[lotrips] equipoise
i.
"Do you peel?"
It’s a simple enough question, conversational at the time. Later, when Orlando recalls asking, it seems so very loaded.
Billy, however, regards him with a look that says are you daft? - a look that Orlando has come to realise isn’t a judgment, but is rather some kind of affectionate indulgence. Billy can be downright cutting when people really are daft.
"Course I peel. Peel, burn, freckle. Genetically incapable of a tan." He slurs over the word incapable - it comes out as incapabubble - because they’re drinking.
Of course they are drinking. There’s sunshine, they’re outside, and they are drinking champagne. Not beer, not scotch, not martinis. Orlando likes champagne. So does Billy. They have found this out about each other over the years and it’s their secret, that they like champagne, the drier the better, the bubblier the better-the more expensive the better.
They are drinking champagne in a rooftop hotel terrace overlooking the Thames, and it is the hottest day of the year. For 20 years, someone had said, and Orlando thinks that might just be right. They are drinking their champagne, slouched in sunloungers that they have occupied zealously for - Orlando squints at his watch - three hours now.
Probably why Billy looks a bit pink.
"Why?"
Orlando opens his mouth before realising that because I want to peel the skin from your back isn’t the most appropriate thing to say in public. He closes his mouth again, but the image of the pale skin of Billy's back stays, as it has been doing frequently since the pickups.
Like it has been doing since an interesting conversation in PJ's kitchen at an early o'clock in the morning, both of them party-buzzed, Billy peeling off his soaked shirt - red wine, that time - turning to run water in the sink. Orlando watching Billy watching his reflection in the window, watching Orlando's reaction when he observed that Orlando was different, now, assured, and it was better, and Orlando thinking yes, heart-thumpingly pleased and grinning wide but mainly looking at the fine spiky shadows of the pot plants, spider-plants he thought they were, the shadows they cast over Billy's back. Trying to breathe slowly while the blood prickled the skin on his upper arms something fierce, trying to breathe until Dom came bounding in and interrupted that particular moment, fuck you very much.
"Eh?"
"Oh. 'S just, you look a bit pink, mate."
Billy looks down at his bare chest and seems to regard it blankly for a few moments. "Hmm," he says. "More champagne, then?"
Orlando doesn't know if Billy knows what he's going to do, if that was an invitation, but it's like slow motion when Orlando leans over and tips his nearly full glass over Billy's chest, watching the bubbles evaporate on Billy's skin and trickle down to his stomach. Billy flinches a little when the cold rivulets run off down the sides of his hips, and Orlando feels the flinch in his gut.
Wants to do it again.
"Fucker," Billy says mildly, stroking his fingers across his wet navel, dipping one into his belly-button with a squelch. He sucks the wine from his finger, closes his eyes. Orlando watches Billy's fingers drift from his skin to his mouth, his eyes closed against the sun, his movements a little clumsy from the heat and the alcohol, and it's too fucking much, almost. Billy must know what he's doing, must know that his back is arched a little, Orlando thinks, it must be on fucking purpose. Even if he is half-drunk. Orlando's half-drunk too, and he can still think--
Billy cracks an eye open before Orlando can stop his staring. There's a long stretchy moment where Orlando begins to think that maybe he should just shove Billy down on the drinks table, or over the balcony, or in the Thames.
"You yanking on my pigtails?" Billy asks, quietly, turning completely to face him, and Orlando can see him swallow, sees a tiny flicker of something that is clearly not mate-what-a-laugh, is not too much champagne. It is hesitant, lip-biting, and it thrills Orlando so much he cannot speak. He raises his eyebrows, dips his chin, nods yes.
Billy settles back into his lounger, arms over his head, supplicating to the sunshine. "Yank hard, then," he says, and there is a smile playing over his face.
Orlando leans back, grinning.
ii.
I'm in the bar, Orlando had said, and you're late, he'd said, and then there was the click of the phone.
You're late -- this, from someone whose timekeeping is notoriously flexible, despite wearing two watches -- it makes Billy smile, because it fits the new, meticulous Orlando so well. It fits, but it is also disconcerting; a signal that things are in flux.
