I BROKE MY FUCKING SPEAKERS AND MY WHOLE GODDAMN LIFE IS OVERRRRRRR!!!11 Fridays are recording days; how am I supposed to make music when I can't hear my goddamn beats??? Arg. I really wanted to lay this track today. Son of a bitch. Time to steal from Mommy and Daddy (not like I don't already). Word of advice: Don't pass out at your computer whilst writing porn following the consumption of exorbitant amounts of Hennessy, whiskey, and vodka; you're bound to bust up some shit. My fucking speakers... Jesus ever-loving Christ.
[ETA] Haha, it's Friday the 13th, isn't it? Ain't that about a bitch? Everything makes sense now. Then again, WTF am I talking about -- 06.06.06 was one of the best days of my life. Lulz. Satan, yo. Respect.
Anyway, here's some fan fiction. *jazz hands*
Title: Cashed Out
Fandom: Numb3rs
Characters: Don/Amita, Charlie
Rating: NC-17
Challenge:![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
asemic's First Annual Get Don Eppes Laid Challenge
Word Count: 1319
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Yeah, I kind of failed at the challenge, but it's the intention that counts, right?
I don't consider it OOC because people act fucking stupid when liquor is involved. Or maybe you've just never had endless strings of drunken one-night stands; trust me on this one, kids. *wink, finger-point, and that wet click sound you make from between your teeth and cheek*
The amber syrup slips inside her mouth, gleaming glass pressed between lips, and she slams the snifter down onto the counter. Her head falls back with the push of a hand into thick black hair, soft waves cascading down shoulders, soft olive-brown of a stretched neck, long eyelashes casting crescent shadows on cheeks and then fluttering open to direct onyx eyes at him.
“I’m freaking hot, right?”
The red line of his mouth opens and closes a few times before the words come out. “Yeah.” A nod of the head, forehead wrinkling and eyelids half-mast. “Yeah.” He sips scotch and nods again. “Yeah, Amita, you’re really pretty.” The compliment of a twelve-year-old boy oozes out and is chased by another nod and mouthful of single-malt.
“Right. And he knows I’m smart. He was my thesis advisor, after all, and I’m always helping him out with his work and your work and Larry’s work.” She bites back another swallow of bourbon. “So what’s his goddamn problem? I’m smart and I’m pretty and I’m successful – frigging Harvard wanted to hire me – and I’m always there for him, but he gets so absorbed in his work – the algorithms and expressions and theories and numbers and, and, and…” She quickly waves a hand, the fingers twitching, drumsticks John Phillips Sousa-style to the tautly-stretched head of a snare. “He forgets everything, and he never comes through on anything outside of math, and he doesn’t have a life beyond work and…” A tendril falls across her face when she shakes her head, and she quickly presses it back. “He’s got to have something else he does. Nobody is that consumed by their job. I mean, you’ve got a life outside of the FBI; what do you do for fun?”
He trails his eyes slowly up her body, connecting with hers pointedly.
“Oh.” She pulls her head back, lower lip protruding.
“You haven’t slept with Charlie yet?” Eyebrows rise expectantly.
“Don,” she softly reprimands. More Maker’s Mark coasting down her throat, the clink of the glass to the bar top again. “I do love him. I really do. But I can only take so much before I – ”
“Before you what?” His hand slides along her thigh. “Before you fuck me instead?” She breathes heavily, and he can feel her heartbeat increase, blood pumping harder and pulsating beneath her jeans. A few quick, exasperated nods from her, and he stands, steps, presses his chest to her back. His fingers comb her hair away from her ear, and he leans his mouth towards the delicate shell. “Want me to fuck you, Amita?” Her whimper mixes with a deep sigh. “Want me to play bad cop and handcuff you, strip you and do a body cavity search, recite Miranda and fuck you hard against a wall?”
“God, Don…”
“Want to stop being a computational theorist and be a naughty suspect for me to interrogate?” He licks her earlobe. “Want to be sentenced and punished?”
