Fic: Saturday, 3.37 p.m.
This came from the kinkmeme. That's sort of shorthand for It Came From Hell, with me, on many occasions, and this one certainly.
Title: Saturday, 3.37 p.m.
Pairing: Leonard/Bill/Heather Locklear. Yeah. I don't know.
Rating: NC-17, although probably mild NC-17
Disclaimer: AHAHAHAHA. Er. LIES.
Notes/Summary: I wrote this for a kinkmeme prompt here. Anon had just discovered that Bill and Heather were longtime friends, and requested a threesome. So, here is an unconvincing, TJ Hooker-era threesome. Heather walks in on mansex. Cue intrigue.
Her first thought is that Bill's got a woman in the house.
Come over Saturday, he said. Marcy's away, he said. Well, what's a girl to do with an invitation like that? He's older than her, and he's married, but he likes her, she can tell, and he doesn't seem the scrupulously faithful type. He's in his fifties, but she'd never have guessed it, and his gut-twisting sunshine smile shows no sign of dimming.
Come over Saturday, Heather, he said. Is it really so much of a surprise that she'd heard Come over Saturday, Heather, and we'll go to bed?
Pah.
He's definitely got a woman in there. In the living room, no less; and he hasn't even bothered to lock the front door. The thought that he must have forgotten he even asked her over is a slow burn in her stomach. God damn him, and his very audible whimpers, and - (ohfuck ohgod ohthere) - his total and utter insensitivity, and most of all (ohshit - oh -) the fact that she's wet through her fury, just from the sound of him.
Oh, hell.
She turns back towards the door. Leave now, Heather. Say nothing. Be cold with him all week and he'll get the picture.
"Oh - ohgod ohgod ohfuck oh shit, Leonard - fuck!"
...
There's a long, long pause somewhere inside her head, as if all her systems have temporarily shut down from shock overload. Slowly, one by one, everything turns itself back on.
She's surprised to find that her arousal is not least among these things. Leonard? Heather has only ever heard Bill talk about one Leonard. They did a show together, not two months previously. He's a tall guy, slim, his face a little craggy, his voice more than compensating for it. Nice.
And now here she is, hovering in Bill's hallway like a stupid little girl disappointed, and he's -
- what the hell are they doing?
Whatever it is, it's noisy, and increasingly so. The door to the living room is slightly ajar in her peripheral vision. She should walk out of the house right now, before they realise she's here, but that open door is beckoning to her and she doesn't know if she's strong enough a woman not to peek at least.
As it turns out, she isn't. Two steps carry her to the living room door, and they're in there, both of them, flung carelessly full-length on the floor, and Leonard's dark head is just rising from between Bill's legs as she widens her eyes and stares. Bill's reaching for him, smiling at him, pulling him up by the shoulders - and ohchrist, Bill's cock; he hasn't come yet - and then Leonard is braced over him, one hand either side of Bill's head on the carpet, and he dips down in one smooth fluid motion and presses his mouth to Bill's.
Oh.
And that's nothing she's ever seen before, nothing she's even imagined: the two of them together, shirtless, kissing deep and slick and fierce and she's astonished at how natural it looks when two men kiss each other. Oh, God. Seeing Bill underneath like that, his hips bucking up against Leonard's, and the tensed muscles in Leonard's arms and the way his jaw moves with his kisses -
- ohhhhhhhh fuck.
Afterwards, she has no idea what the hell it was she did that made them look up. Breathed in too sharply, maybe, or stumbled against the door reflexively as she felt herself clench in sympathy with the two of them. All she knows is the sudden stillness, the way they look up at her, slowly and in unison, their eyes unreadable.
They've seen her. There's no point in hiding any longer. She steps into the room, spreads her hands a little in a gesture of surrender. "Hi."
"Hello, Heather," Bill says pleasantly, if a little breathlessly. "I didn't expect you so early."
" - I can go," Heather tells him, quickly. She's trying very hard not to look at the sheen of sweat across his collarbone, the flush on Leonard's mouth. Their slicked cocks. Bill looks at her, and then exchanges a pointed look with Leonard. She feels her insides liquefy. Might he -
"You can stay," Bill tells her, in the same easy tone. "If you like."
This is it. She had almost thought he was about to ask that, and was just telling herself not to be stupid when he actually said it. Nice girls don't do things like that. Nice girls would never. Her mother -
- would never have found herself in Bill Shatner's living room, being asked to play the filling in a mansandwich, so really, the point is immaterial.
For answer, before she can change her mind, Heather smiles back at them, and says, "I think I will," and pulls her loose summer dress off over her head.
"Good God," says Leonard. Bill bursts out laughing, at him, not at her; and he holds out a hand to tell her so even while he's laughing, and she goes to him willingly, easily. It seems easiest just to lie down on the floor, so she does; and Bill reaches out from under Leonard's firm weight and cups her jaw in his hand, and kisses her.
And it's good, as kisses go, soft and warm and just the right amount of wet, but she's still surprised when he starts to whimper again, until she realises - hair brushing her bare thigh; a hand behind her knee for balance - that Leonard's mouth is between his legs again.