Define things, Billy wonders. Through the glass doors of the hotel bar he can see Orlando lounging against the counter, the picture of insouciance, and things definitely includes that. That, and the attitude behind it, and the way the attitude was tipping some imperceptible balance that he hesitated to label power, because first and foremost this was a friendship, and friendships were not meant to have those issues.
Billy pushes open the door, waits for Orlando to spot him before crossing the floor, and Orlando isn't quite that practiced or cool, still flashes his brows and breaks into a smile on reflex, and it dawns on Billy (returning the smile, of course, who wouldn't?) that maybe this friendship did have some pretty weird dynamics and he'd just not noticed.
And maybe he hadn't noticed because he thought, he assumed, that he was the one with the direction (fuck it, okay, balance of power), the one who had decided and suggested and invited for the last five years. The one who had said, no mate, you have the window seat; who had said, we're going to get pissed on champagne. Who had said, in four different variations, you're coming home with me tonight.
So when Orlando says again "Late," and looks ever so slightly feral, Billy feels the scales tip away from him, and that is just fine.
It feels like some kind of bizarre flirting.
"But I'm here now," Billy grins, impatient for new reactions.
Orlando only gives him a small smile, and when his inner observer says excitedly that's good, and, he'll be good, Billy tells it to shut the fuck up and let him enjoy the moment.
"Don't," Orlando says, "do it again," and his voice is uncharacteristic mild, a timbre Billy has really only heard from Ian (isn't that an interesting thought, now). Orlando slides a glass across the bar, finger and thumb on the stem of the flute. His own glass is only half full, but he clinks it against Billy's, and says brightly, differently, "to the yanking of pigtails, then."
There's not really anything to say to that, Billy thinks, and drinks, and the yeasty-sweet taste crackles sharply on his tongue, a sensation that he's been conditioned to associate with Orlando, and not just him but him, close and breathing like he is now and occasionally touching like he is now. Orlando seems to be cataloguing the contours of Billy's wrist (perfect, if that thought doesn't make his trousers a bit tighter, god, yes), pinching the narrowest part between thumb and forefinger, his middle finger rubbing hard over the sharp bone, picking up each finger curiously. "Are you sure?" He looks up, and blinks at Billy, and the look is so warm, desire warring with care, that Billy feels his cheeks flush.
"I mean, because you don't normally, do you? You never wanted to when we--" and Orlando waves his hand in the air to encompass what Billy has come to think of as the previouslys, "what I mean is," a pause (and a tiny tip back of those scales; that unsettles Billy, because he was just beginning to feel at home on the high end of the see-saw), "is this new for you?"
Billy has to smile wide at Orlando's over-compassionate questions, younger Orli peeking through, making sure everything is okay, and really, that's reassuring, because it'd be a bit bloody scary if he'd lost that completely in his whirlwind rise, if surety and confidence had come at the price of the lopsided ingénue frown.
"Orlando." Billy puts his glass down, empty, bubbles in his blood now. He's quiet. "Let's be clear. No, I don't normally, but yes, I have before, enough to know I'd like it again." He half-closes his eyes, thinks of what else he wants to say, feels Orlando's fingers around his wrist again, not tentative but firm, and the whole scenario become viable and real, not just hints and sly looks and a couple of half-pissed phone calls. "Yes, I want it, whatever it is you think you want to do to me." He smirks at that, wonders if Orlando's imagination gets vicious. There is a slow, wicked flutter across Orlando's features that suggests it might, and Billy's stomach clenches tightly, thrills in anticipation.
Orlando tips back his glass, fishes money out to pay, and his expression shifts completely, hesitancy gone now, replaced by the sly look that is beginning to give Billy serious trouble concentrating. "So why do I get the pleasure?"
"Because..." Billy searches for what he wants to say, tries to articulate the gut feeling that has kept him awake and wondering (and hard) for weeks now, and it comes to him as he watches Orlando open his wallet and place his change neatly in the billfold.
"Because you're not a ditzy puppy anymore. “You picked up control somewhere... and it suits you to a fucking T." Orlando inclines his head, tongue running along the edge of his top teeth, thoughtful but mischievous, and Billy thinks it's probably deliberate. Provoking. He laughs. "Besides, have you looked in the mirror?"
