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numb3rsflashficTitle: The Baseball Player and the Team Statistician
Pairing/Characters: Don/Charlie
Rating/Category: NC17/Slash/Incest
Word Count: 2312 words
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Charlie, the new team statistician, is called upon to assist one of the ballplayers with a pulled muscle. *g*
Notes/Warning: Incest. I actually thought of this on the way to my niece’s softball game the other night, and wrote three-quarters of it during the game. Yeah, I’m going to Hell. *eg*
Written: May 24, 2007
“Hey, new guy.”
Charlie looked around the otherwise empty locker room, then over at the ballplayer that had spoken. He pointed to himself and mouthed, ‘Me?’
“Yeah, you. Come here, I need your help.”
Charlie took a cautious step into the training room, holding his clipboard in front of him like a shield. He’d been hired by the team to run the numbers and, while he’d walked through the locker room on his way to and from the manager’s office, he’d never been inside the trainer’s domain. He glanced around, nervous. “What, uh, what do you need?”
The player, Don Eppes, eased himself onto the edge of one of the exam tables, rubbing the back of his thigh. “I’ve got a cramp in my hammy and I can’t get the right angle on it. Since the trainer’s not here, I need you to help me work it out.”
“But I’m , uh, I’m a statistician.” Charlie held up the clipboard.
“You’re the only one here, and I need to be able to run on this leg tomorrow. Come on.”
Don carefully swung his legs up, then rolled over so he was lying on his stomach. The towel he wore twisted and rode up until it barely covered his ass. Charlie couldn’t help staring at the teasing glimpse of rounded buttock beneath the towel.
“Before my leg stiffens up and I can’t even walk, new guy.”
Charlie mechanically clipped the pen to the top of the clipboard and set it down on the other exam table, his motions slow and precise. His eyes were locked on Don’s towel-covered ass. He jumped when Don said, “The oil’s on the counter there.”
“Oil?” Charlie’s mind raced with possible uses for the oil.
“Massage oil. For my leg.”
Oh, yeah, his leg. Charlie dragged his gaze from Don’s perfectly rounded ass and found the oil. The bottle was slick and there was a ring on the counter top. He flipped open the cap and sniffed. It smelled faintly of eucalyptus and almond. Don was silent as Charlie squirted oil into his palm and then warmed it up between both hands. His first touch on Don’s leg was tentative. He could feel the hard muscle, the course hair as he spread the oil over the back of Don’s thigh. Charlie found a knot and pressed lightly, afraid to do anything that might hurt Don.
“Harder, I won’t break.”
Charlie pressed a little bit harder.
Don moaned. “Oh, yeah, right there, work it a little deeper for me.”
Charlie tried to ignore his body’s reaction to Don’s moan, the way his voice sounded hoarse and rough when he asked Charlie to work it a little deeper. He worked his thumb into the knot, dragged both thumbs along the muscle. He recited numbers, trying to keep his mind off the fact that he had his hands on the naked, well-muscled thigh of Don Eppes.
“What’s your name, new guy?”
“What?” It wasn’t until Don’s voice died away that Charlie realized he’d even spoken.
“Your name, unless you want me to keep calling you ‘new guy’.”
“Uh, no, my name’s Charlie.”
“Charlie.” The way Don said his name sent a little shiver down Charlie’s spine. “You’ve got great hands, Charlie.”
Charlie swelled a little more in his pants, thankful they were loose enough to accommodate. “Thanks, I, uh, I write a lot.” Charlie rolled his eyes, that had to be the stupidest thing he’d ever said, but Don didn’t seem to notice.
“Listen, it looks like it’s just you and me, so why don’t you finish me off?” With that, Don lifted up and whipped the towel off, let it fall to the floor.
Charlie froze, hands on Don’s thigh, eyes glued to the newly uncovered ass he’d been fantasizing about. Finish him off? Did Don mean what Charlie thought -- hoped -- he meant? “W-what?”
“Start with my neck,” Don said as he settled back down onto the table.
It was with great relief -- and some disappointment -- that Charlie realized Don was talking about the massage. Charlie moved up to the head of the table and tried to ignore the fact that Don’s head was so close to his groin, which was taking a more active interest in the proceedings than Charlie was comfortable with.
