![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
obstinatrixWell, folks, here it is: commonly believed to be the first piece of realworld Shatner/Nimoy fic on the Internet. I'm reposting it here from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
trek_rpf_kink, where it started life as a response to the following prompt:
Shatner/Nimoy, series-era.
Prompt: Bill has never considered himself to be a lover of men, but there's something in Leonard's smooth voice and smile that dares him to reconsider. Illicit, semi-drunken sex ensues! :D
The prompt is a fair description of the story, frankly, so let me just add the usual rubbish:
Rating: Hard R
Disclaimer: This never happened. I am telling you all an enormous lie. It is most illogical of me, but I can't seem to help it.
If it hadn't been for the plasticky taste in Bill's mouth, he might never have realised that the prosthetics were still attached. And yet, there it was, and there they were, undoubtedly: the neat, tapered points to Leonard's ears, so usually seen there that it was jarring to remember that they had to be taken off every evening and painstakingly reapplied before the next day's filming. If it hadn't been for the plasticky taste, they might have slid easily from that backstage cigarette, passed hand to hand in the dark, to the whisky from Bill's flask, dribbled into glass Coke bottles, to this: Leonard's long-fingered hands on Bill's neat waist; Bill's tongue in Leonard's ear.
Except it wasn't Leonard's ear. At least, not entirely. And that was fucking weird enough to jar Bill to the realisation that, actually, this whole thing was a bit off-kilter. He might be an actor, but he wasn't an actorrrrr, the sort who rolled his rrrrrrrrrs and cast approving eyes at men's asses. He'd always had an eye for a well-turned ankle, one might say. Give him a good breast any day.
And yet.
He kind of blamed the ears. They were really very good, as prosthetics went, and did an excellent job of drawing the eye from their pointed tips to Leonard's cheekbones and his jawline and the long line of his throat, and -
" - Bill?"
The voice was a low purr in Bill's ear, rubbing at his senses like a cat at his ankles, and God damn the plastic ears to hell, he thought, but it was sexy. There was just something to it, some quality, that made him want to press himself close against it and drink it down like wine. And Leonard's hands were sliding questingly from his hips to the small of his back, and Bill was beginning to think that more than half of the liquor had ended up in Leonard's bottle.
He told himself he'd better start minding this.
And then Leonard smiled against his face, against the corner of his mouth, and he gave up on the lecture. Leonard's hair disarranged easily under the onslaught of Bill's fingers, slipping dark and smooth against his skin, and his breath was warm on Bill's cheek, and his mouth - his mouth -
They kissed, at length, like men, like warriors: hard and sudden and ungentle, Leonard's teeth catching at Bill's lower lip and nipping at his tongue. Leonard's Starfleet uniform pants felt odd beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt, marking a nebulous boundary where Bill's hand slid between his fictional First Officer and his friend, and when they pulled away, it took a moment before Bill realised that the strange frictioned tug to the air was the sound of their rasping breath.
He was hard.
This was unbelievably stupid, he told himself sternly.
Leonard's eyes glowed warmly at him in the half-light; his strong fingers closed over the fine bones of Bill's wrist, tugging him upwards, towards the car.
This was fucking stupid. He blamed the fucking ears.
But he went to the car quite willingly.
*
The car wasn't big enough for teenagers to comfortably make out in, and they were far beyond adolescence, a long-legged tangle of muscles and secondhand smoke. So, they disregarded comfort. Leonard's hands were deft, exquisite: artist's hands, and the harsh hasty rush they made over Bill's body felt incongruous, and right. The curve of Bill's back flattened awkwardly against the unyielding rigidity of the passenger seat. It would hurt in the morning, but Leonard's thigh was between his, the long body over him, and the slick-sexy grind of those hips into Bill's made it somehow impossible to care.
Their kisses exerted a fluid sort of violence, no awkward teenage clicking of teeth, but a deep, heady resonance of tongue over tongue, jaws aching with the endless, unbridled power of it: never and always, kissing and kissed. Bill's hands flattened at the small of Leonard's back, smooth dry heat beneath his fingers, inching up the spine beneath the dishevelled t-shirt. His fingertips fanned over Leonard's ribs: Leonard made a deep strangled sound into Bill's mouth, pulled back just long enough to wrench the t-shirt up and over his head, and leaned forward again to suck Bill's tongue into his mouth.
And then there was skin growing damp with heat, muscle that gave to the pressure of Bill's hands; he dipped his head to nip at Leonard's throat, his collarbone, his shoulder. Leonard made small, urgent sounds, torquing under Bill's tongue. There was something animalistic, something feral, in the way that he moved; in his fierceness, that protected the more sentient parts of Bill's mind from any feeling that this was emasculating, or effeminate, or queer. No, no, this was pure masculinity, musk and heat and sweat and muscle, the vivid male intensity of untamed ages writhing in Bill's lap; and he leaned up to meet it, biting, marking.
