the moment we've all been waiting for...

[dira]

textualchauvini caught me in a suggestible moment and told me to write brothel fic, and iuliamentis was kind enough to read and make encouragaing noises, so I did. And it's not just any brothelfic! It's honest-to-god actual porn!

Don/Charlie. NC-17, incest.
Following on directly from Homeward:


Bound

Don kept his hand around Charlie's wrist, leading him downstairs like he might get lost or bolt on the way. Charlie didn't mind; he wasn't sure Don was wrong, and the strength of Don's hand made him feel anchored, protected. He could feel the fight they should have had--the pattern had fit, all the factors had been present--trailing after them, waiting for an opening. Charlie thought Don could feel it too. He thought that was why neither of them said a word all the way to Don's room.

Even after they were inside, Don didn't let go. He signed them both off duty on the keypad, left-handed, and then turned and led Charlie to the bathroom. Don turned on the light, and Charlie shut the door behind him, closing them both into the small room--neat and clean and decent, for a bathroom, light-years from the palatial facilities upstairs with marble and mirrors and glass all around. With the door closed, this could be the bathroom of any generic two-bedroom apartment, comfortably affordable on the salary of a minor league baseball player. For instance.

Don went on just standing there, holding Charlie's wrist, for a few beats after the door closed, and then he let go and went to turn the shower on. Charlie stripped quickly and kicked his clothes into the corner, toward the hamper if not into it. Don was still standing with a hand under the water, checking the temperature, and Charlie went and knelt behind him, his shoulder against the back of Don's knee, and started unlacing his boots. Don's wet hand touched his hair, and Charlie pressed an answering kiss to Don's jeans, over his knee, but then they both went back to what they were doing.

When Don turned away from the shower, his hands were already at his belt, unbuckling it, untucking his shirt. Charlie brushed by him, stepping into the shower to stand under the water--hot, almost painfully hot, just exactly as he liked it, though he knew that Don took his own showers markedly cooler--while Don quickly and efficiently stripped out of the rest of his clothes. Charlie's hair was barely all wet before Don was stepping in with him, ducking briefly under the water while Charlie pressed up against the wall to make room, and then stepping back and reaching for a washcloth. Charlie watched his hands as he soaped it, and when Don reached for him he shut his eyes and tilted his head back, letting Don cradle the back of his neck with one hand and scrub his face with the other. It was the glitter; it wouldn't all come off, no matter how well Don washed him up. Tomorrow there would still be specks of it on both of them, stray sparks to remind them of tonight.

Charlie let Don push him back under the spray, hot water pounding down on his face, rinsing him clean even as Don's washcloth-wielding hand slid lower. He washed Charlie's throat, and moved his grip to Charlie's shoulder to wash the back of his neck, and then behind each ear. Charlie tilted his head forward and rinsed again, finally opening his eyes as Don began to wash his chest. Don's face was intent, and otherwise unreadable; his hands, moving more slowly and gently now, were a little more communicative. They wanted to make things right, to make Charlie all right, the way Don always did. Charlie leaned bonelessly against the wall of the shower and let him try.

A few hours ago, fresh into the clinic off his last client, he'd thought he couldn't bear anyone else to touch him: not clients, with their endless if mostly routine demands, not the clinic staff, with their professionalism and their watchful eyes. Each visit to the clinic was as much a performance as any time spent with a client, careful to be good, to be cooperative and calm, not notably disturbed and yet not so undisturbed as to indicate faking or a dangerously complete disconnect. Charlie had been flagged twice for psych evaluation in his first year; three times in six months meant automatic dismissal, and the closer Charlie got to his goal the more he felt himself unraveling. He had to be careful, that was all, very careful.