The thought pretty much makes her panties useless in about half a second, so it's really quite a good job, all things considered, that Bill appears to be working them off her. This whole experience is unreal, unbelievable; but hey, these guys lived through the Sixties, so she'll take her cue from them. Bill's twisting a little, just slightly, canting his hips against Leonard's mouth and panting into hers, and once he's shoved her underwear down almost to her knees, he slips a hand between her thighs and trails it upwards, mapping an unerring path to just that place where pleasure darts out into slickness. She cries out in surprise at the intensity of it, the accuracy and the soonness, and he laughs a little, a warm, throaty sound. She thrusts her hips against his hand.
She's just dissolving into the sensations - "Oh, God, Bill - men are never this good at this" - when Leonard pulls away, moving somewhere, and then Bill is pressed against her head to foot, and his cock is leaking against the back of his own hand; and when she breaks away from his kiss to ascertain what the hell is going on, she catches a look of unreadable, exquisite pain-pleasure-fire on his face, and Leonard's arms around his waist, face against Bill's shoulder, and oh, God.
Oh, God.
He's fucking him. Belatedly, she realises that Leonard's been working Bill open with his fingers this whole time, and now he's sliding home into Bill and Bill is torquing and rubbing himself back against Leonard, and he's leaking like fuck and his beautiful cock is going to waste and oh God this is a kink she had no idea she had. And yet.
"Christ, Bill," she breathes sharply, and shifts her body, and slides herself easily, slickly onto his cock.
He cries out, but Leonard's rocking into him now, gasping and panting and she doesn't know which of them elicited the sound, exactly. Probably it was both. At any rate, he's whimpering, and she's rocking down onto him and Leonard's sliding into him and they find a rhythm somewhere in there, slow at first, and then picking up speed. She's wet, so wet, and he moves like a man who's done everything before and knows just how well he does it, and he fucks her while he's fucked, kissing her slack mouth as Leonard sucks a deep bruise into his throat.
She'll have no idea what to say to him on set on Monday morning. She kind of thinks he might not want people to know that he ("Fuck, Leonard - ohgod there there THERE THERE THERE - ") obviously rather enjoys being
("OhGod - OH, GOD - harder will you just for fuck's - "
"What harder? Tell me. Oh - "
"Leonard, you bastard, I mean fuck me and you know it - !")
fucked by men, or at least by one man, this man. This whole thing was probably a bad idea.
And yet, as she feels herself clench around him, feels the orgasm surge up into her stomach and outwards like a burst of sunflung sky - Leonard emptying himself into Bill with a breathless shout; Bill throwing his head back and digging his fingernails into her hips - the question seems suddenly deeply unimportant, drowned beneath the rush of her pulse in her ears.
Title: Saturday, 3.37 p.m.
Pairing: Leonard/Bill/Heather Locklear. Yeah. I don't know.
Rating: NC-17, although probably mild NC-17
Disclaimer: AHAHAHAHA. Er. LIES.
Notes/Summary: I wrote this for a kinkmeme prompt here. Anon had just discovered that Bill and Heather were longtime friends, and requested a threesome. So, here is an unconvincing, TJ Hooker-era threesome. Heather walks in on mansex. Cue intrigue.
Her first thought is that Bill's got a woman in the house.
Come over Saturday, he said. Marcy's away, he said. Well, what's a girl to do with an invitation like that? He's older than her, and he's married, but he likes her, she can tell, and he doesn't seem the scrupulously faithful type. He's in his fifties, but she'd never have guessed it, and his gut-twisting sunshine smile shows no sign of dimming.
Come over Saturday, Heather, he said. Is it really so much of a surprise that she'd heard Come over Saturday, Heather, and we'll go to bed?
Pah.
He's definitely got a woman in there. In the living room, no less; and he hasn't even bothered to lock the front door. The thought that he must have forgotten he even asked her over is a slow burn in her stomach. God damn him, and his very audible whimpers, and - (ohfuck ohgod ohthere) - his total and utter insensitivity, and most of all (ohshit - oh -) the fact that she's wet through her fury, just from the sound of him.
Oh, hell.
She turns back towards the door. Leave now, Heather. Say nothing. Be cold with him all week and he'll get the picture.
"Oh - ohgod ohgod ohfuck oh shit, Leonard - fuck!"
...
There's a long, long pause somewhere inside her head, as if all her systems have temporarily shut down from shock overload. Slowly, one by one, everything turns itself back on.
She's surprised to find that her arousal is not least among these things. Leonard? Heather has only ever heard Bill talk about one Leonard. They did a show together, not two months previously. He's a tall guy, slim, his face a little craggy, his voice more than compensating for it. Nice.
And now here she is, hovering in Bill's hallway like a stupid little girl disappointed, and he's -
- what the hell are they doing?
Whatever it is, it's noisy, and increasingly so. The door to the living room is slightly ajar in her peripheral vision. She should walk out of the house right now, before they realise she's here, but that open door is beckoning to her and she doesn't know if she's strong enough a woman not to peek at least.
