Fic: Switch (NC-17)

[obstinatrix]

Title: Switch
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Shatnoy
Disclaimer: All lies!
Summary: Total, total PWP. Bill's the jealous type.
Notes: For my comm-baby-daddy candesgirl. ;)




Leonard's eyes are very dark; not inky, but warm, sheened like jet in the gentle gold of firelight. This is why, Bill thinks, his Spock could never be cold, for all his impassivity. This is why there is somehow no severity to that angular face; no hint of a threat in the way he looks Bill up and down, one eyebrow quirked, quite shamelessly.

In this moment, just as they are, there is nothing that Bill wants more than to smack that smirking face; knock that smugness out of him with the hard flat of his palm, demanding who the fuck is she? and why were you so late to makeup? It is illogical, childish, ridiculous of Bill to feel this way about a man who is married with three children, but dammit, if he wants to cheat, he can damn well cheat with Bill, who's biting his tongue on a petulant I missed you last night.

After all, Sandi is away. And when Sandi is away, there is a certain order of things which Bill had thought quite firmly established: Leonard heads to Bill's flat at seven or so, and they drink and play records and fuck to the most inappropriate song humanly possible. Not on purpose, normally. Then, ordinarily, Leonard will stay over, and they drive their own cars to work in a convoy in the morning.

This is what is supposed to happen, when Sandi is away.

Only, last night, it didn't. Last night, instead, Bill sat up till eight waiting for Leonard to show up, and then, because Bill is not one for coyness, called his house until the phone rang out. And then, this morning, Leonard stumbled into makeup fifteen minutes late, which would have been quite bad enough from the makeup artists' perspective without the extra difficulty posed by the whacking great hickey under Leonard's left ear.

And now Leonard thinks he can just breeze up to Bill without so much as an attempt at an explanation, let alone an apology; that look on his face saying prepare to be ravished and his kohl-lined eyes gone black. He'd say, of course, that they never set any rules. He'd say Bill hasn't exactly got any kind of claim on him; has never made any declarations.

But Bill isn't concerned with declarations right now. In fact, pretty much the only thing Bill's concerned with is the sudden rush of anger spurting hot in the back of his throat, the base of his jaw; the way it rushes down his spine and into his fingers and into his toes, making them clench in reaction. Right now, Bill is angry, and from the way Leonard says "Hey, Bill," his voice a treacled invitation, Leonard has absolutely no idea what that means.

The first he knows about it, to judge by the look on his face, is the sudden blunt pain as his head connects with the wall behind him under the impetus of Bill's arm. The second thing he knows is Bill's hand at his throat, Bill's half-open mouth all up in his personal space; Bill's fury-roughened voice hissing "Don't even try it."

Leonard's eyes widen, and something in Bill clenches pleasedly at the sight of it.

"Don't even try," Bill tells him again, and kisses him.

Leonard shivers under his mouth, a deep-rooted motion that seems to swell out from the core of him as his hands fist immediately in Bill's shirt, gripping him at the waist. The sensation of that shiver against his body is so gratifying that, for a moment, Bill almost considers relinquishing his anger and giving in to it. But then Leonard's hands drift inwards towards Bill's spine, beginning to exert a pressure as if to turn him, a progression driven by habit and long practice and a definite sense of entitlement, and that flares up the anger again, a conflagration in the pit of Bill's stomach.

"I said don't try," he snaps, breaking the kiss with uncharacteristic roughness. His hands close on Leonard's wrists, stilling them; before he has quite decided what he means to do with them, he has dragged them up and slammed them back against the wall, such that Leonard has an arm pinned either side of his head, and Bill is very close and very serious. The sight of Leonard like this, of his wrists so patently in Bill's possession, makes Bill a little weak even as it makes him stronger. His mouth twitches involuntarily, a little dart of something making his breathing roughen, and Leonard's eyes are black and black and black.

He says, "Bill - "

"No." Bill's thigh is pressed against the juncture between Leonard's legs; he presses forward now, heavy and slow and inexorable as the tide, until Leonard's thighs give under his weight and he settles with one leg between them. Leonard, with reciprocal slowness, raises an eyebrow.

Bill slams his hands hard back against the wall again, feeling the plaster resonate under the onslaught, hoping this damn thing's not temporary and not quite caring enough to check. "Fuck you," he tells Leonard's expression, "fuck you and your goddamn hickey and your goddamn fucking girlfriend; you want me to tell your wife about her, huh?"