She flags down the bartender. “Cash me out.”
He slides the cuff across her skin, chills pursuing the cool and hard steel from her belly, between her breasts, up to her neck. Metal runs across her saliva-streaked mouth, swollen from biting down to hold back moans.
“Sure you want this?” His thick cock weighs down on her thigh, just the way she fantasized it, an according compliment to the badge and guns and poise and sharp cut in his voice. The bob of her head assures emphatically. “Think you can go back to Charlie after this?”
“I don’t…”
“Don’t think it will be a problem? Don’t care? Don’t want to go back?” Not waiting for her answer, he snaps a cuff closed around her wrist and threads it behind the headboard, hoisting her arm up, a hand roughly pulling the other to secure it with the open end of the handcuffs, a concluding click-click of metallic teeth catching into locked position. “Cause I think you’re lying.” A finger lines a divide unseen and only felt down from her lips, neck, breasts, stomach, into the wet folds, joining with another finger to press inside. Amita lurches up the bed and hisses. “I think you’re going to think of this every time you see him, feel this every time you watch his hand write equations, want this when you fuck him, wishing that it was me fucking you.”
She pushes down to meet the motion of his penetration, and he pulls out long enough to replace his fingers with his cock, filling and stretching her and coaxing an operatic aria of vocals – moans, groans, shouts, screams.
The chain of the handcuffs shaves away splinters from the wood slats; the unforgiving metal bites into the soft skin of her wrists. It’s better than she had imagined – he’s better than she had dreamed – and the invigorating burn of his cock thrusting deep inside of her, the force of bone meeting bone, the slick sound of attack and retreat, the smack of his hips and thighs against her ass and the tender underside of her legs, knees cradled in the crook of his arms, make her writhe and plead and thrust back, every sensation heightened by impending orgasm and alcohol-induced euphoria.
It’s the echo of her mewling that clicks with the logic sector of her brain.
“Stop, Don,” she huffs, tears beginning to drip down her face. “Don, stop. Stop. Please, stop.”
Her kamikaze words filter through the haze, and Don slows, stills, pulls out. “What?”
“I love him. I really do.”
“Charlie?”
“I’m in love with Charlie. I’m sorry, but... I can’t do this.”
An elegant hand quickly scribbles algorithms onto a chalkboard, the tick-tack sound loud and reverberating off the walls of an otherwise silent campus office.
“Charlie.” His name slips honey-sweet from her lips as she stands in the doorway; he continues his computations. “Charlie.”
He stops and turns towards her. Instead of the familiar apologetic face, the countenance that expresses embarrassment and remorse over losing himself so completely in the numbers that he’s neglected her yet again, his jaw is set hard with a trembling lower lip and irascible eyes. She freezes to the core, heartbeat quickening, and steps forward.
“I was wondering if you’d like to go to lunch with me,” she offers with her best attempt at lightheartedness.
Charlie moves to his desk, leans down to pick something up, and tosses it at her. The silk hits her face, and she catches its drop with her hands. Pink panties.
“Do you want to tell me how those got into Don’s bedroom?”
Her face contorts. Shock. Embarrassment. Sorrow. Anger. Fear. “What were you doing in Don’s bedroom?”
He forces out an anything-but-humored laugh. “No, I think the question is what were you doing in Don’s bedroom.”
She searches for words, brain shut down to the bare necessities of functions mandatory to maintain life. “Charlie, I made a mist– ”
“Get the hell out of my office.” He nods his head once, pointing towards the nearby door. “Please leave.”
The FBI offices buzz with frantic energy, excited voices over telephones, quick steps rushing from desks to war rooms, people standing up and snapping fingers to beckon others from across the floor. She steps up to the familiar desk, cubicle walls lined with photos of serial killers, mafia members, pedophiles, gruesomely murdered civilians, and raped children. An elegant hand quickly scribbles notes onto a report, the scritch-scratch sound loud despite the surrounding Wall Street-worthy hustle.