There's a stretchy silence; the background murmurs in the bar thrum around them, but Billy can almost hear cogs clicking into place, locks being turned, puzzles resolved. Balances tipped.
"Fine." Orlando leans back, and the traces of unsettled concern are gone, replaced by a slight smirk and a calm stare, a tone so low it's almost a purr. "We're going somewhere now. Here's what happens." His hand slips down Billy's back and hovers, not-quite-resting on Billy's hip, a focus for the not-quite-sensation that is frustrating and welcome at the same time, and Billy wonders if Orlando intends it, just how deliberate Orlando's become, and Orlando’s hand briefly squeezes to answer that question before he continues. "You do what I say. You don't speak until you're spoken to, and then, then ... you only say yes or no." His smile is wide and satisfied, sending a trickle of expectant, nervous heat through Billy. "Get that wrong and you go home, show's over." He stretches his arms up and gives Billy a once-over look, straightens his shirt at the collar. "Alright?"
Breathe, Billy thinks, realises he's been holding his breath, exhales shortly through his mouth and there it is, another shift in balance; the prickle just under his skin, the tangible wash of heat, already, and it's fucking excellent, already, but he can't help it - he's fussy, and this has to be good, has to be meticulous, there's no fucking way he's going to let Orlando use him for practise. Attention to detail, the little inner observer pipes up, will he be particular? It matters to Billy; it's why he doesn't do this very often (he can't, really, he's just too observant, too easily jolted out of a scene by fumbling, by a top who can't concentrate enough, who doesn't believe in their actions, and that's it, Billy can't be submissive unless someone makes him believe they're completely in control) and so he finds the detail and he fucks it up. "Aye."
Turns out Orlando does pay attention to details.
"No," Orlando says, quick and low, turning to snap his focus on Billy, bending a little to graze his earlobe when he speaks, and it's accompanied by a sharp twist of Billy's wrist, unnoticed to anyone else, but it jolts and burns and he hears his own sharp intake of breath at the shard of pain. "You say yes, Bill. Yes and no."
Oh fuck, yes, perfect. Orlando still has his wrist held hard and flexed the wrong way, and he keeps it like that until Billy drops his head and nods, and says yes, and he wants to say yes like that again and soon, because Orlando is convincing, and he's grateful for the hand still on his hip, it's a focus against his complete loss of balance when Orlando murmurs "Let's go," in his hair, and steers them toward the door.
iii.
They are buzzed in, and Orlando can see Billy's gaze flickering around the entrance hallway, looking for cues to where they are, what kind of place this is, but there are none; a simple hallway with three doors, all closed. Orlando finds the key rack and takes the set from the third hook; they are labeled OB, just like he had been informed.
"The room at the end, Billy," he says, and places a guiding hand on Billy's back, leading him forward. Unlocks the door, guides Billy in. Inside, there's a mirror, there's an armchair, and the floor is polished hardwood, but that is all; there is no decoration. It's stark. Spare, without being sterile. Polished, but still inviting. Just the kind of atmosphere that encourages concentration; no ridiculous faux-medieval dungeon trappings, no plethora of instruments and toys to catch wandering eyes. The floor to ceiling mirror is perfect, diffusing the subtle light from the opaque windows evenly around the room, glow toned slightly golden from the cedar-coloured floor. Orlando silently blesses his agent, blesses having money to spend on absolute luxuries like this, and says a mute thank you to Ian for a subtle business card slipped in his hand one afternoon.
He jams the keys in his pocket and turns to Billy, almost thrown off course for a second, so bright do Bill's eyes seem in the amber light, yellow flecks glinting and catlike. Catlike is so perfect, so apt, so fitting a description for Billy, small and alert and lazy, poised to pounce and purr. That's it, yes, and Orlando adds another item to his list of Things To Do: make Billy purr for him.
But that can be later.
