Numb3rs: Crossroads
Title: Crossroads
Fandom: Numb3rs
Rating: Mature
Words: ~1000
Characters: Don/Billy
Summary: Billy paged Don and Don answered. Sounds simple, doesn't it? (Set post Man Hunt.)
Disclaimer: Nobody here is mine. Dammit.
Author's Note: For the 3rd Annual Numb3rs Slash Ficathon, prompt "Crossroads." Thanks to Josselin for last-minute handholding and beta :)
Tequila has always made Don think of Billy Cooper, which is odd since they never drank anything harder than beer in all the time they were on the road together. Something about Billy's voice, whisky-rough, but the scent of him was always desert dust and that easy smile of his begged for lime and salt. The rule had always been "no liquor on the road," but with Billy in L.A. and the perp safely back in custody, well, they've been making up for lost time. There's a line of empty shot glasses sticky with fingerprints and upside down on the coffee table and a mess of used-up lime wedges on a plate. Billy is sprawled full length on Don's couch and Don is slowly but surely chewing his way up the inside of one denim-clad thigh.
Billy, Agent Cooper, Coop, he's got one arm up over his eyes and Don thinks maybe that's why he's briefly unsure what to call him, doesn't know who's in control though he can pretty much rule the middle one out. Don traces the inseam of Billy's jeans with his teeth, and when he looks up the length of his body, the trails of spit crossing Billy's bare chest shine in the light cast by the lamp on the end table. He did that, Don did, and when the air conditioning kicks in it pulls up goose flesh where Billy licked salt off of the sweep of Don's collarbones again and again.
It's something they didn't have before, the time to just fool around like this, and Don savors every twitch and lazy roll of Billy's hips, nips through the rough fabric to make him do it again. Billy's hand lands heavy and warm on the back of Don's head, his middle finger rubbing at the razor-trimmed line of hair at the nape of his neck and there isn't enough left for Billy to grab, to tug, and Don thinks he might miss that a little. He breathes out, hot and moist, warming the denim over Billy's balls and feels the rumbling moan like it's coming up from all the way down in Billy's toes.
"Damn, Eppes, you act like we've got all night."
It's a joke and he knows it, but Don growls anyway and turns his head to sink his teeth into the muscle of Billy's thigh. Billy curses and grips the back of his head hard but Don isn't letting him take control, not tonight. And it dawns on him then, with the clarity that only comes with a serious drunk on, that he owes Billy this for paging him tonight. For expecting him to answer, for making Don stop for tequila on the way to his own apartment and for knowing, the whole time, that Don was going to fucking miss this when Billy left town again.
Don reaches up and pops the button on Billy's jeans and he subsides with a low murmur.
"Yeah... yeah, that's it."
He takes the zipper down with his teeth, and all the tension bleeds out of Billy's limbs and right into his dick. He's full and hard, and the tang of lime is still sharp in Don's nose until he buries his face in Billy's crotch and fills up with his scent instead.
"Shit, Don."
Billy's shifts beneath him, restless and needy, and Don pins Billy's thigh to the back of the couch with his shoulder. "Cut it out." His own voice is rough, raw with tequila burn and a low, simmering anger because fuck it, Billy might think he knows why Don answered his page but he's got it all wrong.
It isn't like that anymore. Don's not that guy.
Billy's breath stutters out of him when Don lips at his cock, crawls up the couch to crowd himself all into Billy's space and press him down, right where Don wants him. The angle's fucked but he doesn't care, because this isn't about slow and easy and it isn't about comfortable. He takes the head of Billy's dick into his mouth and sucks hard enough Billy chokes off a yell, twists like he's trying to get away but Don has him good and pinned now.
"Fuck, take it easy!"
No. Don goes down on his cock and sucks again, and Billy's gritted cursing turns into groans. He shoves at Don's head until Don catches his forearm, binds it across his chest, and even then Billy won't stop. Not that Don expected him to, but he punishes a wicked thrust with a quick scrape of teeth, and then Billy isn't so much fighting for top as he is fighting to come, and that suits Don just fine.
"Jesus, Jesus!"
Don's jaw aches like a bitch, lips sore and stretched wide, and he knows when Billy finally shoots he'll be feeling it in his sinuses. Is this what you wanted? Billy is incoherent under him, shaking and desperate. My terms, Coop. This is all you get.
Billy comes and it floods all through Don's mouth, he swallows what he can and lets the rest run down his chin and over Billy's dick. Billy has worked his arms out of Don's grasp, and is pulling Don up by the shoulders and murmuring, "C'mon, c'mon." Don reaches down to palm his own cock through his pants, pressing down hard.
"Nah, 'm good."
I'm not your fuck buddy, Billy Cooper.
"You sure?" Billy pauses and tilts his head, peering at Don's face, and Don can almost pinpoint the moment the tequila haze clears enough for Billy to finally see. "Do I need to call a cab?"
"Nope." Don sits up and wipes the back of his hand across his chin. "You're good on the couch. There are towels in the hall closet if you want."
Billy nods once, still studying Don like he studies... well, everything.
"I'll do omelettes in the morning, how's that sound?"
I'm just your buddy.
That easy smile breaks across Billy's face again. "Sounds great. 'Night, Eppes."
