fic: [numb3rs] until you understand (nc-17)
Title: Until You Understand
Pairing: Don/Charlie
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Incest. Possible abuse of commas.
Disclaimer: The Scott brothers own everything. Except the porn. That's mine.
Words: 932
Summary: Everything is in sharp focus, as though Charlie's hands on his body somehow heighten Don's awareness with each new touch.
Author's Notes: Pure, unadulterated smut with no redeeming value whatsoever. Also unbetaed (feel free to point out any mistakes). Title shamefully stolen from the Kings of Convenience song of the same name.
Everything is in sharp focus, as though Charlie's hands on his body somehow heighten Don's awareness with each new touch.
Fingertips graze the curve of his flank ever so softly, following the path laid out by a drop of sweat sliding over his heated skin. They come to a stop at the jut of his hip, resting there, warm and light. Holding him. Steadying him. Don arches into the touch, his hips lifting off the bed, his arms flexing hopelessly against their restraints.
Charlie rewards him with a smile, wicked and promising and yet still full of that same innocence that draws Don back into his arms time and time again. He moans and turns his head as Charlie's other hand, the one that's not making him buck his hips in an effort to get closer, closer, comes up to whisper a fleeting caress against Don's cheek.
"You have no idea, Donnie," Charlie murmurs, his voice so low and breathy Don can barely make out the words, "no idea how beautiful you look like this. Wish I could keep you here forever, to touch, to tease. To take."
He leans in for a kiss then, hot and hard and hungry, oh so hungry. Don lets him take control of his mouth, angling his head back to give Charlie deeper access, a silent offer that makes Charlie whimper brokenly once, just before he thrusts his tongue past Don's lips to take what's his. Always his.
They stay like that until they run out of air, Charlie's weight pressing against Don in all the right places, except one. He opens his mouth to tell Charlie, to ask, to beg, but all he manages is a gasp as Charlie's hand leaves his face to travel down the length of his throat in a touch as light as air. The path continues down his chest, veering left to brush over a hardened nipple that only tightens further at the barely-there touch. Don groans, his head falling back, his body twisting into an odd curve that shapes itself to the touch of Charlie's hands.
"God, Don," Charlie whispers against his throat, two gusts of hot, moist air that make Don's whole body shudder. And all the while, Charlie's hand continues to move, down, down, skimming the taut plane of Don's stomach to finally arrive where Don wants, craves, needs it to be.
Don knows he's lost when Charlie closes his sweat-slicked hand around the base of his cock, squeezing lightly before starting to stroke him at a maddeningly slow pace. Every breath is a groan now, a sharp sound of need, of want, of please, Charlie, please more.
And Charlie understands even when Don no longer has the words to tell him, reading his brother's body as easily as he does the most complex of equations. He matches the speed of his strokes to Don's erratic thrusts, coaxing him into some semblance of rhythm. His other hand leaves Don's hip to feather along the crease of his thigh, then gently cup his balls, rolling them, squeezing in time to his strokes. Don gives himself over to Charlie's touches, losing track of himself in a world of heat, of rocking himself against the delicious pressure of his brother's hand around his cock. Then Charlie's mouth finds the side of his neck, wet, suckling heat that snaps him back to attention.
"Charlie." A wild gasp, a throaty whisper that ends in a groan when Charlie's thumb circles the head of Don's cock, pressing into the slit until Don's straining so hard against him he's almost entirely off the bed. Charlie murmurs against the damp skin of his neck, soothing, or perhaps encouraging him; the difference is lost on Don. He thrusts blindly into Charlie's fist, as hard as he knows how, using the restraints for additional leverage. The cloth bites into his wrists, the slight pain driving him higher, faster, harder. And Charlie's with him, matching him thrust for thrust, licking a line from his neck to his ear. Hot breath washes over Don's skin, into his ear, in, out, in, out, the rhythm as familiar as the shape of Charlie's body next to his.
He chants his brother's name, over and over, an endless plea of charlie, charlie, charlie as an unmistakable tension coils tightly in his belly, winding towards its breaking point, leaving him just shy of his release. Don groans, a long, drawn-out sound, and sucks in a breath only to groan again, willing Charlie to understand, to give him what he needs.
"So beautiful, Donnie," Charlie whispers in his ear, the words shooting along his nerves like white lightning. "Give yourself to me, Donnie, come on, let go. You're safe with me, you know you are. Let go for me."
And Don shatters the moment he yields fully to his brother, coming in thick, hot spurts all over Charlie's hand, his belly, his chest, muffling his cries of release against the soft curls of Charlie's hair.
"Oh god, yes, Don, that's it," Charlie's voice in his ear, his mind, his whole being, "don't hold back, come for me, my Donnie."
Bliss washes through him in wide, lazy waves as Charlie continues to stroke him, his body curled around Don's, solid, soothing. He breathes a path from Don's ear to his mouth and when their lips meet this time, it's slow, and soft, and gentle. Don stills slowly against the comforting presence of his brother, relaxing into Charlie's arms, smiling against his lips. This is what safety feels like. This is coming home.
