t bad. That was probably the weirdest part. It wasn’t anything like Hank had daydreamed of, but it wasn’t bad. And he was seventeen. It was about time he did things like smoking and drinking and kissing. Even if they were all done with Dermott, so what?
They didn’t say anything for a little while after the kiss. Dermott lit another cigarette and Hank put another tape in the tape deck. All he had were what Brock had left. That was when everything had gone to hell, really. When Brock left. In a way, he’d left Hank alone. Pop and Dean didn’t understand him. He thought maybe Dermott did, at least a little. At least after spending enough time with Hank to see what his life was like.
He was starting to get miserable again, so he did the only thing he could think of. He kissed Dermott again, awkwardly, tasting the same mix of smoke, booze and cheetos that was in his own mouth. He wondered if Dermott had ever done anything like this before. His own meager sexual experience came from girlie magazines stolen out of Brock’s closet. And he hadn’t been entirely sure what he was supposed to do with them.
They kept kissing. Hank was aware that if anyone came out to check on them and found them like this, he’d probably never be able to see Dermott again. Pop would think he was a homo or something. He wasn’t…at least probably not. He liked girls. But there weren’t any girls, and he was starting to think he’d never get a chance to make out with one. And the whole kissing thing was pretty sweet….
Dermott’s tongue was in his mouth all of a sudden and that fear of getting caught surged up in Hank once more. This was getting just a little intense. Kissing his best friend (and he figured Dermott was his best friend, if simply by virtue of being Hank’s only friend) was a sure way to get yourself sent to one of those special camps Pop had once threatened them with.
But Hank still didn’t pull away. He was shaking a little bit now, from a mix of fear and forbidden excitement. It was all Pop’s fault, really. If he wasn’t such a…a Nazi about everything, Hank could meet a girl and do it the normal way. But Hank had never been afforded anything that was normal, so this wasn’t exactly that weird.
At least he wasn’t making out with his brother, like those really screwed up people he saw on those cop shows.
And they were making out now. It wasn’t just awkward, close lipped kissing. They were rapidly moving towards what Hank considered movie-kissing - all tongues and funny little noises and sweat. Dermott was breathing heavily through his nose, and Hank had to hold onto him to stay sitting up. He wasn’t sure how to manage that and be comfortable, but he put his hands on Dermott’s shoulders and tried to tip his head at a better angle. Dermott was practically slobbering on his face, and Hank was starting to wonder if you could get a cramp in your tongue. He was definitely getting a cramp in his neck.
And that wasn’t all. Dermott either wasn’t bothered by any of this, or didn’t care. He was almost on top of Hank, broad hands on the back of Hank’s head. And Hank felt funny. Like all his strength was going down, building in his stomach and making it all hot. And he was very much aware of everything. The scratchy rub of Dermott’s razor burn against his cheek. The way the sleeping bag was bunched up underneath him. The way his pants were really, really painful and uncomfortable all of a sudden. How Dermott smelled like smoke and sweat and Axe shampoo.
Hank jerked away, breathing heavily. His hands fell away from Dermott’s shoulders and he pressed them to his eyes.
“What?”
It was the first thing either of them had said in what seemed like forever.
“I couldn’t breathe!” Hank explained, taking deep gulps of air. He could still taste Dermott in his mouth. Was that normal?
“Oh.” Dermott lit another cigarette, took a drag, and offered it to Hank. He took it, unable to deny the thrill of Doing Things He Shouldn’t. Plus, it took his mind off the fact that Things Were Happening in his pants. It wasn’t like it was the first time, but he couldn’t very well do anything about it now.
“I’ve got condoms.”
Hank blinked, taken aback for a moment. What had Dermott just said? Oh boy. Oh…oh hell!
“Dude!” Hank managed. Making out with your best friend was one thing. But…anything else….
“What? You’re not chicken, are you?”
“Chicken? No, of course I’m not. It’s just…if we get caught…dude, my dad will kill me!” Because Hank could never, ever let Dermott think he was chicken. Cool guys weren’t chicken. He just wasn’t entirely uncomfortable with the idea of doing anything else. A guy could take it slow, couldn’t he? Besides, they were still in that place where they could deny, ignore or willfully forget this had ever happened. Which Hank was pretty sure was the proper course of action when you got drunk and made out with another guy.
