Fic Post: 2 ficlets
Title: Why Bill Is Glad Leonard Is Not A Vulcan, Reason #4,678
Rating: thoroughly PG
Pairing: Shatnoy
Warnings/Notes: This was written for a prompt that simply said EPIC CUDDLAGE, with the elaboration 'as fluffy as possible'. Effectively. So, take that as a warning, if you will, that this has no redeeming value whatsoever.
Bill doesn't know whether he's reading too much into this, or what, but it seems to him that Vulcans wouldn't be the most cuddly of races. Granted, a lot of what is 'known' about them consists of stuff he and Len generated spontaneously behind various soundstages, remarks made during smoking breaks often ending up as firm Vulcan canon. Like, for example, "Maybe Vulcans have some sort of nerve-pinching thing that knocks people out, instead?" or "What if Vulcans kiss with their hands?" So, maybe there isn't a right or wrong answer to the cuddling issue just yet. But it strikes Bill, as he shifts against Leonard's warm, prone body and nuzzles the plastic tip of his ear, that Spock might find this position a little undignified.
Leonard, on the other hand, doesn't seem to mind at all. He's got one arm tucked under Bill's head, the other hand lightly clasping his wrist where it's lying on Leonard's stomach. When Bill moves slightly, to rearrange himself a little, Leonard makes a low-pitched sound of dissent, and tightens his grip. Bill smiles, and kisses his ear.
"Lenny," he whispers, trying not to laugh, "my leg's going numb. I'm just gonna move it around a little, okay?"
"Nrrrrnf," says Leonard, grumpily. He twists his face a little so his mouth is brushing Bill's cheek, and Bill, heedless of the fact that Leonard's breath smells like cigarette smoke from two hours ago, kisses that mouth and ruffles his hair a little.
"Hang on," he tells him amiably, regardless of the fact that the noise Leonard just made, however indistinct, definitely sounded like it might translate to don't you fucking dare move. He wriggles the stricken leg out from under Leonard's, flexing his ankle until the feeling has fully returned. Then he tucks himself up again against Leonard's side, and kisses him on the nose. "Okay?"
"Mmmmmmmph," Leonard agrees. "G'back sleep, Billy."
The sofa in Bill's dressing room is far too small for this kind of behaviour, really; but there isn't a single piece of furniture in here that has not been put to several uses for which it is frankly vastly unsuited, so Bill can't really bring himself to feel sorry for it. He and Len can just about fit on it when they tangle themselves together into one great big Bleonard entity, and that's fine by him, because he really kind of likes waking up from an afternoon nap with his face pressed to Leonard's neck and Leonard's hand up his shirt.
Yes, he thinks, going back to sleep sounds pretty appealing, as an option. So he tells Leonard, "Sure thing, baby," and closes his eyes again.
Title: [untitled]
Pairing: Bill/Nichelle. Or, er, Nichelle/Bill, if we're doing it that way. And kind of Kirk/Spock...? In my head, there's an obvious undercurrent of as-yet-unconsummated Shatnoy, but that might just be me.
Rating: NC-17 like whoah.
Disclaimer: Dear GOD, am I sure this is a lie.
Warnings/Notes: The prompt for this was 'Nichelle pegging Bill', which is, I suppose, a warning in itself. The actuality of it is that Nichelle always says what she means, and when she says she's going to teach Bill some respect, she damn well means it. Filthy, filthy porns.
When it comes to the English language, Nichelle believes in the brutal power of accuracy. Other people...well, they don't. Over time, this has become frustratingly clear to her. When she says she's going for a lie-down, she means a lie-down, where they hear nap. When she says she's a little hungry, there's no false modesty there, and no understatement. 'A little hungry' means it's time for a muffin, not a three-course meal.
And when she said to Bill, half-exasperated, that she'd a good mind to take him home and fuck some goddamn respect into him, that was exactly what she meant.
Which Bill - who only raised an eyebrow and said he wouldn't object - seems not to have realised.
Until now.
He's on his back, and that alone, to judge by the look on his face, is making him nervous. He keeps reaching for her, gripping her by the shoulders and attempting to flip them over, but she's stronger than she looks and he's too much of an old-fashioned gentleman, in this regard at least, to manhandle a woman, so he's still underneath her on the bed, and she's still the one straddling his hips. "None of that, now," she tells him, the corners of her mouth twitching. "You got to lie still, Billy, or how can I do anything?"