As it turns out, she isn't. Two steps carry her to the living room door, and they're in there, both of them, flung carelessly full-length on the floor, and Leonard's dark head is just rising from between Bill's legs as she widens her eyes and stares. Bill's reaching for him, smiling at him, pulling him up by the shoulders - and ohchrist, Bill's cock; he hasn't come yet - and then Leonard is braced over him, one hand either side of Bill's head on the carpet, and he dips down in one smooth fluid motion and presses his mouth to Bill's.
Oh.
And that's nothing she's ever seen before, nothing she's even imagined: the two of them together, shirtless, kissing deep and slick and fierce and she's astonished at how natural it looks when two men kiss each other. Oh, God. Seeing Bill underneath like that, his hips bucking up against Leonard's, and the tensed muscles in Leonard's arms and the way his jaw moves with his kisses -
- ohhhhhhhh fuck.
Afterwards, she has no idea what the hell it was she did that made them look up. Breathed in too sharply, maybe, or stumbled against the door reflexively as she felt herself clench in sympathy with the two of them. All she knows is the sudden stillness, the way they look up at her, slowly and in unison, their eyes unreadable.
They've seen her. There's no point in hiding any longer. She steps into the room, spreads her hands a little in a gesture of surrender. "Hi."
"Hello, Heather," Bill says pleasantly, if a little breathlessly. "I didn't expect you so early."
" - I can go," Heather tells him, quickly. She's trying very hard not to look at the sheen of sweat across his collarbone, the flush on Leonard's mouth. Their slicked cocks. Bill looks at her, and then exchanges a pointed look with Leonard. She feels her insides liquefy. Might he -
"You can stay," Bill tells her, in the same easy tone. "If you like."
This is it. She had almost thought he was about to ask that, and was just telling herself not to be stupid when he actually said it. Nice girls don't do things like that. Nice girls would never. Her mother -
- would never have found herself in Bill Shatner's living room, being asked to play the filling in a mansandwich, so really, the point is immaterial.
For answer, before she can change her mind, Heather smiles back at them, and says, "I think I will," and pulls her loose summer dress off over her head.
"Good God," says Leonard. Bill bursts out laughing, at him, not at her; and he holds out a hand to tell her so even while he's laughing, and she goes to him willingly, easily. It seems easiest just to lie down on the floor, so she does; and Bill reaches out from under Leonard's firm weight and cups her jaw in his hand, and kisses her.
And it's good, as kisses go, soft and warm and just the right amount of wet, but she's still surprised when he starts to whimper again, until she realises - hair brushing her bare thigh; a hand behind her knee for balance - that Leonard's mouth is between his legs again.
The thought pretty much makes her panties useless in about half a second, so it's really quite a good job, all things considered, that Bill appears to be working them off her. This whole experience is unreal, unbelievable; but hey, these guys lived through the Sixties, so she'll take her cue from them. Bill's twisting a little, just slightly, canting his hips against Leonard's mouth and panting into hers, and once he's shoved her underwear down almost to her knees, he slips a hand between her thighs and trails it upwards, mapping an unerring path to just that place where pleasure darts out into slickness. She cries out in surprise at the intensity of it, the accuracy and the soonness, and he laughs a little, a warm, throaty sound. She thrusts her hips against his hand.
She's just dissolving into the sensations - "Oh, God, Bill - men are never this good at this" - when Leonard pulls away, moving somewhere, and then Bill is pressed against her head to foot, and his cock is leaking against the back of his own hand; and when she breaks away from his kiss to ascertain what the hell is going on, she catches a look of unreadable, exquisite pain-pleasure-fire on his face, and Leonard's arms around his waist, face against Bill's shoulder, and oh, God.
Oh, God.
He's fucking him. Belatedly, she realises that Leonard's been working Bill open with his fingers this whole time, and now he's sliding home into Bill and Bill is torquing and rubbing himself back against Leonard, and he's leaking like fuck and his beautiful cock is going to waste and oh God this is a kink she had no idea she had. And yet.
"Christ, Bill," she breathes sharply, and shifts her body, and slides herself easily, slickly onto his cock.
He cries out, but Leonard's rocking into him now, gasping and panting and she doesn't know which of them elicited the sound, exactly. Probably it was both. At any rate, he's whimpering, and she's rocking down onto him and Leonard's sliding into him and they find a rhythm somewhere in there, slow at first, and then picking up speed. She's wet, so wet, and he moves like a man who's done everything before and knows just how well he does it, and he fucks her while he's fucked, kissing her slack mouth as Leonard sucks a deep bruise into his throat.
She'll have no idea what to say to him on set on Monday morning. She kind of thinks he might not want people to know that he ("Fuck, Leonard - ohgod there there THERE THERE THERE - ") obviously rather enjoys being
("OhGod - OH, GOD - harder will you just for fuck's - "
"What harder? Tell me. Oh - "
"Leonard, you bastard, I mean fuck me and you know it - !")
fucked by men, or at least by one man, this man. This whole thing was probably a bad idea.
And yet, as she feels herself clench around him, feels the orgasm surge up into her stomach and outwards like a burst of sunflung sky - Leonard emptying himself into Bill with a breathless shout; Bill throwing his head back and digging his fingernails into her hips - the question seems suddenly deeply unimportant, drowned beneath the rush of her pulse in her ears.