(no subject)
Last night I was reading the Baby-Sitters Club Super Special #1 (Baby-Sitters On Board!) while Snark was fixing dinner, and I said something about how I can totally buy Mary Anne as a lesbian and Snark said, "Besides, Logan is a woman anyway! He's more of a woman than Orlando Bloom!" and then I laughed my ass off and wrote this.
Bubblegum Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip Cherry Vanilla Superman
Baby-Sitters Club/RPS crossover
Logan Bruno/Orlando Bloom
R
When I saw Orlando Bloom for the first time, my jaw dropped. He was that pretty. I had a job scooping ice cream at a spot just off campus that summer, and of course I'd heard he was in town. Everyone had heard he was in town, and it seemed like everyone had seen him. Everyone, that is, but me - until he walked in and ordered a triple-scoop chocolate suicide with marshmallow topping. And sprinkles.
You may not know this, but I played a pirate once. Granted, it was a middle school production of Peter Pan and Johnny Depp was nowhere to be found, but I liked to think I knew where the guy was coming from. Proud of our common bond (and not immune to his considerable charms), I set about creating the best cone I'd ever made.
I wish I could say that I impressed him with my superior ice-cream scooping skills, that I dazzled him with the artfulness of my marshmallow drizzle, or that my sprinkles filled his heart with delight. Instead, in a display heretofore unknown to the laws of physics, the ice cream landed on the counter, marshmallow topping dripped in between the keys of the cash register, and the only thing covered in sprinkles was his hair. I ended up flat on my ass behind the counter, beet red and wishing that the floor would swallow me up.
Our eyes met for one shocked moment -- and despite the circumstances, all I could think was pretty -- before he turned on his heel and stormed out of the shop, ignoring the desperate pleas of my manager as she trailed behind.
I buried my face in my hands and vowed never to look at Orlando Bloom for the rest of my life -- that is, until I realized keeping such a vow would mean a fundamental change in my dorm room's decorating scheme. Fine. Never meet him, then. That seemed reasonable. And surely the forces controlling celebrity sightings wouldn't foist an unwanted celebrity on me, not with so many people who would give a limb (theirs or someone else's) to see him.
Four days later, I discovered that the forces controlling celebrity sightings must like a good laugh, because I rounded a corner in the drug store and collided with guess who? And I ended up on my ass again, with my, er, personal supply items strewn around me.
"So sorry," he said, bending to pick up the K-Y that had skittered across the aisle before coming to rest next to the beach towel display.
"No problem," I muttered, ducking my head and hoping against hope that he'd developed some sort of short-term memory problem.
No luck, of course. When he reached out his hand to help me up, I saw a flash of recognition, then a sly smile.
"Hello again," he said, hauling me to my feet. His hand was warm and slightly damp, and he didn't let go even though I was in no apparent danger of falling again.
"Hi." I could feel my face burning.
"I'm Orlando."
"I know."
"You're the guy from the ice cream shop."
"Yeah."
He squeezed my hand a little. "And your name is...?"
For a split second, I considered saying Tom or Alan or Bart or anything else, but decided he'd probably forget the moment he walked out of the drugstore anyway, so lying wasn't really going to be worth the effort. "Logan," I said. "Logan Bruno."
He smiled, and his eyes (which were still pretty) crinkled at the corners. My stomach did not flutter. Not even once. I swear. "It's nice to meet you, Logan Bruno," he said. "We seem to keep running into each other."
"Yeah. Literally. And then I fall on my ass."
He laughed out loud at that, and okay, a tiny thrill ran through me. I made Orlando Bloom laugh, I thought. It was clearly time to make a quick exit before I found something else to trip over or spill on him. The only complication was that he still held my hand.
"I should... I should go," I said. "Lots of errands and stuff before work."
If I didn't know better, I'd say his face fell a little as he released my hand. "Okay, then," he said. "Guess I'll see you around, then."
"Um... I need my..."
He had evidently forgotten picking up the K-Y, because he looked surprised to see it in his hand. "Oh, um, yeah," he said, before the item registered and his face broke into a wicked grin. "Wouldn't want to go without that."
I'm not ashamed to admit that I grabbed the lube and fled.
That evening I spent my work shift (the ice cream job I miraculously still had, although my manager had forbidden me from any future celebrity contact) in an imaginary world where I was graceful and witty and Orlando Bloom actually liked me and also fucked me into the mattress on a regular basis. My customers got a lot of extra ice cream.
