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numb3rsflashficTitle: Your Clock is Still Flashing 12 AM
Author: NV
Pairing: Don/Charlie (with a touch of Charlie/Amita)
Rating: NC-17
Challenge: #20 Three in the Morning
Warning: Thur be incest herre.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't want it, only fun, no profit.
Author Request: Please direct all comments here. Thank you kindly.
1:30
Don finishes his fifth beer and looks over at Charlie, sipping on his second.
He laughs. “You’re such a lightweight.”
“Hey, I could tell you the amount of alcohol one can consume within an hour – given body weight, alcohol concentration, tolerance – ”
“Charlie, I’m just fucking with you. Don’t go into a math dissertation on me now.”
“I’m just responding to your claim that lacks empirical evidence.”
“I’m feeling too good to hear about math right now, so chill out, okay?”
1:45
Don twists the cap off the Bacardi and pours himself a glass. He snaps the tab on a can of Coke, and the hissing fizzle fills the room. He takes a long gulp from his tumbler, lets the burn ignite his throat as it shoots down his esophagus and settles in the pit of his stomach.
He leans the bottle towards Charlie. “Want any?”
2:00
He alternates between captivated intrigue and resting his head against the back of the couch, slipping out of time and space, as Charlie babbles on, slurred speech, about subsets and the Hodge Conjecture and how Amita just can’t seem to find a way to focus on her own work, how she can’t figure out how to say no. Charlie says that he gets caught up in the cases, the mathematical mysteries, and he presents them to her as innocently as he can. He says that he’s only asking if she’s interested, but he thinks she feels some sense of obligation – be it from the perspective of being his girlfriend or wanting to validate her talent or, as Charlie slips further into inebriation, and the thin line of humility stretches until the point it snaps, being another math groupie who wants to fuck the genius.
“Huh?” The syllable rushes out of Don’s mouth in a heavy exhalation, accompanied by a choir of chuckles.
“I think, sometimes, she just wants me because I’m me. I get it, you know. Some big name professor at an ivy league read one of my papers and invited me to spend the weekend with her when I was fourteen. Man, I’ve been dealing with this all my life.”
“Poor you,” Don responds with mock sincerity.
“No, I’m serious; it’s tough. It’s tough to balance teaching and the FBI and my original work and my students and…” He hesitates to say it, throat flexing as he swallows down the lump. “And the groupies.”
“Math groupies?” Don laughs it out.
“Yeah. And maybe Amita’s one of them. I’m not saying not she’s smart, ‘cause she is. She’s brilliant. But I’ve had brilliant theorists before who were…” Charlie waves a seemingly-frail and limp hand in the air.
“Wanting to suck your cock.”
Charlie slowly shrugs his shoulders against the fabric of the couch. “Yeah. Amita’s brilliant – ”
“As you said.”
“And she’s beautiful, and with that much talent and skill and – ”
“Hotness.”
“ – hotness, she could take a job anywhere. Harvard made an offer to her, and she stayed here.” He rolls his head left and right against the back of the couch. “I wanted her to stay here, but I don’t know whether or not I wanted it if it meant her giving up such an opportunity. I mean, I knew she was solicited by Harvard, but… I wanted her to stay here because this was her place, but when Harvard came along, and I tried to dissuade her, that was just me being selfish. She should have taken it, and I shouldn’t have…” He shakes his head again. “The East Coast it where it’s at. I love CalSci, but we’re talking about Harvard, Yale, Princeton, NYU, Johns Hopkins.”
“Johns Hopkins is medical, Charlie.”
“Fuck you, I know what Johns Hopkins is; doesn’t mean they don’t need people who know math.”
“You’re drunk.”
Charlie looks at his glass, the thimble of remaining rum sloshing around as he turns the tumbler. “I’m not drunk; I’m determining the factors inhibiting the reactions of synapses for my Cognitive Emergence work.”
2:15
Don presses his lips to Charlie’s. It’s stupid, and he knows it, but they’ve both been toying with each other all night long, tales of disappointment in their relationships being the theme of the evening, and he can’t stop himself.