Don hadn’t yet showered after the game and his skin was still slick with sweat. He smelled -- not sour, but the clean, fresh scent of a hard-working man -- and it was doing nothing to calm Charlie’s libido. Charlie worked his way down Don’s back, from neck to tail bone, then skipped down to the thigh he hadn’t yet massaged.
When he was finished, Don said, “Get my glutes, will you? You wouldn’t believe the workout your ass gets out on the field.”
Charlie stood motionless, his mind moving a thousand miles per second while his hands were frozen in place on Don’s thigh. Don wanted him to touch his ass, and Charlie wasn’t sure if he could do that without embarrassing himself. He’d been trying very hard to keep his eyes off Don’s naked ass, and now he was supposed to touch it? This was torture, pure and simple. Charlie waited for Don to say something, but he remained silent, just laid there waiting patiently for Charlie to begin.
Charlie drizzled oil into his palm and tried to block out the fact that he was going to have his hands on Don’s ass. It worked right up until the moment he actually had his hands on Don’s ass.
Don moaned. “Yeah, that feels great, Charlie.”
Charlie squeezed and kneaded Don’s ass, hoping he was doing it right, and if he occasionally caught a glimpse of the tempting cleft between Don’s cheeks, it was totally not his fault. Charlie’s heart nearly stopped when Don shifted on the table, spread his legs a little.
“Charlie, could you just . . . ?”
Don couldn’t be asking . . . . Could he? Almost of its own volition, Charlie’s finger slipped between Don’s cheeks. He stroked it along the length of the crack, over Don’s hole.
“Yeah, Charlie, that’s good.” Don shifted again, spreading his legs as far as the table would allow, exposing himself even more to Charlie.
Charlie rubbed the pad of his thumb back and forth over the puckered skin of Don’s entrance, heard Don’s gasps and breathless moans, felt him squirm and press back against Charlie’s teasing touch.
Don groaned. “Come on, buddy, do it.”
Charlie pushed the tip of his thumb inside Don, and Don broke off with a gasp of surprised pleasure.
“Yeah, more.”
Charlie pulled his thumb out, ignoring Don’s whine of protest -- except for the part where it went straight to Charlie’s prick -- and replaced it with his finger, pressing it into Don one knuckle at a time until his palm was snugged up against Don’s ass. He tried to wiggle his finger, then pulled it out and pushed back in, then did it again, and again.
Charlie found the oil and drizzled some along Don’s crack, used it to slick up his finger and Don’s hole, then sped up his thrusts. Don made little sounds that were driving Charlie nuts, and when he said, “Please, more,” Charlie didn’t hesitate. On the next push in he used two fingers. Don made a sound of pleasure that had Charlie rubbing the heel of his other hand against his own confined cock, though he couldn’t take his eyes off the sight of his fingers disappearing into Don’s ass.
Charlie knew the moment he found Don’s prostate -- Don nearly levitated off the table, and then he was grabbing the sides and make soft whimpering noises as he pushed back onto Charlie’s fingers.
“Again,” he said, and Charlie did, until he was breathing nearly as hard as Don, found himself whimpering right along with him as Charlie hit his pleasure spot again, and again, and again.
Don bent his knee, lifted up so he could get a hand under him, and Charlie moved, batted Don’s hand away, wrapped his fingers around Don’s cock with a choked, “Let me.”
Don groaned, clung to the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip, and pushed into Charlie’s hand, then back onto his fingers. Charlie let go of Don long enough to swipe his fingers through the oil coating his ass then gave Don a slippery fist to fuck. Charlie watched the play of muscles along Don’s back, the way his biceps and ass bunched as he fucked himself into and on Charlie, heard his soft, “God, Charlie,” felt his ass tight and hot around his fingers.
Daring, Charlie pulled his fingers out and pushed back in with three. Don made a strangled noise and tensed, back arched as he pulsed in Charlie’s hand and shot all over the table, his stomach, and Charlie’s fist.
Charlie was close to coming, felt the familiar tingle in his lower back, he tensed and . . . .
“Which one is it this time?” Don asked.
