Shatnoy Fic:Strange What Desire Will Make Foolish People Do NC-17
Title: Strange What Desire Will Make Foolish People Do
Rating: NC 17
Word Count: 1849
Disclaimer: Clearly I do not own Bill or Leonard, though I admit I would love to. They own each other, of course. I do this for fun! Really, I do!
A/N: OMG WHERE THE HELL DID THIS COME FROM? Really, I don't know where this angst fest bit of fuckery came from, but my lights went out earlier and so I started writing and a few hours later this was born. It is not betad and full of errant commas and a sort of strange and stream of consciousness Bill voice, but you know what? I like it, and I can't often say that about my fics.
Summary. Bill watches Len with someone else, and does not like it one bit. He is drunk and angry...and horny. Cut him some slack, the poor woobie ;)
Go forth, read!! Enjoy!! This is totally for my Shatnoy girls and specifically for my comm baby mama obstinatrix I love you girls!
He watches them from across the room, on his own god damn sofa, in his own god damn house, at his own god damn get together. It’s not right, he thinks, thick fingers clutching tighter against his empty glass as they lean in closer, as Leonard tucks a stray lock of obviously dyed blonde hair behind a delicate ear. It’s not right nor is it fair and this is my fucking house, he thinks, and these are my fucking friends and just who the fuck does this asshole think he is, leaning in to this cheap little floozy, and who the hell is she anyway, because damn it Bill can’t remember ever seeing her here before, and why on Earth or Vulcan or what have you does Leonard feel like he can take those stupidly long fingers of his and do something so intimate as tuck her hair back for her. Just who does he think he is, anyway, Bill says out loud this time to anyone within ear shot as he refills his own drink, going with the good stuff from behind the bar, none of that cheap shit that he saves for gatherings, for these…friends? Nah, they’re not your friends, Bill says aloud again, they’re assholes here for free booze, here to seek out, well, he thinks, looking towards Miss I Need A Better Colorist and Leonard.
Well. There is that. Bill’s sure that he had wanted to invite all these people here to his house, to open his home to them, he is sure of it or else he wouldn’t have done it but damn it he just can’t concentrate when Leonard is looking at that girl, woman, whatever you want to call her, like that, and really, really just who does she think she is? What has she done to deserve that stupid ear to ear grin on Leonard’s face, and really, she isn’t so good looking that Leonard should be looking at her as if he’d like to devour her, because really, she just isn’t all that, is she?
She’s not that pretty, he says, louder this time, flopping back down on the pristine white sofa he started on, not caring that some of the good stuff sloshes out of his glass, because damn it, he paid for it, the sofa and the scotch, and if he wants to spill something on it he will. And if he wants to talk out loud, he will, and he is, talking out loud, loudly, to no one and everyone. Talking about his house and his booze and his god damn life and why can’t all these people just leave now if they don’t even care about him being there, if they just came to toy with ugly little blonde girls.
Maybe he’s going to fuck her, he thinks, or maybe he says it out loud, he’s past the point of caring, past the point of remembering anything other than the taste and sting of the amber liquid against the back of his throat as he downs it in one swift throw back. He’s sure if he were more sober he’d be able to understand the correlation of that statement, he’d remember why he thought it in the first place, would know there was an attempt at some acid thought regarding Leonard and the way he tastes shoved deep down Bill’s throat, but god damn it he can’t remember all that shit right now, can’t remember anything but Leonard over there in that corner with his hands all over that girl.
His glass is empty again, and he knows, Jesus Christ he knows how drunk he is, knows he can’t sit there on that godforsaken sofa anymore, because the feel of it under his skin reminds him, and he remembers writhing, and oh isn’t that a good word for a drunk guy, writhing, underneath that too long, too lean body. He knows that this ugly, white sofa with the new scotch stains feels rough against his naked skin, that it chafes his knees and his elbows, knows that either it’s too awkward for Leonard or Leonard’s too awkward for it, that his knees seem up somewhere above his sometimes pointy ears when he’s sitting on it, when Bill is kneeling before it and before him.
Images, memories, maybe some longing, they all come hurling out of Bill as he braces himself against the offending furniture and stands up, wobbling on his feet, yeah, but up, regardless. He’s sure that Len’s looking now, sure that he is going to get some disparaging look or comment or worse, that stupid fucking eyebrow, and Bill is going to rage at him, or something, maybe find his own little blonde bimbo, take her upstairs and do that thing they like, the one they all say he’s so good at. Yeah, that’s it, he’ll find his own thing to toy with, march her right past Lenny and that stupid, ugly girl and throw her down on the bed, their bed, sure it was his marital bed and sure maybe he’s fucked her , his wife, a few times on it, but it doesn’t matter, does it? No, because he’s going to find this cute little thing, give her his best Captain Kirk line, throw her down on the bed and suck on her sweet little clit until she doesn’t know which way is up, until she’s so wet that her excitement and enthusiasm are running down his chin and all he hears is his own name, over and over.