If Don had said tonight, You don't have to do this, let me take you away, Charlie didn't know if he could have said no. But for once Don had let him be, and now it was Don's hands that spoke to him, that said I would catch you if you fell, I would fix you if you were broken, if I only knew how. And under Don's touch Charlie could relax, because Don had never wanted anything, touching Charlie, but to be allowed to go on touching him. Don would see what Don would see; Don knew him better than anyone. And Charlie could do what he liked for once--could be tired, or clumsy, or flinch when Don washed his armpit, or let his eyes rest on Don's belly, flat and hard and obsessively exercised. When Don had played baseball it had been softer--not fat, but with a gentle sort of curve to it, well-fed and human. It was only after baseball that Don had seemed to become silently secretly terrified of looking like a pot-bellied outfielder, and stomach-crunched his belly into submission. Charlie reached out and let his fingers trail down Don's ribs.

Don's hand slowed on Charlie's skin, and Don moved in closer against him and kissed his forehead and finally spoke. "Charlie," he said, so soft that it was almost lost in the sound of the water pouring down. Charlie tilted his head back, and Don kissed his mouth and said, "Charlie," again, their lips brushing on each syllable.

Charlie closed his hand around Don's shoulder, broad and strong, skin slick with water, and said, "Don," right back. Don pulled him under the spray, and their kisses tasted metallic and flat, like tapwater. Don's hand moved in the small space between them, rinsing soap from Charlie's arms and chest. Don's arms looped around him, holding him close, washcloth moving steadily across his back. The soap was running out, now, and the terrycloth was rough against his skin.

"Charlie," Don said, against his ear, "you know it doesn't matter."

Charlie leaned back, meeting Don's eyes, and Don's hand and the washcloth settled on the curve of his ass.

"It doesn't matter," Don repeated, holding Charlie's gaze. The steam in the air was so thick it was like breathing water, and Charlie couldn't have seen much further than Don's face before him. "Who pays you to do what. It doesn't matter." Don's eyes fluttered shut as he leaned in and kissed Charlie again. "You're mine," Don whispered, and Charlie breathed his breath, thick and hot as steam. "You've always been mine. You always will be."

Charlie kissed Don hard, his tongue taking Don's mouth. Don was the only part of himself he'd never sold and never could, not for any price, not for anything. "You're mine," Charlie whispered back, and Don nodded, their foreheads pressing together, even as he reached for the soap, lathering the cloth again and then sliding down Charlie's body to kneel at his feet.

Charlie leaned back against the wall, spreading his legs, letting Don wash him everywhere, cock and balls and ass just as carefully as thigh and knee and ankle. Don dropped kisses against Charlie's hip and belly as he worked, no hotter than the water rushing down over them both, leaving no mark, but every brush of lips said you're mine. Don's to touch, Don's to take care of. Charlie rested his hand on Don's head as Don lifted first one foot and then the other to wash, firmly, without tickling, arch and instep and between all his toes, and Don's kisses were licks now, little touches of tongue echoing the caress of the washcloth. Charlie was half-hard before Don touched his dick, a swipe of tongue at the head, a flick just behind, teasing fingers between his legs. Charlie tightened his hand in Don's hair, tugging gently, and Don kissed the inside of his thigh, stood and kissed his mouth.

Don was hard. Charlie's hand closed readily on his cock, familiarly, and Don braced his hands on either side of Charlie's head, his eyes half-closing at the mere touch. It was always easy with Don, because Don never wanted him for some interchangeable body or wild fantasy: Don had always wanted him exactly and entirely because he was Charlie. And anyway it had been years--he knew just how to touch Don, a quick stroke followed by a slower one, a flutter of fingers there as he took another kiss, and Don moaned softly against his mouth. "Fuck me," Charlie whispered, and Don jerked into his fist.

"Here?" Don mumbled, a slight tension entering his body, braced all around Charlie's, but Charlie shook his head.

"Bed," Charlie murmured, and Don didn't say a word, just turned off the water and pushed the curtain back. Charlie let go of Don's cock, reaching for a towel, but neither of them were patient enough to dry off much, and the room was too full of steam for them to actually get dry anyway. When Charlie opened the door, Don dropped his towel in an untidy heap on the floor and followed him to the bed at a run. It was--comparatively, Charlie reminded himself, to no avail--freezing in the bedroom; he hit the sheets and Don was right beside him, tugging the sheet and blankets up over them, their heads on the same pillow, their knees colliding like they'd never shared a bed. For an instant they were innocent as little boys, fresh from the bath and lying in the same bed, grinning at each other for no reason but that they were there.

