Fic: Oneupmanship (NC-17)
Title: Oneupmanship
Rating: NC-17. Bang go my attempts at R-rated porn.
Pairing: Shatnoy. NEEDS MOAR.
Summary: Their games of oneupmanship are not limited to onset pranks. Warning for (fairly mild) bondage themes.
Disclaimer: This is a lie made of lies, wrapped up in more lies and deposited in Lieville.
Notes: Many people get the blame for this, although some of them may be surprised to hear it. Among them, starcrossedgirl, for reasons which should be obvious to her, and screamlet for Bill in handcuffs being my first mental image this morning.
"Y'know, Leonard," Bill says, with uncharacteristic caution, "I don't think this bed was built to withstand this kind of treatment."
"Quiet."
Just the one word, cast hot like iron in the darkness. Leonard's fingers trace the outside of Bill's elbow; find the protruding line of his ulna and follow it up to the jut of his wrist with the precision of a physician. This is all Bill can feel of him, aside from the indistinct heat of his body, drawing suggestions: the impression of a knee either side of Bill's hip, of warm breath somewhere close to his ear. He shifts, just a little, and Leonard's fingers slip from wristbone to the rough bracelet of rope binding wrist to wrist, to bed. Bill jerks a little at that, involuntarily, and again, it is more what is suggested that fires him into motion, than what is said. Really, Leonard has said very little, tonight.
Bill really isn't sure the bed can take it.
"Quiet," Leonard says; and then the very tip of a finger finds the corner of Bill's mouth, rolling it downwards gently until there is slickness to carry his touch over the full crescent of Bill's lower lip. It is not a forceful touch - not yet - but it is insistent, and Bill parts his lips to it, curling his tongue around the tip of Leonard's finger until he hears the broken rasp of his breath, until a second finger joins the first: suggestions.
"Good," Leonard says, the word catching in the back of his throat as Bill's tongue finds its way into the sensitive junction between finger and finger and palm; as he draws both digits deep to the back of his throat. Bill is good at this; his gag reflex appears to be minimal. He takes a moment to hope he never accidentally ingests poison. Then Leonard says that's it, and the strain in his voice steers Bill's mind away from everything but this.
He likes to do things in the dark, Leonard; and Bill could think of countless explanations for this; could fill a book with appropriate quotations, but in the end, doesn't want to, if only because he likes it, too. Leonard thrusts his fingers in and out of Bill's mouth, tilting his head back with the repetitive force of it, silencing him with the steady pressure to his tongue. Bill cants his hips half-unconsciously upwards, seeking Leonard's heat, and the sense of abandonment that catches him when the fingers are withdrawn is only momentary. When Leonard touches him again, fingers slick with Bill's saliva, Bill shudders with it, jerks and spreads his legs until the circling fingertip slips easily inside him. "Fuck," he gasps out, "fuck - Leonard - " and the second finger rejoins the first, scissoring inside him till he thrusts up on a backbitten cry.
It still burns when they do this, even now that Leonard has opened and closed him so many times like a trinket box whose key is Leonard's fingers, Leonard's tongue. Like this, though, he swallows the burn; lets it scorch the insides of him until his veins run hot with it, and then Leonard finds that place inside of him that makes him stiffen bodily, the pain consumed by a new conflagration. There are words, now, somewhere in the chaos; hot like this and like that, don't you? breathed into the hollows of his body. Bill clenches his teeth and thrusts back onto Leonard's fingers, wrists twisting hopelessly in their restraints. It must have been the Army that taught Leonard to knot so immaculately. For everything else, Bill is content to credit Leonard alone.
He nears the edge quickly, head thrown back so the pulse in his throat beats palpably with every breath; but Leonard holds him there with his words and his touches like knives, fingers pressed firm and unmoving to the place that makes Bill scream. He rocks his hips, twists on the mattress and attempts to work himself further onto Leonard's fingers; but Leonard is still, unyielding as stone until Bill collapses under the weight of the darkness and wrenches out, "Please - please - "
"Please?" A twist of his fingers; withdrawal, return; a press to the gland that makes Bill's veins run molten.
"Please," Bill repeats; and then, "Goddammit, Leonard, let me come!"
And he does, then; calls the climax forth with the ease and panache of a conjuror performing a well-loved trick, and Bill arches his body and straightens his legs and cries out as if there were no-one to hear.
"Good," Leonard breathes, as if from very far away. He is close, though, his voice distorted through the funnelled haze in Bill's ears, and his fingers move swiftly in Bill's line of sight when he opens his eyes again. Bill knows this motion, follows it, savours it; the flick of Leonard's thumb over the tip of himself; the slicked back-and-forth of his palm up and down the long shaft.
"Leonard," Bill breathes; and then once more, because Leonard so likes to hear it: "Please."
And then Leonard is coming before the word is fully out of Bill's mouth; coming and coming on a strangled cry, ejaculate like hot white wax over Bill's chest and neck and cheek. Bill's lips are still parted on an exhalation, and he smiles open-mouthed at Leonard before he licks them clean. "Good," he echoes, as if just to be sure Leonard knows that not everything is for his own benefit alone. "God, I love it when you do that."
