'Spinning,' LOTRPS, KU/OB, PG-13
I can't seem to shake last week's angsty unrequited muses. Maybe next week I can come up with something a bit more cheerful.
Title: "Spinning"
Author: Becca bexone
Pairing: Karl Urban/Orlando Bloom
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Real people, fictional events. Never happened.
Notes: Improv, two scenes, with different light. Written in every last second of my ninety minutes.
The dance floor is tiny, and Orlando is the first thing Karl sees.
Pink, green, blue, yellow, Orlando shimmies and grinds under the flashing, twirling lights. His hands weave graceful patterns through the smoky air.
He's the most beautiful thing Karl's ever seen.
Karl can't understand how anyone can bear to share the floor with Orlando. He's too beautiful. It hurts to look at him.
A spotlight turns, flicks, dances over him, leaving him dazzled and dazed, bright colored sparks floating in front of his eyes. One spot resolves itself into a face. Orlando's face.
"Karl! You're here!" he yells. At least, Karl thinks that's what he says, although it's hard to tell. The strobe light that just started flashing makes lip-reading difficult. But Orlando flings his arms around Karl so there's no doubt it was a greeting. Karl suffers himself to be led onto the floor, where he belatedly notices the presence of the hobbits. They grin, slap him on the back, and Karl has to blink and tell himself that he did not just see Elijah's hand slipping out of Dominic's pants. It must have been a trick of the light. Not even they are that reckless.
Karl dances perfunctorily, more interested in watching Orlando. He's drunk quite a bit, if the lingering haze of alcohol around him is any indication, and he's drinking more. One after the other, the hobbits excuse themselves to the bar for "one more round, mates. On me." Karl accepted the first, but he refuses the rest because he rode his bike over here tonight, so Orlando drinks those as well. His coordination, at this point, is quite impressive.
Some time shortly before last call, the hobbits disappear. Karl doesn't notice exactly when it happens, because Orlando has gotten progressively more tactile as the night wears on, and by this point he's rubbing himself around Karl like some big, friendly cat. Surely he can feel Karl's erection digging into his stomach with every move, but he doesn't seem to notice, or care. Karl only realizes that they're alone once the closing lights have come on and they've stumbled out to the cool, dim night.
"Where are the hobbits?" he asks, trying not to shout after the noise of the club.
"Who, them?" Orlando shrugs, dismisses his friends with a flick of his fingers. "Who cares?" He twines himself around Karl, climbing up until Karl has no choice but to support him with two hands under that delectable arse. Or so Karl tells himself. "It's just you and me, now."
"Orlando, you're drunk," Karl tells him, ducking the kiss aimed his way.
"Yes, yes I am," he agrees. "Drunk enough to do whatever I want."
"Will you even remember this in the morning?" Karl suspects not. He's never seen Orlando this bad before.
"You could make me remember." Orlando's lips brush dry past Karl's ear. "Fuck me so I can't sit properly for a week."
A groan escapes Karl and he lets Orlando slip to the ground as he contemplates this. How many times had he wrapped his hand around himself, imagining that it was Orlando's hand, imagining Orlando in his bed, in his arms? Imagined watching that expressive face as he spread those graceful limbs wide and eased in?
"Ooh. I don't feel so good." The piteous tone in Orlando's voice wrenches Karl out of his fantasies. He can only watch as the boy stumbles to the kerb and vomits in the gutter. Karl follows, rubbing that trembling, shuddering back helplessly. Sighing, he hails a taxi. He'll have to come back for his bike in the morning.
It takes a lot of persuading for the cab driver to agree to take them anywhere. Orlando still looks a little green, and the man is understandably reluctant to let him anywhere near the interior of the vehicle. No wonder, then, that Karl gives his own address, which is closer. He hands over enough cash that the driver, suddenly solicitous, offers to help get Orlando -- just this side of passed out -- up the stairs. Karl declines.
After the flashing dark of the club and the quiet dark of the streets, the small bathroom is almost obscenely bright. Karl blinks and lets his eyes adjust for a moment as Orlando groans, forehead on his crossed arms, head in the toilet bowl. Karl hands him a cup of water to rinse his mouth and he drinks it, which only brings on another round of retching. Limp, he collapses on the floor.
