obstinatrix (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
obstinatrix) wrote2009-08-12 08:37 pm
obstinatrix) wrote2009-08-12 08:37 pm
Random Kinkmeme Ficlet Round Up #2
Again, a collection of things that are either too short or too lacking in merit to be posted separately, placed here for the sake of completion. All lies, as usual.
1.
(The comment was simply 'more plz'.)
*
"God," he pants, arching his back, his body taut with tension, mouth slack in a distinctly unVulcanlike fashion. "God, Bill, more."
Bill is licking him, nuzzling him; touching him just barely and he raises his head and catches Leonard's eyes at the sound of his voice. "What was that, Spock?"
Leonard thrashes on the pillow in frustration. Bill works a finger casually, gently inside of him, twisting it slightly slightly slightly until the nerve-endings burn. The look on his face is nothing less than smug. Leonard sets his jaw, twists again, and says nothing. And then Bill quirks that finger inside of him; presses a darting kiss to the tip of his cock, and when he draws away, Leonard cannot help crying out again, fumbling for Bill's head, pulling him down. Bill laughs, throaty and deep. "Spock," he insists.
He rubs his mouth against Leonard's shaft again. Leonard's eyes close of their own accord; he draws a rasping breath and grips Bill's jaw, feeling the tendons tight under his fingers. "Fuck," he hisses, and sighs. "Fuck. Captain. Please, Captain. More."
Bill smirks. "Whatever you say, Mr Spock," he says, blithely, although his voice is rough with arousal. "And all you had to do was ask. Wasn't so hard, was it?" And he swallows Leonard down into the back of his throat so Leonard jerks up spasmodically, cradling Bill's skull and holding on, his whole body curved up and over him.
"Fuck," he whispers again, rough and aching, and it's easier now just to run with it: "Fuck, more, Captain. Please. Please. Jim."
And Captain Kirk sucks off his first officer with Bill's clever mouth; brings him to the edge with Bill's clever fingers, until Spock cries out his pleasure as he comes.
*
2.
"You realise this is a date?" Bill leans across the couch to take the bowl from Leonard's hands, setting it down in the middle of the cushions. Leonard grins at him wryly, and sits down.
"If it was a date, you wouldn't have put that bowl between us," he points out, rearranging cushions until his back feels like it might stand two hours of movie in this position.
Bill promptly picks up the bowl again, and sets it down on the floor at their feet. Leonard snorts. "Clever."
"Always," Bill quips. Leonard smiles at him, and picks up the remote control.
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
He turns, mid-motion. Bill is looking at him expectantly. He's holding out his hand. Leonard rolls his eyes. "You're kidding."
"Len, I said, two caveats. That's one." He points to the popcorn. "I want my other stipulation or I'm not watching it." He juts out his lower lip in something very close to a pout. Leonard sighs elaborately.
"Oh, fine. You're such a child, Bill." He reaches down; takes Bill's hand in his. Bill relents immediately, beaming. He squeezes Leonard's hand in his.
"Come on, Len. It's not so bad." He nudges Leonard's shoulder with his cheek. "Like being a teenager again."
"Except I didn't go to the movies with old men when I was a teenager," Leonard points out.
"Really?" Bill leans down and retrieves a handful of popcorn with his free hand. "Huh. I did."
Leonard shoots him a look and he grins. "Oh, go on, then, start the damn movie. Just think yourself lucky I didn't ask for a kiss."
Leonard does not hesitate in pressing play. The opening credits roll. They watch for a little while in silence, except for the occasional rustle of popcorn.
"You gonna give me my hand back?" Leonard asks, after the opening sequence concludes and there's a little pause for speech.
"No," says Bill. "And stop complaining. You like it."
Leonard laughs. After a second, he squeezes Bill's hand back. "Well. Maybe."
"Mm," Bill says, knowingly, and scoops up the bowl into his lap. "Popcorn?"
