Wet T-Shirt
Title: Wet T-Shirt
Fandom: Numb3rs
Pairing: Don/Charlie
Rating: Rather adult-like for suggestive sexuality, some explicit terms and themes, language
Length: 742 words
Summary: "Yeah, and you said you'd dress like a cheerleader for a whole day."
Warnings: incest, CRACK, unbetaed
Notes: I TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY BLAME ROB MORROW FOR THIS. It's all in the DVD commentary for the pilot episode. He is an evil, evil man. This has absolutely nothing to do with my crack-based neural functions, at all.
Wet T-Shirt
Either Charlie's probability algorithms had been incorrect, or Don had cheated. Charlie hated it when Don cheated. And now Charlie was standing in the rain, in a miniskirt and a baby-doll tee and pigtails, just because he'd forgotten for one critical moment that the risks involved in losing a bet with Don were almost always far too high to justify the wager, no matter how mathematically certain Charlie was. He shivered and rubbed his arms, shifting from one foot to the other and back to try and work up some body heat.
"Hey there, girl scout."
Charlie's teeth must have been rattling too loudly for him to hear Don ride up on his new motorcycle. More likely, he just hadn't been paying attention; he was fiddling with a few conjectures for his Cognitive Emergence Theory, or at least he had been before Don snapped him out of it. Charlie scowled and climbed on the back of the bike, grabbing the helmet his brother handed him and squashing it down over his pigtails. "You said you’d be here half an hour ago."
"Yeah, and you said you'd dress like a cheerleader for a whole day."
"Your conditions," Charlie argued over the rain as he put his hands on Don's waist and tried to find a marginally comfortable sitting position, "were that it take place on the grounds of CalSci, for twelve consecutive hours, with no breaks and no sleeping or other method or methods of evading consciousness. I met those conditions precisely."
"Sure, from 4 p.m. to 4 a.m."
"Closer to 4:30, actually, by now. But the inaccuracy there is your fault, not mine."
Don shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Hold on tight, boy genius; we're gonna fly." He kicked up the stand and let the bike take off, growling like only a factory custom Harley could.
Charlie had to admit it was a pretty cool bike, though a bit easier to appreciate when he wasn't sitting on a rain-clammy bitch seat in, effectively, pretty much just his underwear (but at least it was his underwear; he'd been steadfast on that one). And even given those factors, it was … an experience, riding behind Don down the night streets of LA, especially since Don liked to take every turn and make every stop as severely as possible. This elicited an automatic response from Charlie's body-which-did-not-want-to-become-pavement-paste: survival instinct took over and Charlie clung tight to his brother for dear life.
Don's back was warmer than usual, actually - or maybe Charlie's shirt was thin and wet, or maybe both. The quality of Don's breathing was also altered: quicker, shallower, and slightly louder than normal. Some of that could be attributed to the motorcycle ride, of course, but Charlie had developed his own theory, which he intended to prove by easing his hand down the front of Don's shirt to his pants. They narrowly escaped a direct collision with a palm tree - Q.E.D.
Don didn't shout, 'Do you want to get us both killed?' because while he wasn't as smart as his genius little brother, he wasn't that incredibly stupid, either. "God, Charlie, fuck!" was safer and more appropriate, and Charlie put his chin on Don's shoulder and smiled into his neck, and placed both hands back around his waist.
It was bad enough that Don could feel his little brother, hard, pressed up behind him on the bike; he didn't need Charlie's lips curving contentedly - no, smugly, definitely smugly, or at the very least a little of both - right under his jaw. It took some serious concentration for him to get to the apartment structure.
Don parked his motorcycle and helped Charlie off; there was a split second where neither of them could quite remember how to stand up. "I think my ass is numb," Charlie said, tugging the hem of the skirt he was wearing as if that would somehow help.
"I might be able to take care of that." It wasn't totally lewd. It could pass for innocent under certain conditions. It made Charlie break into an ear-to-ear grin that was both boyish and dirty. "Come on," Don said, taking his brother by the goose-bumped arm and steering him toward the elevator. "Let's get you dried off and warmed up. And out of those clothes."
"Mm." Charlie nodded, tilting his head toward Don's shoulder - not quite leaning, but close - and punching the 'up' button. "That definitely sounds like a good idea."
---
My Two Cents: OK, I wrote this over the course of 1.5 hours and 2.5 cups of highly altered mutated sugared coffee, and also some gummi worms and nachos. THOSE LAST TWO WERE NOT, LIKE, DIRECTLY TOGETHER, CLEARLY. Gummi worms on nachos would be grody *blechh*
...You know what makes me really happy? I got to use QED, palm trees, AND a Harley bike all in one fic! Only in the land of crack, people. Only in the land of crack. ♥
So basically, your choices are a) feedback or b) club me for being a crazy fuckhead. Either one works. Or both, I suppose, if you feel so inclined.
