fics what i previously forgot to post here

[urbancate]

(All because the dvd commentary fic meme running around made me realize i need to do a master fic list post and then realized not all fic was posted.)

From sinfest 4, SO STANDARD DISCLAIMERS AND WARNINGS APPLY.

McCoy/Jocelyn
Eleven hours on a brand new day
I'm getting ready to go out and play
It's late at night, I'm caught in a groove
I'd kiss my ass before I'm feeling blue

Seven hours, what you calling for?
A bunch of flowers and I slam the door
You're in my face, sorry what's your name?
Takes more than begging to reverse my brain

Say It

 

She slams the door in his face. Slams the door on Leonard holding a bouquet of peachy hothouse roses, her favorite.

 

"Jocelyn!"

 

"Go away, Leonard!"

 

"Can't we talk about this?" His voice is clear through the closed door. As if he is leaning into the wood, speaking through it, unseen mirror of her own pose in the standoff that has become them.

 

She pushes away from the door, pushes away at the sadness edging in. "No." She's going out.

 

When she leaves, he is gone from the porch, but the flowers are there. She steps over them, in her fuck-me heels and green dancing dress.

 

-

 

She is the belle of the ball. I am the belle of the ball, she thinks and steps over the flowers again, many hours later, on her way back in. But the belle of the ball isn't supposed to go home alone. How did that happen? How did she end up alone tonight?

 

She looks at the flowers at her feet, thinks of slamming the door in his face, the way he didn't have the decency to properly beg, just showed up with peach roses and a barely subdued growl. She sort of hates him. She's definitely angry, and it feels a million times better than being sad - being angry at Leonard McCoy for things that are her own fault.

 

-

 

He still loves her as much as he hates her, she's sure, when he shows up at her door only five minutes after she calls him. The roses are haphazard across the side table in the hall; she didn't bother with a vase. "I hate you," she says, like she did on the phone; he knows it means something different this late at night. The house is dark behind her and the night is darker behind him.

 

"Dammit, Jocelyn." He closes the door behind him and they are in full dark. This is the way it is now, they play at this only in the dark. He takes her wrist and pulls her close, leaving only inches between them.

 

"Fuck you, Leonard," she drawls into his ear; her heels are impossibly high and they are almost at a level when she wears these shoes.

 

He threads fingers through her hair and pulls, exposing her neck. Anger. She likes this. His mouth is hot on her skin and she likes this even better. His tongue traces fire down her neck and along her collarbone before biting at the curve of her shoulder. She sucks in a gaspy breath and arches into him. He completes the movement, his hand still on her wrist, twists her arm behind her and brings full against him. If this were romantic, if this were a romance like they used to, she would think she can't tell where she ends and he begins. But this is anger and heat in the dark, all sharp edges and boundaries, walls that will crash only to be rebuilt. "Say it again," he growls into hollow of her throat.

 

"Fuck you."

 

"My name, woman." His grip on her wrist tightens.

 

"No." She sinks her teeth into his ear to make her point. She is the one in control. She will make him beg.

 

He laughs over a groan and moves them further down the hall, towards the stairs. She stumbles a little over her heels and he only pulls her in tighter, as if this is a dance. She supposes it is; she is still the belle of the ball.

 

"How much have you had to drink, Jocelyn?"

 

"How much have you?"

 

It's quiet, eerie quiet in this dark house, with only their racing breaths and stinging questions hanging in the air.

 

"Enough," he growls before his mouth is hot on hers, angry and possessive, and she can't tell if he answered the question or dismissed it.

 

He lets go of her wrist to push at the thin straps of her dress after undoing the zipper down the back. For a moment she feels sweet, the way she used to be against his touch, honey pliant, the way they used to be for each other. And she doesn't want it; sweet is the same as sad these days. So she reaches for the heat instead, rakes her nails up his back underneath his shirt, bites his lower lip.

 

"Say it," he commands again, pushing her dress down all the way to pool at her feet. She doesn't have to see to know the way she looks right now, in black lace and heels, or the way he is looking at her, as if he will devour her.

 

"No." She steps out of the dress, moves backwards towards the stairs.

 

"Say it." He follows; this is still a dance.

 

"Fuck you." She is one step above him when he grabs her hips and pulls her down, wrecks her balance, forcing her to wrap her arms and legs around him. His clothes feel rough against her bare skin, but he is hard in all the right places and she rocks her hips while their tongues clash.

