sororcula: ([girls] Rashida smile)
[personal profile] sororcula
Title: I Wish You Would
Pairing: Don/Coop
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 900
Summary: Don has a habit.
Spoilers: none
Contains: a bit of swearing, a bit of drinking, and sexual content! And schmoop, frankly.
Notes: Written for [livejournal.com profile] cerealkiller0 and originally posted here at [livejournal.com profile] numb3rs_newyear.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, nor do I profit from their use here. This is only for fun.



Don has a habit, but Billy's the one with the addiction. He can't take his eyes off the pens, the swizzle sticks, the pieces of candy Don sucks into his mouth like they're lollipops. Sometimes they really are lollipops, and those days Billy is truly fucked. It makes him crazy.

Don is oblivious. Don is straight. He watches girls like it's a sport and flirts like a competition and mostly Billy plays along, because he and Don have a good thing going here. They make a good crime-fighting, ass-kicking team.

If only they could both stop with the oral fixations.

**

Another thing about Don is he has no sense of boundaries. He's like a three-year-old on a jungle gym, the way he hangs all over Billy, throwing his arm around his shoulders, patting his chest, flopping carelessly across his legs on the bed or the couch as if he doesn't weigh a fuckin' hundred and seventy pounds.

He doesn't bother keeping their clothes straight, either, just mixes them all up together when he does a wash and then divides them again without really paying attention, so they each have an equal amount but the laws of ownership have been completely abrogated.

**

With their precious break time, Don wants to go camping.

"Let me get this straight," Billy says. "We spend all our time together. We stay in shitty motels and sleep in our car half the time, risking our lives catching criminals, and now that we have a vacation, you want to downgrade from a motel to sleeping on the ground, surrounded by wild animals and dirt. And you want me to go along."

"It'll be fun!" Don promises. He slaps him on the shoulder and grins around the Red Vine in his mouth, and Billy gives in.

**

What happens is, Billy figures Don can take care of the logistics, since it was his idea and all, and Billy will take care of the beer and canned ravioli and s'mores fixings, everything easy and delicious and right with the world.

It backfires on him.

He looks at the tent Don has set up, sturdy with its stakes all in place, and he says, "Nice job. Where's the other one?" and Don cocks his head a little and says, "What other one?"

And Billy realizes.

"I'm sleeping in the car," he says.

"How is that a vacation?" Don protests.

"Right, what was I thinking," he mumbles, and pops open a beer.

**

The alcohol swims through his veins, making him loose and comfortable, fogging up his brain, so it catches him off guard suddenly when he looks up and sees Don licking up a string of melted marshmallow that's gotten tangled between his roasting stick and his fingers.

"Jesus Christ," he says.

Don meets his eyes. "What?" he asks, muffled around his finger.

Nothing, never mind, Billy means to say, but alcohol is the Devil's drink and it makes him say instead, "You've gotta stop doing that."

Don closes his lips around his index finger, gives a long suck, and slowly lets it pop out of his mouth. "Doing what?"

His voice is low and his eyes haven't left Billy's, and suddenly it occurs to him that Don's doing this on purpose, and Billy doesn't know whether to advance or retreat.

"You know what," he says, and Don. Winks.

**

Don's mouth is hot and wet, his lips are soft and his tongue is fast, and Billy's head is spinning with how abruptly this happened. There's a part of him that let himself imagine this, once (a few dozen times, a few hundred times), but this is even better, because everything is clear, there's no haze of imagination and no distraction trying to guess what Don would sound like--he knows, now, the short huff of breath through his nose and the wet pop as he takes his mouth off, just for a moment, just to move down and lap at Billy's balls--or look like--the way his lips fit perfectly, obscenely around Billy's cock, how dark his eyes are, and he's hard, Billy sees, when he looks down, Don is touching himself, and that, that he never thought of, and it combines with the swirl of Don's tongue in a flash that shoots down his spine and makes his legs stiffen up, makes him want to grab Don's head but instead he clenches his hands into fists, bracing himself as he comes, and Don pulls back a little and lets it land on his face and his collar.

Billy's collar. It's his shirt.

He's trying to catch his breath, and Don is moving up; he grabs Billy's hand and guides it to his cock, fucking into it, tipping his head against Billy's neck and panting there, sounding desperate, suddenly, like he needs it bad, and Billy gives it to him, tightens his grip and twists his hand a bit--it makes Don gasp, wide-eyed, and Billy almost laughs, would laugh if he could breathe, if he could think--and Don comes on Billy's shirtfront.

(Except, he realizes idly, this might be Don's shirt.)

"Fuck," he breathes out.

"Yeah," Don replies faintly, into his neck.

Billy adjusts his arm to bring it up half wrapped around Don, hand resting on his head.

"Oh, I forgot, you want your personal space," Don says, shifting half-heartedly, barely committed to the joke.

"I think," Billy says, tangling his fingers into the slight curl of Don's hair, "I just wanted you closer."
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