He looks up at her, lion eyes dark with confusion, wariness, maybe a little something else. Or, hell, a lot. They're both naked, his skin running golden against her own warm darkness, and she'd have to be numb all over to miss his - interest - nudging against her. But still, that look on his face. She kinda likes it. He may be an infuriating, childish, oblivious egomaniac a lot of the time, but he sure as hell looks hot as fuck pinned down on Nichelle's bed, muscled torso gleaming with sweat, clean-cut face half-afraid.
She smiles at him, gentle, reassuring. She leans down towards him and runs a thumb over his lower lip. "Just relax," she murmurs, letting the pad of her thumb drag slightly; letting it slip into the wetness of his mouth. He flickers his tongue over it unprompted, and she smiles a little more. "That's it, sugar. You just do as I tell you, okay, and things'll all be good. You might even learn something."
She creeps a hand between his legs. He cants his hips automatically towards it, but she slips straight down past his cock, trailing her fingertips over his balls and pressing them lower, against his perineum. "Might even learn something," she repeats, under her breath, and smiles at him slow and warm.
When her fingertips leave him, he murmurs softly in disappointment, rocking his hips up against her. When he feels them return, slick with something and slightly chill, he tenses, and she thumbs his mouth again, hushes him. He stills underneath her, still watching her wide-eyed and suspicious. "Nichelle - "
"Hush," she tells him firmly, in a tone that leaves no room for argument. And she presses her lubed fingertip against the entrance to his body, circles him deftly until his muscles twitch in surprise, and then slips inside.
He's so taken aback at that, he half-surges off the bed towards her, with a swift intake of breath and a choked, "Shit - Nichelle - what are you doing?"
Really, some people just don't listen.
Nichelle raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, just goes on circling her finger inside him until his body slackens around her, bows to her will and ignores his twists and shivers and protestations. She finds that spot inside him fairly quickly, presses there, and he bucks up against her for another reason entirely, breaking off in the middle of I don't think - to cry out in shock and pleasure. She laughs.
"You like that, huh, honey?"
It's not a question, not really, and he doesn't treat it as one. Bill is a fast learner, and he presses down against her until she laughs again and says, "Patience, there," and takes the opportunity to slip in a second finger. When she scissors the digits inside him, he makes a broken little moaning sound and says Fuck, 'Chelle, and she jabs a little roughly at his prostate just to see him jump.
"Coming up, sug," she tells him, sweetly.
Even through the haze of sensation that's got him writhing on the bed underneath her, Bill catches the edge in that, obviously, because he holds himself suddenly still and looks up at her sharply. "What - "
"Hush." She puts a finger to her lips; slips her other hand out of him. "Close your eyes."
He doesn't move, but only lies there, giving her an appraising look. She raises that eyebrow again.
"You wanna come, Bill? You shut your goddamn eyes."
When he complies - she's quite entertained by how quickly he capitulates - she takes the opportunity to reach a long arm for her dressing-table drawer. She doesn't get all that much use out of her strap-on, which is a shame, really, because - she remembers, as she fastens it on, lifting her hips to do up the buckles - there's nothing she loves quite so much as hovering over a warm body, man or woman, knowing she's ready and able to do the fucking. She's slick and hot between the legs just at the thought of it.
When she nudges the head of the dildo between Bill's thighs, his capacity for obedience gives out again, and he opens his eyes. Opens is something of an understatement, really. He looks as if his eyes are about to fall out of his head. "Wh - "
"I'm going to fuck you, honey," Nichelle tells him, smoothly, unflinchingly. "I told you that this afternoon. Did you think I was kidding?"
Bill opens his mouth. Then he closes it again. Nichelle does not fail to notice the twitch of his cock, the way it's leaking against his stomach. Bill does not object to this, however much he may wish he could truthfully say that he does.
"All right, baby," she goes on, in response to his acquiescent silence. "Lift your legs up for me - that's it - round my waist. Good. Such a good boy, Billy. Now - just - "
And she slides into him mid-sentence deliberately, while he isn't expecting it; slides all the way slickly into the tight inside of him so that his head snaps back in startlement and he bucks up hard against her with a strangled little cry.