"You too, Coop."
Fandom: Numb3rs
Rating: Mature
Words: ~1000
Characters: Don/Billy
Summary: Billy paged Don and Don answered. Sounds simple, doesn't it? (Set post Man Hunt.)
Disclaimer: Nobody here is mine. Dammit.
Author's Note: For the 3rd Annual Numb3rs Slash Ficathon, prompt "Crossroads." Thanks to Josselin for last-minute handholding and beta :)
Tequila has always made Don think of Billy Cooper, which is odd since they never drank anything harder than beer in all the time they were on the road together. Something about Billy's voice, whisky-rough, but the scent of him was always desert dust and that easy smile of his begged for lime and salt. The rule had always been "no liquor on the road," but with Billy in L.A. and the perp safely back in custody, well, they've been making up for lost time. There's a line of empty shot glasses sticky with fingerprints and upside down on the coffee table and a mess of used-up lime wedges on a plate. Billy is sprawled full length on Don's couch and Don is slowly but surely chewing his way up the inside of one denim-clad thigh.
Billy, Agent Cooper, Coop, he's got one arm up over his eyes and Don thinks maybe that's why he's briefly unsure what to call him, doesn't know who's in control though he can pretty much rule the middle one out. Don traces the inseam of Billy's jeans with his teeth, and when he looks up the length of his body, the trails of spit crossing Billy's bare chest shine in the light cast by the lamp on the end table. He did that, Don did, and when the air conditioning kicks in it pulls up goose flesh where Billy licked salt off of the sweep of Don's collarbones again and again.
It's something they didn't have before, the time to just fool around like this, and Don savors every twitch and lazy roll of Billy's hips, nips through the rough fabric to make him do it again. Billy's hand lands heavy and warm on the back of Don's head, his middle finger rubbing at the razor-trimmed line of hair at the nape of his neck and there isn't enough left for Billy to grab, to tug, and Don thinks he might miss that a little. He breathes out, hot and moist, warming the denim over Billy's balls and feels the rumbling moan like it's coming up from all the way down in Billy's toes.
"Damn, Eppes, you act like we've got all night."
It's a joke and he knows it, but Don growls anyway and turns his head to sink his teeth into the muscle of Billy's thigh. Billy curses and grips the back of his head hard but Don isn't letting him take control, not tonight. And it dawns on him then, with the clarity that only comes with a serious drunk on, that he owes Billy this for paging him tonight. For expecting him to answer, for making Don stop for tequila on the way to his own apartment and for knowing, the whole time, that Don was going to fucking miss this when Billy left town again.
Don reaches up and pops the button on Billy's jeans and he subsides with a low murmur.
"Yeah... yeah, that's it."
He takes the zipper down with his teeth, and all the tension bleeds out of Billy's limbs and right into his dick. He's full and hard, and the tang of lime is still sharp in Don's nose until he buries his face in Billy's crotch and fills up with his scent instead.
"Shit, Don."
Billy's shifts beneath him, restless and needy, and Don pins Billy's thigh to the back of the couch with his shoulder. "Cut it out." His own voice is rough, raw with tequila burn and a low, simmering anger because fuck it, Billy might think he knows why Don answered his page but he's got it all wrong.
It isn't like that anymore. Don's not that guy.
Billy's breath stutters out of him when Don lips at his cock, crawls up the couch to crowd himself all into Billy's space and press him down, right where Don wants him. The angle's fucked but he doesn't care, because this isn't about slow and easy and it isn't about comfortable. He takes the head of Billy's dick into his mouth and sucks hard enough Billy chokes off a yell, twists like he's trying to get away but Don has him good and pinned now.
"Fuck, take it easy!"
No. Don goes down on his cock and sucks again, and Billy's gritted cursing turns into groans. He shoves at Don's head until Don catches his forearm, binds it across his chest, and even then Billy won't stop. Not that Don expected him to, but he punishes a wicked thrust with a quick scrape of teeth, and then Billy isn't so much fighting for top as he is fighting to come, and that suits Don just fine.
"Jesus, Jesus!"
Don's jaw aches like a bitch, lips sore and stretched wide, and he knows when Billy finally shoots he'll be feeling it in his sinuses. Is this what you wanted? Billy is incoherent under him, shaking and desperate. My terms, Coop. This is all you get.
Billy comes and it floods all through Don's mouth, he swallows what he can and lets the rest run down his chin and over Billy's dick. Billy has worked his arms out of Don's grasp, and is pulling Don up by the shoulders and murmuring, "C'mon, c'mon." Don reaches down to palm his own cock through his pants, pressing down hard.
"Nah, 'm good."
I'm not your fuck buddy, Billy Cooper.
"You sure?" Billy pauses and tilts his head, peering at Don's face, and Don can almost pinpoint the moment the tequila haze clears enough for Billy to finally see. "Do I need to call a cab?"
"Nope." Don sits up and wipes the back of his hand across his chin. "You're good on the couch. There are towels in the hall closet if you want."
Billy nods once, still studying Don like he studies... well, everything.
"I'll do omelettes in the morning, how's that sound?"
I'm just your buddy.
That easy smile breaks across Billy's face again. "Sounds great. 'Night, Eppes."
"You too, Coop."