Orlando/Jared - Poppies and Puppets - NC-17
Title: Poppies and Puppets
Author: Emmyrose224
Fandom: RPS
Characters: Orlando Bloom/Jared Leto
Prompt: #27 : Tattooing
Word Count: 1982
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not have anything to do with Orlando Bloom or Jared Leto. This is all untrue, especially considering I’m not sure they’ve ever even met. This is not for profit and I harbor no malicious intent.
Author's Notes: This is still set in the same universe as the others in my table, but it (the alt. universe) really has nothing to do with this fic. This is just porn for porn’s sake.
“Fucker!” Jared swears like my sister, as though it comes naturally. There is an ease to his profanity that there will never be to my own, not that I’m jealous.
“Oh, as if you’ve never been tattooed before,” I josh, nodding at the ink embedded in Jared’s arm. “Stop being such a baby.” I look back down at his hip and press the tip of my gun to his skin.
“That was a long time ago,” he says through a cringe. “And in less sensitive spots.”
“Stop wiggling!” I sit up straight and frown at him. “You wanted this, remember. Stop getting frustrated.”
“Maybe it’s my anxiety over the fact that it’s only after you’ve started that you see fit to tell me how long it’s been since you’ve done this!”
I shrug. Tattooing, it’s like riding a bike. A painful, permanent, creative bike. “It’s only been a year or two. In case you weren’t noticing, I’ve been busy working my ass off the last couple of years.”
“Ooh. It’s so difficult being rich and famous, prancing around like a pirate in the Caribbean.” It’s all I can do not to purposefully ‘mess up’. It was Jared’s idea to get out the ink and add to his colorful existence with something new on his left hip: a poppy flower, all scarlet and ebony. A bit girlish, in my opinion, but I tried to draw a poppy with as much of a rock-star edge as I could, the end result being a wild, garish bit of flower I was quite proud of. A sense of artistic professionalism is the only thing keeping me from adding little hearts to the border; a little ‘fuck you’ to the whining man reclined on my kitchen counter.
“It’s more difficult than sitting on my ass ‘writing songs’ for months at a time.” My voice takes on a hollow quality as I focus on the line-work and faze out Jared’s protestations. I have always loved tattooing, ever since a cousin introduced me to it in high school. It’s not exactly a talent one might project to Hollywood, and soon after signing on to [i]Dead Man’s Chest[/i], my manager ‘suggested’ I take a break from it. But things have quieted down, and only just last week, I was talking to Viggo about picking it up again. I have missed the hum of the gun against my fingers.
I have not missed the itching worry that my canvas will move at the wrong moment.
“Will you shut up?” Let it never be said that Jared Leto does not have the biggest mouth this side of L.A. I swear, the man even talks in his sleep.
I press down with the needle and for once, a pained quip does not accompany the buzzing of metal and skin. It’s a few minutes before I finish the line-work, but when I lean back to admire my work, I’m proud.
“Just let me wipe this off a bit before I start on the red.” I finally look up to see Jared staring me straight in the eye. “What?”
“I love watching you work.” Oh, it’s flattery. Jared’s used to people wanting him and not used to those same people being irritated by him.
“I love working when you’re not talking.”
“I can tell,” he smirks. “Your brow knits up when you concentrate. And your tongue peeks out the corner of your mouth. And when you go over a particularly fine line, you look down the bridge of your nose and raise your eyebrows.”
I squint at him and snort. “Your point being? Other than the fact that you’re being a bitchy creeper today?”
“Why did you become an actor?” It must be the endorphins, making him this haywire.
“Because I loved acting.” I wipe the black ink and A&D off his hip, smearing the design, then making it clear.
“You should’ve been a porn star.”
As much as Jared annoys me sometimes, his non sequiturs make me laugh. “Excuse me?”
He shifts up a bit to look at me. “No, I’m serious. You would’ve been better as a porn star; you suck cock like one. And then you could tattoo on the side. And sculpt, or paint, or whatever it is you’re into these days.”