But damn it, shit, fuck, what the hell, where did they go? Lenny and that girl, they were just there, a minute ago, or something, no more than a half hour, maybe an hour tops. They were there, and Bill was watching them and shit they’re upstairs now, he thinks, maybe he knows, and he has to stop them, say something, do something so he’s making his way up the stairs. He’s going to stop them, tell Lenny he’s sorry for whatever it is he did that made him so mad, for what made him latch on to some woman instead of him, kick all of these fucking people out of his house and be done with this, crawl up onto Len and make him forget what‘s her face with the fake blonde hair, God he just wants to make him forget already.
And he’s there, outside the door to the bedroom, their bedroom, the one they fuck in, the one they make love in, theirs, the one they’ve slept in since she left Bill, since they started this thing and oh God there half a dozen other bedrooms in this house, aren’t there? The place is big and gaudy and has too many places to keep things and that has to mean too many bedrooms and what the fuck why did he have to come here, here, HERE to this room. Why, Lenny, Leonard, Len, why?
He doesn’t have to ponder the mysteries of that question too long, does he? Not when he hears that sound, not when he stands in the darkened hallway, peering through the partly closed door, watching that peroxide covered skull bob up and down, messy and out of sync, not how Len would like it at all but oh God he does like it, he’s moaning and Bill’s heart is breaking even while his fists ball at his side. Not for the first time that night he thinks he’d like to know, in fact, he’s sure he wants to demand it, who the hell this woman thinks she is. Who is she to have her hands on Leonard’s thighs, her knees brushing against his legs, her lips stretched around his cock. Why is she touching him, his Lenny, and why the fuck is Lenny letting her? Why are those fingers in her hair, on her head, pulling her down further onto him?
Jesus fucking Christ, and why is he watching? Why is he straining to see, hidden in the shadows of his own god damn house, during his own god damn party, shivering with want at the sight of glistening spit on Leonard’s dick, raging with anger that it isn’t his tongue, his lips, his mouth. Leonard is mine mine mine, he thinks, mine, thank you, mine and damn it why is he still standing there, frozen to the spot like some stupid pervert peeping tom IN HIS OWN GOD DAMN HOUSE. He should kick the door open, he thinks, or maybe he says it, and fuck he has to stop doing that, stop talking out loud but it isn’t like they can hear him because Leonard is moaning, groaning, like he does when he’s close, like he does when he’s about to shoot down Bill’s throat .The girl, she’s gagging, amateur, he thinks, gagging on it and Bill wonders when the hell it is he became this guy, this guy that’s turned on by some bitch choking on his, he’s not sure what to call him then, boyfriend, lover, fuck buddy, costar, First Officer’s tremendous, glorious cock and really when did he get to be that guy, the one that thinks cock is something to be called glorious?
He’s sure he’s delirious or drunker than he’s ever been before and he’s ready to leave or bust in or cry or something and that’s when he realizes that holy shit he’s harder than he’s ever been before and his dick apparently doesn’t care who Len is calling baby. He really wishes he’d found that random girl now, but instead of sucking on that sweet little clit of hers he’d fuck deep into her, hard and unrelenting, fast and furious, pound at her like he would if she were Len, or maybe as if Len was standing over them, watching, or hiding behind a door, furious, torn between crazy lust and insane rage, not unlike he is then. She’s not here, though, his girl, and Len is, with his stupid gagging girl and Bill is grasping himself hard as he can, thrusting into a tight, dry fist, getting off to this and he’s sick with it, but he’s coming harder than he has since, well, since the first time he went down on Leonard, and then he’s slumped down against the wall, foot against the door, pushing it open a little more, enough to watch as Len scoots those impossibly long legs up onto the bed, enough to watch those gorgeous fingers bring a cigarette up to his lips, enough to see the cruel, bored look in his eyes when his unnamed girl tries to climb onto the bed after him.
He barely has time to move out of her way, and for his own cruel minute he wishes he hadn’t moved, wishes he’d tripped her until he hears that voice coil around his spine, the unmistakable sound of his own name spilling forth like thick velvet over jagged rocks. The game is over, he knows, dragging himself up off of the ground and pushing towards the door.
