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numb3rsflashficI had an idea for the Obsession challenge way back when it was announced, but I never had time to set pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard. It's possible that I should not have taken the time now. *g*
Title: Obsession
Pairing/Characters: Don/Charlie
Rating/Category: NC17/Slash
Word Count: 816
Spoilers: General through 2.22 Backscatter.
Summary: Don has an obsession.
Notes/Warning: None
Written: May 11, 2006
Years ago Don had been determined to be a great baseball player, until the moment he’d realized he never would be. After joining Fugitive Recovery, he’d been nearly possessed by the need to recapture the fugitives he and Coop had been sent after. During his time with the FBI office in Albuquerque, he had worked cases that still weighed on his soul. But he’d never been obsessed with anyone, or anything, the way he was, and had always been, obsessed with Charlie.
When they were young, he’d always needed to be near Charlie, had insisted on holding him, playing with him, taking care of him. Charlie had fascinated him, with his curls, big brown eyes, and the smile that only Don could evoke. There was nothing about Charlie that Don didn’t love, until he’d gotten old enough to realize that he wasn’t supposed to love Charlie that much.
The pain in Charlie’s eyes hadn’t held a candle to the ache in Don’s heart when he’d pushed Charlie away. Both then, and later, when he’d made the final break and joined the FBI. And now, in the weeks and months since he’d come home again, Don had remembered, had relearned, what it was that drew him to Charlie, what it was that had scared him so badly that he’d had to leave in the first place.
Only this time, Don reveled in his obsession, indulged in it at every opportunity.
Sometimes it was Charlie’s hair that dominated Don’s thoughts. The way one curl fell over his eyes, or the way the sun highlighted it. How Charlie would sometimes push it back when it got in his way, only to have it fall forward again. The softness against his palm when he ran his fingers through it, or the tickle when it brushed his skin while Charlie painted a trail of kisses down this belly.
Other times Charlie’s voice distracted him. The patient tone when he spoke with a student, or the annoyance when Dad insisted on playing Scrabble. The excitement when he explained his findings in the War Room, or the certainty when he insisted he was going to take you down on the basketball court. The husky, rough timbre when he told Don just exactly how he was going to make him come, and the smug gloating when he’d accomplished it.
On occasion he became preoccupied with Charlie’s fingers. The way he tapped them against his cards on poker night, or rubbed his thumb along the back of Don’s hand when they watched a movie. How he wrote out his theories on the whiteboard, with fast, hard strokes, or drew equations on Don’s skin. The way he held the chalk, his touch gentle or firm as the occasion called for, or wrapped his fingers around Don’s cock in the same expert manner. How they moved across the keyboard, or danced over his body, touching him everywhere, learning the shape of him, becoming familiar with the spots that made him moan and squirm.
Often, big brown eyes haunted him. The way they glinted with anger because Don had lied to him, or were dulled with fear because Don had just been shot. How they glistened with tears the day Don left, or shone with happiness the day he promised to never leave again. The way they twinkled with impishness the time Don had threatened to cuff him to the bed, or glittered with promise the night Charlie had sat astride Don’s thighs and slowly dragged the cold metal along Don’s body before fastening the cuffs around his wrists. The way they fluttered when Don flicked his tongue against a nipple, or how they glazed over when Don pushed inside him.
Charlie’s lips frequently tormented him. How they curved up in a smile when Don said something amusing, or turned down in a pout when Charlie hadn’t—yet—gotten his own way. The way he chewed them when he was concentrating, or bit his lower lip to keep from crying out when Don had him bent over the desk in the garage and their father was upstairs sleeping. How he pursed his lips when he was frustrated or thinking, or licked them just before wrapping them around Don’s cock. The way they brushed the sensitive skin when Charlie curled up next to him, his face buried in Don’s neck, and whispered, ‘I love you.’
Always, in every moment, Don was consumed with Charlie. He found himself thinking about Charlie in meetings, during phone calls, and once or twice caught Megan’s eyes on him when he’d come back to the present. He wondered what Charlie was doing, what he was wearing, when next he’d be able to see him, touch him, kiss him.
Don would be worried that his deep, desperate obsession with Charlie was unhealthy if not for the fact that Charlie was equally, utterly obsessed with Don.