He's never been fucked before. That much is clear, from the way he jerks a little awkwardly, wanting it like someone who doesn't know what it is that he's wanting, rocking against her and blushing like he's ashamed of how good it is. His mouth is half-open, his eyes closed, and his tight little whimpers - oh - oh - fuck - God - are getting Nichelle wetter than she'd ever anticipated. She's never found it difficult to fall into a rhythm, while doing this, but the press of the strapon against her body, his balls pressed to her clit sporadically as she fucks him, just aren't enough stimulation, and God, when he writhes on the pillow and keens like that, she wants to come right fucking now.
"'Chelle," he pants, breathless, melting underneath her; "Fuck, Nichelle."
Concentrate, she tells herself, biting back the urge to slip a hand back between her own legs. Distract yourself. She leans down towards him.
"I always thought," she breathes, between thrusts, "that Mr Spock probably fucked the Captain like this."
The sound he makes at that is unbridled, raw, and it shocks her, in more ways than one. God, he liked that. She tries again. "Gets me so wet," she breathes, into the hollow underneath his ear, pressing her forehead to his neck and fucking him like that, like that, like that, in steady rocking motions. "Just thinking about it. Jim writhing under Spock. All hot and breathless and hard for him. And Spock fucking him right there on the bridge until he - "
"Fuck!"
He jerks up then, almost hard enough to force them both into a sitting position, his legs tightening around her waist as he shoots all over her stomach. She gives him a moment, but her clit's almost aching with neglect, now, and she slips out of him hastily, unbuckling the strap-on, and rolls onto her back.
"Captain," she breathes, tugging him into position by the shoulders, the nape of his neck. "Fuck, Captain, suck me."
His face is between her legs before she can blink, his tongue practised and clever, flicking and laving her clit while his fingers slip inside her. She presses herself up against him, wet and hot and God, so close, and he seals his mouth around her clitoris and sucks her there and she comes in a rush of wet-hot pleasure that's smeared all over his face when he surfaces.
She smiles at him, running a hand through the slickness on his cheek. "Good boy, Captain." She raises the hand to her mouth; licks one finger delicately. "Good boy."
He wriggles up the bed beside her, collapsing onto the pillows. He's breathless, panting, sweat-slicked and hot and exhausted. He doesn't say anything.
Which, you know. Is a start.
Rating: thoroughly PG
Pairing: Shatnoy
Warnings/Notes: This was written for a prompt that simply said EPIC CUDDLAGE, with the elaboration 'as fluffy as possible'. Effectively. So, take that as a warning, if you will, that this has no redeeming value whatsoever.
Bill doesn't know whether he's reading too much into this, or what, but it seems to him that Vulcans wouldn't be the most cuddly of races. Granted, a lot of what is 'known' about them consists of stuff he and Len generated spontaneously behind various soundstages, remarks made during smoking breaks often ending up as firm Vulcan canon. Like, for example, "Maybe Vulcans have some sort of nerve-pinching thing that knocks people out, instead?" or "What if Vulcans kiss with their hands?" So, maybe there isn't a right or wrong answer to the cuddling issue just yet. But it strikes Bill, as he shifts against Leonard's warm, prone body and nuzzles the plastic tip of his ear, that Spock might find this position a little undignified.
Leonard, on the other hand, doesn't seem to mind at all. He's got one arm tucked under Bill's head, the other hand lightly clasping his wrist where it's lying on Leonard's stomach. When Bill moves slightly, to rearrange himself a little, Leonard makes a low-pitched sound of dissent, and tightens his grip. Bill smiles, and kisses his ear.
"Lenny," he whispers, trying not to laugh, "my leg's going numb. I'm just gonna move it around a little, okay?"
"Nrrrrnf," says Leonard, grumpily. He twists his face a little so his mouth is brushing Bill's cheek, and Bill, heedless of the fact that Leonard's breath smells like cigarette smoke from two hours ago, kisses that mouth and ruffles his hair a little.
"Hang on," he tells him amiably, regardless of the fact that the noise Leonard just made, however indistinct, definitely sounded like it might translate to don't you fucking dare move. He wriggles the stricken leg out from under Leonard's, flexing his ankle until the feeling has fully returned. Then he tucks himself up again against Leonard's side, and kisses him on the nose. "Okay?"
"Mmmmmmmph," Leonard agrees. "G'back sleep, Billy."