“Don.” He looks up and smiles, then retracts it when he sees the expression on her face. The commotion in the office is too deafening for anyone to pick out their conversation, so she prods without a second thought. “You screw around when you’re having a bad day, right?”
This time, the smile is apologetic and glossed with remorse and empathy, eyes never meeting hers.
He leads her to the elevators.
[ETA] Haha, it's Friday the 13th, isn't it? Ain't that about a bitch? Everything makes sense now. Then again, WTF am I talking about -- 06.06.06 was one of the best days of my life. Lulz. Satan, yo. Respect.
Anyway, here's some fan fiction. *jazz hands*
Title: Cashed Out
Fandom: Numb3rs
Characters: Don/Amita, Charlie
Rating: NC-17
Challenge:
asemic's First Annual Get Don Eppes Laid ChallengeWord Count: 1319
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Yeah, I kind of failed at the challenge, but it's the intention that counts, right?
I don't consider it OOC because people act fucking stupid when liquor is involved. Or maybe you've just never had endless strings of drunken one-night stands; trust me on this one, kids. *wink, finger-point, and that wet click sound you make from between your teeth and cheek*
The amber syrup slips inside her mouth, gleaming glass pressed between lips, and she slams the snifter down onto the counter. Her head falls back with the push of a hand into thick black hair, soft waves cascading down shoulders, soft olive-brown of a stretched neck, long eyelashes casting crescent shadows on cheeks and then fluttering open to direct onyx eyes at him.
“I’m freaking hot, right?”
The red line of his mouth opens and closes a few times before the words come out. “Yeah.” A nod of the head, forehead wrinkling and eyelids half-mast. “Yeah.” He sips scotch and nods again. “Yeah, Amita, you’re really pretty.” The compliment of a twelve-year-old boy oozes out and is chased by another nod and mouthful of single-malt.
“Right. And he knows I’m smart. He was my thesis advisor, after all, and I’m always helping him out with his work and your work and Larry’s work.” She bites back another swallow of bourbon. “So what’s his goddamn problem? I’m smart and I’m pretty and I’m successful – frigging Harvard wanted to hire me – and I’m always there for him, but he gets so absorbed in his work – the algorithms and expressions and theories and numbers and, and, and…” She quickly waves a hand, the fingers twitching, drumsticks John Phillips Sousa-style to the tautly-stretched head of a snare. “He forgets everything, and he never comes through on anything outside of math, and he doesn’t have a life beyond work and…” A tendril falls across her face when she shakes her head, and she quickly presses it back. “He’s got to have something else he does. Nobody is that consumed by their job. I mean, you’ve got a life outside of the FBI; what do you do for fun?”
He trails his eyes slowly up her body, connecting with hers pointedly.
“Oh.” She pulls her head back, lower lip protruding.
“You haven’t slept with Charlie yet?” Eyebrows rise expectantly.
“Don,” she softly reprimands. More Maker’s Mark coasting down her throat, the clink of the glass to the bar top again. “I do love him. I really do. But I can only take so much before I – ”
“Before you what?” His hand slides along her thigh. “Before you fuck me instead?” She breathes heavily, and he can feel her heartbeat increase, blood pumping harder and pulsating beneath her jeans. A few quick, exasperated nods from her, and he stands, steps, presses his chest to her back. His fingers comb her hair away from her ear, and he leans his mouth towards the delicate shell. “Want me to fuck you, Amita?” Her whimper mixes with a deep sigh. “Want me to play bad cop and handcuff you, strip you and do a body cavity search, recite Miranda and fuck you hard against a wall?”
“God, Don…”
“Want to stop being a computational theorist and be a naughty suspect for me to interrogate?” He licks her earlobe. “Want to be sentenced and punished?”
She flags down the bartender. “Cash me out.”
He slides the cuff across her skin, chills pursuing the cool and hard steel from her belly, between her breasts, up to her neck. Metal runs across her saliva-streaked mouth, swollen from biting down to hold back moans.