Around eight o'clock we hit a major lull, and after I wiped down the already-clean counters and restocked the full straw and napkin dispensers for the umpteenth time, my manager finally noticed and sent me home. With two hours of unexpected freedom on my hands, I found myself standing dumbly on the sidewalk in front of the store, unsure of what to do. It was too early to go out, and I didn't feel like a movie. I was just beginning to wonder if some much-needed quality time with my right hand might do the trick, when a shadowy figure stepped out of a shadowy spot along a shadowy wall. I swear, it was just like the movies. All he was missing was the cigarette and the trenchcoat.
"Hey," Orlando said.
"Hey." I think my voice was two octaves higher than normal. Why had he followed me? Did he have some weird obsession with following strangers who make fools of themselves in his presence? And if so, why hadn't that bit of information come out in all the interviews I'd read?
"I thought I'd find you here." He smiled and his eyes crinkled. That smile was definitely something I could get used to.
"Well, I do work here," I said, gesturing toward the store. "If you want ice cream, we're still open for a while. You'll even get a free cone, since I dropped your last one."
"I don't want ice cream, Logan," Orlando said, and closed the space between us to something measurable in inches. Half-inches, even. I could feel his breath on my cheek.
"Um, you could have a soda, then? Or a milkshake?" This manly proclamation came out sounding like a girly squeak, and I wondered how the hell I could disable my mouth, because Orlando Bloom was breathing on me and I was talking about sodas instead of being witty.
"I don't think you're quite understanding me," he said. He smiled that smile again, this time with such heat and desire behind it that I thought my knees might melt, and then he leaned in and began sucking on my earlobe.
Oh.
My hands, for want of anything better to do, took this opportunity to slide up and down his back and settle on his ass. Clearly pleased by the encouragement, he pressed me more firmly against the wall and thrust his hips against mine.
"Oh," I said, still trying to process the reality of standing in an alley next to my place of employment while Orlando fucking Bloom made a snack out of my ear and ground his cock into my hip.
He pulled back with a slight frown. "Do you want to? I thought..."
"Oh, yeah," I said. "Definitely." I gave his ass a squeeze for emphasis.
"Let's go, then." He grabbed my hand and led me out of the alley, walking as quickly as his obvious erection would allow.
I followed obediently, hoping that sprinkles would be involved.
Bubblegum Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip Cherry Vanilla Superman
Baby-Sitters Club/RPS crossover
Logan Bruno/Orlando Bloom
R
When I saw Orlando Bloom for the first time, my jaw dropped. He was that pretty. I had a job scooping ice cream at a spot just off campus that summer, and of course I'd heard he was in town. Everyone had heard he was in town, and it seemed like everyone had seen him. Everyone, that is, but me - until he walked in and ordered a triple-scoop chocolate suicide with marshmallow topping. And sprinkles.
You may not know this, but I played a pirate once. Granted, it was a middle school production of Peter Pan and Johnny Depp was nowhere to be found, but I liked to think I knew where the guy was coming from. Proud of our common bond (and not immune to his considerable charms), I set about creating the best cone I'd ever made.
I wish I could say that I impressed him with my superior ice-cream scooping skills, that I dazzled him with the artfulness of my marshmallow drizzle, or that my sprinkles filled his heart with delight. Instead, in a display heretofore unknown to the laws of physics, the ice cream landed on the counter, marshmallow topping dripped in between the keys of the cash register, and the only thing covered in sprinkles was his hair. I ended up flat on my ass behind the counter, beet red and wishing that the floor would swallow me up.
Our eyes met for one shocked moment -- and despite the circumstances, all I could think was pretty -- before he turned on his heel and stormed out of the shop, ignoring the desperate pleas of my manager as she trailed behind.
I buried my face in my hands and vowed never to look at Orlando Bloom for the rest of my life -- that is, until I realized keeping such a vow would mean a fundamental change in my dorm room's decorating scheme. Fine. Never meet him, then. That seemed reasonable. And surely the forces controlling celebrity sightings wouldn't foist an unwanted celebrity on me, not with so many people who would give a limb (theirs or someone else's) to see him.
Four days later, I discovered that the forces controlling celebrity sightings must like a good laugh, because I rounded a corner in the drug store and collided with guess who? And I ended up on my ass again, with my, er, personal supply items strewn around me.