“Jared, if I had become a porn star, we would’ve never met and this wouldn’t be happening right now.” I wink at him. “You’d have no idea how I suck cock.”
He smiles devilishly. “Or, would I have found out sooner? Me being well-known in pornography circles and what not.”
I chuckle at the old joke. Julian had once mentioned that Jared spent all his money on hookers and porn, and thusly, was known as the Sex Fiend of America. It was an affectionate nickname, most of the time.
“I’m pretty sure if I were in porn, I’d have access to more attractive women than you, Jared Leto.” Jared snorts.
“Women don’t watch porn.” I give him an askance look.
“Of course women watch porn. Isn’t that why every man in the Western world thinks he needs a 10-inch erection and 12-pack abs?” I buzz the gun once and dip it in the red ink. I lean over Jared’s lower half, my fore-arm resting directly below his low-slung belt. I crouch around him to get the best angle, curling myself around his body to get the best light.
This time, when I begin to shade the poppy, Jared’s hand jerks and he giggles. I lift up.
“What?”
He smiles down at me. “When you use the tattoo gun, your arm vibrates against my dick.”
“You are so immature.” I go back to my task. The coloring goes smoothly; by the end of it, I can see the discomfort on Jared’s face, but the tattoo itself looks brilliant. The red outstands the dark, sketchy borders, each petal stepping off Jared’s skin like life. It’s the best work I’ve done since college and after I wipe it down and peel my gloves off, I grab my camera and snap a photo to keep a proof of my art.
“Always taking pictures.” Jared mumbles, scrutinizing the poppy.
“I can’t exactly haul you around with me everywhere to show it off, you know.” I start cleaning up, tossing paper towels in the trash bin. Going over to the sink, my back turned to Jared, I hear the clunk and cursing of his slide off the counter. I smile ruefully. Jared never stops complaining; he only get distracted from it for a few minutes each day.
“Hey, this turned out better than I thought.” He says, posing and shifting in the door-length mirror on the wall.
I roll my eyes. “Such faith you have in my abilities.”
He makes a face at me before I turn around to put my equipment back in the kitchen closet where I’d stored it safely when I’d moved into the apartment.
As I turn around, I collide with Jared as he falls to his knees dramatically in front of me.
“What the hell, man?”
Jared’s laughing to himself. “I slipped and my mouth fell on your cock,” he laughs.
“What?” I chuckle.
“I just wanted to use that line. But when you turned around, you hit my nose with your bony hips.” Jared’s still on the floor, finding himself incredibly amusing. I laugh along with him, his ridiculous man on my kitchen floor.
“I can’t believe you. Get up!”I tell him, smiling. He shakes his head, remnants of his laughter still bubbling through him. I walk past him to the sink, washing a stray ink spot off my wrist.
“Come on, Jared. I can’t have you all over my floor,” I say, teasing. “God only knows what diseases I might catch from you being with all those hookers.” He begins to giggle again but catches himself.
“Thanks for the tattoo.” Still on the floor, he leans back to see it on himself once more. “How much do I owe you?”
I wave it away. “Nothing. It was fun to do it.”
“I can’t just not pay you for your services.” He smiles up at me. “Perhaps an exchange of services would be more your type?”
“My type-?” I begin to ask, but when I turn, he’s right there, on his knees, his eyes coming up to my waist. I just look at him a moment, pondering the strangeness of him, wondering what the hell I’m doing keeping company with such a person. But then I relax, lean back against the sink, and nod. “An exchange of services?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. He waits a moment for me to stop him and when I don’t, he brings his lips to the sensitive spot he knows I have just below my navel. It makes me shiver. If one of us was to be the porn star, it certainly wouldn’t have been me. The way he looks up at me with those eyes and kisses just above the waistline of my jeans, if you could film that and make it as real as in life, you would be the richest man on Earth.