The sofa in Bill's dressing room is far too small for this kind of behaviour, really; but there isn't a single piece of furniture in here that has not been put to several uses for which it is frankly vastly unsuited, so Bill can't really bring himself to feel sorry for it. He and Len can just about fit on it when they tangle themselves together into one great big Bleonard entity, and that's fine by him, because he really kind of likes waking up from an afternoon nap with his face pressed to Leonard's neck and Leonard's hand up his shirt.
Yes, he thinks, going back to sleep sounds pretty appealing, as an option. So he tells Leonard, "Sure thing, baby," and closes his eyes again.
Title: [untitled]
Pairing: Bill/Nichelle. Or, er, Nichelle/Bill, if we're doing it that way. And kind of Kirk/Spock...? In my head, there's an obvious undercurrent of as-yet-unconsummated Shatnoy, but that might just be me.
Rating: NC-17 like whoah.
Disclaimer: Dear GOD, am I sure this is a lie.
Warnings/Notes: The prompt for this was 'Nichelle pegging Bill', which is, I suppose, a warning in itself. The actuality of it is that Nichelle always says what she means, and when she says she's going to teach Bill some respect, she damn well means it. Filthy, filthy porns.
When it comes to the English language, Nichelle believes in the brutal power of accuracy. Other people...well, they don't. Over time, this has become frustratingly clear to her. When she says she's going for a lie-down, she means a lie-down, where they hear nap. When she says she's a little hungry, there's no false modesty there, and no understatement. 'A little hungry' means it's time for a muffin, not a three-course meal.
And when she said to Bill, half-exasperated, that she'd a good mind to take him home and fuck some goddamn respect into him, that was exactly what she meant.
Which Bill - who only raised an eyebrow and said he wouldn't object - seems not to have realised.
Until now.
He's on his back, and that alone, to judge by the look on his face, is making him nervous. He keeps reaching for her, gripping her by the shoulders and attempting to flip them over, but she's stronger than she looks and he's too much of an old-fashioned gentleman, in this regard at least, to manhandle a woman, so he's still underneath her on the bed, and she's still the one straddling his hips. "None of that, now," she tells him, the corners of her mouth twitching. "You got to lie still, Billy, or how can I do anything?"
He looks up at her, lion eyes dark with confusion, wariness, maybe a little something else. Or, hell, a lot. They're both naked, his skin running golden against her own warm darkness, and she'd have to be numb all over to miss his - interest - nudging against her. But still, that look on his face. She kinda likes it. He may be an infuriating, childish, oblivious egomaniac a lot of the time, but he sure as hell looks hot as fuck pinned down on Nichelle's bed, muscled torso gleaming with sweat, clean-cut face half-afraid.
She smiles at him, gentle, reassuring. She leans down towards him and runs a thumb over his lower lip. "Just relax," she murmurs, letting the pad of her thumb drag slightly; letting it slip into the wetness of his mouth. He flickers his tongue over it unprompted, and she smiles a little more. "That's it, sugar. You just do as I tell you, okay, and things'll all be good. You might even learn something."
She creeps a hand between his legs. He cants his hips automatically towards it, but she slips straight down past his cock, trailing her fingertips over his balls and pressing them lower, against his perineum. "Might even learn something," she repeats, under her breath, and smiles at him slow and warm.
When her fingertips leave him, he murmurs softly in disappointment, rocking his hips up against her. When he feels them return, slick with something and slightly chill, he tenses, and she thumbs his mouth again, hushes him. He stills underneath her, still watching her wide-eyed and suspicious. "Nichelle - "
"Hush," she tells him firmly, in a tone that leaves no room for argument. And she presses her lubed fingertip against the entrance to his body, circles him deftly until his muscles twitch in surprise, and then slips inside.
He's so taken aback at that, he half-surges off the bed towards her, with a swift intake of breath and a choked, "Shit - Nichelle - what are you doing?"
Really, some people just don't listen.
Nichelle raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, just goes on circling her finger inside him until his body slackens around her, bows to her will and ignores his twists and shivers and protestations. She finds that spot inside him fairly quickly, presses there, and he bucks up against her for another reason entirely, breaking off in the middle of I don't think - to cry out in shock and pleasure. She laughs.
"You like that, huh, honey?"