Leonard kisses him on the top of the head, and takes a handful.
*
3.
Her body glides over yours like dark poured caramel, brown sugar sweetness under gold. You drink in all of her: the muscles in her arms, her neat waist under your fingers. The look on her face, teasing, measured, as she slips a hand up between your legs.
"Zoe," you breathe, and she says don't say anything, drawing clever fingers through your slickness. She finds you, presses; leans up to kiss you, and her mouth is warm and wet and tastes of peppermint, as if she made very sure to suck on a breathmint on the drive home. The thought is strangely sexy - she wants you; she wanted it to be perfect for you - and you kiss her back and thrust up against her hand, spreading your legs in a silent request.
She laughs against your mouth like cinnamon, deep and rich, and slips two fingers up inside you. You cry out, and she laughs more, rubbing her face open-mouthed in the hollow of your throat, working your clit with her thumb. She's strong, very strong; her dancer's muscles stand out in her forearms as she works you, tense against the insides of your thighs. She's hot and wet and slick against your leg where she's straddled it, rubbing just slightly, and the feel of it makes you moan under her fingers, under her mouth.
"Zoe," you cry out again, "oh God, Zoe - fuck - " and she says patience like she knows you're on the edge. And her fingers slow perceptibly, circling you with excruciating, tortuous gentleness, until at length you throw your head back, buck your hips against her and scream in frustration and she flicks your clit with her thumb and lets you come.
Afterwards, when you can breathe again, she shimmies up your body until she's kneeling over your chest, legs astride, her back a graceful curve. You take her by the hips without a word, and press your tongue into her musky slickness; and when you make her come, you feel as if you just remade the whole damn world.
*
4.
He doesn't know where it came from, this thought, or when it first occurred. Maybe it had something to do with the way Bill crooks his fingers when he smokes, cigarette between his knuckles, a thin curl of smoke completing the elegant line of forearm and hand. Or then again, maybe it was more of an offspring of that habit Bill has of tugging on his lower lip when he's trying to think, rolling it thoughtfully between finger and thumb. Leonard doesn't know.
What he does know is that, somewhere along the line, Bill's hands became his number one jerk-off fixation. And that's just - that's just wrong.
Oh, he's tried just not thinking about them. He tried this very diligently for a week, and managed a number of mediocre orgasms centered around breasts and waists and slicked clits. But then somehow it got to the point where he couldn't even think of a woman's cunt without seeing Bill's clever fingers slipping into it, plunging into wetness, crooked as he dipped his head to breathe her in like cigarette smoke.
It wasn't much of a leap, really, from imagining Bill fucking a woman like that, to wondering how those hands would feel if it were Leonard they were playing. Again, he tried to nip this little fucker in the bud before it took root. But then there was that one occasion where he spent half an hour in the bathroom, jerking himself raw, thinking about anything, anything but Bill, and getting nowhere. Finally, in desperation, he allowed his mind - just this once - to wander back to those fingers, those hands; to think about them parting his thighs, circling him, slicked with lube and slipping inside him. Bill over him, suddenly, nude and sweaty and golden, saying "God, Leonard, you're so fucking hot - gorgeous, baby," and rubbing in firm circles over that little core of bliss inside of him. Bill saying all these things he'd never say, doing all these things he'd never do.
Leonard came with a shout, harder than fucking diamonds. He pressed a hand to his mouth afterwards, but the damage was done.
It's a fucking stupid fantasy. He wishes he could stop indulging himself in it, but increasingly it's getting harder to get off on anything else, and that in turn makes it kind of hard to look at Bill without blushing. Seeing him naked, dark-eyed, panting; feeling the phantom touch of his hands. If Leonard's honest with himself, it's fucking distracting.
At least it's not harming anyone, he thinks to himself, as he works himself over in his dressing room, praying to the powers that be to let him just fucking come already so he can get back on set and actually manage a decent performance. But it's not enough, any more, his own hand on his cock; and he huffs in frustration and leans back on the couch, canting his hips, trousers shoved down around his knees. He spits into his hand.
