obstinatrix (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
obstinatrix) wrote2009-06-30 11:12 pm
obstinatrix) wrote2009-06-30 11:12 pm
Fic: Resentment
This, again, came from a prompt on the kinkmeme. Oddness within.
Title: Resentment
Pairing: Good question. Takei/Shatner (?), Takei/Nimoy (?), (Nimoy/Shatner). Takei/himself is the only thing that's not either unrequited, vague, or bitter. No, actually, it is bitter.
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Disclaimer: Work of fiction, mate.
It wouldn't be so bad, George tells himself, if everybody else on set didn't have to be so goddamn married.
He is in bed - on the bed, really; it's midsummer and sweltering in smog-suffocated Los Angeles, and he kicked off the covers a long time ago. One hand moves irritably on the inside of his thigh, damp with sweat. He stares at the ceiling through a slow burn of tiredness, willing his cock to lie the fuck down so he can get some fucking sleep, already. Christ.
Six hours, and he's meant to be on set again. The idea doesn't exactly fill him with joy. For one thing, Shatner'll be there when he gets in, because he always is; and if he's not, he'll arrive minutes later in his massive Look At My Huge Cock herocar and swagger onto the lot like a prince dispensing largesse. It really pisses George off, is what it does. So many things about Shatner piss him off. That walk of his, hips swinging, back straight. His goddamn fucking grin, that quirky little curve of his lips which either he stole from Kirk or gave to Kirk in the first place. He seems to think that one little smile is all he has to give, and he'll get anything he wants in return. Arrogant cocksucker.
George's hand flutters on his thigh. "Fuck you," he tells it.
God, he fucking hates Shatner, sometimes. The way he struts about as if he owns the place. The way he makes up random extra lines when he's forgotten the real ones because he's spent more time flirting with extras than looking over the script, presumably. Lines like oh, Mr Spock, kiss me! Kiss me hard! And his fingers cupping the nape of Leonard's neck, in front of everybody, like it didn't mean anything; like the whole thing was a goddamn fucking joke. Like he could get away with goddamn blue murder, just because he's married and he's got children, and he's kidding around and none of this is real.
It's just funny. Yeah, being queer is real hilarious.
It's getting increasingly late, and George's cock thinks it's General fucking Custer. He grits his teeth in frustration, mutters something under his breath, and takes hold of it. Quick strokes. Angry. The guys at work, he's willing to bet they'd all think he was a fucking joke. Twisted little Jap faggot, watching Nimoy's beautiful hands and wanting them inside him. Cocksucker. Queer.
God, he hates them all, sometimes. He strokes himself roughly, jerking into his hand. All except Nichelle, and her soft brown eyes; and Walter (although Walter is too cute and that pisses him off sometimes, too); and De, with his lilting, gentling southern voice. But God, the rest of them. Fucking Shatner.
He strokes himself faster, cresting for a quick conclusion. He fucking hates Shatner and his motherfucking entitlement complex. The fact that he'd probably think that the simple truth that George is a cocksucker must mean he'd obviously want to suck his 'I'm The Star of the Show' appendage. That would be typical. The man touches everybody: everybody. Last Wednesday morning in makeup, he was lying in Leonard's lap when George came in: shirt off, waiting for the new one with artificially weakened seams to be brought in by wardrobe/his minions/whatever. He fucking smiled, that arrogant Prom King smile of his, like the whole damn set up - the pose, the semi-nudity, everything - was an elaborate joke, and George was the butt of it.
George is fucking sick of it. He's sick of his quick-ass quips; his perpetual, mocking homosexualising (as he calls it) of the script; his line-stealing; the way he wanders about half-naked like he thinks everybody should be looking at him; his messy, gold-shot hair. His far-too-clever fucking mouth.
George comes abruptly, biting off a cry. His legs are shaking. The sound of the ceiling fan, fighting a losing battle against the heat, fills his senses with sudden clarity.
He fucking hates Shatner, he thinks, irritably; and reaches for a Kleenex.
Title: Resentment
Pairing: Good question. Takei/Shatner (?), Takei/Nimoy (?), (Nimoy/Shatner). Takei/himself is the only thing that's not either unrequited, vague, or bitter. No, actually, it is bitter.
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Disclaimer: Work of fiction, mate.
It wouldn't be so bad, George tells himself, if everybody else on set didn't have to be so goddamn married.
He is in bed - on the bed, really; it's midsummer and sweltering in smog-suffocated Los Angeles, and he kicked off the covers a long time ago. One hand moves irritably on the inside of his thigh, damp with sweat. He stares at the ceiling through a slow burn of tiredness, willing his cock to lie the fuck down so he can get some fucking sleep, already. Christ.
Six hours, and he's meant to be on set again. The idea doesn't exactly fill him with joy. For one thing, Shatner'll be there when he gets in, because he always is; and if he's not, he'll arrive minutes later in his massive Look At My Huge Cock herocar and swagger onto the lot like a prince dispensing largesse. It really pisses George off, is what it does. So many things about Shatner piss him off. That walk of his, hips swinging, back straight. His goddamn fucking grin, that quirky little curve of his lips which either he stole from Kirk or gave to Kirk in the first place. He seems to think that one little smile is all he has to give, and he'll get anything he wants in return. Arrogant cocksucker.
George's hand flutters on his thigh. "Fuck you," he tells it.
God, he fucking hates Shatner, sometimes. The way he struts about as if he owns the place. The way he makes up random extra lines when he's forgotten the real ones because he's spent more time flirting with extras than looking over the script, presumably. Lines like oh, Mr Spock, kiss me! Kiss me hard! And his fingers cupping the nape of Leonard's neck, in front of everybody, like it didn't mean anything; like the whole thing was a goddamn fucking joke. Like he could get away with goddamn blue murder, just because he's married and he's got children, and he's kidding around and none of this is real.
It's just funny. Yeah, being queer is real hilarious.
It's getting increasingly late, and George's cock thinks it's General fucking Custer. He grits his teeth in frustration, mutters something under his breath, and takes hold of it. Quick strokes. Angry. The guys at work, he's willing to bet they'd all think he was a fucking joke. Twisted little Jap faggot, watching Nimoy's beautiful hands and wanting them inside him. Cocksucker. Queer.
God, he hates them all, sometimes. He strokes himself roughly, jerking into his hand. All except Nichelle, and her soft brown eyes; and Walter (although Walter is too cute and that pisses him off sometimes, too); and De, with his lilting, gentling southern voice. But God, the rest of them. Fucking Shatner.
He strokes himself faster, cresting for a quick conclusion. He fucking hates Shatner and his motherfucking entitlement complex. The fact that he'd probably think that the simple truth that George is a cocksucker must mean he'd obviously want to suck his 'I'm The Star of the Show' appendage. That would be typical. The man touches everybody: everybody. Last Wednesday morning in makeup, he was lying in Leonard's lap when George came in: shirt off, waiting for the new one with artificially weakened seams to be brought in by wardrobe/his minions/whatever. He fucking smiled, that arrogant Prom King smile of his, like the whole damn set up - the pose, the semi-nudity, everything - was an elaborate joke, and George was the butt of it.
George is fucking sick of it. He's sick of his quick-ass quips; his perpetual, mocking homosexualising (as he calls it) of the script; his line-stealing; the way he wanders about half-naked like he thinks everybody should be looking at him; his messy, gold-shot hair. His far-too-clever fucking mouth.
George comes abruptly, biting off a cry. His legs are shaking. The sound of the ceiling fan, fighting a losing battle against the heat, fills his senses with sudden clarity.
He fucking hates Shatner, he thinks, irritably; and reaches for a Kleenex.