He pushes his tongue into Charlie’s mouth, eliciting a moan, and it’s a foot on the accelerator to his libido, driving him to shove his tongue deeper.
“You taste so good,” he whispers against Charlie’s lips, his hands eagerly unfastening the genius’s belt and jeans. “So good, Charlie,” and then he’s pulling down his brother’s jeans and boxers and reaching, fumbling, to do the same to his own.
Cocks slide, slick with precum, against each other, friction demanding moans.
“C’mon, Charlie. Fuck yourself against me.”
2:30
Don pushes a lubed finger inside his brother, spurred on by the heat.
“Feel good?” Another finger accompanies the first. “Better? Is that better, Charlie?” He crooks his fingers, rubbing the prostate. Charlie lurches off the bed. “Yeah, baby. Is that how you like it? Feeling good? Want some more?” Third finger, and Don watches a desire-driven tear drip from his brother’s eye. He digs deeper, rubs harder. “I want to hear you say it, Chuck.” He spits his brother’s loathed nickname, eager to do anything to get a response, even if it’s out of anger.
“Fuck me, Don. Your cock. Put your…” Charlie slams down on Don’s fingers. “Fuck me, please.”
A twisted smile spreads over Don’s face. “Not yet, honey.” He licks up Charlie’s cock, twirls his tongue over the head, and Charlie convulses underneath him. “Tell me more about Amita. Tell me about the things you think of doing to her.”
Charlie groans. “I think of going down on her.”
Don twists his fingers, and Charlie shouts; his cock throbs against Don’s cheek, mouth, lips. “More.”
“I’m eating her pussy – ”
“Tell me how it tastes.”
“Milk and honey and perfume.” Charlie envisions his face between Amita’s thighs, his tongue lapping at her, her legs clenching against his face. “She’s so wet, and she tastes so good, so sweet, and she smells wonderful, smells like musk and sandalwood.”
Don pulls back and laughs. “How do you know about sandalwood, faggot?”
Charlie, broken out of his reverie, shakes his curls and then grins, eyes black with need. “Who you calling faggot, faggot?” He slams down hard on his brother’s thrusting fingers. “Fuck me, Don.”
2:45
Don pounds into his brother, quick and hard thrusts, and Charlie holds onto the agent’s arms that support his balance on his bed.
“Want to get so deep inside you,” Don swears, and he slides his arms underneath Charlie’s knees, bends his elbows for his hands to find purchase, and pushes his little brother’s legs up over his shoulders and then leans hard into the bed, spreading Charlie’s body wide and exposed to him as he begins to thrust even harder, faster.
“Oh, fuck, Don. Fuck yes. Right there. Fuck me right there.”
Don pushes deeper. “So good when you talk nasty.”
“Fuck my ass. Fuck me hard. Work me, Don. You… you… you….”
“Say it, Charlie,” Don grinds out between gritted teeth.
“You fucking own me, Donny.” Charlie fights the knot in his throat. “Fuck me, Don. Come inside me. I’m yours. You own me. Work me. Take me. Fuck me. I’m… I’m…” Charlie’s fingers clench Don’s arms as his body clenches down on Don’s cock. “I’m coming.”
Cum shoots across Charlie’s belly and splatters Don’s skin as he clamps down and feels Don letting go inside him, each spurt punctuation by an “oh” or “uh” from Don’s red and wet lips.
3:00
It’s three in the morning, and they should have known better than this, but Don wraps his arms around Charlie’s naked body in the haunting silence of his apartment complex, a stillness so without precedence that Don has to wonder if the neighbors had seen his brother enter in and heard the following fucking and were all questioning what had transpired. But Charlie’s sleeping form nestles back into him, and all thoughts are chased away.
With a secondary thought, he notices that his clock is still set at midnight from the previous power-outage. He smiles against the skin of Charlie’s neck; it’s an understandable excuse for calling in late.
Author: NV
Pairing: Don/Charlie (with a touch of Charlie/Amita)
Rating: NC-17
Challenge: #20 Three in the Morning
Warning: Thur be incest herre.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't want it, only fun, no profit.
Author Request: Please direct all comments here. Thank you kindly.
