Fic: Like This, Looking
Sep. 27th, 2009 06:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
obstinatrixTitle: Like This, Looking
Rating: NC-17 (I see we're back to that...)
Pairing: Shatner/Nimoy (offscreen), Shatner/OFC
Disclaimer: Bucket o' lies, this is.
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
starcrossedgirl, from the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
shatnoy_rpf kinkmeme, where she asked for voyeurism. Warning: a lot of this is het. Also, do I need to warn for wanking/Bill doing his amazing tongue trick? (Canon!)
Summary: Leonard knows all about Bill's alleged golden touch with the ladies, but it's one thing to be told, and quite another to discover. Add bucketload of unrequited!angst, and voila.
Bill is good at this.
He's mentioned the fact before, laughingly, boastfully, on more than one occasion, as if trying to get a rise out of Leonard, inviting criticism and comment and protest; and, each time, Leonard recognised his intentions, called him a sonofabitch under his breath, and kept quiet, just to spite him. Bill only says these things for effect, but that doesn't mean Leonard ever really had reason to disbelieve them.
It's different, though, somehow, to see the proof before his eyes; so very very different when it is this voice of Bill's that he's hearing, the soft, breathy, gentle voice he's only really experienced via the medium of Captain Kirk. It's a very different thing to see Bill kissing a woman like this, no tight-lipped, close-mouthed television affair, but a deep kiss, and wet, one hand sliding down the girl's smooth flank as he backs her against the wall.
He should declare himself, Leonard thinks. He should get up, here and now, announce his presence, and leave, possibly with an appropriately cutting remark. He almost does so. But then the wave of embarrassment hits him, anticipatory: his own, and the girl's, and Bill's. God, if he unfolds himself now, there wouldn't be a single one of the three of them left unhumiliated. Even Bill, he dares believe, would not be unashamed. Besides which, he'd want to know why exactly Leonard likes to read his scripts on the floor behind the battered couch in Bill's dressing room, when he could have been on the couch, or at the little dressing-table chair. Or, hell, in his own dressing room; or even - heaven forbid - at home, given that it's nearly eight o'clock and the set is deserted.
No, Leonard tells himself, suppressing a shudder, he does not want to explain to Bill why he's still here. He doesn't think he would even know where to begin. The best thing he can do at this juncture is to keep schtum down here on the floor, and hope the girl excuses herself soon.
"God, Bill."
His ears tingle. Her voice is roughened by the heaviness of her breathing, pitched a notch higher with unmistakeable arousal, and Bill is laughing, a warm sunny resonance in the hollow of her throat. "You like that?" he murmurs, the smile in his voice self-evident, and she catches her breath in unspoken affirmation, laughing herself just slightly, just slightly.
Leonard's pretty sure he knows what Bill is doing to her. Down here at floor level, on this silent set, every nerve seems hypertense, anxious, and he almost believes he can hear the slicking motion of Bill's fingers between her legs, moving quickly, eliciting gasp after breathy gasp, rising inexorably to a succession of whimpers. Either Bill's fast, or she is. Probably both. Leonard curses himself, his stupid attachment to Bill's dressing room in preference to his own damn house in the evenings, and the fact that he didn't leave when he had the chance. Because, hell, now it was really too late.
"Bill," the girl gasps again, "God, Bill," and there's a delicacy to her voice that he hates, a roughness to Bill's answering murmur (too low for Leonard to catch) which makes the hair on the nape of his neck stand up; makes him clench his fists even as his stomach clenches, for reasons it has yet to reveal to the rest of him. Every little sound they make is borne clear as day to his ears. The slipping smoothness of cloth against skin. Elastic, yielding to Bill's fingers. The sound of her head making contact with the wall; him saying something into the shell of her ear. His knees, making contact with the floor, and her sudden tight moan.
Crouched here on the floor, trying very pointedly to mind his own business, Leonard suddenly realises that he is hard.
Fuck, he thinks furiously, digging his fingernails into his palms; Fuck you, Bill Shatner.
It's illogical, really, feeling this way; illogical, the way his stomach feels tight and strange, as if he is (God forbid) imagining Bill doing this to him, when it is so physiologically impossible: sliding his fingers into wet folds, licking into the hot core of the slickness; finding that little nub and flicking it with his tongue. The girl moans almost continually from the very beginning, making strange little sounds as she shifts her body audibly against the wall, against his face; crying out Bill's name, and other things. Leonard feels a strange sense of grim satisfaction when that delicate voice devolves into a keening string of obscenities; when her head makes firm hard contact with the wall behind her as Bill licks her; now teasing and slow, now finding that nub with his lips and sucking on it hard enough to make her curse.