Leonard laughs a little, breathlessly; slumps down onto Bill's chest and draws his tongue up the long curve of Bill's neck, over his cheek. Bill turns his face and catches him mid-motion, sucks Leonard's lower lip into his mouth and nips at it until Leonard laughs more and pulls away.
"That's because you're filthy," Leonard says, sitting up again.
Bill smirks at him. "You like it."
"Oh, I love it," Leonard agrees mildly, fumbling for his trousers.
Bill smirks a little more. "Knew it."
And he does; they do; there are days when Bill wants nothing but the slow glide of Leonard's hands over his skin, the thick weight of him at the back of his throat, the unexpectedly floral scent of his hair. It is all he can do sometimes not to go about the set smirking permanently, thinking of that hair plastered sweatily to Leonard's forehead; wondering what Spock would say, if he knew.
"Fascinating," Bill thinks, more than likely.
Some days, he wants Leonard so much he can taste it, like iron on the underside of his tongue.
Leonard is standing, now, stuffing his long legs into a much-abused pair of jeans, comparing the two discarded shirts in an effort to work out which one is his own. Bill watches him for an idle moment, languidly enjoying the smooth grace of his movements, the long curve of his spine. He wants to lick that spine from neck to tailbone, knowing as he does just how beautifully Leonard reacts when he does just that.
Leonard's shirt is on, now; mostly buttoned. Bill frowns. "Len?"
"Hmm?" Leonard retrieves his bag from behind an armchair; runs a brush through his hair and then tosses it back into the knapsack.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Bill tugs at the restraints, pointedly. He tries to look authoritative, but it is a little difficult to manage that when naked and bound to a rickety motel bed, even when one is the Captain of the Enterprise.
"Don't think so," Leonard says smoothly, as he opens the door. "If I have forgotten anything, you can bring it along with you, can't you?"
"Leonard," Bill says, on a low note of caution, and then "LEONARD!" as the door closes behind him. "Leonard!"
Leonard maintains that less than three minutes pass before he returns, snorting with laughter at the look on Bill's face as he unties him. Bill contends that it was definitely closer to six, at the absolute minimum, and also that Leonard may be pleased with himself now, but he had better be very careful with himself at work on Monday.
On Tuesday, Bill has his Doberman hold Leonard hostage in his trailer for an hour. It's a start, but still seems inadequate as a response.
Still, this leaves him four days until their next motel rendezvous. He's sure he'll think of something.
Rating: NC-17. Bang go my attempts at R-rated porn.
Pairing: Shatnoy. NEEDS MOAR.
Summary: Their games of oneupmanship are not limited to onset pranks. Warning for (fairly mild) bondage themes.
Disclaimer: This is a lie made of lies, wrapped up in more lies and deposited in Lieville.
Notes: Many people get the blame for this, although some of them may be surprised to hear it. Among them, starcrossedgirl, for reasons which should be obvious to her, and screamlet for Bill in handcuffs being my first mental image this morning.
"Y'know, Leonard," Bill says, with uncharacteristic caution, "I don't think this bed was built to withstand this kind of treatment."
"Quiet."
Just the one word, cast hot like iron in the darkness. Leonard's fingers trace the outside of Bill's elbow; find the protruding line of his ulna and follow it up to the jut of his wrist with the precision of a physician. This is all Bill can feel of him, aside from the indistinct heat of his body, drawing suggestions: the impression of a knee either side of Bill's hip, of warm breath somewhere close to his ear. He shifts, just a little, and Leonard's fingers slip from wristbone to the rough bracelet of rope binding wrist to wrist, to bed. Bill jerks a little at that, involuntarily, and again, it is more what is suggested that fires him into motion, than what is said. Really, Leonard has said very little, tonight.
Bill really isn't sure the bed can take it.
"Quiet," Leonard says; and then the very tip of a finger finds the corner of Bill's mouth, rolling it downwards gently until there is slickness to carry his touch over the full crescent of Bill's lower lip. It is not a forceful touch - not yet - but it is insistent, and Bill parts his lips to it, curling his tongue around the tip of Leonard's finger until he hears the broken rasp of his breath, until a second finger joins the first: suggestions.
"Good," Leonard says, the word catching in the back of his throat as Bill's tongue finds its way into the sensitive junction between finger and finger and palm; as he draws both digits deep to the back of his throat. Bill is good at this; his gag reflex appears to be minimal. He takes a moment to hope he never accidentally ingests poison. Then Leonard says that's it, and the strain in his voice steers Bill's mind away from everything but this.