Orlando moans dim appreciation as Karl bathes his face and hands with a cool cloth, places a pillow under his head. Karl's fingers linger, ruffling the curls in the silly Mohawk that somehow only makes Orlando seem more vulnerable. Karl finds a spare blanket, tucks it around Orlando, turns off the light, leaves the slender figure on the bathroom floor.
His own bed has never felt this big and empty before, or this far from the bathroom. Karl gives up after only a few minutes of tossing and turning. He drags the recliner down the hall, heedless of the damage he's causing to his floors, and wraps himself in his duvet where he can be near Orlando. Just in case.
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"Fuck." The soft utterance jerks Karl out of his doze. For a moment he is disoriented, but then the world settles again and he remembers. Last night. Orlando.
The infinite drunken possibilities of the night before shatter like crystal on the harsh flat brightness of the world outside the frosted bathroom windows. It is day, and Orlando is hung over, and Karl suspects that he was right and Orlando does not remember a single thing.
Orlando, who is, right this moment, wincing in pain on the floor in front of him. One hand comes up to cover his eyes. "Could someone please turn off that bloody light?"
"Morning, Orlando," Karl says mildly. Startled, Orlando struggles upright, blinking fuzzily at his surroundings. When he sees Karl, his eyes go almost comically wide.
"Oh, fuck." He slips off his elbows, head hitting the floor through the pillow with a 'clunk.' "Ouch. Oh, jesus. Bloody--" he stops, closes his eyes. "Please tell me I didn't-- didn't--"
"You puked outside the club, so I brought you here. It was closer."
"Oh. Thank you." A ghost of a smile flickers across Orlando's face. "Got any aspirin?"
"In the drawer." Karl stands and stretches, lets Orlando see what he could have -- if he wanted. "I need to go-- get my bike. You'll be okay?"
"Sure, go on." Orlando props himself against the wall as he hauls himself upright. "I'll let myself out." He smiles shyly. "Sorry I was such a prat."
Note: Edited for spelling. That'll teach me to type these things on my lunch break!
Title: "Spinning"
Author: Becca bexone
Pairing: Karl Urban/Orlando Bloom
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Real people, fictional events. Never happened.
Notes: Improv, two scenes, with different light. Written in every last second of my ninety minutes.
The dance floor is tiny, and Orlando is the first thing Karl sees.
Pink, green, blue, yellow, Orlando shimmies and grinds under the flashing, twirling lights. His hands weave graceful patterns through the smoky air.
He's the most beautiful thing Karl's ever seen.
Karl can't understand how anyone can bear to share the floor with Orlando. He's too beautiful. It hurts to look at him.
A spotlight turns, flicks, dances over him, leaving him dazzled and dazed, bright colored sparks floating in front of his eyes. One spot resolves itself into a face. Orlando's face.
"Karl! You're here!" he yells. At least, Karl thinks that's what he says, although it's hard to tell. The strobe light that just started flashing makes lip-reading difficult. But Orlando flings his arms around Karl so there's no doubt it was a greeting. Karl suffers himself to be led onto the floor, where he belatedly notices the presence of the hobbits. They grin, slap him on the back, and Karl has to blink and tell himself that he did not just see Elijah's hand slipping out of Dominic's pants. It must have been a trick of the light. Not even they are that reckless.
Karl dances perfunctorily, more interested in watching Orlando. He's drunk quite a bit, if the lingering haze of alcohol around him is any indication, and he's drinking more. One after the other, the hobbits excuse themselves to the bar for "one more round, mates. On me." Karl accepted the first, but he refuses the rest because he rode his bike over here tonight, so Orlando drinks those as well. His coordination, at this point, is quite impressive.
Some time shortly before last call, the hobbits disappear. Karl doesn't notice exactly when it happens, because Orlando has gotten progressively more tactile as the night wears on, and by this point he's rubbing himself around Karl like some big, friendly cat. Surely he can feel Karl's erection digging into his stomach with every move, but he doesn't seem to notice, or care. Karl only realizes that they're alone once the closing lights have come on and they've stumbled out to the cool, dim night.