Leonard's hands are in his pants before he realises he's made any move to unfasten them, even, let alone to draw out his achingly hard cock, wrap his fingers around it, and grip. He holds himself tightly, firmly, feeling the blood throbbing under his fingers, and his whole body wishes, illogically or otherwise, that it was him Bill was doing this to; that it was him leaking onto Bill's tongue, him torquing and bucking under that clever mouth.
When he hears Bill moaning against her, muffled by his task, Leonard almost sees stars. His hand, to this point only holding himself, begins a steady motion that gathers speed with the girl's moaning cries, rising and rising and rising. Fuck, he doesn't say, biting his lip and jerking himself quickly; fuck, fuck, fuck. And then comes the sound of Bill's zipper coming undone, Bill's trousers and underwear being pushed hastily down one-handed, and then Leonard's mind can't even wrap itself around obscenities properly any more.
He doesn't remember, afterwards, at what point he decided he absolutely had to see; that the reward - or the folly - would be worth the risk. In any event, Bill is murmuring, making small tight sounds when Leonard dares to peer out around the edge of the couch, one hand on the girl's hip and the other on himself, stroking. Leonard's breath quickens in his throat at the sight of it: Bill's blunt, clever fingers; the thick, flushed length of him; the slickness glistening at the tip. The familiar, up-down motion of his hand, and the way the girl's thighs part around his face, making room as he makes her come.
She peaks quickly, all things considered, but Leonard can tell from the timbre of her final cry that it's a deep, gut-clenching orgasm, all right, and he almost shoots all over his hand just at the thought. And then Bill is coming, fingers digging into the girl's white flesh, body jackknifing, thick sticky whiteness all over Bill's fingers, and then he can't restrain himself. He collapses back to the floor behind the sofa, breathless, and spends himself hard, and guilty, and without a sound, all over the dressing-room floor.
Afterwards, the world around him feels strangely as if it is spinning. His senses are oddly spaced, as if his head had been stuffed with cotton wool, in stark contrast to the heightened sensitivity of before. He barely hears them murmuring thankyous, straightening their clothes, kissing goodnight. He barely hears the two of them slip out, the door closing behind them.
When he comes fully back to himself, it is dark outside properly, and he hasn't finished reading the script, and he hasn't called his wife. And he's lying on Bill's dressing room floor in a congealing puddle of his own ejaculate, with his trousers still undone and his cock exposed.
Leonard doesn't even know where to start thinking about this.
In the end, he goes with a repeat of Fuck you, Bill Shatner, as he struggles to his feet and begins the search for his car keys. Fuck you.
Rating: NC-17 (I see we're back to that...)
Pairing: Shatner/Nimoy (offscreen), Shatner/OFC
Disclaimer: Bucket o' lies, this is.
Notes: For
starcrossedgirl, from the shatnoy_rpf kinkmeme, where she asked for voyeurism. Warning: a lot of this is het. Also, do I need to warn for wanking/Bill doing his amazing tongue trick? (Canon!)Summary: Leonard knows all about Bill's alleged golden touch with the ladies, but it's one thing to be told, and quite another to discover. Add bucketload of unrequited!angst, and voila.
Bill is good at this.
He's mentioned the fact before, laughingly, boastfully, on more than one occasion, as if trying to get a rise out of Leonard, inviting criticism and comment and protest; and, each time, Leonard recognised his intentions, called him a sonofabitch under his breath, and kept quiet, just to spite him. Bill only says these things for effect, but that doesn't mean Leonard ever really had reason to disbelieve them.
It's different, though, somehow, to see the proof before his eyes; so very very different when it is this voice of Bill's that he's hearing, the soft, breathy, gentle voice he's only really experienced via the medium of Captain Kirk. It's a very different thing to see Bill kissing a woman like this, no tight-lipped, close-mouthed television affair, but a deep kiss, and wet, one hand sliding down the girl's smooth flank as he backs her against the wall.
He should declare himself, Leonard thinks. He should get up, here and now, announce his presence, and leave, possibly with an appropriately cutting remark. He almost does so. But then the wave of embarrassment hits him, anticipatory: his own, and the girl's, and Bill's. God, if he unfolds himself now, there wouldn't be a single one of the three of them left unhumiliated. Even Bill, he dares believe, would not be unashamed. Besides which, he'd want to know why exactly Leonard likes to read his scripts on the floor behind the battered couch in Bill's dressing room, when he could have been on the couch, or at the little dressing-table chair. Or, hell, in his own dressing room; or even - heaven forbid - at home, given that it's nearly eight o'clock and the set is deserted.
No, Leonard tells himself, suppressing a shudder, he does not want to explain to Bill why he's still here. He doesn't think he would even know where to begin. The best thing he can do at this juncture is to keep schtum down here on the floor, and hope the girl excuses herself soon.
"God, Bill."