"So sorry," he said, bending to pick up the K-Y that had skittered across the aisle before coming to rest next to the beach towel display.
"No problem," I muttered, ducking my head and hoping against hope that he'd developed some sort of short-term memory problem.
No luck, of course. When he reached out his hand to help me up, I saw a flash of recognition, then a sly smile.
"Hello again," he said, hauling me to my feet. His hand was warm and slightly damp, and he didn't let go even though I was in no apparent danger of falling again.
"Hi." I could feel my face burning.
"I'm Orlando."
"I know."
"You're the guy from the ice cream shop."
"Yeah."
He squeezed my hand a little. "And your name is...?"
For a split second, I considered saying Tom or Alan or Bart or anything else, but decided he'd probably forget the moment he walked out of the drugstore anyway, so lying wasn't really going to be worth the effort. "Logan," I said. "Logan Bruno."
He smiled, and his eyes (which were still pretty) crinkled at the corners. My stomach did not flutter. Not even once. I swear. "It's nice to meet you, Logan Bruno," he said. "We seem to keep running into each other."
"Yeah. Literally. And then I fall on my ass."
He laughed out loud at that, and okay, a tiny thrill ran through me. I made Orlando Bloom laugh, I thought. It was clearly time to make a quick exit before I found something else to trip over or spill on him. The only complication was that he still held my hand.
"I should... I should go," I said. "Lots of errands and stuff before work."
If I didn't know better, I'd say his face fell a little as he released my hand. "Okay, then," he said. "Guess I'll see you around, then."
"Um... I need my..."
He had evidently forgotten picking up the K-Y, because he looked surprised to see it in his hand. "Oh, um, yeah," he said, before the item registered and his face broke into a wicked grin. "Wouldn't want to go without that."
I'm not ashamed to admit that I grabbed the lube and fled.
That evening I spent my work shift (the ice cream job I miraculously still had, although my manager had forbidden me from any future celebrity contact) in an imaginary world where I was graceful and witty and Orlando Bloom actually liked me and also fucked me into the mattress on a regular basis. My customers got a lot of extra ice cream.
Around eight o'clock we hit a major lull, and after I wiped down the already-clean counters and restocked the full straw and napkin dispensers for the umpteenth time, my manager finally noticed and sent me home. With two hours of unexpected freedom on my hands, I found myself standing dumbly on the sidewalk in front of the store, unsure of what to do. It was too early to go out, and I didn't feel like a movie. I was just beginning to wonder if some much-needed quality time with my right hand might do the trick, when a shadowy figure stepped out of a shadowy spot along a shadowy wall. I swear, it was just like the movies. All he was missing was the cigarette and the trenchcoat.
"Hey," Orlando said.
"Hey." I think my voice was two octaves higher than normal. Why had he followed me? Did he have some weird obsession with following strangers who make fools of themselves in his presence? And if so, why hadn't that bit of information come out in all the interviews I'd read?
"I thought I'd find you here." He smiled and his eyes crinkled. That smile was definitely something I could get used to.
"Well, I do work here," I said, gesturing toward the store. "If you want ice cream, we're still open for a while. You'll even get a free cone, since I dropped your last one."
"I don't want ice cream, Logan," Orlando said, and closed the space between us to something measurable in inches. Half-inches, even. I could feel his breath on my cheek.
"Um, you could have a soda, then? Or a milkshake?" This manly proclamation came out sounding like a girly squeak, and I wondered how the hell I could disable my mouth, because Orlando Bloom was breathing on me and I was talking about sodas instead of being witty.
"I don't think you're quite understanding me," he said. He smiled that smile again, this time with such heat and desire behind it that I thought my knees might melt, and then he leaned in and began sucking on my earlobe.
Oh.
My hands, for want of anything better to do, took this opportunity to slide up and down his back and settle on his ass. Clearly pleased by the encouragement, he pressed me more firmly against the wall and thrust his hips against mine.
"Oh," I said, still trying to process the reality of standing in an alley next to my place of employment while Orlando fucking Bloom made a snack out of my ear and ground his cock into my hip.
He pulled back with a slight frown. "Do you want to? I thought..."
"Oh, yeah," I said. "Definitely." I gave his ass a squeeze for emphasis.
"Let's go, then." He grabbed my hand and led me out of the alley, walking as quickly as his obvious erection would allow.
I followed obediently, hoping that sprinkles would be involved.