Billy's mouth is slightly swollen, Orlando notes with satisfaction. He had kissed him in the cab, kissed him hard with a hand wrapped around his neck, feeling the contours of his spine, his vocal cords, his adam's apple, letting Billy's pulse thrum under his fingers and thumb, playing with pressure on his throat while he kissed him and lapped up his reactions. That had been intoxicating enough, the vibrations of caught murmurs in Billy's throat, the slight shake underneath his hands, but Billy was pushing into it, pushing Orlando and his discipline, pushing his hips up and into Orlando in the back seat, and it was tempting and sweet. Orlando had kept him at bay, kept his hand around Billy's throat, strong and definite while he raked his fingers through the soft tufts of hair at the nape of Billy's neck and drunk up the breathy sounds that Billy let escape.
Swollen lips, and the beestung look suits him, Orlando thinks, makes Billy look compromised and careless, strong contrast to the open, leveled gaze of his everyday face. He brushes his thumb across Billy's parted lips, suspicious when Billy's eyelids flutter closed at the gentle touch, because he's not an idiot, he knows something about Billy's responses and there's no bloody way that's genuine.
"Don't bullshit me, Boyd."
Billy's eyes flick open and he grins one-sided, shrewdly assessing what it means to be caught out. It almost makes Orlando laugh out loud, the way Billy is gently probing at the edges of Orlando's control; not pushy, not resisting, just making sure he gets what he wants. They're so fucking alike.
He pushes Billy forward roughly, to face the mirror ("Stand there") and behind him he sinks into the armchair; slightly off-center, from where he can see Billy's reflection, his still-smirking face softening a little as Orlando waits, waits and considers the possibilities. Not that he hasn't thought about them until now, Christ, not that he hasn't deliberated all possible scenarios since he visited this place, Billy standing, kneeling, spread, tied, Billy straining on his toes, on his hands and knees, everything and anything. But confronted with the actual reality of Billy, here, in front of him, he has to wait for the tension in his gut to shift and let him choose. His immediate temptation is to take him half-dressed, gagged with his own t-shirt while he fucks him hard against the mirror, to get his own release quickly, selfishly, and then revel afterwards in the time that he has to eke compliance and need from Billy. But Billy isn't stupid either, and he'll see that for exactly what it is, as Orlando unable to set aside his own impatience, and buggered if that's going to happen, if he's going to give Billy the satisfaction of that - so he ignores the steady ache of his cock, hard already, and settles himself to direct matters.
"Strip." Orlando stretches out in the chair, debates against yawning (purely out of politeness), and closes his eyes. It's excruciatingly difficult to keep his eyes shut against the thought of Billy getting naked in front of him; two Billys getting naked, Billy and his reflection; pulling off his shirt and stripping his trousers in front of the mirror, and he listens to the clink of a belt and the thud of his shoes, feeling his own breathing quicken and a little thrumming pulse set itself up in his belly, insistent and good. He waits until there are no more sounds, gives Billy a chance to look, really look at his surroundings, catalogue the subtle metal rings surrounding the mirror, the fact that the wall panels might be cupboards, and that there are very plain wrist restraints either side of the glass. Then he waits a few seconds more, because that's the hardest lesson of all to learn, patience, to learn to wait and crave and not give in.
Billy is naked, and there should be a new word for what he is, Orlando thinks, the sunny whole of him, back and front, it's more than naked, and he inhales sharply. Not because seeing Billy in the buff, his cock flushed and central, is new, but he has never seen him look so exposed, so… complete. It's his posture, Orlando decides after a moment's considered appreciation, it's in the flex of his shoulder blades where his arms are held behind his back, clasped at the wrist (Christ, yesyes, so good, so amazingly good that Orlando doesn't have to tell him to do that), it's in the tilt of his neck, tempting arch where his head is slightly bowed, but mostly it's in the curve of his spine, so perfectly balanced are his hips, even and spaced. He has poise.
Orlando is always striving for that balance. He remembers Billy once took him to a martial arts class when they were in Wellington. Come along and watch, you'll like it, he'd said, and Orlando had been mesmerised by Billy's concentration and flow, the sheer physicality transforming him from a short slight bloke into someone who inhabited his body with careful grace, and that was something Orlando strived for. Billy was the natural elf, with all that balance, and it comes to Orlando in a rush that he wants to unbalance him.
"Stand up on your toes."