 

"Say it." He starts walking them up the stairs, and everything is friction as every step jolts them together and she wonders why he is still dressed. This would be so much better if he wasn't dressed, if he was already inside her, carrying her upstairs and driving her mad.

 

He pauses at the landing, slow and deliberate, while all she wants is to tear and wreck and consume. He is teasing her, the fucking bastard is teasing her with his tongue and his body and his dick still zipped up inside his jeans.

 

"Just fuck me, Leonard. Okay? Fuck me."

 

"Made you say it." He smirks for a moment.

 

"Bastard."

 

He shuts her up with his mouth and he is done with teasing. Thank god, she thinks, and it is the last coherent thought she has as he fucks her and it is all angry, drunken heat, crashing against the sharp edges, crumbling into a thing she doesn't recognize but craves. He fucks her because she begged for it.

Karl/OFC
I stand in the distance
I view from afar
Should I offer some assistance
Should it matter who you are

In The Name of Understanding

 

He notices the wife first. A stony-faced raven-haired beauty with a possessive hand on her husband. A hand bearing a very large diamond ring. The rest of the scene comes into focus: The husband - one of the many indie-producer types populating the Sundance social circuit - is talking to another woman, rather intently. Thus the possessive hand. It is less dramatically obvious, but this other woman is beautiful, too. Her hair is long and straight and chocolate brown against the pale skin of her shoulders. She's a warmer, perhaps more innocent, version of the wife. And her eyes are terribly sad.

 

But what does he know? He is seeing all of this from twenty feet away at a crowded party. The conversation is over, people move around him and he loses sight of the small drama, whatever it is.

 

He seems them again, outside on one of the balconies jutting out like Frank Lloyd Wright aspirations attached to the monstrosity of someone's Park City "cabin". He's just out here for a smoke, and a breath of air that isn't thick with perfume and ego.

 

It's just the other woman for a moment, looking out over the railing, shivering. The husband comes out then, curling a hand around her upper arm, possessive.

 

Karl is hidden in shadows against the house, and he really wishes he wasn't out here to witness this. He can hear every word, every raw, private, painful word.

 

"Jules, let me explain." Guilty pleading from the husband.

 

"Is it true, that's she's your wife?"

 

"Yes. But, Jules, you have to - "

 

She cuts him off. "Then there's nothing to explain." She shakes off his hand. "You're a bastard. Go back inside. To your wife." She gestures back towards the house.

 

"Jules, please."

 

"I'm done."

 

The nameless man shrugs in defeat and disappears.

 

She stands for another moment at the railing, says "I'm done" to cold, empty air, before turning with a deep breath to return to the party.

 

He's impressed; she's got guts and get-over-it and something else he can't define that's just there in the set of her shoulders. He steps away from the wall and out of the shadows before he even really thinks about what he's doing. "Buy you a drink?"

 

She startles, but recovers quickly. (Again, he's impressed. Again, he thinks her hair looks like chocolate.) "It's an open bar."

 

"It was either that or offer to kick that guy's ass." He stubs out a cigarette in the stone-pedestal ashtray.

 

"Oh." Her eyebrows raise and he's see a flash of the sadness he though he saw before, inside.

 

"But you seemed to have that covered. So. A drink?" He grins at her, knows he is purposefully putting on the charm, blames it on the chocolate silk hair.

 

She's assessing him, deciding; he's actually nervous.

 

"Okay." She smiles. "A drink. But on one condition."

 

"Oh, what's that?"

 

"That it's more than a drink."

 

He was right about her warmth; her laugh is honey on his skin as they have a drink, her skin is soft as he helps her with her coat. He was a little wrong about her innocence - she propositioned him, after all. But when it comes down to it, the far-off view of first impressions really doesn't matter.

 

She knows what she's doing as she unbuttons his shirt and continues on to his pants. She's all heat and confidence and he wonders for a moment if this is what he should be doing with her, with this woman who he thinks he saw get her heart trampled, if maybe he should just be letting her cry it out on his shoulder or something. But her hands are on him and then her mouth and he forgets about trying to be the understanding, upright guy. He just feels her - wet and hot, teasing suction of mouth, lips, tongue. But this isn't what he wants tonight, right now. Maybe later, but right now he wants her honey warmth and chocolate hair all over him, not just there.

 

He pulls her up, parts her honey mouth with his tongue and yes, it all flows from there. They don't need to speak, she doesn't need to cry out anything but his name and fuck and god and yes. Skin and fire, electricity and motion, sex and forgetfulness, are all the understanding she requires.