“Fuck getting caught. Who ever comes out here? Your stupid brother’s asleep and your dad doesn’t give a shit.”
Which was the truth. As long as Hank was being quiet and staying on the compound, his old man left him alone. And Dean was still half-way scared of the dark, he wasn’t going to come out here. They were on their own until morning.
But….
Matters were taken out of Hank’s hands. Dermott was kissing him yet again, and it was a little bit better this time. Less slobbery. And Dermott was pushing him down, and a recent steady diet of CSI and Law and Order had prepared Hank for what he thought he was in for.
Reality was never like television. Hank had visions of ripped clothes and possibly harnesses. Dermott just stretched out over him and kept kissing him. But the change in position made everything different. He could feel Dermott right up against him, the other boy’s hair in Hank’s face. And down in the Southern hemispheres, Hank could feel everything. Embarrassment and nervousness mixed in with his excitement and fear. Sure, there was like four layers of clothes between them, but still! He could totally feel another guy’s junk against his own.
And the worst part was that it didn’t feel bad.
That was the last clear thought Hank could remember having. Everything after just became an awkward blur of shifting, squirming, grabbing and wheezing. Hank felt like his hips were going to break when Dermott’s knee slipped and he fell, crushing them together. But Dermott’s weight was also nice, and the friction was better this way. There were a few jerky movements and Hank wasn’t sure if the rub of denim and cotton against is erection was good or bad. Everything was a confusing mix of good and bad. But he guessed it had to be predominantly good, because he held on to Dermott’s thrift-store army jacket and bit his lip hard and his own hips moved with Dermott’s until he felt like he was going to explode.
And then he did.
Dermott kept grunting and grinding above him for a few minutes while Hank lay there, exhausted and sticky and mentally fried. He’d basically just had sex. Or as close to sex as Henry Allen Venture, aged seventeen, was likely to get.
Dermott rolled off of him, and Hank swallowed hard. The tent smelled…well, like what they’d been doing. And they needed a change of pants. But they could deal with that in a little while. Hank really didn’t want to move. He felt like he should be feeling something, some sort of life-changing epiphany or something. But there was just exhaustion and stickiness.
Well, and he didn’t feel miserable anymore.
He guessed that was it. He was a man now. He’d already killed people and nearly died and helped save the world and everything, but now he’d crossed the final frontier.
“Told you I wasn’t chicken,” he muttered.
Dermott just scoffed and punched him affectionately on the shoulder.
Fandom: Venture Bros
Pairing: Dermott/Hank
Rating: R
Word Count: 1983
Spoilers: Season 3 spoilers
Author's Note: This was originally supposed to be a tiny little thing for the VB kink meme, but the idea really grabbed me.
Summary: Some things Hank did because he wanted to be cool, some things Hank did because he was angry at his dad, and some things Hank did simply because he was a seventeen year old boy.
They'd taken to sleeping in the tent because it was private. No Dean to harsh their groove, no Dad yelling, no H.E.L.P.E.R trying to...well...help. They could just sit back and be guys. It was nice.
Hank didn't protest when Dermott took out a pack of cigarettes. Pop could say whatever he wanted, but cigarettes were cool. Brock smoked. And so did Dermott. And they were both totally cool.
He didn't protest, either, when Dermott took out other things he knew his dad would kill him over. Beer, usually, or a bottle of cheap hard liquor in a paper bag. And sometimes even drugs. And Dermott always offered, but Hank always said no. It was one thing to hang out with a guy who was a total rebel, it was another to engage in the activities himself.
But it had been a bad day. Pop still wouldn't let him have his own room. He was seventeen, and there were plenty of rooms in the compound! And he was never allowed over Dermott's house. Heck, he couldn't even on adventures anymore! Pop had become insanely over-protective lately.
So when Dermott offered him a sip of whatever booze he'd stolen from his mother, Hank finally said yes. It burned and he coughed and Dermott laughed at him but he didn't care. He took another drink, and he asked for a cigarette, and he sat there smoking and hiccupping with tears threatening to leak out of the corners of his eyes.