Charlie’s eyes shot open as Don closed his fingers around the base of Charlie’s cock, staving off his orgasm.
“Don!” Charlie’s cry was breathless and desperate, but Don just grinned at him.
“Which one? Am I bending you over your desk at CalSci while you recite Pi to a hundred digits?”
Charlie blushed. “No.”
Don’s eyebrows went up. “Over my desk at the FBI office?”
Charlie’s eyes went wide because . . . that was a good one. Maybe that was Don’s fantasy; he’d have to remember it for another time. Because Don was still waiting for an answer -- and Charlie was still waiting to come -- Charlie said, “The baseball one.”
“Ohh, yeah. Me in my uniform, fucking your mouth in the supply closet with the rest of the team just outside?”
Charlie moaned and his cock twitched. “No. I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”
Don loosened his grip and gave Charlie a stroke up the length of his prick. “The shower? You bent over with your hands on the bench, my jock in your mouth so the rest of the team doesn’t hear you begging for it, hmm? That what you were thinking about, Charlie? Me fucking you in the shower with a bunch of sweaty, naked guys showering in the stalls right next to us and never even knowing it?”
“N-no.” Hot and flushed from the image, Charlie pushed up into Don’s hand. “Massage, I was . . . .”
“Ahh,” Don said, working his thumb against that spot that had Charlie seeing stars. “The new guy giving the ballplayer a massage. Did you work me over good, Charlie? Did you have me begging for it?” Don stroked him again, base to tip, with a little twist at the end.
Charlie gasped. “Yes! You couldn’t get enough. You begged me to . . . .” Charlie broke off, barely able to breathe, much less talk, as he came all over Don’s hand, splashing his release up onto his chest.
Don gently milked every last ounce of come out of him, even as he was fumbling one-handed with his own jeans. He finally got them down far enough to get his cock out, then coated his hand in Charlie’s spunk and used it to jack himself off. “Tell me.”
Panting, Charlie said, “I had three fingers inside you, you were so tight. I had my fist around your cock. You were fucking yourself into my hand, pushing back onto my fingers, and you were making the sweetest little noises, like you do when . . . .”
Don closed his eyes and arched his back, muscles tensed, veins standing out along his forearm and neck.. He shot pulse after pulse of come onto Charlie’s chest and stomach, the last bit dribbling out onto Charlie’s softening cock, and then he deflated, sort of drifting down to cover Charlie. He knew they’d be stuck together if they didn’t get up and clean off, but Charlie couldn’t be bothered to care; he wrapped his arms around Don and held him tight.
Charlie thought about what Don had said about fucking Charlie over his desk at the FBI office. Charlie knew that his fantasies had gotten a lot more . . . inventive . . . since he and Don had gotten together, and many of them -- well, if he was honest, most of them -- included the opportunity for discovery. Charlie wondered sometimes if that wasn’t because he and Don couldn’t talk about their relationship, couldn’t be open about it with their friends and family, and this was the only way they could share their relationship, by being found out. Maybe Don had some of those very same demons.
Charlie lifted his shoulder, nudging Don. “Hey, we can try your fantasy next, the desk thing at the FBI office.”
“What makes you think that’s my fantasy?” Don mumbled, but, having experience with barely-awake Don, Charlie was able to translate.
“Because you’re the one who brought it up!”
There was a pause during which Don didn’t deny that, but he just said, “I’ve got something else in mind for next time.”
Charlie didn’t like the way Don had said that. “What?”
“You’ll have to wait and see,” Don teased, licking Charlie’s neck, very nearly distracting him from the topic at hand.
“You, uh, you’re not still upset about last time, are you?”
“Charlie, you made me wear a skirt,” Don grumbled.
“Kilt.”
“Whatever. My legs were showing. And you didn’t even let me wear any underwear!”
“You’re not supposed to . . . .”
Don shut Charlie up with a kiss, then said, “I don’t care. Just remember, payback.”
Don had threatened payback at the time, but Charlie had thought it was all bluster. He was having second thoughts. “Is a bitch?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a leather mini. Red.”
It took a moment for Don’s words to penetrate. “Wait, what? You’re not serious, right? Don?”
Don pretended to snore, and Charlie groaned. He was doomed. And red was so not his color.
