obstinatrix (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
obstinatrix) wrote2009-08-26 11:57 pm
obstinatrix) wrote2009-08-26 11:57 pm
Fic: Friction (R)
Title: Friction
Pairing: Shatnoy
Rating: R
Summary/Notes: This was written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
andieshep for the first round of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
trekrpfexchange. The prompt was: Sex on set after rolling around all over each other in "Amok Time". I had some trouble with this one, mostly because I felt that starcrossedgirl's excellent Amok Time filled the prompt in a way that has effectively become my personal canon on the subject. However, as the request was for porn, I decided to put that aside and write a less plausible, more porn-ridden take. Somehow it acquired a bit of an odd tone and an overlay of angst, and turned out to be altogether less porny than intended. Don't know how that happened, exactly.
Disclaimer: This did not happen. Certainly not like this.
It's all a question of friction.
This is what Bill tells himself, calves clenching, jaw working; fingers finding purchase in the goddamn blue velour of Leonard's tunic. They're close together, slammed together, Leonard's thigh pressed long and firm to the place where Bill's legs have fallen open, the sand rubbing red against the black of their uniform pants. Just fight, the director told them. Wouldn't be genuine, otherwise, apparently; wouldn't look real. Oh, he made it quite clear that they aren't to hurt each other. That would, after all, only get him in trouble with the unions, or whoever else spends their time shitting bricks over that kind of crap. There isn't to be any damage, no punches or slaps or biting.
(Bill is trying very hard not to think further about biting. Leonard's neck is craned over his face, sheened with sweat down the length of one straining tendon, and he isn't even going to contemplate what might happen if he bit down on that paleness, tasted its musk.)
Take away the possibility of inflicting actual pain on your wrestling partner, and that, frankly, doesn't leave much for either participant to do. Essentially, it all comes down to grappling; and so, accordingly, they're grappling now, the muscles clenching and unclenching in Bill's thighs, Leonard's long fingers closing on bicep and shoulderblade and hip. Nobody's giving any directions, either - again, Bill assumes that this is some concession to realism, which is odd, given that there isn't usually any concern with things being credible at all - and so neither of them knows when to let himself be rolled, and when to thrust down with all his strength and resist.
Ordinarily, Bill might have relished being left so entirely to his own devices. Now, though, with Leonard's body flush against his, a solid struggling weight, he wants nothing so much as another voice of authority to counteract the instructions his own body is giving him.
Or - well. Suffice it to say that he wishes - dear God, how he wishes - that he didn't want anything else from this fucking scene.
He shouldn't want anything else. He knows how it ends: Kirk dead at his First Officer's hands, the belt around his neck and his body limp as a rag in the red dust of a Vulcan afternoon. This is how the fight ends, according to the script in his dressing room. But he is not Kirk, and he isn't fighting. He is Bill Shatner, actor, rider, and notorious philanderer, and he is rolling about with his co-star in artificial, oddly glittery Paramount dirt, waiting to be told to stop. He isn't fighting for his life, and so he has no right to this churning sensation in the pit of his stomach, this fierce prickle of adrenaline at the base of his jaw.
He has no right to be hard against Leonard's hip, in that last involuntary snatch at life that comes with death-battle blindness. But friction, after all, is a force, inevitable, inexorable, and it tramples Bill with its consequences as a bull might trample a daisy. As Jimmy Doohan is so frequently declaring, in Scotty's atrocious accent, the laws of physics are not easily turned awry, and this - the sparks in his stomach as Leonard bears down on him; the prickle of his skin at Leonard's breath in his ear - this is a force of nature.