I sigh as he unbuttons my jeans. He doesn’t pull them down impatiently like he does when he knows we have all night to recover and he doesn’t immediately dive his hand into my boxers like he does when he knows I want him to take it slower. Instead he lingers around my waist, kissing, feeling. His hands smooth over my thighs like he’s savoring them. It’s enough to kill a man.
“Get on with it, won’t you?” I tell him, somewhat breathless. He grins up at me and does what he does best.
By the time my loosed jeans hit the tiles, he’s already running his tongue up and down my cock, licking, teasing, being as impudent as ever. Perhaps it’s all just payback, this teasing torture, for the pain of the tattoo. The processes are certainly similar. A frustrating beginning, getting used to sensations, flaring nerves, followed by intensity, heat, a rolling ache through body and mind, with a beautiful finish worth everything that leads to it.
Jared’s mouth is heaven when he uses it like this. Any other time, it represents a place a bit farther south. But right here, right now, I would sit through a hundred hours of his ridiculous chatter for a few achingly wonderful moments like this.
He pulls back. “How long were you working on my tattoo?”
I blink, at first not understanding. “I don’t know. But too long for me to put up with your teasing.”
“But then it’s not equal payment.” He pouts mischievously.
“So you can blow me again later! Get on with it!” And then the hot wet is back. He slips his palm under my balls and puts just the right pressure on them. I couldn’t say where he learned to give such good head, and there are times when that fact bothers me, but those times are not now. I lean further back against the sink, my hands slipping against the metal rim. Tipping my head back, I can’t watch him move, can’t see him watching me, and for a moment, it’s enough to push back the hot rush of orgasm even as it smolders just beneath the surface of my skin. But not for long, not long enough, as he dips his head in earnest, pulling me crashing towards relief. I don’t know whether to thank him or curse him, but it matters little when I finally come, his throat pressing against the head of my cock.
“Fuck, Jared!” I gasp, my fingers twining harshly in his dark hair.
It’s the cheeky smile I can’t stand when I look down at him. It says ‘I’ve got you on puppet-strings as long as I’m willing to give you my body’.
And godammit, he’s right.
Author: Emmyrose224
Fandom: RPS
Characters: Orlando Bloom/Jared Leto
Prompt: #27 : Tattooing
Word Count: 1982
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not have anything to do with Orlando Bloom or Jared Leto. This is all untrue, especially considering I’m not sure they’ve ever even met. This is not for profit and I harbor no malicious intent.
Author's Notes: This is still set in the same universe as the others in my table, but it (the alt. universe) really has nothing to do with this fic. This is just porn for porn’s sake.
“Fucker!” Jared swears like my sister, as though it comes naturally. There is an ease to his profanity that there will never be to my own, not that I’m jealous.
“Oh, as if you’ve never been tattooed before,” I josh, nodding at the ink embedded in Jared’s arm. “Stop being such a baby.” I look back down at his hip and press the tip of my gun to his skin.
“That was a long time ago,” he says through a cringe. “And in less sensitive spots.”
“Stop wiggling!” I sit up straight and frown at him. “You wanted this, remember. Stop getting frustrated.”
“Maybe it’s my anxiety over the fact that it’s only after you’ve started that you see fit to tell me how long it’s been since you’ve done this!”
I shrug. Tattooing, it’s like riding a bike. A painful, permanent, creative bike. “It’s only been a year or two. In case you weren’t noticing, I’ve been busy working my ass off the last couple of years.”
“Ooh. It’s so difficult being rich and famous, prancing around like a pirate in the Caribbean.” It’s all I can do not to purposefully ‘mess up’. It was Jared’s idea to get out the ink and add to his colorful existence with something new on his left hip: a poppy flower, all scarlet and ebony. A bit girlish, in my opinion, but I tried to draw a poppy with as much of a rock-star edge as I could, the end result being a wild, garish bit of flower I was quite proud of. A sense of artistic professionalism is the only thing keeping me from adding little hearts to the border; a little ‘fuck you’ to the whining man reclined on my kitchen counter.