He likes to do things in the dark, Leonard; and Bill could think of countless explanations for this; could fill a book with appropriate quotations, but in the end, doesn't want to, if only because he likes it, too. Leonard thrusts his fingers in and out of Bill's mouth, tilting his head back with the repetitive force of it, silencing him with the steady pressure to his tongue. Bill cants his hips half-unconsciously upwards, seeking Leonard's heat, and the sense of abandonment that catches him when the fingers are withdrawn is only momentary. When Leonard touches him again, fingers slick with Bill's saliva, Bill shudders with it, jerks and spreads his legs until the circling fingertip slips easily inside him. "Fuck," he gasps out, "fuck - Leonard - " and the second finger rejoins the first, scissoring inside him till he thrusts up on a backbitten cry.
It still burns when they do this, even now that Leonard has opened and closed him so many times like a trinket box whose key is Leonard's fingers, Leonard's tongue. Like this, though, he swallows the burn; lets it scorch the insides of him until his veins run hot with it, and then Leonard finds that place inside of him that makes him stiffen bodily, the pain consumed by a new conflagration. There are words, now, somewhere in the chaos; hot like this and like that, don't you? breathed into the hollows of his body. Bill clenches his teeth and thrusts back onto Leonard's fingers, wrists twisting hopelessly in their restraints. It must have been the Army that taught Leonard to knot so immaculately. For everything else, Bill is content to credit Leonard alone.
He nears the edge quickly, head thrown back so the pulse in his throat beats palpably with every breath; but Leonard holds him there with his words and his touches like knives, fingers pressed firm and unmoving to the place that makes Bill scream. He rocks his hips, twists on the mattress and attempts to work himself further onto Leonard's fingers; but Leonard is still, unyielding as stone until Bill collapses under the weight of the darkness and wrenches out, "Please - please - "
"Please?" A twist of his fingers; withdrawal, return; a press to the gland that makes Bill's veins run molten.
"Please," Bill repeats; and then, "Goddammit, Leonard, let me come!"
And he does, then; calls the climax forth with the ease and panache of a conjuror performing a well-loved trick, and Bill arches his body and straightens his legs and cries out as if there were no-one to hear.
"Good," Leonard breathes, as if from very far away. He is close, though, his voice distorted through the funnelled haze in Bill's ears, and his fingers move swiftly in Bill's line of sight when he opens his eyes again. Bill knows this motion, follows it, savours it; the flick of Leonard's thumb over the tip of himself; the slicked back-and-forth of his palm up and down the long shaft.
"Leonard," Bill breathes; and then once more, because Leonard so likes to hear it: "Please."
And then Leonard is coming before the word is fully out of Bill's mouth; coming and coming on a strangled cry, ejaculate like hot white wax over Bill's chest and neck and cheek. Bill's lips are still parted on an exhalation, and he smiles open-mouthed at Leonard before he licks them clean. "Good," he echoes, as if just to be sure Leonard knows that not everything is for his own benefit alone. "God, I love it when you do that."
Leonard laughs a little, breathlessly; slumps down onto Bill's chest and draws his tongue up the long curve of Bill's neck, over his cheek. Bill turns his face and catches him mid-motion, sucks Leonard's lower lip into his mouth and nips at it until Leonard laughs more and pulls away.
"That's because you're filthy," Leonard says, sitting up again.
Bill smirks at him. "You like it."
"Oh, I love it," Leonard agrees mildly, fumbling for his trousers.
Bill smirks a little more. "Knew it."
And he does; they do; there are days when Bill wants nothing but the slow glide of Leonard's hands over his skin, the thick weight of him at the back of his throat, the unexpectedly floral scent of his hair. It is all he can do sometimes not to go about the set smirking permanently, thinking of that hair plastered sweatily to Leonard's forehead; wondering what Spock would say, if he knew.
"Fascinating," Bill thinks, more than likely.
Some days, he wants Leonard so much he can taste it, like iron on the underside of his tongue.
Leonard is standing, now, stuffing his long legs into a much-abused pair of jeans, comparing the two discarded shirts in an effort to work out which one is his own. Bill watches him for an idle moment, languidly enjoying the smooth grace of his movements, the long curve of his spine. He wants to lick that spine from neck to tailbone, knowing as he does just how beautifully Leonard reacts when he does just that.
Leonard's shirt is on, now; mostly buttoned. Bill frowns. "Len?"
"Hmm?" Leonard retrieves his bag from behind an armchair; runs a brush through his hair and then tosses it back into the knapsack.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Bill tugs at the restraints, pointedly. He tries to look authoritative, but it is a little difficult to manage that when naked and bound to a rickety motel bed, even when one is the Captain of the Enterprise.
"Don't think so," Leonard says smoothly, as he opens the door. "If I have forgotten anything, you can bring it along with you, can't you?"
"Leonard," Bill says, on a low note of caution, and then "LEONARD!" as the door closes behind him. "Leonard!"
Leonard maintains that less than three minutes pass before he returns, snorting with laughter at the look on Bill's face as he unties him. Bill contends that it was definitely closer to six, at the absolute minimum, and also that Leonard may be pleased with himself now, but he had better be very careful with himself at work on Monday.
On Tuesday, Bill has his Doberman hold Leonard hostage in his trailer for an hour. It's a start, but still seems inadequate as a response.
Still, this leaves him four days until their next motel rendezvous. He's sure he'll think of something.