The End
Pairing/Characters: Don/Charlie
Rating/Category: NC17/Slash/Incest
Word Count: 2312 words
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Charlie, the new team statistician, is called upon to assist one of the ballplayers with a pulled muscle. *g*
Notes/Warning: Incest. I actually thought of this on the way to my niece’s softball game the other night, and wrote three-quarters of it during the game. Yeah, I’m going to Hell. *eg*
Written: May 24, 2007
“Hey, new guy.”
Charlie looked around the otherwise empty locker room, then over at the ballplayer that had spoken. He pointed to himself and mouthed, ‘Me?’
“Yeah, you. Come here, I need your help.”
Charlie took a cautious step into the training room, holding his clipboard in front of him like a shield. He’d been hired by the team to run the numbers and, while he’d walked through the locker room on his way to and from the manager’s office, he’d never been inside the trainer’s domain. He glanced around, nervous. “What, uh, what do you need?”
The player, Don Eppes, eased himself onto the edge of one of the exam tables, rubbing the back of his thigh. “I’ve got a cramp in my hammy and I can’t get the right angle on it. Since the trainer’s not here, I need you to help me work it out.”
“But I’m , uh, I’m a statistician.” Charlie held up the clipboard.
“You’re the only one here, and I need to be able to run on this leg tomorrow. Come on.”
Don carefully swung his legs up, then rolled over so he was lying on his stomach. The towel he wore twisted and rode up until it barely covered his ass. Charlie couldn’t help staring at the teasing glimpse of rounded buttock beneath the towel.
“Before my leg stiffens up and I can’t even walk, new guy.”
Charlie mechanically clipped the pen to the top of the clipboard and set it down on the other exam table, his motions slow and precise. His eyes were locked on Don’s towel-covered ass. He jumped when Don said, “The oil’s on the counter there.”
“Oil?” Charlie’s mind raced with possible uses for the oil.
“Massage oil. For my leg.”
Oh, yeah, his leg. Charlie dragged his gaze from Don’s perfectly rounded ass and found the oil. The bottle was slick and there was a ring on the counter top. He flipped open the cap and sniffed. It smelled faintly of eucalyptus and almond. Don was silent as Charlie squirted oil into his palm and then warmed it up between both hands. His first touch on Don’s leg was tentative. He could feel the hard muscle, the course hair as he spread the oil over the back of Don’s thigh. Charlie found a knot and pressed lightly, afraid to do anything that might hurt Don.
“Harder, I won’t break.”
Charlie pressed a little bit harder.
Don moaned. “Oh, yeah, right there, work it a little deeper for me.”
Charlie tried to ignore his body’s reaction to Don’s moan, the way his voice sounded hoarse and rough when he asked Charlie to work it a little deeper. He worked his thumb into the knot, dragged both thumbs along the muscle. He recited numbers, trying to keep his mind off the fact that he had his hands on the naked, well-muscled thigh of Don Eppes.
“What’s your name, new guy?”
“What?” It wasn’t until Don’s voice died away that Charlie realized he’d even spoken.
“Your name, unless you want me to keep calling you ‘new guy’.”
“Uh, no, my name’s Charlie.”
“Charlie.” The way Don said his name sent a little shiver down Charlie’s spine. “You’ve got great hands, Charlie.”
Charlie swelled a little more in his pants, thankful they were loose enough to accommodate. “Thanks, I, uh, I write a lot.” Charlie rolled his eyes, that had to be the stupidest thing he’d ever said, but Don didn’t seem to notice.
“Listen, it looks like it’s just you and me, so why don’t you finish me off?” With that, Don lifted up and whipped the towel off, let it fall to the floor.
Charlie froze, hands on Don’s thigh, eyes glued to the newly uncovered ass he’d been fantasizing about. Finish him off? Did Don mean what Charlie thought -- hoped -- he meant? “W-what?”
“Start with my neck,” Don said as he settled back down onto the table.
It was with great relief -- and some disappointment -- that Charlie realized Don was talking about the massage. Charlie moved up to the head of the table and tried to ignore the fact that Don’s head was so close to his groin, which was taking a more active interest in the proceedings than Charlie was comfortable with.