“It’s more difficult than sitting on my ass ‘writing songs’ for months at a time.” My voice takes on a hollow quality as I focus on the line-work and faze out Jared’s protestations. I have always loved tattooing, ever since a cousin introduced me to it in high school. It’s not exactly a talent one might project to Hollywood, and soon after signing on to [i]Dead Man’s Chest[/i], my manager ‘suggested’ I take a break from it. But things have quieted down, and only just last week, I was talking to Viggo about picking it up again. I have missed the hum of the gun against my fingers.
I have not missed the itching worry that my canvas will move at the wrong moment.
“Will you shut up?” Let it never be said that Jared Leto does not have the biggest mouth this side of L.A. I swear, the man even talks in his sleep.
I press down with the needle and for once, a pained quip does not accompany the buzzing of metal and skin. It’s a few minutes before I finish the line-work, but when I lean back to admire my work, I’m proud.
“Just let me wipe this off a bit before I start on the red.” I finally look up to see Jared staring me straight in the eye. “What?”
“I love watching you work.” Oh, it’s flattery. Jared’s used to people wanting him and not used to those same people being irritated by him.
“I love working when you’re not talking.”
“I can tell,” he smirks. “Your brow knits up when you concentrate. And your tongue peeks out the corner of your mouth. And when you go over a particularly fine line, you look down the bridge of your nose and raise your eyebrows.”
I squint at him and snort. “Your point being? Other than the fact that you’re being a bitchy creeper today?”
“Why did you become an actor?” It must be the endorphins, making him this haywire.
“Because I loved acting.” I wipe the black ink and A&D off his hip, smearing the design, then making it clear.
“You should’ve been a porn star.”
As much as Jared annoys me sometimes, his non sequiturs make me laugh. “Excuse me?”
He shifts up a bit to look at me. “No, I’m serious. You would’ve been better as a porn star; you suck cock like one. And then you could tattoo on the side. And sculpt, or paint, or whatever it is you’re into these days.”
“Jared, if I had become a porn star, we would’ve never met and this wouldn’t be happening right now.” I wink at him. “You’d have no idea how I suck cock.”
He smiles devilishly. “Or, would I have found out sooner? Me being well-known in pornography circles and what not.”
I chuckle at the old joke. Julian had once mentioned that Jared spent all his money on hookers and porn, and thusly, was known as the Sex Fiend of America. It was an affectionate nickname, most of the time.
“I’m pretty sure if I were in porn, I’d have access to more attractive women than you, Jared Leto.” Jared snorts.
“Women don’t watch porn.” I give him an askance look.
“Of course women watch porn. Isn’t that why every man in the Western world thinks he needs a 10-inch erection and 12-pack abs?” I buzz the gun once and dip it in the red ink. I lean over Jared’s lower half, my fore-arm resting directly below his low-slung belt. I crouch around him to get the best angle, curling myself around his body to get the best light.
This time, when I begin to shade the poppy, Jared’s hand jerks and he giggles. I lift up.
“What?”
He smiles down at me. “When you use the tattoo gun, your arm vibrates against my dick.”
“You are so immature.” I go back to my task. The coloring goes smoothly; by the end of it, I can see the discomfort on Jared’s face, but the tattoo itself looks brilliant. The red outstands the dark, sketchy borders, each petal stepping off Jared’s skin like life. It’s the best work I’ve done since college and after I wipe it down and peel my gloves off, I grab my camera and snap a photo to keep a proof of my art.
“Always taking pictures.” Jared mumbles, scrutinizing the poppy.
“I can’t exactly haul you around with me everywhere to show it off, you know.” I start cleaning up, tossing paper towels in the trash bin. Going over to the sink, my back turned to Jared, I hear the clunk and cursing of his slide off the counter. I smile ruefully. Jared never stops complaining; he only get distracted from it for a few minutes each day.
“Hey, this turned out better than I thought.” He says, posing and shifting in the door-length mirror on the wall.
