brooklinegirl told me today was Porn Day, so I wrote porn.
Started at work, finished at home, unbetaed, totally grauitous random PWP. Numb3rs, Don/Charlie, NC-17. Incest. Set vaguely post-"Identity Crisis." With thanks to iuliamentis for saying "guh" in the right spots.


Charlie smiled as Don shoved him up against the wall in the shed, but he didn't say anything until after Don kissed him, because he could, theoretically, have been misreading the situation. But then Don's mouth was on his, hot and wet and open, and his own mouth mirrored it instinctively, opening under Don's lips and tongue, following his lead. Don's lips pressed roughly against his, and it had never been like this, never this rough and frustrated and longing. This was different, and Charlie hadn't misread it at all. So he was smiling more widely than ever when Don's mouth left his, sliding down his throat in sucking kisses. Charlie leaned his head back against the wall and pulled together enough voice to say, "I thought you said this was kid stuff."

Don pulled back far enough to meet his eyes, though Don's hands still held him hard against the wall, hot and strong through his t-shirt. Don's scowl wasn't angry, not really, just impatient, and Don said, "Shut up, Charlie."

Charlie felt giddy with triumph, but he managed not to laugh and kept silent, raising one hand as far as Don's jeans, getting a fingertip hooked into his belt to tug him closer. The scowl dissolved and Don kissed him again, more gently, though his hands didn't let up, and when his lips left Charlie's, Charlie couldn't resist whispering, "Because I remember you saying it was kid stuff and we had to stop--actually, there was this whole baseball metaphor--"

Don nipped at his ear and Don's hands slid under his shirt. "I'll give you a baseball metaphor," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, making Charlie shiver, his cock hardening fast. "Low and outside, ha--"

"No," Charlie said breathlessly. Trust Don to have caught that and not anything else. Don's hands were sliding across his skin, learning him again. Every breath he took pressed against Don's hands on his ribs, Don's gun-callused thumb rubbing across his nipple, but his mouth was free, so Charlie kept talking. "Low and inside, low and inside, you--oh--" Don slid one hand around his back, down onto his ass, and Charlie ground back against that hand, fingers tracing the center seam of his jeans, "You hit those every time you bothered to swing at them, I was always inside--"

Don said, "Shhh," against his mouth, kissing him lightly and pulling him close, body-to-body so that he could feel Don's cock, hard against his hip. Charlie ground against him, his own hard-on throbbing, eager, but Don pulled away a little, keeping it slow, like he'd realized he didn't have to rush, that Charlie wasn't going anywhere. Charlie kissed him back, licking at Don's mouth, eager for this as he'd been the first time, but trying to follow Don's lead. He didn't want to screw this up after so long waiting.

Charlie had understood it, when Don said they had to stop; it was strange, because he so rarely understood why people did things, and he was pretty sure at the time that even Don didn't understand it the way Charlie did. Charlie had hugged the knowledge to himself, an accomplishment he couldn't explain to anyone, especially Don.

It was because Don wasn't a genius: Don always worked hard to get things right. So Don had gotten convinced, somewhere along the way, that working hard was a necessary precondition to getting things right. He didn't know the way things just flowed when they were right, just happened. Charlie was a genius and he knew: Don had always felt just like math to him, correct, unassailable, even if he couldn't explain what he was doing to anyone else. He knew how they got here, and he knew the progression was sound. But Don hadn't known, Don had suspected that anything easy had to be flawed, so Don had gone away, and Charlie had been patient and now, finally, finally, Don had come all the way back to him, every variable dropping neatly into place with this constant. "I knew," Charlie breathed against Don's mouth as Don's hand worked at his belt buckle, "I always knew--"

Don pulled away, his hands going still, his eyes sober and steady, and he said, "Charlie, I mean it, shut up unless you want me to stop."

It was a little like being drunk; he knew this was serious, but he couldn't stop smiling. "I never wanted you to stop."