This is love.
Pairing: Don/Charlie
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Incest. Possible abuse of commas.
Disclaimer: The Scott brothers own everything. Except the porn. That's mine.
Words: 932
Summary: Everything is in sharp focus, as though Charlie's hands on his body somehow heighten Don's awareness with each new touch.
Author's Notes: Pure, unadulterated smut with no redeeming value whatsoever. Also unbetaed (feel free to point out any mistakes). Title shamefully stolen from the Kings of Convenience song of the same name.
Everything is in sharp focus, as though Charlie's hands on his body somehow heighten Don's awareness with each new touch.
Fingertips graze the curve of his flank ever so softly, following the path laid out by a drop of sweat sliding over his heated skin. They come to a stop at the jut of his hip, resting there, warm and light. Holding him. Steadying him. Don arches into the touch, his hips lifting off the bed, his arms flexing hopelessly against their restraints.
Charlie rewards him with a smile, wicked and promising and yet still full of that same innocence that draws Don back into his arms time and time again. He moans and turns his head as Charlie's other hand, the one that's not making him buck his hips in an effort to get closer, closer, comes up to whisper a fleeting caress against Don's cheek.
"You have no idea, Donnie," Charlie murmurs, his voice so low and breathy Don can barely make out the words, "no idea how beautiful you look like this. Wish I could keep you here forever, to touch, to tease. To take."
He leans in for a kiss then, hot and hard and hungry, oh so hungry. Don lets him take control of his mouth, angling his head back to give Charlie deeper access, a silent offer that makes Charlie whimper brokenly once, just before he thrusts his tongue past Don's lips to take what's his. Always his.
They stay like that until they run out of air, Charlie's weight pressing against Don in all the right places, except one. He opens his mouth to tell Charlie, to ask, to beg, but all he manages is a gasp as Charlie's hand leaves his face to travel down the length of his throat in a touch as light as air. The path continues down his chest, veering left to brush over a hardened nipple that only tightens further at the barely-there touch. Don groans, his head falling back, his body twisting into an odd curve that shapes itself to the touch of Charlie's hands.
"God, Don," Charlie whispers against his throat, two gusts of hot, moist air that make Don's whole body shudder. And all the while, Charlie's hand continues to move, down, down, skimming the taut plane of Don's stomach to finally arrive where Don wants, craves, needs it to be.
Don knows he's lost when Charlie closes his sweat-slicked hand around the base of his cock, squeezing lightly before starting to stroke him at a maddeningly slow pace. Every breath is a groan now, a sharp sound of need, of want, of please, Charlie, please more.
And Charlie understands even when Don no longer has the words to tell him, reading his brother's body as easily as he does the most complex of equations. He matches the speed of his strokes to Don's erratic thrusts, coaxing him into some semblance of rhythm. His other hand leaves Don's hip to feather along the crease of his thigh, then gently cup his balls, rolling them, squeezing in time to his strokes. Don gives himself over to Charlie's touches, losing track of himself in a world of heat, of rocking himself against the delicious pressure of his brother's hand around his cock. Then Charlie's mouth finds the side of his neck, wet, suckling heat that snaps him back to attention.
"Charlie." A wild gasp, a throaty whisper that ends in a groan when Charlie's thumb circles the head of Don's cock, pressing into the slit until Don's straining so hard against him he's almost entirely off the bed. Charlie murmurs against the damp skin of his neck, soothing, or perhaps encouraging him; the difference is lost on Don. He thrusts blindly into Charlie's fist, as hard as he knows how, using the restraints for additional leverage. The cloth bites into his wrists, the slight pain driving him higher, faster, harder. And Charlie's with him, matching him thrust for thrust, licking a line from his neck to his ear. Hot breath washes over Don's skin, into his ear, in, out, in, out, the rhythm as familiar as the shape of Charlie's body next to his.
He chants his brother's name, over and over, an endless plea of charlie, charlie, charlie as an unmistakable tension coils tightly in his belly, winding towards its breaking point, leaving him just shy of his release. Don groans, a long, drawn-out sound, and sucks in a breath only to groan again, willing Charlie to understand, to give him what he needs.
"So beautiful, Donnie," Charlie whispers in his ear, the words shooting along his nerves like white lightning. "Give yourself to me, Donnie, come on, let go. You're safe with me, you know you are. Let go for me."
And Don shatters the moment he yields fully to his brother, coming in thick, hot spurts all over Charlie's hand, his belly, his chest, muffling his cries of release against the soft curls of Charlie's hair.
"Oh god, yes, Don, that's it," Charlie's voice in his ear, his mind, his whole being, "don't hold back, come for me, my Donnie."
Bliss washes through him in wide, lazy waves as Charlie continues to stroke him, his body curled around Don's, solid, soothing. He breathes a path from Don's ear to his mouth and when their lips meet this time, it's slow, and soft, and gentle. Don stills slowly against the comforting presence of his brother, relaxing into Charlie's arms, smiling against his lips. This is what safety feels like. This is coming home.
This is love.