It was hot, now, in the car; Bill noticed that the windows were fogged in a split second between kisses, and would have laughed, had Leonard not chosen that precise moment to turn his attentions to Bill's belt buckle. As it was, there was suddenly a new pressure to buck against; Leonard's deep-throated laughter in his ear; and he bit back a cry as his top jeans button gave way to Leonard's cajoling.
Leonard noticed. Bastard, Bill thought, indistinctly; and then Leonard's hand was on his cock and that was the end of this thinking idiocy. He arched forward, violently; tangled his fingers in Leonard's hair and pulled. Leonard turned towards him easily, catching Bill's mouth in his own, swallowing his shameful cacophony of oh and shit and there. Bill let this go on passively for a moment, and then forced shivering fingers to Leonard's zipper, and found his way easily, unerringly, inside. Apparently it wouldn't take much to date-rape a member of Starfleet.
Not that there was anything forced about this: the falter of Leonard's fingers on Bill's cock as his own was enveloped in firm, sure fingers; the sticky press of their cheeks against each other as the kiss broke apart in an ecstasy of slickness and panting; the rock of their hips and the rock of the car as they fucked each other's fists in the darkness. The sky was empty, but there were stars behind Bill's eyelids and when Leonard came, it was all over Bill's jeans; and when Bill came, it was all over Spock's Fleet-issue trousers. Which, he thought, when the ringing in his head had begun to subside and the weight of his friend in his lap began to grow uncomfortable, might take a little explaining.
At length, Leonard clambered off him and into the driver's side. He retrieved the crumpled t-shirt and struggled sweatily back into it. Then he reached under the dash for a Kleenex, rubbed his hands with it, and proceeded to smear little bits of white paper all over the Spock pants. They both stared at Leonard's crotch for a second.
"Shit," said Leonard.
Bill snorted. It was a very adolescent snort, and he got a Look for it; but by the time Leonard had mustered the austerity to Look, Bill was laughing like a kid, and that was impossible to resist. Leonard laughed with him for a while until his face started to ache; and then he leaned across the gearstick and kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.
"I'll tell 'em Spock got laid," he muttered against Bill's mouth, as he pulled away. "Don't worry about it." He fumbled for his keys; switched on the ignition. "Home?"
As they headed for Bill's house along the freeway, through the glare of fluorescence and traffic noise, Bill conceded, reluctantly, that maybe it wasn't only the plastic ears that were sexy.
Maybe.
*
trek_rpf_kink, where it started life as a response to the following prompt: Shatner/Nimoy, series-era.
Prompt: Bill has never considered himself to be a lover of men, but there's something in Leonard's smooth voice and smile that dares him to reconsider. Illicit, semi-drunken sex ensues! :D
The prompt is a fair description of the story, frankly, so let me just add the usual rubbish:
Rating: Hard R
Disclaimer: This never happened. I am telling you all an enormous lie. It is most illogical of me, but I can't seem to help it.
If it hadn't been for the plasticky taste in Bill's mouth, he might never have realised that the prosthetics were still attached. And yet, there it was, and there they were, undoubtedly: the neat, tapered points to Leonard's ears, so usually seen there that it was jarring to remember that they had to be taken off every evening and painstakingly reapplied before the next day's filming. If it hadn't been for the plasticky taste, they might have slid easily from that backstage cigarette, passed hand to hand in the dark, to the whisky from Bill's flask, dribbled into glass Coke bottles, to this: Leonard's long-fingered hands on Bill's neat waist; Bill's tongue in Leonard's ear.
Except it wasn't Leonard's ear. At least, not entirely. And that was fucking weird enough to jar Bill to the realisation that, actually, this whole thing was a bit off-kilter. He might be an actor, but he wasn't an actorrrrr, the sort who rolled his rrrrrrrrrs and cast approving eyes at men's asses. He'd always had an eye for a well-turned ankle, one might say. Give him a good breast any day.
And yet.
He kind of blamed the ears. They were really very good, as prosthetics went, and did an excellent job of drawing the eye from their pointed tips to Leonard's cheekbones and his jawline and the long line of his throat, and -
" - Bill?"
The voice was a low purr in Bill's ear, rubbing at his senses like a cat at his ankles, and God damn the plastic ears to hell, he thought, but it was sexy. There was just something to it, some quality, that made him want to press himself close against it and drink it down like wine. And Leonard's hands were sliding questingly from his hips to the small of his back, and Bill was beginning to think that more than half of the liquor had ended up in Leonard's bottle.
He told himself he'd better start minding this.