Ta,
-M
Fandom: Numb3rs
Pairing: Don/Charlie
Rating: Rather adult-like for suggestive sexuality, some explicit terms and themes, language
Length: 742 words
Summary: "Yeah, and you said you'd dress like a cheerleader for a whole day."
Warnings: incest, CRACK, unbetaed
Notes: I TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY BLAME ROB MORROW FOR THIS. It's all in the DVD commentary for the pilot episode. He is an evil, evil man. This has absolutely nothing to do with my crack-based neural functions, at all.
Wet T-Shirt
Either Charlie's probability algorithms had been incorrect, or Don had cheated. Charlie hated it when Don cheated. And now Charlie was standing in the rain, in a miniskirt and a baby-doll tee and pigtails, just because he'd forgotten for one critical moment that the risks involved in losing a bet with Don were almost always far too high to justify the wager, no matter how mathematically certain Charlie was. He shivered and rubbed his arms, shifting from one foot to the other and back to try and work up some body heat.
"Hey there, girl scout."
Charlie's teeth must have been rattling too loudly for him to hear Don ride up on his new motorcycle. More likely, he just hadn't been paying attention; he was fiddling with a few conjectures for his Cognitive Emergence Theory, or at least he had been before Don snapped him out of it. Charlie scowled and climbed on the back of the bike, grabbing the helmet his brother handed him and squashing it down over his pigtails. "You said you’d be here half an hour ago."
"Yeah, and you said you'd dress like a cheerleader for a whole day."
"Your conditions," Charlie argued over the rain as he put his hands on Don's waist and tried to find a marginally comfortable sitting position, "were that it take place on the grounds of CalSci, for twelve consecutive hours, with no breaks and no sleeping or other method or methods of evading consciousness. I met those conditions precisely."
"Sure, from 4 p.m. to 4 a.m."
"Closer to 4:30, actually, by now. But the inaccuracy there is your fault, not mine."
Don shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Hold on tight, boy genius; we're gonna fly." He kicked up the stand and let the bike take off, growling like only a factory custom Harley could.
Charlie had to admit it was a pretty cool bike, though a bit easier to appreciate when he wasn't sitting on a rain-clammy bitch seat in, effectively, pretty much just his underwear (but at least it was his underwear; he'd been steadfast on that one). And even given those factors, it was … an experience, riding behind Don down the night streets of LA, especially since Don liked to take every turn and make every stop as severely as possible. This elicited an automatic response from Charlie's body-which-did-not-want-to-become-pavement-paste: survival instinct took over and Charlie clung tight to his brother for dear life.
Don's back was warmer than usual, actually - or maybe Charlie's shirt was thin and wet, or maybe both. The quality of Don's breathing was also altered: quicker, shallower, and slightly louder than normal. Some of that could be attributed to the motorcycle ride, of course, but Charlie had developed his own theory, which he intended to prove by easing his hand down the front of Don's shirt to his pants. They narrowly escaped a direct collision with a palm tree - Q.E.D.
Don didn't shout, 'Do you want to get us both killed?' because while he wasn't as smart as his genius little brother, he wasn't that incredibly stupid, either. "God, Charlie, fuck!" was safer and more appropriate, and Charlie put his chin on Don's shoulder and smiled into his neck, and placed both hands back around his waist.
It was bad enough that Don could feel his little brother, hard, pressed up behind him on the bike; he didn't need Charlie's lips curving contentedly - no, smugly, definitely smugly, or at the very least a little of both - right under his jaw. It took some serious concentration for him to get to the apartment structure.
Don parked his motorcycle and helped Charlie off; there was a split second where neither of them could quite remember how to stand up. "I think my ass is numb," Charlie said, tugging the hem of the skirt he was wearing as if that would somehow help.
"I might be able to take care of that." It wasn't totally lewd. It could pass for innocent under certain conditions. It made Charlie break into an ear-to-ear grin that was both boyish and dirty. "Come on," Don said, taking his brother by the goose-bumped arm and steering him toward the elevator. "Let's get you dried off and warmed up. And out of those clothes."
"Mm." Charlie nodded, tilting his head toward Don's shoulder - not quite leaning, but close - and punching the 'up' button. "That definitely sounds like a good idea."
---
My Two Cents: OK, I wrote this over the course of 1.5 hours and 2.5 cups of highly altered mutated sugared coffee, and also some gummi worms and nachos. THOSE LAST TWO WERE NOT, LIKE, DIRECTLY TOGETHER, CLEARLY. Gummi worms on nachos would be grody *blechh*
...You know what makes me really happy? I got to use QED, palm trees, AND a Harley bike all in one fic! Only in the land of crack, people. Only in the land of crack. ♥
So basically, your choices are a) feedback or b) club me for being a crazy fuckhead. Either one works. Or both, I suppose, if you feel so inclined.
Ta,
-M