The End
Title: Obsession
Pairing/Characters: Don/Charlie
Rating/Category: NC17/Slash
Word Count: 816
Spoilers: General through 2.22 Backscatter.
Summary: Don has an obsession.
Notes/Warning: None
Written: May 11, 2006
Years ago Don had been determined to be a great baseball player, until the moment he’d realized he never would be. After joining Fugitive Recovery, he’d been nearly possessed by the need to recapture the fugitives he and Coop had been sent after. During his time with the FBI office in Albuquerque, he had worked cases that still weighed on his soul. But he’d never been obsessed with anyone, or anything, the way he was, and had always been, obsessed with Charlie.
When they were young, he’d always needed to be near Charlie, had insisted on holding him, playing with him, taking care of him. Charlie had fascinated him, with his curls, big brown eyes, and the smile that only Don could evoke. There was nothing about Charlie that Don didn’t love, until he’d gotten old enough to realize that he wasn’t supposed to love Charlie that much.
The pain in Charlie’s eyes hadn’t held a candle to the ache in Don’s heart when he’d pushed Charlie away. Both then, and later, when he’d made the final break and joined the FBI. And now, in the weeks and months since he’d come home again, Don had remembered, had relearned, what it was that drew him to Charlie, what it was that had scared him so badly that he’d had to leave in the first place.
Only this time, Don reveled in his obsession, indulged in it at every opportunity.
Sometimes it was Charlie’s hair that dominated Don’s thoughts. The way one curl fell over his eyes, or the way the sun highlighted it. How Charlie would sometimes push it back when it got in his way, only to have it fall forward again. The softness against his palm when he ran his fingers through it, or the tickle when it brushed his skin while Charlie painted a trail of kisses down this belly.
Other times Charlie’s voice distracted him. The patient tone when he spoke with a student, or the annoyance when Dad insisted on playing Scrabble. The excitement when he explained his findings in the War Room, or the certainty when he insisted he was going to take you down on the basketball court. The husky, rough timbre when he told Don just exactly how he was going to make him come, and the smug gloating when he’d accomplished it.
On occasion he became preoccupied with Charlie’s fingers. The way he tapped them against his cards on poker night, or rubbed his thumb along the back of Don’s hand when they watched a movie. How he wrote out his theories on the whiteboard, with fast, hard strokes, or drew equations on Don’s skin. The way he held the chalk, his touch gentle or firm as the occasion called for, or wrapped his fingers around Don’s cock in the same expert manner. How they moved across the keyboard, or danced over his body, touching him everywhere, learning the shape of him, becoming familiar with the spots that made him moan and squirm.
Often, big brown eyes haunted him. The way they glinted with anger because Don had lied to him, or were dulled with fear because Don had just been shot. How they glistened with tears the day Don left, or shone with happiness the day he promised to never leave again. The way they twinkled with impishness the time Don had threatened to cuff him to the bed, or glittered with promise the night Charlie had sat astride Don’s thighs and slowly dragged the cold metal along Don’s body before fastening the cuffs around his wrists. The way they fluttered when Don flicked his tongue against a nipple, or how they glazed over when Don pushed inside him.
Charlie’s lips frequently tormented him. How they curved up in a smile when Don said something amusing, or turned down in a pout when Charlie hadn’t—yet—gotten his own way. The way he chewed them when he was concentrating, or bit his lower lip to keep from crying out when Don had him bent over the desk in the garage and their father was upstairs sleeping. How he pursed his lips when he was frustrated or thinking, or licked them just before wrapping them around Don’s cock. The way they brushed the sensitive skin when Charlie curled up next to him, his face buried in Don’s neck, and whispered, ‘I love you.’
Always, in every moment, Don was consumed with Charlie. He found himself thinking about Charlie in meetings, during phone calls, and once or twice caught Megan’s eyes on him when he’d come back to the present. He wondered what Charlie was doing, what he was wearing, when next he’d be able to see him, touch him, kiss him.
Don would be worried that his deep, desperate obsession with Charlie was unhealthy if not for the fact that Charlie was equally, utterly obsessed with Don.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 03:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 04:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 04:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-12 12:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 06:29 pm (UTC)Oh! Just OHH! *melts*
no subject
Date: 2006-05-12 12:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-11 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-12 12:52 pm (UTC)(It took me so long to get around to getting this one out of my head, I make no promises on Charlie's pov, lol!)