Then Charlie slid closer--awkwardly, the sheets were wet, the pillow wet, his hair clinging silky-cold--and kissed Don, and Don kissed him back, and Charlie shivered. Don's mouth was hot, and so was the palm of Don's hand cupping the back of his neck, sliding under his hair. Don's other hand slid down to rest on Charlie's hip, and they kissed for a long time, until the sheets were warm around him and the wet pillow was warm under his head and Charlie was panting, his cock hard against his belly though they weren't touching anywhere but their mouths and Don's hands holding him. "Don," Charlie whispered, between one kiss and the next, and then Don's tongue stole his words from him. "Don," he said again, smiling, when Don had to breathe. "Hey. Come home."

Don grinned at him and moved, fast and hard, pressing Charlie onto his back and rolling on top of him, kissing him before he could catch his breath. Hot, hot, Don's body pressing him down, Don's cock hard against his hip, his own cock trapped against Don's thigh. Charlie let his mouth open, his head pressing back into the pillow as Don's tongue slid in one more time. Then Don picked his head up, shifting his weight sideways, reaching toward the bedside table, and Charlie turned over beneath him.

Some of Charlie's clients liked to fuck him on his back because they wanted to look him in the eye. It wasn't a big deal. He did yoga and practice stretches and he'd learned to simulate whatever they wanted to see, looking down at him. But Don liked it this way--because it was easier on Charlie, because they could touch everywhere at once, but mostly, Charlie thought, because all Don wanted when they fucked was to be able to kiss him somewhere, even if it was his shoulder blade.

Don pushed up a little, getting the condom on, slicking himself with a series of lewd, wet sounds that made Charlie spread himself wider, waiting, grinding his cock down against the mattress. Cool air crept into the space between their bodies, and Charlie shivered, pressing his face into the pillow. Then Don brushed a kiss across the nape of his neck and set a hand on his ass and pushed slow, slow, steady, in, and Charlie had to lift his head to breathe. He'd never done this with anyone as much as he'd done it with Don, and that had to be why it felt so exactly right when Don was in him all the way, his weight resting on Charlie's hips, chest hair against Charlie's back, his breath quick on the back of Charlie's neck. Charlie pushed up against him and Don started to move, fucking him slow and easy, his lips dragging up the groove of Charlie's spine. He said something against Charlie's skin that could have been mine or could have been home, and when Charlie tried to say it back a wordless desperate sound broke from his throat.

Don's right arm slid under his chest, holding on, and his left hand slid under Charlie's hip. Charlie was thrusting into Don's hand before it had even closed around his cock, and Don said, "Shhh, I've got you," and didn't make Charlie wait, fucking him just hard enough, jerking him just right, until he was coming all over Don's hand, adding one more wet spot to the drenched bed.

Don didn't take his hand away, only loosened his grip as he pressed his forehead against Charlie's shoulder and started moving again. Charlie turned his head, trying to watch over his shoulder, his eyes half closing as Don fucked him harder, at an angle that woke uncalculated, random aftershocks of pleasure. This was Charlie's favorite part, because it was the only moment when Don allowed himself to stop taking care of Charlie and just take him, take what he wanted, what he needed. His fingers curled against Charlie's chest, and Charlie pushed up to meet his thrusts, reaching back to rest a hand on Don's ass, feeling the muscle bunch as Don moved. His hand tightened almost painfully on Charlie's cock as he came, and he said, "Charlie," from between gritted teeth. "Oh, God, Charlie."

Don went heavy and limp, afterward, pressing Charlie down into the mattress, a smothering weight. They were both soaked with sweat now, the blankets still half covering them. Don's breath was steady on his shoulder, and Charlie reached down and pulled the covers up before he closed his eyes.