Leonard's long fingers curl down over Bill's, pressing ambiguously, not holding him there, not fighting to be released. Bill grits his teeth and thrusts forward a little. If there had ever been any hesitation in him as to just how much of a right he had to this, it vanishes at the realisation that Leonard is hard against his thigh, not passively, but a full-blooded hardness, and Bill grinds against it until Leonard gasps.

He doesn't say anything back. There is nothing, just at present, to say. Bill dips his head and nips at the side of Leonard's neck, just over that goddamn fucking mark; seals his mouth over the closure of his teeth and sucks until the blood blooms under the skin. When he pulls away, Leonard is panting, his head back a little, his eyes on Bill's, and Bill rasps out, "Fuck, you want me to tell her about me? You want me to tell her just how many times you've fucked me?"

Leonard does try to move, then; arches his shoulders and presses against Bill and his mouth is half open on a word that sounds like "Bill -" Bill twists his hands mercilessly, turning Leonard's wrists in a way that wrists are not meant to turn, and the pain shocks Leonard immediately into silence. Bill leans close, the world surging into a heat behind his eyes, and hisses in Leonard's ear, "Or how about I tell her about this, Len, huh? You think your wife would like to hear how I fucked your cheating ass against a goddamn wall?"

This time, there is nothing Bill can do to rip the sound from Len's mouth before he makes it; nothing Bill can do to stop Len snatching his wrists out of Bill's grip, aided by his combined advantages of greater strength and the element of surprise. But Leonard doesn't move to leave, doesn't even move to hit him; his hands go immediately to the back of Bill's head, cradling his skull, and force their mouths together into a kiss that is mostly teeth and slickness and the hard probing press of Leonard's tongue. He bucks his hips up against Bill's, pressing, rolling; and the pressure is so good that Bill has half-decided that if Leonard wants to flip him around he will let him, now; he will let himself be taken because God, Bill wants him, and he's shouted all the things he had to say.

But Leonard doesn't flip him. On the contrary, Leonard raises one leg, rubbing his foot against the back of Bill's calf, hooking it around Bill's leg so that his own thighs are pointedly, whorishly parted. Just about all the remaining blood in Bill's brain departs at that; and then Leonard pulls away, puts his mouth to Bill's ear, and breathes "You'll have to do it before you can tell anyone about it, won't you?" He cants his hips, slides his hands down Bill's spine, pressing them together inch for inch. "So why don't you? You scared?"

"Jesus, Leonard," Bill means to say, but all that comes out is a strangulated sound in the back of his throat before his mouth is on Leonard's again, licking deep into him, tongue tracing his teeth to the back of his mouth as he rips open the fastenings of Leonard's trousers without preamble. He can't think, and so he isn't thinking; he is only doing, before Leonard changes his mind, or before he himself comes back to his senses. Leonard makes it easy for him, raising his hips so Bill can shove his pants sufficiently down his thighs; running his hands down the exposed skin of Bill's waist while Bill unfastens his own.

Touching Leonard is a compulsion with Bill. He can't get over how hot he is in his hand; how strange that feels, to be holding someone else like that, smooth warm silk over iron, and he wants to stroke Leonard's cock; he wants to drop to his knees and take it into his mouth.

But they're not here for that.

So he touches himself, instead; looks up and catches Leonard's eyes and squeezes himself, smearing the precome away from the tip and down. He tries to make his voice work. "You got - ?"

"Pocket."

Bill fumbles blunt-fingered in the pockets of Leonard's trousers, not an easy task, now that they are halfway to his knees; but he finds the little tube (well-used, he notices), screws off the cap and slicks himself hastily. There is far too much on his fingers, so he doesn't need to manipulate the tube again before he thrusts his hand between Len's legs, avoiding his beautiful cock entirely (though it pains him), finding him there and circling, pressing carefully inside.

Leonard hisses in through his teeth, a sharp tight sound, and grits, "That's enough."

Bill, who has barely even let a second finger breach him, looks up at him, surprised, but Len repeats "That's enough - want you - " and he has no will to protest. Pulling out without finesse, he grips himself with his slick fingers, finds the position, and is just bracing himself to press upwards when Leonard presses down, catching Bill's mouth to swallow his cry and echoing it with his own.