He gets up from the chair, pulling off his t-shirt, throwing it in the pile of Billy's clothes - some things not worth being careful about - to stand close behind him, survey Billy stretched and balanced, and the thought comes to him of strapping Billy across the arches of his feet, like this, on tiptoe, slicing across the sensitive skin with something thin and vicious. Or even better: biting. But the angle is ridiculous, so Orlando stores the idea away for another time, the mere thought already having had sufficient effect, having spiraled heat down his spine.
It's a dancer's trick, a swordfighter's trick, to maintain balance by focusing on a spot far away, and Billy is doing just that, watching some reflected mark in the mirror while his calves adjust to the stretch of extension, and even on his toes like this Billy is not quite as tall as Orlando. Orlando knew that, and he stands close behind him until Billy's gaze wavers for a second, wavers and skates up to the restraints while Orlando watches and breathes on the back of Billy's neck, and height isn't really an issue, but Billy knows it too.
"Think you can stay there like that, Billy?"
Billy's returned 'yes' is smooth and still fucking balanced but only just, the single syllable split in two by his accent. Only just balanced, and Orlando is glad, very glad, that he has allowed Billy only yes and no, what a brilliant idea that was, because he gets to hear determination and wavering and breaking all in those syllables, he gets to contrast the smirking cocksure yes with this teetering yes and soon, oh fuck yeah, yes and no stuttered and gasped instead.
"That's good," Orlando murmurs, and he circles Billy, intercalates himself between Billy and his focus and good, Billy wavers slightly, eyes widening in minute panic for a second before readjusting his gaze beyond Orlando's shoulder, and Orlando drops down to let Billy have the full visual impact of Orlando on his knees before him.
Orlando allows himself a chuckle because it appears that Billy does like the view; a sharp intake of air hissed out in a solid puff, his taut (breakable, hard not to notice that) ankles wobbling ever-so slightly, and Orlando lets Billy have his moment of appreciation, lets him steady himself again, before leaning forward and licking the length of Billy's cock, enjoying the twitch under his tongue as firm becomes hard, and he can inhale the expectant scent of him, his own cock pulsing at the feel and the smell and the sound from the back of Billy's throat.
"You know you have to stay there, Billy," Orlando spreads his hands out lightly on Billy's thighs, savours the ridges of muscle under his palms, "up on your toes." Boy, he wants to say. "For me." He looks up, sees Billy's eyes closed, lids rhythmically squeezing with concentration, and he murmurs encouragement (that's getting there, isn't it, concentrate hard, Billy, let it all go, balance) as he slides his mouth open and over and around, wet and messy on Billy's cock, messy and noisy, messy with teeth. Breathless whimpers trickle down Orlando's spine from above; tangible, he can hear them fall. They're not words (good, yes good, fucking obedience) but the have the weight of words, the impact of more and please.
He slows.
Billy's cock lays heavily along Orlando's outstretched tongue. The weight, the heat, the babysoft, the saltiness along the big vein: Orlando breathes around Billy's cock until he feels his mouth go dry, until Billy's cock is dry, until Billy doesn't move, and then he pulls his tongue back, scrapes for the skin-catching thrill of it, and Billy flails ("--oh"), his shoulders slump forward for balance and for a second Orlando thinks he'll fall or drop but he doesn't.
"Balance," Orlando says at the head of Billy's cock, spit-popping on the sounds, saliva filling his dry mouth as he smiles through the rushing anticipation and takes Billy in again, slow and measured this time, the back of his tongue rolling over the top, nestling the head into his jaw palate, and it elicits a delicious little groan from Billy.
He should stop now, Orlando thinks, not much of a fucking scene so far, but Christ. He loves this, sucking Billy's cock, pulling that noise and this tremor from him, and he takes him again. Deep. Billy rocks on the balls of his feet, made unsteady by warmth and wet, and Orlando savours it all, weighty salty shivering Billy, straining on his fucking tiptoes for a blowjob, and maybe it's not such a bad start after all.
Orlando's been carrying the anticipation across his shoulders all day and he shudders into it now, hums around Billy as the joints in his jaw flex and relax with the shudder, and that seems to translate, tip Billy's balance, a strangled sound escaping from deep in his throat as he rocks, sways forward, the head of his cock bumping hard at the back of Orlando's throat before he wobbles back to his feet, balance gone, poise lost, and Orlando reprimands him with his teeth as he takes his mouth away.