He hated feeling like a little kid. He was almost a man, after all. But nothing was right anymore and he was miserable and he thought again about running away. He knew he was talking, but he didn't know what he was saying, and then he was crying. Dermott was going to laugh, call him a baby, and probably never want to see him again.
But Dermott surprised him. Instead of scoffing or teasing, the larger boy put a hand on Hank's shoulder, and then Hank hugged him. He didn't mean to. But it was so nice to have someone to comfort him for once. He clung to Dermott, his mouth tasting awful and his throat burning. He'd never really hugged anybody except for his brother and his dad, and Dermott was bigger than both. And it was different. This was what friends did, and Hank had realized that he’d been denied something important all of his life.
When he pulled away a little, Hank figured now Dermott would tease him. But Dermott looked as miserable as he felt, his usually harsh expression softened. Hank thought it was like looking into some sort of warped mirror.
“Life fucking sucks sometimes,” was what Dermott finally said. This was what friends did, too. They showed each other the secret parts of themselves, and it was okay. They accepted each other.
“We’ve got sorrows,” Hank said, in what he hoped was a sage voice. And they did, didn’t they? Seventeen and sixteen years old, and they’d both had crappy childhoods. Hank without a mom, Dermott without a dad, both of them outsiders and maladjusted in their own way.
Hank didn’t protest when Dermott kissed him. He thought he would, when he realized what the other boy was doing. He thought he’d freak out, pull away, something. But he just sat there, eyes still wet, realizing that this was his first kiss. Dermott’s lips were a little dry, and much larger than Hank’s. His skin was rough. Hank could feel Dermott’s hair tickling his cheeks.
It wasn’t bad. That was probably the weirdest part. It wasn’t anything like Hank had daydreamed of, but it wasn’t bad. And he was seventeen. It was about time he did things like smoking and drinking and kissing. Even if they were all done with Dermott, so what?
They didn’t say anything for a little while after the kiss. Dermott lit another cigarette and Hank put another tape in the tape deck. All he had were what Brock had left. That was when everything had gone to hell, really. When Brock left. In a way, he’d left Hank alone. Pop and Dean didn’t understand him. He thought maybe Dermott did, at least a little. At least after spending enough time with Hank to see what his life was like.
He was starting to get miserable again, so he did the only thing he could think of. He kissed Dermott again, awkwardly, tasting the same mix of smoke, booze and cheetos that was in his own mouth. He wondered if Dermott had ever done anything like this before. His own meager sexual experience came from girlie magazines stolen out of Brock’s closet. And he hadn’t been entirely sure what he was supposed to do with them.
They kept kissing. Hank was aware that if anyone came out to check on them and found them like this, he’d probably never be able to see Dermott again. Pop would think he was a homo or something. He wasn’t…at least probably not. He liked girls. But there weren’t any girls, and he was starting to think he’d never get a chance to make out with one. And the whole kissing thing was pretty sweet….
Dermott’s tongue was in his mouth all of a sudden and that fear of getting caught surged up in Hank once more. This was getting just a little intense. Kissing his best friend (and he figured Dermott was his best friend, if simply by virtue of being Hank’s only friend) was a sure way to get yourself sent to one of those special camps Pop had once threatened them with.
But Hank still didn’t pull away. He was shaking a little bit now, from a mix of fear and forbidden excitement. It was all Pop’s fault, really. If he wasn’t such a…a Nazi about everything, Hank could meet a girl and do it the normal way. But Hank had never been afforded anything that was normal, so this wasn’t exactly that weird.
At least he wasn’t making out with his brother, like those really screwed up people he saw on those cop shows.
And they were making out now. It wasn’t just awkward, close lipped kissing. They were rapidly moving towards what Hank considered movie-kissing - all tongues and funny little noises and sweat. Dermott was breathing heavily through his nose, and Hank had to hold onto him to stay sitting up. He wasn’t sure how to manage that and be comfortable, but he put his hands on Dermott’s shoulders and tried to tip his head at a better angle. Dermott was practically slobbering on his face, and Hank was starting to wonder if you could get a cramp in your tongue. He was definitely getting a cramp in his neck.