Don hadn’t yet showered after the game and his skin was still slick with sweat. He smelled -- not sour, but the clean, fresh scent of a hard-working man -- and it was doing nothing to calm Charlie’s libido. Charlie worked his way down Don’s back, from neck to tail bone, then skipped down to the thigh he hadn’t yet massaged.
When he was finished, Don said, “Get my glutes, will you? You wouldn’t believe the workout your ass gets out on the field.”
Charlie stood motionless, his mind moving a thousand miles per second while his hands were frozen in place on Don’s thigh. Don wanted him to touch his ass, and Charlie wasn’t sure if he could do that without embarrassing himself. He’d been trying very hard to keep his eyes off Don’s naked ass, and now he was supposed to touch it? This was torture, pure and simple. Charlie waited for Don to say something, but he remained silent, just laid there waiting patiently for Charlie to begin.
Charlie drizzled oil into his palm and tried to block out the fact that he was going to have his hands on Don’s ass. It worked right up until the moment he actually had his hands on Don’s ass.
Don moaned. “Yeah, that feels great, Charlie.”
Charlie squeezed and kneaded Don’s ass, hoping he was doing it right, and if he occasionally caught a glimpse of the tempting cleft between Don’s cheeks, it was totally not his fault. Charlie’s heart nearly stopped when Don shifted on the table, spread his legs a little.
“Charlie, could you just . . . ?”
Don couldn’t be asking . . . . Could he? Almost of its own volition, Charlie’s finger slipped between Don’s cheeks. He stroked it along the length of the crack, over Don’s hole.
“Yeah, Charlie, that’s good.” Don shifted again, spreading his legs as far as the table would allow, exposing himself even more to Charlie.
Charlie rubbed the pad of his thumb back and forth over the puckered skin of Don’s entrance, heard Don’s gasps and breathless moans, felt him squirm and press back against Charlie’s teasing touch.
Don groaned. “Come on, buddy, do it.”
Charlie pushed the tip of his thumb inside Don, and Don broke off with a gasp of surprised pleasure.
“Yeah, more.”
Charlie pulled his thumb out, ignoring Don’s whine of protest -- except for the part where it went straight to Charlie’s prick -- and replaced it with his finger, pressing it into Don one knuckle at a time until his palm was snugged up against Don’s ass. He tried to wiggle his finger, then pulled it out and pushed back in, then did it again, and again.
Charlie found the oil and drizzled some along Don’s crack, used it to slick up his finger and Don’s hole, then sped up his thrusts. Don made little sounds that were driving Charlie nuts, and when he said, “Please, more,” Charlie didn’t hesitate. On the next push in he used two fingers. Don made a sound of pleasure that had Charlie rubbing the heel of his other hand against his own confined cock, though he couldn’t take his eyes off the sight of his fingers disappearing into Don’s ass.
Charlie knew the moment he found Don’s prostate -- Don nearly levitated off the table, and then he was grabbing the sides and make soft whimpering noises as he pushed back onto Charlie’s fingers.
“Again,” he said, and Charlie did, until he was breathing nearly as hard as Don, found himself whimpering right along with him as Charlie hit his pleasure spot again, and again, and again.
Don bent his knee, lifted up so he could get a hand under him, and Charlie moved, batted Don’s hand away, wrapped his fingers around Don’s cock with a choked, “Let me.”
Don groaned, clung to the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip, and pushed into Charlie’s hand, then back onto his fingers. Charlie let go of Don long enough to swipe his fingers through the oil coating his ass then gave Don a slippery fist to fuck. Charlie watched the play of muscles along Don’s back, the way his biceps and ass bunched as he fucked himself into and on Charlie, heard his soft, “God, Charlie,” felt his ass tight and hot around his fingers.
Daring, Charlie pulled his fingers out and pushed back in with three. Don made a strangled noise and tensed, back arched as he pulsed in Charlie’s hand and shot all over the table, his stomach, and Charlie’s fist.
Charlie was close to coming, felt the familiar tingle in his lower back, he tensed and . . . .
“Which one is it this time?” Don asked.
Charlie’s eyes shot open as Don closed his fingers around the base of Charlie’s cock, staving off his orgasm.