His ears tingle. Her voice is roughened by the heaviness of her breathing, pitched a notch higher with unmistakeable arousal, and Bill is laughing, a warm sunny resonance in the hollow of her throat. "You like that?" he murmurs, the smile in his voice self-evident, and she catches her breath in unspoken affirmation, laughing herself just slightly, just slightly.
Leonard's pretty sure he knows what Bill is doing to her. Down here at floor level, on this silent set, every nerve seems hypertense, anxious, and he almost believes he can hear the slicking motion of Bill's fingers between her legs, moving quickly, eliciting gasp after breathy gasp, rising inexorably to a succession of whimpers. Either Bill's fast, or she is. Probably both. Leonard curses himself, his stupid attachment to Bill's dressing room in preference to his own damn house in the evenings, and the fact that he didn't leave when he had the chance. Because, hell, now it was really too late.
"Bill," the girl gasps again, "God, Bill," and there's a delicacy to her voice that he hates, a roughness to Bill's answering murmur (too low for Leonard to catch) which makes the hair on the nape of his neck stand up; makes him clench his fists even as his stomach clenches, for reasons it has yet to reveal to the rest of him. Every little sound they make is borne clear as day to his ears. The slipping smoothness of cloth against skin. Elastic, yielding to Bill's fingers. The sound of her head making contact with the wall; him saying something into the shell of her ear. His knees, making contact with the floor, and her sudden tight moan.
Crouched here on the floor, trying very pointedly to mind his own business, Leonard suddenly realises that he is hard.
Fuck, he thinks furiously, digging his fingernails into his palms; Fuck you, Bill Shatner.
It's illogical, really, feeling this way; illogical, the way his stomach feels tight and strange, as if he is (God forbid) imagining Bill doing this to him, when it is so physiologically impossible: sliding his fingers into wet folds, licking into the hot core of the slickness; finding that little nub and flicking it with his tongue. The girl moans almost continually from the very beginning, making strange little sounds as she shifts her body audibly against the wall, against his face; crying out Bill's name, and other things. Leonard feels a strange sense of grim satisfaction when that delicate voice devolves into a keening string of obscenities; when her head makes firm hard contact with the wall behind her as Bill licks her; now teasing and slow, now finding that nub with his lips and sucking on it hard enough to make her curse.
Leonard's hands are in his pants before he realises he's made any move to unfasten them, even, let alone to draw out his achingly hard cock, wrap his fingers around it, and grip. He holds himself tightly, firmly, feeling the blood throbbing under his fingers, and his whole body wishes, illogically or otherwise, that it was him Bill was doing this to; that it was him leaking onto Bill's tongue, him torquing and bucking under that clever mouth.
When he hears Bill moaning against her, muffled by his task, Leonard almost sees stars. His hand, to this point only holding himself, begins a steady motion that gathers speed with the girl's moaning cries, rising and rising and rising. Fuck, he doesn't say, biting his lip and jerking himself quickly; fuck, fuck, fuck. And then comes the sound of Bill's zipper coming undone, Bill's trousers and underwear being pushed hastily down one-handed, and then Leonard's mind can't even wrap itself around obscenities properly any more.
He doesn't remember, afterwards, at what point he decided he absolutely had to see; that the reward - or the folly - would be worth the risk. In any event, Bill is murmuring, making small tight sounds when Leonard dares to peer out around the edge of the couch, one hand on the girl's hip and the other on himself, stroking. Leonard's breath quickens in his throat at the sight of it: Bill's blunt, clever fingers; the thick, flushed length of him; the slickness glistening at the tip. The familiar, up-down motion of his hand, and the way the girl's thighs part around his face, making room as he makes her come.
She peaks quickly, all things considered, but Leonard can tell from the timbre of her final cry that it's a deep, gut-clenching orgasm, all right, and he almost shoots all over his hand just at the thought. And then Bill is coming, fingers digging into the girl's white flesh, body jackknifing, thick sticky whiteness all over Bill's fingers, and then he can't restrain himself. He collapses back to the floor behind the sofa, breathless, and spends himself hard, and guilty, and without a sound, all over the dressing-room floor.
Afterwards, the world around him feels strangely as if it is spinning. His senses are oddly spaced, as if his head had been stuffed with cotton wool, in stark contrast to the heightened sensitivity of before. He barely hears them murmuring thankyous, straightening their clothes, kissing goodnight. He barely hears the two of them slip out, the door closing behind them.
When he comes fully back to himself, it is dark outside properly, and he hasn't finished reading the script, and he hasn't called his wife. And he's lying on Bill's dressing room floor in a congealing puddle of his own ejaculate, with his trousers still undone and his cock exposed.
Leonard doesn't even know where to start thinking about this.
In the end, he goes with a repeat of Fuck you, Bill Shatner, as he struggles to his feet and begins the search for his car keys. Fuck you.
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no subject
Date: 2009-09-28 01:21 am (UTC)