Rating: NC 17
Word Count: 1849
Disclaimer: Clearly I do not own Bill or Leonard, though I admit I would love to. They own each other, of course. I do this for fun! Really, I do!
A/N: OMG WHERE THE HELL DID THIS COME FROM? Really, I don't know where this angst fest bit of fuckery came from, but my lights went out earlier and so I started writing and a few hours later this was born. It is not betad and full of errant commas and a sort of strange and stream of consciousness Bill voice, but you know what? I like it, and I can't often say that about my fics.
Summary. Bill watches Len with someone else, and does not like it one bit. He is drunk and angry...and horny. Cut him some slack, the poor woobie ;)
Go forth, read!! Enjoy!! This is totally for my Shatnoy girls and specifically for my comm baby mama obstinatrix I love you girls!
He watches them from across the room, on his own god damn sofa, in his own god damn house, at his own god damn get together. It’s not right, he thinks, thick fingers clutching tighter against his empty glass as they lean in closer, as Leonard tucks a stray lock of obviously dyed blonde hair behind a delicate ear. It’s not right nor is it fair and this is my fucking house, he thinks, and these are my fucking friends and just who the fuck does this asshole think he is, leaning in to this cheap little floozy, and who the hell is she anyway, because damn it Bill can’t remember ever seeing her here before, and why on Earth or Vulcan or what have you does Leonard feel like he can take those stupidly long fingers of his and do something so intimate as tuck her hair back for her. Just who does he think he is, anyway, Bill says out loud this time to anyone within ear shot as he refills his own drink, going with the good stuff from behind the bar, none of that cheap shit that he saves for gatherings, for these…friends? Nah, they’re not your friends, Bill says aloud again, they’re assholes here for free booze, here to seek out, well, he thinks, looking towards Miss I Need A Better Colorist and Leonard.
Well. There is that. Bill’s sure that he had wanted to invite all these people here to his house, to open his home to them, he is sure of it or else he wouldn’t have done it but damn it he just can’t concentrate when Leonard is looking at that girl, woman, whatever you want to call her, like that, and really, really just who does she think she is? What has she done to deserve that stupid ear to ear grin on Leonard’s face, and really, she isn’t so good looking that Leonard should be looking at her as if he’d like to devour her, because really, she just isn’t all that, is she?
She’s not that pretty, he says, louder this time, flopping back down on the pristine white sofa he started on, not caring that some of the good stuff sloshes out of his glass, because damn it, he paid for it, the sofa and the scotch, and if he wants to spill something on it he will. And if he wants to talk out loud, he will, and he is, talking out loud, loudly, to no one and everyone. Talking about his house and his booze and his god damn life and why can’t all these people just leave now if they don’t even care about him being there, if they just came to toy with ugly little blonde girls.
Maybe he’s going to fuck her, he thinks, or maybe he says it out loud, he’s past the point of caring, past the point of remembering anything other than the taste and sting of the amber liquid against the back of his throat as he downs it in one swift throw back. He’s sure if he were more sober he’d be able to understand the correlation of that statement, he’d remember why he thought it in the first place, would know there was an attempt at some acid thought regarding Leonard and the way he tastes shoved deep down Bill’s throat, but god damn it he can’t remember all that shit right now, can’t remember anything but Leonard over there in that corner with his hands all over that girl.
His glass is empty again, and he knows, Jesus Christ he knows how drunk he is, knows he can’t sit there on that godforsaken sofa anymore, because the feel of it under his skin reminds him, and he remembers writhing, and oh isn’t that a good word for a drunk guy, writhing, underneath that too long, too lean body. He knows that this ugly, white sofa with the new scotch stains feels rough against his naked skin, that it chafes his knees and his elbows, knows that either it’s too awkward for Leonard or Leonard’s too awkward for it, that his knees seem up somewhere above his sometimes pointy ears when he’s sitting on it, when Bill is kneeling before it and before him.
Images, memories, maybe some longing, they all come hurling out of Bill as he braces himself against the offending furniture and stands up, wobbling on his feet, yeah, but up, regardless. He’s sure that Len’s looking now, sure that he is going to get some disparaging look or comment or worse, that stupid fucking eyebrow, and Bill is going to rage at him, or something, maybe find his own little blonde bimbo, take her upstairs and do that thing they like, the one they all say he’s so good at. Yeah, that’s it, he’ll find his own thing to toy with, march her right past Lenny and that stupid, ugly girl and throw her down on the bed, their bed, sure it was his marital bed and sure maybe he’s fucked her , his wife, a few times on it, but it doesn’t matter, does it? No, because he’s going to find this cute little thing, give her his best Captain Kirk line, throw her down on the bed and suck on her sweet little clit until she doesn’t know which way is up, until she’s so wet that her excitement and enthusiasm are running down his chin and all he hears is his own name, over and over.