"Fuck," he whispers, as he breaches the entrance, fingertip circling, setting the nerve-endings aflame. "Nnnnngh, fuck," and he works his finger all the way inside, as far as he can reach. It's weird, in many ways; weird and new but at the same time exactly what he's wanted all these weeks, especially once he's managed to work a second finger in there. He works himself slowly, and it's good but it's not quite enough until -
"Oh, shit!"
- he finds his prostate, presses and circles and holds the insistent contact until he's convulsing from the inside, coming and coming all over the couch and his trousers and his wrist and his hand.
"Fuck, Bill," he rasps out, as he jerks in his own hand, "Holy fuck."
He cleans himself up the moment he's caught his breath, knowing he's late and hoping nobody'll smell the sex on him. He's flushed with embarrassment, but it's something else as well, a sort of gut-deep triumph that flares worryingly when Bill catches him in the corridor, one hand (fuck) on Leonard's arm.
"You all right, Len?" Bill asks, the voice of concern. "Anything I can do?"
Fuck, Leonard thinks again, despairingly. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. So much for trying to make matters less complicated.
"You can get back on the set, Bill," Leonard tells him, going for sarcasm.
You can finger-fuck me till I scream, Bill, Leonard thinks, but doesn't say.
"...sure," Bill agrees, giving him a bit of an odd look. Leonard looks back at him, stonily, and in the end Bill shrugs and they breeze back on-set together, hoping nothing's knocked too far off-schedule.
Bill's hands are on the 'control panel' of the Captain's chair for the first scene, fiddling incessantly. Leonard bites the inside of his cheek.
Fuck, he thinks again, and pointedly turns his back.
*
It seems that the difference between little kinkmeme fills which don't deserve their own posts, and fics which I consider to be 'proper fics', is that when I'm randomly writing commentfics on the kinkmeme, I make far too much use of the f-word. You have been warned.
1.
(The comment was simply 'more plz'.)
*
"God," he pants, arching his back, his body taut with tension, mouth slack in a distinctly unVulcanlike fashion. "God, Bill, more."
Bill is licking him, nuzzling him; touching him just barely and he raises his head and catches Leonard's eyes at the sound of his voice. "What was that, Spock?"
Leonard thrashes on the pillow in frustration. Bill works a finger casually, gently inside of him, twisting it slightly slightly slightly until the nerve-endings burn. The look on his face is nothing less than smug. Leonard sets his jaw, twists again, and says nothing. And then Bill quirks that finger inside of him; presses a darting kiss to the tip of his cock, and when he draws away, Leonard cannot help crying out again, fumbling for Bill's head, pulling him down. Bill laughs, throaty and deep. "Spock," he insists.
He rubs his mouth against Leonard's shaft again. Leonard's eyes close of their own accord; he draws a rasping breath and grips Bill's jaw, feeling the tendons tight under his fingers. "Fuck," he hisses, and sighs. "Fuck. Captain. Please, Captain. More."
Bill smirks. "Whatever you say, Mr Spock," he says, blithely, although his voice is rough with arousal. "And all you had to do was ask. Wasn't so hard, was it?" And he swallows Leonard down into the back of his throat so Leonard jerks up spasmodically, cradling Bill's skull and holding on, his whole body curved up and over him.
"Fuck," he whispers again, rough and aching, and it's easier now just to run with it: "Fuck, more, Captain. Please. Please. Jim."
And Captain Kirk sucks off his first officer with Bill's clever mouth; brings him to the edge with Bill's clever fingers, until Spock cries out his pleasure as he comes.
*
2.
"You realise this is a date?" Bill leans across the couch to take the bowl from Leonard's hands, setting it down in the middle of the cushions. Leonard grins at him wryly, and sits down.
