FIC: "Coffee Shop" - 1/1, NC17, LoTRiPS
Title: Coffee Shop
Author: Jo
Pairing: read it and see
Rating: NC17
Summary: Just a quiet afternoon in the local coffee shop
Archive: Ask first, please
Author's Notes: No clue where this one came from. I was working on updates for the archive and this just bit me. Guess it comes from working at Starbucks or something. *nods* Oh, and this one's for Brenda, just because.
Disclaimer: If you think this is real, then I'm fucking Orlando Bloom on a nightly basis. In other words, it never happened and I doubt it ever will.
You sit there, paper in one hand, chai latte in the other, pretending to read. Only you're not. Oh no. Not you. Instead, you're watching him. Watching him as he sits there, oblivious, on the other side of the cafe. You wonder if he knows you're watching him. You think he doesn't, and that's just fine with you. You're not sure you want him to know.
So you sit there. Still. Sipping your latte, holding your paper at such an angle that a casual observer would believe you were engrossed in the stories printed there. A casual observer would never notice that your eyes are just skimming the top of the paper, looking at him, studying him as he drinks his cappuccino. The way his hair, dark as a raven's wing, swoops across his forehead, falling over one eye, captures your attention, and you watch as one hand comes up to brush it back, the movement absent, graceful.
Then...yes. He sees you now. His eyes meet yours, and his head dips just a bit, nodding, saying hello. So you nod back. And smile. Just a small smile; a little, tiny smile to say hello in return. It's the polite thing to do. And it's only right, seeing as how you've been sitting there, staring at him for the past twenty minutes. Now you wonder if maybe he knew you were watching the entire time. It's possible. Something in his gaze says he might have known. So you sit, and sip, and wonder. You think about that for a moment. Then you calmly make a neat square of your paper, folding it again, then one last time, until it's a tidy rectangle to tuck under your arm as you rise, walk towards the men's room.
And you have to pass his table to get there. It's unavoidable. But that's okay. It's what you want. To see him up close, to see those eyes from the distance of a few feet. They're even lovelier than you imagined, a deep, dark, rich color flecked with gold. You smile, looking directly into those amazing eyes, and those eyes smile back, crinkling the tiniest amount around the edges. And you like that. It adds character to his face. Not that he needs it. No, definitely not. His face is perfect the way it is, with its dark brows arching over those eyes and its lush, full mouth. Yes, it just might be the epitome of facial beauty. Or so you think.
You think about that as you let yourself into the men's room, closing the door behind you, setting your folded up rectangle of a newspaper on the counter. You see your reflection in the mirror, see your reflection's eyes flick to the door behind you. You forgot to lock it. Careless of you, really, to forget to lock the door of the men's room. But, surely no one will walk in on you. After all, the entire coffee shop saw you walk in here. Not that there are many people in the cafe. No, not today. Rather slow today.
You turn, your body shifting in a small arc, movements languid. Silent in here, in the men's room. Well, not quite silent. The muted shush of air through the vent, the faint burr of your zipper as you lower it, the soft, soft click of the door as it opens behind you...all these drift to your ears, mingling, merging, morphing. And then...yes. There. A warm, strong hand pressing against the small of your back, pushing your forward, forcing you up against the wall.
There aren't any other sounds. Not yet. But there will be. You're sure of that. They'll come later, those sounds. Right now, there's silence and cold tile against your front, a warm body against your back, and soft breathing in your ear. You don't move, don't speak. You just feel. Feel those strong hands tugging, pulling, pushing soft, worn denim down over your hips, caressing bare skin as it's revealed. And you close your eyes as tiny sparks dance across your nerve endings, following the path of his fingers on your skin.
"You want this."
You thought him speaking would break the spell. But it doesn't. Instead, it adds to it. That low, musical whisper brushing across your skin, stealing up the back of your neck as he grinds against you, then pulls back, hand sliding between your hips to lower his zipper. Another soft burr in the silence as the metal tab slides smoothly along the teeth. And...oh, God...hard, throbbing warmth branding your skin as his cock nestles between your cheeks, sliding along the dark cleft there.
"You want this."
A soft moan is your only reply because, yes, you do want this. You've wanted this from the first second you laid eyes on him. There's only the briefest of seconds to wonder if he locked the door before he's pushing into you, sliding into you, and it's so good that you can't think of anything else. You don't want to think of anything else. So you don't. You just think of him. His cock, filling you, stretching you, pushing into you over and over. It's one of the most exquisite, sublime feelings in the world. And...yes...there...his hand, spider-walking over your hip, across your lower abdomen until the fingers can curl around your cock and start a slow slipslide along the length.