Afterwards, after the call of 'Cut!' and the shiver that grips him as Leonard falls quiet on top of him, Bill heads for his trailer without a word to anyone. Shooting schedules are strange things, and the wider scene isn't finished - the specifics of it, the curtailing details, will require more explicit direction, and for the moment, it's twelve-thirty, and everyone's itching to get to lunch before the line becomes unnavigably huge. Leonard's bicycle is, for once, right where he left it on the fringe of the set; or at least, if it isn't, it's nothing to do with Bill, and so, he tells himself, there's no reason to suppose Leonard won't climb straight onto it and shoot off across the lot to reach the canteen first, the way he always attempts to. This is what Bill tells himself, as he closes the door behind him, unzips his trousers. This is what he tells himself, as he takes himself finally, achingly, carefully in hand; as he lets his mind drift inwards into wanting.
Nevertheless, he isn't surprised in the least when the door slams suddenly open; when Leonard strides in with his eyes gone smoky, glances soberly down at Bill's hand in his pants, and shuts the door behind him. He isn't surprised when Leonard crosses the room in two long-legged steps, coming to a halt so close to Bill that he can hear him breathing. He isn't even surprised when Leonard reaches out abruptly and takes hold of him by the upper arms, half-lifting him, and presses their mouths roughly together with a sound that might most accurately be described as a growl. They have invoked forces of nature, this morning. This is almost, as Mr Spock might say, a logical consequence.
Still, it does surprise him a little when Leonard thrusts him abruptly back against the wall of the trailer, biting down on his lower lip and encircling his wrists with long, clever fingers. Anyone, he assures himself, as Leonard grinds his hips and his blood-warm hardness fiercely into Bill's, would have been surprised. Leonard has that quality, that fire-spun suddenness, that edge of the insane that makes his every unanticipated movement slightly unnerving, in a way that resonates between Bill's legs with startling intensity. It doesn't occur to him to speak, still less to ask or protest or resist, the friction burn still warm on his skin and his mind a desert sunset, vivid and vague. There is only Leonard, rutting against him, and his half-choked animal sounds as he palms Bill's cock. And then there is Leonard, descending, and no words.
The warmth of his mouth is a revelation, hot and deep and folding Bill down to a point of salt-slicked avarice. He is desire, he is greed; he is hands on the back of Leonard's head, tangled in his hair with no concern for his comfort; he is the press of his own stiff cock against the back of Leonard's throat. Leonard is good at this, attentive and careful as he is in everything, licking deft circles around the tip of him and then slackening his jaw to let Bill thrust deep. It is good, it is good, it is fire in his belly; but now he is cresting and Leonard's mouth is too wet, and the scene doesn't end this way. So he twists his fingers in Leonard's hair, a sharp, clockwise flick of his wrist that brings Leonard's head with it, and the eyes that meet Bill's are dark and heated and endless.
"Spock."
For a pattern of heartbeats, Bill doesn't realise he has spoken. And then Leonard is standing, surging up against him like the tide untethered, and he hears himself saying again, "Spock. Spock."
The sound that Leonard makes as they come together is a thick low rasp that sparks a violence in the base of Bill's spine, and his hands fumble at the fastenings of Leonard's pants, tug at the hem of his undershirt. But Leonard is too quick, too suddenly strong in his wanting, and right now, Bill is glad that, as an actor, Leonard submerges himself in his roles. This is the way the scene should go: his calves colliding with the edge of the couch, Leonard bearing down on him till they're both horizontal, Bill's wrists pinned over his head on the arm of the sofa. Both of his wrists in one long hand, as if it were no effort at all. He is aching, now, desperate for friction, and he bucks his hips and writhes under Leonard, seeking a surface to thrust against.
"Stop."
Leonard's voice is low and firm, and curls around the secret parts of Bill like a coil of velvet. Stop. And he cannot but obey, his body stilling under Leonard's, quiescent, waiting. A pulse is hammering in his stomach, fine and furious. He raises his eyes to Leonard's, holds his dark gaze. The angular face is fierce and familiar, controlled and controlling, and again, he cannot help himself. "Spock," he breathes, closing his fingers over Leonard's. "Spock."