"If it was a date, you wouldn't have put that bowl between us," he points out, rearranging cushions until his back feels like it might stand two hours of movie in this position.
Bill promptly picks up the bowl again, and sets it down on the floor at their feet. Leonard snorts. "Clever."
"Always," Bill quips. Leonard smiles at him, and picks up the remote control.
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
He turns, mid-motion. Bill is looking at him expectantly. He's holding out his hand. Leonard rolls his eyes. "You're kidding."
"Len, I said, two caveats. That's one." He points to the popcorn. "I want my other stipulation or I'm not watching it." He juts out his lower lip in something very close to a pout. Leonard sighs elaborately.
"Oh, fine. You're such a child, Bill." He reaches down; takes Bill's hand in his. Bill relents immediately, beaming. He squeezes Leonard's hand in his.
"Come on, Len. It's not so bad." He nudges Leonard's shoulder with his cheek. "Like being a teenager again."
"Except I didn't go to the movies with old men when I was a teenager," Leonard points out.
"Really?" Bill leans down and retrieves a handful of popcorn with his free hand. "Huh. I did."
Leonard shoots him a look and he grins. "Oh, go on, then, start the damn movie. Just think yourself lucky I didn't ask for a kiss."
Leonard does not hesitate in pressing play. The opening credits roll. They watch for a little while in silence, except for the occasional rustle of popcorn.
"You gonna give me my hand back?" Leonard asks, after the opening sequence concludes and there's a little pause for speech.
"No," says Bill. "And stop complaining. You like it."
Leonard laughs. After a second, he squeezes Bill's hand back. "Well. Maybe."
"Mm," Bill says, knowingly, and scoops up the bowl into his lap. "Popcorn?"
Leonard kisses him on the top of the head, and takes a handful.
*
3.
Her body glides over yours like dark poured caramel, brown sugar sweetness under gold. You drink in all of her: the muscles in her arms, her neat waist under your fingers. The look on her face, teasing, measured, as she slips a hand up between your legs.
"Zoe," you breathe, and she says don't say anything, drawing clever fingers through your slickness. She finds you, presses; leans up to kiss you, and her mouth is warm and wet and tastes of peppermint, as if she made very sure to suck on a breathmint on the drive home. The thought is strangely sexy - she wants you; she wanted it to be perfect for you - and you kiss her back and thrust up against her hand, spreading your legs in a silent request.
She laughs against your mouth like cinnamon, deep and rich, and slips two fingers up inside you. You cry out, and she laughs more, rubbing her face open-mouthed in the hollow of your throat, working your clit with her thumb. She's strong, very strong; her dancer's muscles stand out in her forearms as she works you, tense against the insides of your thighs. She's hot and wet and slick against your leg where she's straddled it, rubbing just slightly, and the feel of it makes you moan under her fingers, under her mouth.
"Zoe," you cry out again, "oh God, Zoe - fuck - " and she says patience like she knows you're on the edge. And her fingers slow perceptibly, circling you with excruciating, tortuous gentleness, until at length you throw your head back, buck your hips against her and scream in frustration and she flicks your clit with her thumb and lets you come.
Afterwards, when you can breathe again, she shimmies up your body until she's kneeling over your chest, legs astride, her back a graceful curve. You take her by the hips without a word, and press your tongue into her musky slickness; and when you make her come, you feel as if you just remade the whole damn world.
*
4.
He doesn't know where it came from, this thought, or when it first occurred. Maybe it had something to do with the way Bill crooks his fingers when he smokes, cigarette between his knuckles, a thin curl of smoke completing the elegant line of forearm and hand. Or then again, maybe it was more of an offspring of that habit Bill has of tugging on his lower lip when he's trying to think, rolling it thoughtfully between finger and thumb. Leonard doesn't know.
What he does know is that, somewhere along the line, Bill's hands became his number one jerk-off fixation. And that's just - that's just wrong.