The hand moves in tandem with his hips, stroking down as he pushes in, pushes your hips into his hand. Each thrust rubs across your prostate, and you wonder if it's possible to die from sheer pleasure, because you're positive that you're pretty close to sensory overload from the hand on your cock, the coldness of the tiles seeping through your shirt, the teeth scraping and nipping across the back of your neck, the cock filling your ass until you think it's a permanent part of you. And that's a lovely thought. It really is.
It's all too much for you. The stroking and thrusting and scraping and nipping and cold and heat. It's too much. And it's really too much when fingers tangle in your hair -- hair that's just barely long enough to tangle in -- and tug your head back so his lips can capture yours, so his tongue can force its way into your mouth to stroke yours. He swallows your moans, tongue muffling your scream as you come, spilling over his fingers in a hot, sticky flood. You sag, limp, against the wall as he stiffens, hips slamming against you, teeth fastening on the crook of your neck to stifle his own groans as he empties himself into you.
The cold tiles press against your cheek, soothing heated flesh as you turn your head to watch that hand lift, watch that tongue slide out from between those perfect lips and lick the sticky from those fingers. The sight is so erotic, so incredible, that you start to get hard again just watching him lick his fingers clean. You feel empty as he slides from you, still leaning against your back.
"Fucking hell," he whispers, breath harsh on your skin, voice ragged.
You just nod, because you can't speak. All you can do is breathe and feel and watch. But 'fucking hell' sums it up quite nicely. Yes, it does. Very much so. You couldn't have said it better if you'd tried.
He pulls away, doing up his jeans, and your body aches from the loss. You want more, want him. Instead, you get his hands, skating over your hips again to pull up your jeans, smoothing them back into place. Then his lips touch the side of your neck in the softest of kisses as your shaky hands move to your zipper.
"Love you, Harry." Another whisper against your skin, warm breath barely stirring your hair.
You turn, catching his hand with yours, smiling, sliding your free hand behind his neck to pull him closer so you can kiss him. A proper kiss this time. One of warmth, love, friendship...one between lovers, equals. And you can taste cappuccino and yourself and him all wrapped up in that one kiss. You wouldn't think that the flavors could mingle, but they do. Quite pleasant, actually. He smiles when you pull back, and the entire room seems brighter.
"I know. Love you, too." Your thumb brushes his bottom lip, tracing the familiar curve. And you can't wait to get out of this men's room, out of the coffee shop. Can't wait to get him back home and repay this favor, this fantasy. And you know he wants that, too.
written October 18, 2002
Author: Jo
Pairing: read it and see
Rating: NC17
Summary: Just a quiet afternoon in the local coffee shop
Archive: Ask first, please
Author's Notes: No clue where this one came from. I was working on updates for the archive and this just bit me. Guess it comes from working at Starbucks or something. *nods* Oh, and this one's for Brenda, just because.
Disclaimer: If you think this is real, then I'm fucking Orlando Bloom on a nightly basis. In other words, it never happened and I doubt it ever will.
You sit there, paper in one hand, chai latte in the other, pretending to read. Only you're not. Oh no. Not you. Instead, you're watching him. Watching him as he sits there, oblivious, on the other side of the cafe. You wonder if he knows you're watching him. You think he doesn't, and that's just fine with you. You're not sure you want him to know.
So you sit there. Still. Sipping your latte, holding your paper at such an angle that a casual observer would believe you were engrossed in the stories printed there. A casual observer would never notice that your eyes are just skimming the top of the paper, looking at him, studying him as he drinks his cappuccino. The way his hair, dark as a raven's wing, swoops across his forehead, falling over one eye, captures your attention, and you watch as one hand comes up to brush it back, the movement absent, graceful.
Then...yes. He sees you now. His eyes meet yours, and his head dips just a bit, nodding, saying hello. So you nod back. And smile. Just a small smile; a little, tiny smile to say hello in return. It's the polite thing to do. And it's only right, seeing as how you've been sitting there, staring at him for the past twenty minutes. Now you wonder if maybe he knew you were watching the entire time. It's possible. Something in his gaze says he might have known. So you sit, and sip, and wonder. You think about that for a moment. Then you calmly make a neat square of your paper, folding it again, then one last time, until it's a tidy rectangle to tuck under your arm as you rise, walk towards the men's room.
And you have to pass his table to get there. It's unavoidable. But that's okay. It's what you want. To see him up close, to see those eyes from the distance of a few feet. They're even lovelier than you imagined, a deep, dark, rich color flecked with gold. You smile, looking directly into those amazing eyes, and those eyes smile back, crinkling the tiniest amount around the edges. And you like that. It adds character to his face. Not that he needs it. No, definitely not. His face is perfect the way it is, with its dark brows arching over those eyes and its lush, full mouth. Yes, it just might be the epitome of facial beauty. Or so you think.