1:30
Don finishes his fifth beer and looks over at Charlie, sipping on his second.
He laughs. “You’re such a lightweight.”
“Hey, I could tell you the amount of alcohol one can consume within an hour – given body weight, alcohol concentration, tolerance – ”
“Charlie, I’m just fucking with you. Don’t go into a math dissertation on me now.”
“I’m just responding to your claim that lacks empirical evidence.”
“I’m feeling too good to hear about math right now, so chill out, okay?”
1:45
Don twists the cap off the Bacardi and pours himself a glass. He snaps the tab on a can of Coke, and the hissing fizzle fills the room. He takes a long gulp from his tumbler, lets the burn ignite his throat as it shoots down his esophagus and settles in the pit of his stomach.
He leans the bottle towards Charlie. “Want any?”
2:00
He alternates between captivated intrigue and resting his head against the back of the couch, slipping out of time and space, as Charlie babbles on, slurred speech, about subsets and the Hodge Conjecture and how Amita just can’t seem to find a way to focus on her own work, how she can’t figure out how to say no. Charlie says that he gets caught up in the cases, the mathematical mysteries, and he presents them to her as innocently as he can. He says that he’s only asking if she’s interested, but he thinks she feels some sense of obligation – be it from the perspective of being his girlfriend or wanting to validate her talent or, as Charlie slips further into inebriation, and the thin line of humility stretches until the point it snaps, being another math groupie who wants to fuck the genius.
“Huh?” The syllable rushes out of Don’s mouth in a heavy exhalation, accompanied by a choir of chuckles.
“I think, sometimes, she just wants me because I’m me. I get it, you know. Some big name professor at an ivy league read one of my papers and invited me to spend the weekend with her when I was fourteen. Man, I’ve been dealing with this all my life.”
“Poor you,” Don responds with mock sincerity.
“No, I’m serious; it’s tough. It’s tough to balance teaching and the FBI and my original work and my students and…” He hesitates to say it, throat flexing as he swallows down the lump. “And the groupies.”
“Math groupies?” Don laughs it out.
“Yeah. And maybe Amita’s one of them. I’m not saying not she’s smart, ‘cause she is. She’s brilliant. But I’ve had brilliant theorists before who were…” Charlie waves a seemingly-frail and limp hand in the air.
“Wanting to suck your cock.”
Charlie slowly shrugs his shoulders against the fabric of the couch. “Yeah. Amita’s brilliant – ”
“As you said.”
“And she’s beautiful, and with that much talent and skill and – ”
“Hotness.”
“ – hotness, she could take a job anywhere. Harvard made an offer to her, and she stayed here.” He rolls his head left and right against the back of the couch. “I wanted her to stay here, but I don’t know whether or not I wanted it if it meant her giving up such an opportunity. I mean, I knew she was solicited by Harvard, but… I wanted her to stay here because this was her place, but when Harvard came along, and I tried to dissuade her, that was just me being selfish. She should have taken it, and I shouldn’t have…” He shakes his head again. “The East Coast it where it’s at. I love CalSci, but we’re talking about Harvard, Yale, Princeton, NYU, Johns Hopkins.”
“Johns Hopkins is medical, Charlie.”
“Fuck you, I know what Johns Hopkins is; doesn’t mean they don’t need people who know math.”
“You’re drunk.”
Charlie looks at his glass, the thimble of remaining rum sloshing around as he turns the tumbler. “I’m not drunk; I’m determining the factors inhibiting the reactions of synapses for my Cognitive Emergence work.”
2:15
Don presses his lips to Charlie’s. It’s stupid, and he knows it, but they’ve both been toying with each other all night long, tales of disappointment in their relationships being the theme of the evening, and he can’t stop himself.
He pushes his tongue into Charlie’s mouth, eliciting a moan, and it’s a foot on the accelerator to his libido, driving him to shove his tongue deeper.
“You taste so good,” he whispers against Charlie’s lips, his hands eagerly unfastening the genius’s belt and jeans. “So good, Charlie,” and then he’s pulling down his brother’s jeans and boxers and reaching, fumbling, to do the same to his own.
Cocks slide, slick with precum, against each other, friction demanding moans.