And that wasn’t all. Dermott either wasn’t bothered by any of this, or didn’t care. He was almost on top of Hank, broad hands on the back of Hank’s head. And Hank felt funny. Like all his strength was going down, building in his stomach and making it all hot. And he was very much aware of everything. The scratchy rub of Dermott’s razor burn against his cheek. The way the sleeping bag was bunched up underneath him. The way his pants were really, really painful and uncomfortable all of a sudden. How Dermott smelled like smoke and sweat and Axe shampoo.
Hank jerked away, breathing heavily. His hands fell away from Dermott’s shoulders and he pressed them to his eyes.
“What?”
It was the first thing either of them had said in what seemed like forever.
“I couldn’t breathe!” Hank explained, taking deep gulps of air. He could still taste Dermott in his mouth. Was that normal?
“Oh.” Dermott lit another cigarette, took a drag, and offered it to Hank. He took it, unable to deny the thrill of Doing Things He Shouldn’t. Plus, it took his mind off the fact that Things Were Happening in his pants. It wasn’t like it was the first time, but he couldn’t very well do anything about it now.
“I’ve got condoms.”
Hank blinked, taken aback for a moment. What had Dermott just said? Oh boy. Oh…oh hell!
“Dude!” Hank managed. Making out with your best friend was one thing. But…anything else….
“What? You’re not chicken, are you?”
“Chicken? No, of course I’m not. It’s just…if we get caught…dude, my dad will kill me!” Because Hank could never, ever let Dermott think he was chicken. Cool guys weren’t chicken. He just wasn’t entirely uncomfortable with the idea of doing anything else. A guy could take it slow, couldn’t he? Besides, they were still in that place where they could deny, ignore or willfully forget this had ever happened. Which Hank was pretty sure was the proper course of action when you got drunk and made out with another guy.
“Fuck getting caught. Who ever comes out here? Your stupid brother’s asleep and your dad doesn’t give a shit.”
Which was the truth. As long as Hank was being quiet and staying on the compound, his old man left him alone. And Dean was still half-way scared of the dark, he wasn’t going to come out here. They were on their own until morning.
But….
Matters were taken out of Hank’s hands. Dermott was kissing him yet again, and it was a little bit better this time. Less slobbery. And Dermott was pushing him down, and a recent steady diet of CSI and Law and Order had prepared Hank for what he thought he was in for.
Reality was never like television. Hank had visions of ripped clothes and possibly harnesses. Dermott just stretched out over him and kept kissing him. But the change in position made everything different. He could feel Dermott right up against him, the other boy’s hair in Hank’s face. And down in the Southern hemispheres, Hank could feel everything. Embarrassment and nervousness mixed in with his excitement and fear. Sure, there was like four layers of clothes between them, but still! He could totally feel another guy’s junk against his own.
And the worst part was that it didn’t feel bad.
That was the last clear thought Hank could remember having. Everything after just became an awkward blur of shifting, squirming, grabbing and wheezing. Hank felt like his hips were going to break when Dermott’s knee slipped and he fell, crushing them together. But Dermott’s weight was also nice, and the friction was better this way. There were a few jerky movements and Hank wasn’t sure if the rub of denim and cotton against is erection was good or bad. Everything was a confusing mix of good and bad. But he guessed it had to be predominantly good, because he held on to Dermott’s thrift-store army jacket and bit his lip hard and his own hips moved with Dermott’s until he felt like he was going to explode.
And then he did.
Dermott kept grunting and grinding above him for a few minutes while Hank lay there, exhausted and sticky and mentally fried. He’d basically just had sex. Or as close to sex as Henry Allen Venture, aged seventeen, was likely to get.
Dermott rolled off of him, and Hank swallowed hard. The tent smelled…well, like what they’d been doing. And they needed a change of pants. But they could deal with that in a little while. Hank really didn’t want to move. He felt like he should be feeling something, some sort of life-changing epiphany or something. But there was just exhaustion and stickiness.
Well, and he didn’t feel miserable anymore.
He guessed that was it. He was a man now. He’d already killed people and nearly died and helped save the world and everything, but now he’d crossed the final frontier.
“Told you I wasn’t chicken,” he muttered.
Dermott just scoffed and punched him affectionately on the shoulder.