And then Leonard is upon him, kissing his mouth and his throat and his ear, licking with the flat of his tongue from Bill's collar to his nape. He is gasping, murmuring, pistoning his hips into Bill's, and Bill thrusts a thigh between Leonard's legs and rocks up against him in a rhythm like tarantella. This is the way it must go, Bill thinks: their shirts ridden up and their cocks sliding together, a slickness that is Leonard all over Bill's stomach. He utters no words, but he wouldn't, he wouldn't; this is the pon farr, and an animal's heat is wordless. "Fuck," Bill hisses, "Fuck - Spock - " and because he is Kirk, he can say these things, because Kirk is no Vulcan and the friction is pulling him near.
Leonard comes with a shout and a shudder, fingers clenching hard enough that Bill knows there will be bruises. It will be worth it, though, for the knowledge of that convulsion over his stomach, for the word Leonard breathes indistinctly against Bill's ear. Bill, perhaps, it might have been; but Bill decides it was Jim, Spock's Jim, an intimacy as the bloodfever breaks; and then Leonard's teeth are on his earlobe and Bill is coming like the goddamn cavalry.
He says it again, as they lie there panting: "Jesus Christ, Spock." As if to make sure that Leonard knows who the players in this scene have been. As if to remind himself that it is Jim who has rutted like this in Bill's trailer, and Jim, more pivotally still, to whom Spock made love in his second of clarity before the riptide pulled him under. Jim and Spock are bonded, somehow, in a world that is yet to make first contact; and Bill and Len, actors, are just hanging out here in their actors' trailer, doing their acting thing.
"Jim," Leonard says, distinctly this time, his voice a warm ghost in the hollow of Bill's throat. Bill is pleased to see that Leonard understands, as he presses their lips together, licking lazily into Bill's mouth and sucking gently at his tongue. Of course, Spock might kiss his Captain this way, as if to soothe the wounds of the pon farr. Of course, the captain might pull Spock close, and kiss him with his hands in his feather-soft hair.
It's logical, inevitable, like sunrise or death. Or friction.
On the set that afternoon, Spock smiles at Kirk as if the captain is the only force he wants or understands. Kirk is elated, radiating love and gratitude like sunlight.
Bill and Leonard avoid each other's eyes, and slip away separately the moment the director calls cut.
*****************
Pairing: Shatnoy
Rating: R
Summary/Notes: This was written for
andieshep for the first round of trekrpfexchange. The prompt was: Sex on set after rolling around all over each other in "Amok Time". I had some trouble with this one, mostly because I felt that starcrossedgirl's excellent Amok Time filled the prompt in a way that has effectively become my personal canon on the subject. However, as the request was for porn, I decided to put that aside and write a less plausible, more porn-ridden take. Somehow it acquired a bit of an odd tone and an overlay of angst, and turned out to be altogether less porny than intended. Don't know how that happened, exactly.Disclaimer: This did not happen. Certainly not like this.
It's all a question of friction.
This is what Bill tells himself, calves clenching, jaw working; fingers finding purchase in the goddamn blue velour of Leonard's tunic. They're close together, slammed together, Leonard's thigh pressed long and firm to the place where Bill's legs have fallen open, the sand rubbing red against the black of their uniform pants. Just fight, the director told them. Wouldn't be genuine, otherwise, apparently; wouldn't look real. Oh, he made it quite clear that they aren't to hurt each other. That would, after all, only get him in trouble with the unions, or whoever else spends their time shitting bricks over that kind of crap. There isn't to be any damage, no punches or slaps or biting.
(Bill is trying very hard not to think further about biting. Leonard's neck is craned over his face, sheened with sweat down the length of one straining tendon, and he isn't even going to contemplate what might happen if he bit down on that paleness, tasted its musk.)
Take away the possibility of inflicting actual pain on your wrestling partner, and that, frankly, doesn't leave much for either participant to do. Essentially, it all comes down to grappling; and so, accordingly, they're grappling now, the muscles clenching and unclenching in Bill's thighs, Leonard's long fingers closing on bicep and shoulderblade and hip. Nobody's giving any directions, either - again, Bill assumes that this is some concession to realism, which is odd, given that there isn't usually any concern with things being credible at all - and so neither of them knows when to let himself be rolled, and when to thrust down with all his strength and resist.