It's not a question, not really, and he doesn't treat it as one. Bill is a fast learner, and he presses down against her until she laughs again and says, "Patience, there," and takes the opportunity to slip in a second finger. When she scissors the digits inside him, he makes a broken little moaning sound and says Fuck, 'Chelle, and she jabs a little roughly at his prostate just to see him jump.
"Coming up, sug," she tells him, sweetly.
Even through the haze of sensation that's got him writhing on the bed underneath her, Bill catches the edge in that, obviously, because he holds himself suddenly still and looks up at her sharply. "What - "
"Hush." She puts a finger to her lips; slips her other hand out of him. "Close your eyes."
He doesn't move, but only lies there, giving her an appraising look. She raises that eyebrow again.
"You wanna come, Bill? You shut your goddamn eyes."
When he complies - she's quite entertained by how quickly he capitulates - she takes the opportunity to reach a long arm for her dressing-table drawer. She doesn't get all that much use out of her strap-on, which is a shame, really, because - she remembers, as she fastens it on, lifting her hips to do up the buckles - there's nothing she loves quite so much as hovering over a warm body, man or woman, knowing she's ready and able to do the fucking. She's slick and hot between the legs just at the thought of it.
When she nudges the head of the dildo between Bill's thighs, his capacity for obedience gives out again, and he opens his eyes. Opens is something of an understatement, really. He looks as if his eyes are about to fall out of his head. "Wh - "
"I'm going to fuck you, honey," Nichelle tells him, smoothly, unflinchingly. "I told you that this afternoon. Did you think I was kidding?"
Bill opens his mouth. Then he closes it again. Nichelle does not fail to notice the twitch of his cock, the way it's leaking against his stomach. Bill does not object to this, however much he may wish he could truthfully say that he does.
"All right, baby," she goes on, in response to his acquiescent silence. "Lift your legs up for me - that's it - round my waist. Good. Such a good boy, Billy. Now - just - "
And she slides into him mid-sentence deliberately, while he isn't expecting it; slides all the way slickly into the tight inside of him so that his head snaps back in startlement and he bucks up hard against her with a strangled little cry.
He's never been fucked before. That much is clear, from the way he jerks a little awkwardly, wanting it like someone who doesn't know what it is that he's wanting, rocking against her and blushing like he's ashamed of how good it is. His mouth is half-open, his eyes closed, and his tight little whimpers - oh - oh - fuck - God - are getting Nichelle wetter than she'd ever anticipated. She's never found it difficult to fall into a rhythm, while doing this, but the press of the strapon against her body, his balls pressed to her clit sporadically as she fucks him, just aren't enough stimulation, and God, when he writhes on the pillow and keens like that, she wants to come right fucking now.
"'Chelle," he pants, breathless, melting underneath her; "Fuck, Nichelle."
Concentrate, she tells herself, biting back the urge to slip a hand back between her own legs. Distract yourself. She leans down towards him.
"I always thought," she breathes, between thrusts, "that Mr Spock probably fucked the Captain like this."
The sound he makes at that is unbridled, raw, and it shocks her, in more ways than one. God, he liked that. She tries again. "Gets me so wet," she breathes, into the hollow underneath his ear, pressing her forehead to his neck and fucking him like that, like that, like that, in steady rocking motions. "Just thinking about it. Jim writhing under Spock. All hot and breathless and hard for him. And Spock fucking him right there on the bridge until he - "
"Fuck!"
He jerks up then, almost hard enough to force them both into a sitting position, his legs tightening around her waist as he shoots all over her stomach. She gives him a moment, but her clit's almost aching with neglect, now, and she slips out of him hastily, unbuckling the strap-on, and rolls onto her back.
"Captain," she breathes, tugging him into position by the shoulders, the nape of his neck. "Fuck, Captain, suck me."
His face is between her legs before she can blink, his tongue practised and clever, flicking and laving her clit while his fingers slip inside her. She presses herself up against him, wet and hot and God, so close, and he seals his mouth around her clitoris and sucks her there and she comes in a rush of wet-hot pleasure that's smeared all over his face when he surfaces.
She smiles at him, running a hand through the slickness on his cheek. "Good boy, Captain." She raises the hand to her mouth; licks one finger delicately. "Good boy."
He wriggles up the bed beside her, collapsing onto the pillows. He's breathless, panting, sweat-slicked and hot and exhausted. He doesn't say anything.
Which, you know. Is a start.