"Oh, too bad." When Orlando scrapes his tongue over his teeth, open-mouthed, it is deliberately provoking, something for Billy to think about while he grits his jaw hard in frustrated disappointment, and there is simply no need for Orlando to look closely to see that. Billy's eyes are evasive anyhow (never, he's always direct, nevernever has Orlando seen that), skittering around until Orlando tips his face, Billy's face, up to meet his gaze, light fingers under his clenched jaw.
"Not very good, were you, Billy?" He can see Billy swallow, watches his jaw muscles tense and work, sees him struggle to hold back insults, rejoinders that must be fucking twisting in Billy's guts to be spat out, and yeah, that's enough. That's how Orlando knows that Billy wants this, wants him, if he can clamp down on calling him a cunt and a bastard and a wanker already, because Billy has the foulest mouth this side of Elijah Wood (actually, he's probably responsible for Elijah, come to think), and here he is now, letting Orlando tease him with something basically fucking impossible. The mixture of outrage and indignation on his face is priceless.
"Well?"
"No," Billy breathes, because Orlando has taken hold of his cock and squeezed, a single hard stroke on the now dry skin, designed for friction and burn and the stifled growl that Orlando can almost see caught in Billy's throat.
"So do it again. Get up on your toes again." Billy does, a flicker of placability on his face and Orlando strokes him again, just as firm, but Billy stays balanced, and Orlando kisses his cheek. "I know you can do better," Orlando says, an edge of patronising that hits the mark. Billy's cheeks flush with something like shame - momentarily, but it's there, and it's satisfying, so beyond what he'd hoped to elicit from Billy.
Perfectionists, Orlando thinks. So very easy to taunt.
He strokes rhythmically, watching. The silence is fascinating; it makes Billy's breathing so very significant, the sound of Orlando's hand moving on his cock lewd and gratuitous. Billy's eyes drift closed until Orlando snaps at him, grasps hard to direct Billy's eyes back to the mirror, to watch himself, but it's so clearly an effort, just as difficult as balance. Orlando watches, almost curiously, as Billy fights to stop his hips from moving, as his breaths become short, harsh, staccato, as he slides into concentration, his face edging toward a grimaced set, holding himself up and steady for Orlando while Orlando jerks his cock at what he hopes is a maddening pace, not slow but not fast enough.
"If you were a girl, Billy, you'd be wet for me, wouldn't you?" and the lurching, dirty shock on Billy's face (tilt, thinks Orlando, tilt and tip) is just fucking exquisite. Perfect, and he slides his hand away (a strangled whimper) and licks his palm wetly, insinuates it between Billy's legs to coat saliva in the hot creases of his thighs. "Wet like that." He licks again, slicks up Billy's skin with spit, avoids touching his balls and his flushed, bobbing cock until he draws a heavy gasp from Billy, the kind that seems to say losing my balance. "Losing your balance, Billy?"
"Y-yes," tumbles out and Orlando's cock pulses hard, because Billy looks shocked, disbelieving at what he's let slip, and Orlando would feel sorry for him if it didn't make him want to dig his nails into Billy's flesh and fuck him right that instant. He smiles broadly, the absolute thrill of watching Billy crack must be plain as day on his face now, and oh yes, Billy looks rattled, and shaking a little but still up on his toes, the tension must be fucking unbelievable, muscle strain and bowstring taut with denied release. His own inner demand (fuck him nownownow) has become strident, screeching, but Orlando clamps down hard on that, turning away and moving behind him, because Billy does not need to see his own struggle, no matter how momentary. "Patience not your strong suit, is it, sonny?" Billy had once clucked at him, "must be tough, what with being a control freak and such an impatient bastard at the same time." Fucker, Orlando thinks fondly, and places his hands on Billy's shoulders to push him back down to his feet.
He frowns, because Billy's shoulders are tensed up, visible ridges of muscle under the scattering of freckles, and he's gone from almost-submissive to gazing at him in the mirror, indulgence barely concealed. That's fine. Orlando wants a challenge, and the calculating look on Billy's face drops suddenly when Orlando twists his thumbs around a nipple, the first real pain and he doesn't hold back on inflicting it until Billy has gone glazed and panting.