He is surprised enough that the next buck of his hips is involuntary, carrying him the rest of the way into Leonard's body. He is hot, and so much tighter than a woman, clenching already around him, biting Bill's mouth as he fucks him. They've got to be quick; Bill knows they should be quick, and it isn't an issue (because fuck, fuck, he couldn't stop this if he tried; so hot and gripping him and feels so fucking good) but a part of him wants to take it slow this time; a part of him never wants this to end.

Leonard has other ideas. He bites Bill's tongue, nips at his lips; thrusts himself down onto Bill's cock with a determination that says he's done this more than once before. "That's it," he breathes, in the shell of Bill's ear; "fuck, like that - " and when Bill thrusts up, "come on, fuck me. Fuck me harder!"

There's a fury in his voice, a desperation wrapped in that hot-iron tone of insistence, and Bill can't refuse it, doesn't want to. He holds Leonard still, pins him to the wall by the hips so he can't press down, and hisses, "You want to be fucked, do you?"

Leonard opens his eyes. It is an effort, at this stage, and they are dark and heated and lazy. But he nods, just slightly, looking slack and wanton and so turned on Bill can taste it, and when he says "Please," Bill doesn't even care that this is probably 80% acting for his benefit, because it's the hottest fucking thing he's ever witnessed. He pants, "Len - " and redoubles his pace, hips snapping upwards in a frantic pistoning motion that brings Leonard's head into continued contact with the wall; but from the noise he is making - a deep-seated, almost inhuman keening that rises in volume as Bill thrusts - he doesn't exactly give a fuck.

"Fuck - fuck - " Bill's never been much for multi-tasking and he suits action to word, feeling Leonard clenching and unclenching around him even as the feeling starts to burn in his groin; even as his vision blurs. And then Leonard cries out, clear and sharp (and hell, Bill hopes nobody's back from lunch) and he comes white and copious all over Bill's stomach and that, that is just the end of it.

Bill digs in his fingers deep enough to bruise, and spends himself in Leonard with a last muffled shout. Leonard has gone limp, heavy and breathless against him, and Bill is holding him up even while his own legs have turned to jelly, but God, he doesn't care; God, God.

After a minute, though, Leonard's weight starts to become oppressive. Reluctantly, Bill pulls out of him. His shirt, by some miracle, has managed to evade all but the slightest amount of come, and Bill smears the rest off his stomach with his hand. His own, he does not fail to notice, is mostly slicking the insides of Leonard's thighs, now. He clears his throat and raises his eyes to Leonard's face.

Leonard is glassy-eyed, languid. Bill leans forward and kisses him, because his mouth is slightly parted and damp and dark, and he can't stop himself. When he pulls back, he says, "I didn't hurt you?"

Leonard laughs, and the action seems to bring him back to the real world. "Hell, no. I'm not a virgin, Bill."

Bill is embarrassed by Leonard's directness, so he grins to hide it. "Yeah, I got that."

"Well," Leonard says. He pauses in his attempts to fuss himself back into something resembling cleanliness with a discarded Kleenex. "You never do that before?"

Bill just looks at him. Leonard nods, hikes his pants back into place, and says, "You were good."

Bill raises an eyebrow at him. "'Good' made you make that noise?"

Leonard rolls his eyes back, and proceeds to fasten Bill's pants for him. "Fine, you were godlike. Satisfied?" When he is done with Bill's buttons, he reaches up, smile softening, to touch Bill's face with gentle fingers. "No, really. It was great."

For a moment, Bill lets Leonard pet him like that. It's such a fond gesture, so sincere, that he can't bring himself to break away before he has to. But then there are people shouting as they make their way back to the main set, and he knows they'll have to go. He claps a hand on Leonard's shoulder. "Well, then," he says, brightly. "You can just come to me next time, then, can't you, if you want that?"

Leonard smirks. It is distinctly, definitely, a smirk; and it makes Bill think Leonard really hasn't learned any lessons at all just now, but then, he made Leonard keen like a girl, so he doesn't really care that much. "Maybe I will," Leonard says, "if I'm going to get the choice, in future."

"Maybe you will," Bill throws back at him, as he saunters off towards the main set, deliberately letting his hips swing as he walks. Leonard likes choice, does he? Bill guesses it figures.

Sandi is away until Saturday, and the next morning in makeup Bill isn't particularly bothered about the hickeys on Leonard's throat, mainly because he made them all himself.