Don's eyes shut for a second, and Charlie watched his lips part as he breathed. He wanted to close the distance and kiss Don and then he did, because Don wasn't holding him back anymore. Don leaned into the kiss, and Don's hand started moving again, getting Charlie's belt undone and then his jeans, tugging them down. Don's hands caught Charlie's hips, pushing him back against the wall again, and Don dropped to his knees at Charlie's feet. Charlie shoved his hand into his mouth to keep quiet--he had a feeling Don wouldn't remind him again, and Don's mouth tracing a hot wet line along the top of his boxers made Charlie want to do more than talk. His hand tasted like chalk, but Charlie was used to that, and the mineral-sharpness reminded him that this was really happening, that this wasn't just another daydream at the chalkboard; he occasionally imagined Don telling him to shut up, but he never imagined the chalk.

Charlie watched Don's fingers hook into his boxers, peeling them down an inch. Don licked the ridge of Charlie's hipbone, the pale skin of his belly, and Charlie couldn't help jerking his hips, pushing his cock against Don's palm with just a thin layer of cotton between. Don looked up at him and grinned, and Charlie bit down on his fingers and shut his eyes as Don pulled his boxers down to his thighs, snapping the elastic against his skin.

Then Don's hand was on his cock and Charlie needed to breathe more than he needed to be quiet, and he needed to be touching Don more than anything. His fingers--wet, and cold as the air touched them--slid into Don's hair, and his other hand found Don's hand, holding his hip to the wall, his fingers and Don's twisting together, as Don's hand moved slowly on him.

Don's lips brushed against the head of his cock, and then Charlie had to watch. When he opened his eyes, Don was looking up at him, watching him watching. Charlie could hear himself panting, and he could hear the small wet sounds of Don's mouth against his cock, licking and kissing up and down its length, learning him again, but the touch of Don's mouth was just the same, just as he'd been remembering it for so long. Charlie didn't mean to say anything, but he heard, "Please," slip out. He bit his lip, but Don's eyes smiled and then closed in concentration as his mouth slid down, taking him in, hot and wet and tight.

Charlie's hand tightened on Don's as he fought the urge to thrust, forced his fingers in Don's hair to keep still. Don eased back a little, just far enough to do something with his tongue that made Charlie's hips snap forward, and Don's eyes stayed on his as he rode it out, his hand on Charlie's hip shoving him back against the wall. Charlie knew he'd have a bruise tomorrow, knew every time he sat down or stood up for days he'd be right back here with Don on his knees. Don took him in deep again, his lips meeting his fist on the base of Charlie's cock, sucking hard and then soft, fingers and lips and tongue all moving on him, and it had been so long. Charlie gasped, "Don--" and came in his brother's mouth.

Don's mouth stayed on him, gentle, and Don's hand on his hip was more supportive than restraining. Charlie kept his knees locked as long as he could, and then shifted his hand from Don's hair to his shoulder, trying to slide down to his knees without actually falling. Don guided him down, and Charlie rested for a moment against Don's body, his head on Don's shoulder, Don's arms around him. Charlie could feel Don's cock, pressing hard against his belly, the minute motion of Don's hips, pushing against him irresistibly. He straightened up again, turning his head for a kiss as he leaned back, letting his shoulders fall against the wall and tugging Don after him.

Don leaned in obediently as Charlie kissed him, and Don's mouth was slick and salty with the taste of Charlie. They were both breathless, kisses falling apart into licks and shared breath. Charlie kept pulling until Don braced an arm on the wall against his head and ground against him, his hard-on sliding against Charlie's bare hip, the denim rough on Charlie's skin. "Almost," Charlie muttered, lowering his hands to fumble with Don's belt. Don didn't help him, couldn't even seem to hold still, rocking against Charlie constantly until Charlie thumbed open the button of his jeans. He froze as Charlie eased the zipper down, and when Charlie's hand closed around his cock it was Don's head heavy on his shoulder, Don's breath quick and humid against the side of his throat. Charlie stroked him quickly, roughly, being careless with Don the way Don never remembered he could be careless with Charlie. He kissed Charlie's throat clumsily, just at the edge of his t-shirt collar, and his teeth closed on Charlie's skin through the fabric as he came in Charlie's hand, splattering Charlie's t-shirt and bare skin.

Charlie wiped his hand on his own shirt before he wrapped his arms around Don, holding him close while he caught his breath. "Low and inside," Charlie murmured, letting his eyes close just for a second as he leaned his cheek against Don's head. "Hit it every time, I'm telling you."

Don mumbled, "Shut up, Charlie," but Charlie could feel him smiling.