"Better." The challenge was half of the attraction since he discovered he liked things at the director's end of the strap. Billy can be tense and sneering all he likes, because Orlando is much, much more patient now, and there are worse things he could be doing to pass the time than stroking his hands down Billy's cool skin. How can it be cool? Orlando wonders, when his own skin feels superheated already?
He slides flat palms around and across Billy's belly, slight pressure but more to enjoy the contrast of his fingers, olive-tan against the faint colour of Billy's stomach, and he thinks: Contrast, maybe that's why. Heated and cool, pale and dark, just like Billy and him, so unlikely, contrasting in all outward appearances, not the audible harmony of friendship like Billy and Dom or the crazy affection of him and Elijah or Viggo. Orlando sometimes wonders how much he should credit that first flight to New Zealand, loved-up on the day-long flight and endless birthday of a charming sprite (he had to be, that or fucking Dorian Gray) who told obscenely filthy jokes and curiously serious stories in the same breath.
"This is a shopping trip, Bill." A frown through the glaze. "Browsing. Trying things on to make sure they suit you." He watches Billy's eyebrows raise slightly in his reflection as he takes one of his wrists and places it up against the mirror frame, splays Billy's palm flat, trails his fingers back along his arm, the softsoft skin underneath flinching a little - that's more like it - at his touch, little more than a tickle. He doesn't even look when he repeats the movement with the other arm, keeps his gaze on Billy's reflection while he positions that wrist on the other side. "Sometimes, you think things will look alright on you," and he uses the curled tips of his fingers to make Billy jump, feathering down under his armpits, little grazes eliciting small quivers against his chest when he leans forward, "but you never know, until you try something on, if it looks good. If it feels good." He steps to the side, away. "Do you, Billy?"
Billy's eyes close briefly, and Orlando can see the breath he takes, and holds, lets out slowly like he's meditating. "No." There's a shake in his voice now (Orlando is pretty sure he isn't imagining it), like saying the words yes and no are too much and too little at the same time.
Around Billy's wrists, against his pale skin, the cuffs (simple black leather, firm and buckled, attached to the mirror frame with similar straps) look obscene and foreign, so not-Billy. It's something Orlando has practised, tightening and fastening the cuffs one-handed until he doesn't falter, until he's deft and quick, and he's pleased with the skill, because even now Billy is observing him slyly from underneath lowered lashes. Measuring. Taking notes. Fucking arrogant little bastard, and won't it be satisfying to have Billy in a place where he can't be a detached observer, where measurement is beyond him.
"Stop waiting for mistakes, Bill," he says, low, knowing that's exactly what he's doing, expecting Orlando to trip, and he grazes a finger under Billy's chin, tilts his head so he has to look up at Orlando, snakes his hand into Billy's hair and jerks his head back, hard and fierce. "Stop thinking I won't be what you need." He pulls the second cuff tight around Billy's wrist, punctuating his words, heating suddenly with his own need to hear Billy cry out unthinkingly, to see his back marked raw and craving more. Billy's gaze has dropped back to unfocussed and he has become still, his breathing audible, becoming syncopated, arrhythmic, and Orlando figures that's a good start, watching Billy's mouth soften into a line that is infinitely more pliable than he's ever seen before.
In the second he turns away for what he needs, the conversation in the sunshine comes back to him, humid and fizzing, and he thinks fuck, peeling, and just for me, and it's a stunning thought, momentous, the simple idea that he can strip Billy bare, peel him exposed, and that Billy wants that. God, there's nothing more seductive, nothing could make him feel more privileged.
He opens the cupboard flush set into the wall, and surveys the array of implements, and he’s privileged, yes, but he's also going to enjoy the simple violent joy of leather on skin. Of whacking Bill until he wails. Yeah.
And, Orlando’s mind stutters, Billy will wait-raw and tender once Orlando is finished with him, pale skin just beginning to bruise. Billy will wait as long as Orlando damn well pleases before he fucks him, before he lets him come, before he lets him drop to the floor, exhausted.
Oh, yeah.