Ordinarily, Bill might have relished being left so entirely to his own devices. Now, though, with Leonard's body flush against his, a solid struggling weight, he wants nothing so much as another voice of authority to counteract the instructions his own body is giving him.
Or - well. Suffice it to say that he wishes - dear God, how he wishes - that he didn't want anything else from this fucking scene.
He shouldn't want anything else. He knows how it ends: Kirk dead at his First Officer's hands, the belt around his neck and his body limp as a rag in the red dust of a Vulcan afternoon. This is how the fight ends, according to the script in his dressing room. But he is not Kirk, and he isn't fighting. He is Bill Shatner, actor, rider, and notorious philanderer, and he is rolling about with his co-star in artificial, oddly glittery Paramount dirt, waiting to be told to stop. He isn't fighting for his life, and so he has no right to this churning sensation in the pit of his stomach, this fierce prickle of adrenaline at the base of his jaw.
He has no right to be hard against Leonard's hip, in that last involuntary snatch at life that comes with death-battle blindness. But friction, after all, is a force, inevitable, inexorable, and it tramples Bill with its consequences as a bull might trample a daisy. As Jimmy Doohan is so frequently declaring, in Scotty's atrocious accent, the laws of physics are not easily turned awry, and this - the sparks in his stomach as Leonard bears down on him; the prickle of his skin at Leonard's breath in his ear - this is a force of nature.
Afterwards, after the call of 'Cut!' and the shiver that grips him as Leonard falls quiet on top of him, Bill heads for his trailer without a word to anyone. Shooting schedules are strange things, and the wider scene isn't finished - the specifics of it, the curtailing details, will require more explicit direction, and for the moment, it's twelve-thirty, and everyone's itching to get to lunch before the line becomes unnavigably huge. Leonard's bicycle is, for once, right where he left it on the fringe of the set; or at least, if it isn't, it's nothing to do with Bill, and so, he tells himself, there's no reason to suppose Leonard won't climb straight onto it and shoot off across the lot to reach the canteen first, the way he always attempts to. This is what Bill tells himself, as he closes the door behind him, unzips his trousers. This is what he tells himself, as he takes himself finally, achingly, carefully in hand; as he lets his mind drift inwards into wanting.
Nevertheless, he isn't surprised in the least when the door slams suddenly open; when Leonard strides in with his eyes gone smoky, glances soberly down at Bill's hand in his pants, and shuts the door behind him. He isn't surprised when Leonard crosses the room in two long-legged steps, coming to a halt so close to Bill that he can hear him breathing. He isn't even surprised when Leonard reaches out abruptly and takes hold of him by the upper arms, half-lifting him, and presses their mouths roughly together with a sound that might most accurately be described as a growl. They have invoked forces of nature, this morning. This is almost, as Mr Spock might say, a logical consequence.
Still, it does surprise him a little when Leonard thrusts him abruptly back against the wall of the trailer, biting down on his lower lip and encircling his wrists with long, clever fingers. Anyone, he assures himself, as Leonard grinds his hips and his blood-warm hardness fiercely into Bill's, would have been surprised. Leonard has that quality, that fire-spun suddenness, that edge of the insane that makes his every unanticipated movement slightly unnerving, in a way that resonates between Bill's legs with startling intensity. It doesn't occur to him to speak, still less to ask or protest or resist, the friction burn still warm on his skin and his mind a desert sunset, vivid and vague. There is only Leonard, rutting against him, and his half-choked animal sounds as he palms Bill's cock. And then there is Leonard, descending, and no words.