“Sure you want this?” His thick cock weighs down on her thigh, just the way she fantasized it, an according compliment to the badge and guns and poise and sharp cut in his voice. The bob of her head assures emphatically. “Think you can go back to Charlie after this?”
“I don’t…”
“Don’t think it will be a problem? Don’t care? Don’t want to go back?” Not waiting for her answer, he snaps a cuff closed around her wrist and threads it behind the headboard, hoisting her arm up, a hand roughly pulling the other to secure it with the open end of the handcuffs, a concluding click-click of metallic teeth catching into locked position. “Cause I think you’re lying.” A finger lines a divide unseen and only felt down from her lips, neck, breasts, stomach, into the wet folds, joining with another finger to press inside. Amita lurches up the bed and hisses. “I think you’re going to think of this every time you see him, feel this every time you watch his hand write equations, want this when you fuck him, wishing that it was me fucking you.”
She pushes down to meet the motion of his penetration, and he pulls out long enough to replace his fingers with his cock, filling and stretching her and coaxing an operatic aria of vocals – moans, groans, shouts, screams.
The chain of the handcuffs shaves away splinters from the wood slats; the unforgiving metal bites into the soft skin of her wrists. It’s better than she had imagined – he’s better than she had dreamed – and the invigorating burn of his cock thrusting deep inside of her, the force of bone meeting bone, the slick sound of attack and retreat, the smack of his hips and thighs against her ass and the tender underside of her legs, knees cradled in the crook of his arms, make her writhe and plead and thrust back, every sensation heightened by impending orgasm and alcohol-induced euphoria.
It’s the echo of her mewling that clicks with the logic sector of her brain.
“Stop, Don,” she huffs, tears beginning to drip down her face. “Don, stop. Stop. Please, stop.”
Her kamikaze words filter through the haze, and Don slows, stills, pulls out. “What?”
“I love him. I really do.”
“Charlie?”
“I’m in love with Charlie. I’m sorry, but... I can’t do this.”
An elegant hand quickly scribbles algorithms onto a chalkboard, the tick-tack sound loud and reverberating off the walls of an otherwise silent campus office.
“Charlie.” His name slips honey-sweet from her lips as she stands in the doorway; he continues his computations. “Charlie.”
He stops and turns towards her. Instead of the familiar apologetic face, the countenance that expresses embarrassment and remorse over losing himself so completely in the numbers that he’s neglected her yet again, his jaw is set hard with a trembling lower lip and irascible eyes. She freezes to the core, heartbeat quickening, and steps forward.
“I was wondering if you’d like to go to lunch with me,” she offers with her best attempt at lightheartedness.
Charlie moves to his desk, leans down to pick something up, and tosses it at her. The silk hits her face, and she catches its drop with her hands. Pink panties.
“Do you want to tell me how those got into Don’s bedroom?”
Her face contorts. Shock. Embarrassment. Sorrow. Anger. Fear. “What were you doing in Don’s bedroom?”
He forces out an anything-but-humored laugh. “No, I think the question is what were you doing in Don’s bedroom.”
She searches for words, brain shut down to the bare necessities of functions mandatory to maintain life. “Charlie, I made a mist– ”
“Get the hell out of my office.” He nods his head once, pointing towards the nearby door. “Please leave.”
The FBI offices buzz with frantic energy, excited voices over telephones, quick steps rushing from desks to war rooms, people standing up and snapping fingers to beckon others from across the floor. She steps up to the familiar desk, cubicle walls lined with photos of serial killers, mafia members, pedophiles, gruesomely murdered civilians, and raped children. An elegant hand quickly scribbles notes onto a report, the scritch-scratch sound loud despite the surrounding Wall Street-worthy hustle.
“Don.” He looks up and smiles, then retracts it when he sees the expression on her face. The commotion in the office is too deafening for anyone to pick out their conversation, so she prods without a second thought. “You screw around when you’re having a bad day, right?”
This time, the smile is apologetic and glossed with remorse and empathy, eyes never meeting hers.
He leads her to the elevators.
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