And then Leonard smiled against his face, against the corner of his mouth, and he gave up on the lecture. Leonard's hair disarranged easily under the onslaught of Bill's fingers, slipping dark and smooth against his skin, and his breath was warm on Bill's cheek, and his mouth - his mouth -
They kissed, at length, like men, like warriors: hard and sudden and ungentle, Leonard's teeth catching at Bill's lower lip and nipping at his tongue. Leonard's Starfleet uniform pants felt odd beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt, marking a nebulous boundary where Bill's hand slid between his fictional First Officer and his friend, and when they pulled away, it took a moment before Bill realised that the strange frictioned tug to the air was the sound of their rasping breath.
He was hard.
This was unbelievably stupid, he told himself sternly.
Leonard's eyes glowed warmly at him in the half-light; his strong fingers closed over the fine bones of Bill's wrist, tugging him upwards, towards the car.
This was fucking stupid. He blamed the fucking ears.
But he went to the car quite willingly.
*
The car wasn't big enough for teenagers to comfortably make out in, and they were far beyond adolescence, a long-legged tangle of muscles and secondhand smoke. So, they disregarded comfort. Leonard's hands were deft, exquisite: artist's hands, and the harsh hasty rush they made over Bill's body felt incongruous, and right. The curve of Bill's back flattened awkwardly against the unyielding rigidity of the passenger seat. It would hurt in the morning, but Leonard's thigh was between his, the long body over him, and the slick-sexy grind of those hips into Bill's made it somehow impossible to care.
Their kisses exerted a fluid sort of violence, no awkward teenage clicking of teeth, but a deep, heady resonance of tongue over tongue, jaws aching with the endless, unbridled power of it: never and always, kissing and kissed. Bill's hands flattened at the small of Leonard's back, smooth dry heat beneath his fingers, inching up the spine beneath the dishevelled t-shirt. His fingertips fanned over Leonard's ribs: Leonard made a deep strangled sound into Bill's mouth, pulled back just long enough to wrench the t-shirt up and over his head, and leaned forward again to suck Bill's tongue into his mouth.
And then there was skin growing damp with heat, muscle that gave to the pressure of Bill's hands; he dipped his head to nip at Leonard's throat, his collarbone, his shoulder. Leonard made small, urgent sounds, torquing under Bill's tongue. There was something animalistic, something feral, in the way that he moved; in his fierceness, that protected the more sentient parts of Bill's mind from any feeling that this was emasculating, or effeminate, or queer. No, no, this was pure masculinity, musk and heat and sweat and muscle, the vivid male intensity of untamed ages writhing in Bill's lap; and he leaned up to meet it, biting, marking.
It was hot, now, in the car; Bill noticed that the windows were fogged in a split second between kisses, and would have laughed, had Leonard not chosen that precise moment to turn his attentions to Bill's belt buckle. As it was, there was suddenly a new pressure to buck against; Leonard's deep-throated laughter in his ear; and he bit back a cry as his top jeans button gave way to Leonard's cajoling.
Leonard noticed. Bastard, Bill thought, indistinctly; and then Leonard's hand was on his cock and that was the end of this thinking idiocy. He arched forward, violently; tangled his fingers in Leonard's hair and pulled. Leonard turned towards him easily, catching Bill's mouth in his own, swallowing his shameful cacophony of oh and shit and there. Bill let this go on passively for a moment, and then forced shivering fingers to Leonard's zipper, and found his way easily, unerringly, inside. Apparently it wouldn't take much to date-rape a member of Starfleet.
Not that there was anything forced about this: the falter of Leonard's fingers on Bill's cock as his own was enveloped in firm, sure fingers; the sticky press of their cheeks against each other as the kiss broke apart in an ecstasy of slickness and panting; the rock of their hips and the rock of the car as they fucked each other's fists in the darkness. The sky was empty, but there were stars behind Bill's eyelids and when Leonard came, it was all over Bill's jeans; and when Bill came, it was all over Spock's Fleet-issue trousers. Which, he thought, when the ringing in his head had begun to subside and the weight of his friend in his lap began to grow uncomfortable, might take a little explaining.
At length, Leonard clambered off him and into the driver's side. He retrieved the crumpled t-shirt and struggled sweatily back into it. Then he reached under the dash for a Kleenex, rubbed his hands with it, and proceeded to smear little bits of white paper all over the Spock pants. They both stared at Leonard's crotch for a second.
"Shit," said Leonard.
Bill snorted. It was a very adolescent snort, and he got a Look for it; but by the time Leonard had mustered the austerity to Look, Bill was laughing like a kid, and that was impossible to resist. Leonard laughed with him for a while until his face started to ache; and then he leaned across the gearstick and kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.
"I'll tell 'em Spock got laid," he muttered against Bill's mouth, as he pulled away. "Don't worry about it." He fumbled for his keys; switched on the ignition. "Home?"
As they headed for Bill's house along the freeway, through the glare of fluorescence and traffic noise, Bill conceded, reluctantly, that maybe it wasn't only the plastic ears that were sexy.
Maybe.
*