The warmth of his mouth is a revelation, hot and deep and folding Bill down to a point of salt-slicked avarice. He is desire, he is greed; he is hands on the back of Leonard's head, tangled in his hair with no concern for his comfort; he is the press of his own stiff cock against the back of Leonard's throat. Leonard is good at this, attentive and careful as he is in everything, licking deft circles around the tip of him and then slackening his jaw to let Bill thrust deep. It is good, it is good, it is fire in his belly; but now he is cresting and Leonard's mouth is too wet, and the scene doesn't end this way. So he twists his fingers in Leonard's hair, a sharp, clockwise flick of his wrist that brings Leonard's head with it, and the eyes that meet Bill's are dark and heated and endless.
"Spock."
For a pattern of heartbeats, Bill doesn't realise he has spoken. And then Leonard is standing, surging up against him like the tide untethered, and he hears himself saying again, "Spock. Spock."
The sound that Leonard makes as they come together is a thick low rasp that sparks a violence in the base of Bill's spine, and his hands fumble at the fastenings of Leonard's pants, tug at the hem of his undershirt. But Leonard is too quick, too suddenly strong in his wanting, and right now, Bill is glad that, as an actor, Leonard submerges himself in his roles. This is the way the scene should go: his calves colliding with the edge of the couch, Leonard bearing down on him till they're both horizontal, Bill's wrists pinned over his head on the arm of the sofa. Both of his wrists in one long hand, as if it were no effort at all. He is aching, now, desperate for friction, and he bucks his hips and writhes under Leonard, seeking a surface to thrust against.
"Stop."
Leonard's voice is low and firm, and curls around the secret parts of Bill like a coil of velvet. Stop. And he cannot but obey, his body stilling under Leonard's, quiescent, waiting. A pulse is hammering in his stomach, fine and furious. He raises his eyes to Leonard's, holds his dark gaze. The angular face is fierce and familiar, controlled and controlling, and again, he cannot help himself. "Spock," he breathes, closing his fingers over Leonard's. "Spock."
And then Leonard is upon him, kissing his mouth and his throat and his ear, licking with the flat of his tongue from Bill's collar to his nape. He is gasping, murmuring, pistoning his hips into Bill's, and Bill thrusts a thigh between Leonard's legs and rocks up against him in a rhythm like tarantella. This is the way it must go, Bill thinks: their shirts ridden up and their cocks sliding together, a slickness that is Leonard all over Bill's stomach. He utters no words, but he wouldn't, he wouldn't; this is the pon farr, and an animal's heat is wordless. "Fuck," Bill hisses, "Fuck - Spock - " and because he is Kirk, he can say these things, because Kirk is no Vulcan and the friction is pulling him near.
Leonard comes with a shout and a shudder, fingers clenching hard enough that Bill knows there will be bruises. It will be worth it, though, for the knowledge of that convulsion over his stomach, for the word Leonard breathes indistinctly against Bill's ear. Bill, perhaps, it might have been; but Bill decides it was Jim, Spock's Jim, an intimacy as the bloodfever breaks; and then Leonard's teeth are on his earlobe and Bill is coming like the goddamn cavalry.
He says it again, as they lie there panting: "Jesus Christ, Spock." As if to make sure that Leonard knows who the players in this scene have been. As if to remind himself that it is Jim who has rutted like this in Bill's trailer, and Jim, more pivotally still, to whom Spock made love in his second of clarity before the riptide pulled him under. Jim and Spock are bonded, somehow, in a world that is yet to make first contact; and Bill and Len, actors, are just hanging out here in their actors' trailer, doing their acting thing.
"Jim," Leonard says, distinctly this time, his voice a warm ghost in the hollow of Bill's throat. Bill is pleased to see that Leonard understands, as he presses their lips together, licking lazily into Bill's mouth and sucking gently at his tongue. Of course, Spock might kiss his Captain this way, as if to soothe the wounds of the pon farr. Of course, the captain might pull Spock close, and kiss him with his hands in his feather-soft hair.
It's logical, inevitable, like sunrise or death. Or friction.
On the set that afternoon, Spock smiles at Kirk as if the captain is the only force he wants or understands. Kirk is elated, radiating love and gratitude like sunlight.
Bill and Leonard avoid each other's eyes, and slip away separately the moment the director calls cut.
*****************