"Where are the hobbits?" he asks, trying not to shout after the noise of the club.
"Who, them?" Orlando shrugs, dismisses his friends with a flick of his fingers. "Who cares?" He twines himself around Karl, climbing up until Karl has no choice but to support him with two hands under that delectable arse. Or so Karl tells himself. "It's just you and me, now."
"Orlando, you're drunk," Karl tells him, ducking the kiss aimed his way.
"Yes, yes I am," he agrees. "Drunk enough to do whatever I want."
"Will you even remember this in the morning?" Karl suspects not. He's never seen Orlando this bad before.
"You could make me remember." Orlando's lips brush dry past Karl's ear. "Fuck me so I can't sit properly for a week."
A groan escapes Karl and he lets Orlando slip to the ground as he contemplates this. How many times had he wrapped his hand around himself, imagining that it was Orlando's hand, imagining Orlando in his bed, in his arms? Imagined watching that expressive face as he spread those graceful limbs wide and eased in?
"Ooh. I don't feel so good." The piteous tone in Orlando's voice wrenches Karl out of his fantasies. He can only watch as the boy stumbles to the kerb and vomits in the gutter. Karl follows, rubbing that trembling, shuddering back helplessly. Sighing, he hails a taxi. He'll have to come back for his bike in the morning.
It takes a lot of persuading for the cab driver to agree to take them anywhere. Orlando still looks a little green, and the man is understandably reluctant to let him anywhere near the interior of the vehicle. No wonder, then, that Karl gives his own address, which is closer. He hands over enough cash that the driver, suddenly solicitous, offers to help get Orlando -- just this side of passed out -- up the stairs. Karl declines.
After the flashing dark of the club and the quiet dark of the streets, the small bathroom is almost obscenely bright. Karl blinks and lets his eyes adjust for a moment as Orlando groans, forehead on his crossed arms, head in the toilet bowl. Karl hands him a cup of water to rinse his mouth and he drinks it, which only brings on another round of retching. Limp, he collapses on the floor.
Orlando moans dim appreciation as Karl bathes his face and hands with a cool cloth, places a pillow under his head. Karl's fingers linger, ruffling the curls in the silly Mohawk that somehow only makes Orlando seem more vulnerable. Karl finds a spare blanket, tucks it around Orlando, turns off the light, leaves the slender figure on the bathroom floor.
His own bed has never felt this big and empty before, or this far from the bathroom. Karl gives up after only a few minutes of tossing and turning. He drags the recliner down the hall, heedless of the damage he's causing to his floors, and wraps himself in his duvet where he can be near Orlando. Just in case.
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"Fuck." The soft utterance jerks Karl out of his doze. For a moment he is disoriented, but then the world settles again and he remembers. Last night. Orlando.
The infinite drunken possibilities of the night before shatter like crystal on the harsh flat brightness of the world outside the frosted bathroom windows. It is day, and Orlando is hung over, and Karl suspects that he was right and Orlando does not remember a single thing.
Orlando, who is, right this moment, wincing in pain on the floor in front of him. One hand comes up to cover his eyes. "Could someone please turn off that bloody light?"
"Morning, Orlando," Karl says mildly. Startled, Orlando struggles upright, blinking fuzzily at his surroundings. When he sees Karl, his eyes go almost comically wide.
"Oh, fuck." He slips off his elbows, head hitting the floor through the pillow with a 'clunk.' "Ouch. Oh, jesus. Bloody--" he stops, closes his eyes. "Please tell me I didn't-- didn't--"
"You puked outside the club, so I brought you here. It was closer."
"Oh. Thank you." A ghost of a smile flickers across Orlando's face. "Got any aspirin?"
"In the drawer." Karl stands and stretches, lets Orlando see what he could have -- if he wanted. "I need to go-- get my bike. You'll be okay?"
"Sure, go on." Orlando props himself against the wall as he hauls himself upright. "I'll let myself out." He smiles shyly. "Sorry I was such a prat."
Note: Edited for spelling. That'll teach me to type these things on my lunch break!