Oh, he's tried just not thinking about them. He tried this very diligently for a week, and managed a number of mediocre orgasms centered around breasts and waists and slicked clits. But then somehow it got to the point where he couldn't even think of a woman's cunt without seeing Bill's clever fingers slipping into it, plunging into wetness, crooked as he dipped his head to breathe her in like cigarette smoke.
It wasn't much of a leap, really, from imagining Bill fucking a woman like that, to wondering how those hands would feel if it were Leonard they were playing. Again, he tried to nip this little fucker in the bud before it took root. But then there was that one occasion where he spent half an hour in the bathroom, jerking himself raw, thinking about anything, anything but Bill, and getting nowhere. Finally, in desperation, he allowed his mind - just this once - to wander back to those fingers, those hands; to think about them parting his thighs, circling him, slicked with lube and slipping inside him. Bill over him, suddenly, nude and sweaty and golden, saying "God, Leonard, you're so fucking hot - gorgeous, baby," and rubbing in firm circles over that little core of bliss inside of him. Bill saying all these things he'd never say, doing all these things he'd never do.
Leonard came with a shout, harder than fucking diamonds. He pressed a hand to his mouth afterwards, but the damage was done.
It's a fucking stupid fantasy. He wishes he could stop indulging himself in it, but increasingly it's getting harder to get off on anything else, and that in turn makes it kind of hard to look at Bill without blushing. Seeing him naked, dark-eyed, panting; feeling the phantom touch of his hands. If Leonard's honest with himself, it's fucking distracting.
At least it's not harming anyone, he thinks to himself, as he works himself over in his dressing room, praying to the powers that be to let him just fucking come already so he can get back on set and actually manage a decent performance. But it's not enough, any more, his own hand on his cock; and he huffs in frustration and leans back on the couch, canting his hips, trousers shoved down around his knees. He spits into his hand.
"Fuck," he whispers, as he breaches the entrance, fingertip circling, setting the nerve-endings aflame. "Nnnnngh, fuck," and he works his finger all the way inside, as far as he can reach. It's weird, in many ways; weird and new but at the same time exactly what he's wanted all these weeks, especially once he's managed to work a second finger in there. He works himself slowly, and it's good but it's not quite enough until -
"Oh, shit!"
- he finds his prostate, presses and circles and holds the insistent contact until he's convulsing from the inside, coming and coming all over the couch and his trousers and his wrist and his hand.
"Fuck, Bill," he rasps out, as he jerks in his own hand, "Holy fuck."
He cleans himself up the moment he's caught his breath, knowing he's late and hoping nobody'll smell the sex on him. He's flushed with embarrassment, but it's something else as well, a sort of gut-deep triumph that flares worryingly when Bill catches him in the corridor, one hand (fuck) on Leonard's arm.
"You all right, Len?" Bill asks, the voice of concern. "Anything I can do?"
Fuck, Leonard thinks again, despairingly. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. So much for trying to make matters less complicated.
"You can get back on the set, Bill," Leonard tells him, going for sarcasm.
You can finger-fuck me till I scream, Bill, Leonard thinks, but doesn't say.
"...sure," Bill agrees, giving him a bit of an odd look. Leonard looks back at him, stonily, and in the end Bill shrugs and they breeze back on-set together, hoping nothing's knocked too far off-schedule.
Bill's hands are on the 'control panel' of the Captain's chair for the first scene, fiddling incessantly. Leonard bites the inside of his cheek.
Fuck, he thinks again, and pointedly turns his back.
*
It seems that the difference between little kinkmeme fills which don't deserve their own posts, and fics which I consider to be 'proper fics', is that when I'm randomly writing commentfics on the kinkmeme, I make far too much use of the f-word. You have been warned.
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There needs to be more of it really! I mean, honestly, why has this not been done? Bill play-acting The Captain and Leonard trying very hard to keep it together as Spock = GUH.
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