You think about that as you let yourself into the men's room, closing the door behind you, setting your folded up rectangle of a newspaper on the counter. You see your reflection in the mirror, see your reflection's eyes flick to the door behind you. You forgot to lock it. Careless of you, really, to forget to lock the door of the men's room. But, surely no one will walk in on you. After all, the entire coffee shop saw you walk in here. Not that there are many people in the cafe. No, not today. Rather slow today.
You turn, your body shifting in a small arc, movements languid. Silent in here, in the men's room. Well, not quite silent. The muted shush of air through the vent, the faint burr of your zipper as you lower it, the soft, soft click of the door as it opens behind you...all these drift to your ears, mingling, merging, morphing. And then...yes. There. A warm, strong hand pressing against the small of your back, pushing your forward, forcing you up against the wall.
There aren't any other sounds. Not yet. But there will be. You're sure of that. They'll come later, those sounds. Right now, there's silence and cold tile against your front, a warm body against your back, and soft breathing in your ear. You don't move, don't speak. You just feel. Feel those strong hands tugging, pulling, pushing soft, worn denim down over your hips, caressing bare skin as it's revealed. And you close your eyes as tiny sparks dance across your nerve endings, following the path of his fingers on your skin.
"You want this."
You thought him speaking would break the spell. But it doesn't. Instead, it adds to it. That low, musical whisper brushing across your skin, stealing up the back of your neck as he grinds against you, then pulls back, hand sliding between your hips to lower his zipper. Another soft burr in the silence as the metal tab slides smoothly along the teeth. And...oh, God...hard, throbbing warmth branding your skin as his cock nestles between your cheeks, sliding along the dark cleft there.
"You want this."
A soft moan is your only reply because, yes, you do want this. You've wanted this from the first second you laid eyes on him. There's only the briefest of seconds to wonder if he locked the door before he's pushing into you, sliding into you, and it's so good that you can't think of anything else. You don't want to think of anything else. So you don't. You just think of him. His cock, filling you, stretching you, pushing into you over and over. It's one of the most exquisite, sublime feelings in the world. And...yes...there...his hand, spider-walking over your hip, across your lower abdomen until the fingers can curl around your cock and start a slow slipslide along the length.
The hand moves in tandem with his hips, stroking down as he pushes in, pushes your hips into his hand. Each thrust rubs across your prostate, and you wonder if it's possible to die from sheer pleasure, because you're positive that you're pretty close to sensory overload from the hand on your cock, the coldness of the tiles seeping through your shirt, the teeth scraping and nipping across the back of your neck, the cock filling your ass until you think it's a permanent part of you. And that's a lovely thought. It really is.
It's all too much for you. The stroking and thrusting and scraping and nipping and cold and heat. It's too much. And it's really too much when fingers tangle in your hair -- hair that's just barely long enough to tangle in -- and tug your head back so his lips can capture yours, so his tongue can force its way into your mouth to stroke yours. He swallows your moans, tongue muffling your scream as you come, spilling over his fingers in a hot, sticky flood. You sag, limp, against the wall as he stiffens, hips slamming against you, teeth fastening on the crook of your neck to stifle his own groans as he empties himself into you.
The cold tiles press against your cheek, soothing heated flesh as you turn your head to watch that hand lift, watch that tongue slide out from between those perfect lips and lick the sticky from those fingers. The sight is so erotic, so incredible, that you start to get hard again just watching him lick his fingers clean. You feel empty as he slides from you, still leaning against your back.
"Fucking hell," he whispers, breath harsh on your skin, voice ragged.
You just nod, because you can't speak. All you can do is breathe and feel and watch. But 'fucking hell' sums it up quite nicely. Yes, it does. Very much so. You couldn't have said it better if you'd tried.
He pulls away, doing up his jeans, and your body aches from the loss. You want more, want him. Instead, you get his hands, skating over your hips again to pull up your jeans, smoothing them back into place. Then his lips touch the side of your neck in the softest of kisses as your shaky hands move to your zipper.
"Love you, Harry." Another whisper against your skin, warm breath barely stirring your hair.
You turn, catching his hand with yours, smiling, sliding your free hand behind his neck to pull him closer so you can kiss him. A proper kiss this time. One of warmth, love, friendship...one between lovers, equals. And you can taste cappuccino and yourself and him all wrapped up in that one kiss. You wouldn't think that the flavors could mingle, but they do. Quite pleasant, actually. He smiles when you pull back, and the entire room seems brighter.
"I know. Love you, too." Your thumb brushes his bottom lip, tracing the familiar curve. And you can't wait to get out of this men's room, out of the coffee shop. Can't wait to get him back home and repay this favor, this fantasy. And you know he wants that, too.
written October 18, 2002