“C’mon, Charlie. Fuck yourself against me.”
2:30
Don pushes a lubed finger inside his brother, spurred on by the heat.
“Feel good?” Another finger accompanies the first. “Better? Is that better, Charlie?” He crooks his fingers, rubbing the prostate. Charlie lurches off the bed. “Yeah, baby. Is that how you like it? Feeling good? Want some more?” Third finger, and Don watches a desire-driven tear drip from his brother’s eye. He digs deeper, rubs harder. “I want to hear you say it, Chuck.” He spits his brother’s loathed nickname, eager to do anything to get a response, even if it’s out of anger.
“Fuck me, Don. Your cock. Put your…” Charlie slams down on Don’s fingers. “Fuck me, please.”
A twisted smile spreads over Don’s face. “Not yet, honey.” He licks up Charlie’s cock, twirls his tongue over the head, and Charlie convulses underneath him. “Tell me more about Amita. Tell me about the things you think of doing to her.”
Charlie groans. “I think of going down on her.”
Don twists his fingers, and Charlie shouts; his cock throbs against Don’s cheek, mouth, lips. “More.”
“I’m eating her pussy – ”
“Tell me how it tastes.”
“Milk and honey and perfume.” Charlie envisions his face between Amita’s thighs, his tongue lapping at her, her legs clenching against his face. “She’s so wet, and she tastes so good, so sweet, and she smells wonderful, smells like musk and sandalwood.”
Don pulls back and laughs. “How do you know about sandalwood, faggot?”
Charlie, broken out of his reverie, shakes his curls and then grins, eyes black with need. “Who you calling faggot, faggot?” He slams down hard on his brother’s thrusting fingers. “Fuck me, Don.”
2:45
Don pounds into his brother, quick and hard thrusts, and Charlie holds onto the agent’s arms that support his balance on his bed.
“Want to get so deep inside you,” Don swears, and he slides his arms underneath Charlie’s knees, bends his elbows for his hands to find purchase, and pushes his little brother’s legs up over his shoulders and then leans hard into the bed, spreading Charlie’s body wide and exposed to him as he begins to thrust even harder, faster.
“Oh, fuck, Don. Fuck yes. Right there. Fuck me right there.”
Don pushes deeper. “So good when you talk nasty.”
“Fuck my ass. Fuck me hard. Work me, Don. You… you… you….”
“Say it, Charlie,” Don grinds out between gritted teeth.
“You fucking own me, Donny.” Charlie fights the knot in his throat. “Fuck me, Don. Come inside me. I’m yours. You own me. Work me. Take me. Fuck me. I’m… I’m…” Charlie’s fingers clench Don’s arms as his body clenches down on Don’s cock. “I’m coming.”
Cum shoots across Charlie’s belly and splatters Don’s skin as he clamps down and feels Don letting go inside him, each spurt punctuation by an “oh” or “uh” from Don’s red and wet lips.
3:00
It’s three in the morning, and they should have known better than this, but Don wraps his arms around Charlie’s naked body in the haunting silence of his apartment complex, a stillness so without precedence that Don has to wonder if the neighbors had seen his brother enter in and heard the following fucking and were all questioning what had transpired. But Charlie’s sleeping form nestles back into him, and all thoughts are chased away.
With a secondary thought, he notices that his clock is still set at midnight from the previous power-outage. He smiles against the skin of Charlie’s neck; it’s an understandable excuse for calling in late.
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Date: 2006-11-03 01:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-03 01:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-03 02:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-03 01:33 am (UTC)I’m determining the factors inhibiting the reactions of synapses for my Cognitive Emergence work.”
is the best excuse ever for getting drunk.
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Date: 2006-11-03 01:46 am (UTC)I'm partial to the old "I'm trying to write The Great American Novel!" line (when I am, of course, really looking at celebrity gossip sites and porn), but this one works for dear Chuck.
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Date: 2006-11-03 01:58 am (UTC)What I meant to say was thank you very much, and I'm glad you liked it. *bg*
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Date: 2006-11-14 09:17 am (UTC)Good job you!
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Date: 2006-11-14 10:16 am (UTC)