“Don!” Charlie’s cry was breathless and desperate, but Don just grinned at him.
“Which one? Am I bending you over your desk at CalSci while you recite Pi to a hundred digits?”
Charlie blushed. “No.”
Don’s eyebrows went up. “Over my desk at the FBI office?”
Charlie’s eyes went wide because . . . that was a good one. Maybe that was Don’s fantasy; he’d have to remember it for another time. Because Don was still waiting for an answer -- and Charlie was still waiting to come -- Charlie said, “The baseball one.”
“Ohh, yeah. Me in my uniform, fucking your mouth in the supply closet with the rest of the team just outside?”
Charlie moaned and his cock twitched. “No. I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”
Don loosened his grip and gave Charlie a stroke up the length of his prick. “The shower? You bent over with your hands on the bench, my jock in your mouth so the rest of the team doesn’t hear you begging for it, hmm? That what you were thinking about, Charlie? Me fucking you in the shower with a bunch of sweaty, naked guys showering in the stalls right next to us and never even knowing it?”
“N-no.” Hot and flushed from the image, Charlie pushed up into Don’s hand. “Massage, I was . . . .”
“Ahh,” Don said, working his thumb against that spot that had Charlie seeing stars. “The new guy giving the ballplayer a massage. Did you work me over good, Charlie? Did you have me begging for it?” Don stroked him again, base to tip, with a little twist at the end.
Charlie gasped. “Yes! You couldn’t get enough. You begged me to . . . .” Charlie broke off, barely able to breathe, much less talk, as he came all over Don’s hand, splashing his release up onto his chest.
Don gently milked every last ounce of come out of him, even as he was fumbling one-handed with his own jeans. He finally got them down far enough to get his cock out, then coated his hand in Charlie’s spunk and used it to jack himself off. “Tell me.”
Panting, Charlie said, “I had three fingers inside you, you were so tight. I had my fist around your cock. You were fucking yourself into my hand, pushing back onto my fingers, and you were making the sweetest little noises, like you do when . . . .”
Don closed his eyes and arched his back, muscles tensed, veins standing out along his forearm and neck.. He shot pulse after pulse of come onto Charlie’s chest and stomach, the last bit dribbling out onto Charlie’s softening cock, and then he deflated, sort of drifting down to cover Charlie. He knew they’d be stuck together if they didn’t get up and clean off, but Charlie couldn’t be bothered to care; he wrapped his arms around Don and held him tight.
Charlie thought about what Don had said about fucking Charlie over his desk at the FBI office. Charlie knew that his fantasies had gotten a lot more . . . inventive . . . since he and Don had gotten together, and many of them -- well, if he was honest, most of them -- included the opportunity for discovery. Charlie wondered sometimes if that wasn’t because he and Don couldn’t talk about their relationship, couldn’t be open about it with their friends and family, and this was the only way they could share their relationship, by being found out. Maybe Don had some of those very same demons.
Charlie lifted his shoulder, nudging Don. “Hey, we can try your fantasy next, the desk thing at the FBI office.”
“What makes you think that’s my fantasy?” Don mumbled, but, having experience with barely-awake Don, Charlie was able to translate.
“Because you’re the one who brought it up!”
There was a pause during which Don didn’t deny that, but he just said, “I’ve got something else in mind for next time.”
Charlie didn’t like the way Don had said that. “What?”
“You’ll have to wait and see,” Don teased, licking Charlie’s neck, very nearly distracting him from the topic at hand.
“You, uh, you’re not still upset about last time, are you?”
“Charlie, you made me wear a skirt,” Don grumbled.
“Kilt.”
“Whatever. My legs were showing. And you didn’t even let me wear any underwear!”
“You’re not supposed to . . . .”
Don shut Charlie up with a kiss, then said, “I don’t care. Just remember, payback.”
Don had threatened payback at the time, but Charlie had thought it was all bluster. He was having second thoughts. “Is a bitch?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a leather mini. Red.”
It took a moment for Don’s words to penetrate. “Wait, what? You’re not serious, right? Don?”
Don pretended to snore, and Charlie groaned. He was doomed. And red was so not his color.