But damn it, shit, fuck, what the hell, where did they go? Lenny and that girl, they were just there, a minute ago, or something, no more than a half hour, maybe an hour tops. They were there, and Bill was watching them and shit they’re upstairs now, he thinks, maybe he knows, and he has to stop them, say something, do something so he’s making his way up the stairs. He’s going to stop them, tell Lenny he’s sorry for whatever it is he did that made him so mad, for what made him latch on to some woman instead of him, kick all of these fucking people out of his house and be done with this, crawl up onto Len and make him forget what‘s her face with the fake blonde hair, God he just wants to make him forget already.
And he’s there, outside the door to the bedroom, their bedroom, the one they fuck in, the one they make love in, theirs, the one they’ve slept in since she left Bill, since they started this thing and oh God there half a dozen other bedrooms in this house, aren’t there? The place is big and gaudy and has too many places to keep things and that has to mean too many bedrooms and what the fuck why did he have to come here, here, HERE to this room. Why, Lenny, Leonard, Len, why?
He doesn’t have to ponder the mysteries of that question too long, does he? Not when he hears that sound, not when he stands in the darkened hallway, peering through the partly closed door, watching that peroxide covered skull bob up and down, messy and out of sync, not how Len would like it at all but oh God he does like it, he’s moaning and Bill’s heart is breaking even while his fists ball at his side. Not for the first time that night he thinks he’d like to know, in fact, he’s sure he wants to demand it, who the hell this woman thinks she is. Who is she to have her hands on Leonard’s thighs, her knees brushing against his legs, her lips stretched around his cock. Why is she touching him, his Lenny, and why the fuck is Lenny letting her? Why are those fingers in her hair, on her head, pulling her down further onto him?
Jesus fucking Christ, and why is he watching? Why is he straining to see, hidden in the shadows of his own god damn house, during his own god damn party, shivering with want at the sight of glistening spit on Leonard’s dick, raging with anger that it isn’t his tongue, his lips, his mouth. Leonard is mine mine mine, he thinks, mine, thank you, mine and damn it why is he still standing there, frozen to the spot like some stupid pervert peeping tom IN HIS OWN GOD DAMN HOUSE. He should kick the door open, he thinks, or maybe he says it, and fuck he has to stop doing that, stop talking out loud but it isn’t like they can hear him because Leonard is moaning, groaning, like he does when he’s close, like he does when he’s about to shoot down Bill’s throat .The girl, she’s gagging, amateur, he thinks, gagging on it and Bill wonders when the hell it is he became this guy, this guy that’s turned on by some bitch choking on his, he’s not sure what to call him then, boyfriend, lover, fuck buddy, costar, First Officer’s tremendous, glorious cock and really when did he get to be that guy, the one that thinks cock is something to be called glorious?
He’s sure he’s delirious or drunker than he’s ever been before and he’s ready to leave or bust in or cry or something and that’s when he realizes that holy shit he’s harder than he’s ever been before and his dick apparently doesn’t care who Len is calling baby. He really wishes he’d found that random girl now, but instead of sucking on that sweet little clit of hers he’d fuck deep into her, hard and unrelenting, fast and furious, pound at her like he would if she were Len, or maybe as if Len was standing over them, watching, or hiding behind a door, furious, torn between crazy lust and insane rage, not unlike he is then. She’s not here, though, his girl, and Len is, with his stupid gagging girl and Bill is grasping himself hard as he can, thrusting into a tight, dry fist, getting off to this and he’s sick with it, but he’s coming harder than he has since, well, since the first time he went down on Leonard, and then he’s slumped down against the wall, foot against the door, pushing it open a little more, enough to watch as Len scoots those impossibly long legs up onto the bed, enough to watch those gorgeous fingers bring a cigarette up to his lips, enough to see the cruel, bored look in his eyes when his unnamed girl tries to climb onto the bed after him.
He barely has time to move out of her way, and for his own cruel minute he wishes he hadn’t moved, wishes he’d tripped her until he hears that voice coil around his spine, the unmistakable sound of his own name spilling forth like thick velvet over jagged rocks. The game is over, he knows, dragging himself up off of the ground and pushing towards the door.