I roll my eyes. “Such faith you have in my abilities.”
He makes a face at me before I turn around to put my equipment back in the kitchen closet where I’d stored it safely when I’d moved into the apartment.
As I turn around, I collide with Jared as he falls to his knees dramatically in front of me.
“What the hell, man?”
Jared’s laughing to himself. “I slipped and my mouth fell on your cock,” he laughs.
“What?” I chuckle.
“I just wanted to use that line. But when you turned around, you hit my nose with your bony hips.” Jared’s still on the floor, finding himself incredibly amusing. I laugh along with him, his ridiculous man on my kitchen floor.
“I can’t believe you. Get up!”I tell him, smiling. He shakes his head, remnants of his laughter still bubbling through him. I walk past him to the sink, washing a stray ink spot off my wrist.
“Come on, Jared. I can’t have you all over my floor,” I say, teasing. “God only knows what diseases I might catch from you being with all those hookers.” He begins to giggle again but catches himself.
“Thanks for the tattoo.” Still on the floor, he leans back to see it on himself once more. “How much do I owe you?”
I wave it away. “Nothing. It was fun to do it.”
“I can’t just not pay you for your services.” He smiles up at me. “Perhaps an exchange of services would be more your type?”
“My type-?” I begin to ask, but when I turn, he’s right there, on his knees, his eyes coming up to my waist. I just look at him a moment, pondering the strangeness of him, wondering what the hell I’m doing keeping company with such a person. But then I relax, lean back against the sink, and nod. “An exchange of services?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. He waits a moment for me to stop him and when I don’t, he brings his lips to the sensitive spot he knows I have just below my navel. It makes me shiver. If one of us was to be the porn star, it certainly wouldn’t have been me. The way he looks up at me with those eyes and kisses just above the waistline of my jeans, if you could film that and make it as real as in life, you would be the richest man on Earth.
I sigh as he unbuttons my jeans. He doesn’t pull them down impatiently like he does when he knows we have all night to recover and he doesn’t immediately dive his hand into my boxers like he does when he knows I want him to take it slower. Instead he lingers around my waist, kissing, feeling. His hands smooth over my thighs like he’s savoring them. It’s enough to kill a man.
“Get on with it, won’t you?” I tell him, somewhat breathless. He grins up at me and does what he does best.
By the time my loosed jeans hit the tiles, he’s already running his tongue up and down my cock, licking, teasing, being as impudent as ever. Perhaps it’s all just payback, this teasing torture, for the pain of the tattoo. The processes are certainly similar. A frustrating beginning, getting used to sensations, flaring nerves, followed by intensity, heat, a rolling ache through body and mind, with a beautiful finish worth everything that leads to it.
Jared’s mouth is heaven when he uses it like this. Any other time, it represents a place a bit farther south. But right here, right now, I would sit through a hundred hours of his ridiculous chatter for a few achingly wonderful moments like this.
He pulls back. “How long were you working on my tattoo?”
I blink, at first not understanding. “I don’t know. But too long for me to put up with your teasing.”
“But then it’s not equal payment.” He pouts mischievously.
“So you can blow me again later! Get on with it!” And then the hot wet is back. He slips his palm under my balls and puts just the right pressure on them. I couldn’t say where he learned to give such good head, and there are times when that fact bothers me, but those times are not now. I lean further back against the sink, my hands slipping against the metal rim. Tipping my head back, I can’t watch him move, can’t see him watching me, and for a moment, it’s enough to push back the hot rush of orgasm even as it smolders just beneath the surface of my skin. But not for long, not long enough, as he dips his head in earnest, pulling me crashing towards relief. I don’t know whether to thank him or curse him, but it matters little when I finally come, his throat pressing against the head of my cock.
“Fuck, Jared!” I gasp, my fingers twining harshly in his dark hair.
It’s the cheeky smile I can’t stand when I look down at him. It says ‘I’ve got you on puppet-strings as long as I’m willing to give you my body’.
And godammit, he’s right.