oh crap, she *wrote* something again
for lincolnkw at fic_requests
This didn't turn out how I wanted it to, but here it is, regardless. I can't determine if it's smutty or not. It might be. Possibly. Plus, the tenses might possibly be screwed up. Hopefully, you can navigate it without too much trouble. :)
*****
It isn't a disease, Chris decides, because calling it that makes it seem like a bad thing, and everyone sure seems to think that it's the best damn thing ever. So, not a disease, maybe not even an affliction. But it certainly is contagious, and it's spreading fast.
"Oh, we're still talking about this? He was, like, the cast slut, I guess," Lance says, when Chris brings it up in a phone call one weekend. "Lucky cast. Hey, why didn't we have a band slut? Would've made all those nights on the bus pass a bit faster."
"Yeah," Chris sighs, thinking wistfully of Justin's slim waist and dangerous hips. "You can say that again."
"I'll say the lucky cast part again," Lance laughs. "I can think of worse ways to spend a year and a half."
Chris has heard the story a hundred times in the two months since it happened, but he listens patiently as Lance tells him again about running into one of the hobbits - "No, not the one who sang, the other one. Dominic Monaghan. C'mon, Chris, Lord of the Rings isn't just for JC anymore." - in a bar in Santa Monica. After numerous reciprocal purchases of pints, a slurred and cheerful Dominic had been eager to respond to Lance's questions about filming in New Zealand - different in a thousand ways from his own movie-making attempt, and Lance was naturally jealous in a good-natured, typical-Lance kind of way. And then Dominic had started talking about the off-set experiences, and Lance had been jealous in a whole new way.
Dominic had told Lance about late nights, frantic groping behind in alleyways behind pubs, or tumbling through doors of rented houses, hands grabbing at clothes, nails raking across skin. Dominic had told Lance about the threesomes with Elijah, starting off slow and steamy in the trailer after hours, with Billy hurrying out of the room and Viggo slouched in the corner, a lazy eye on the tangled trio and a hand stroking himself through his pants.
Lance had been amazed, curious, and wickedly turned on. Dominic had smiled knowingly and offered to set the two of them up - he'll be thrilled to meet you, Dominic had assured Lance. Sure enough, Orlando had called Lance's cell the very next day and met him for a drink that night. Lance had been slightly nervous, but Orlando had been relaxed and jovial, a mischievous grin slipping across his face when he had leaned over to whisper suggestively, working his tongue quickly into the hollow of Lance's ear.
Afterwards, Lance tells Chris, he had shaken out sweaty curls, grown long for his upcoming film, and licked the come right off of Lance's stomach, smiling that a boyband member was definitely a feather in his cap.
"And now he has, like four feathers," Chris sighs again. "I just don't know why I have to be the one to see him pluck them out of the bird."
"Is that a naughty double-entendre?" Lance asks. "'Cause if it isn't, it should be."
Chris grimaces. He's pretty sure that golden Hollywood it-boys are supposed to maintain a low profile when it comes sexual divergence from the accepted norm. He's also pretty sure that Kate Bosworth is the best actress ever, because Orlando Bloom is about as gay as they get, and doesn't try all that hard to hide it. A fact that he is personally well aware of.
"I still don't see what you're complaining about," Lance chides him. "It's, like, fate or something. Karma. You're destined to walk in on him every time he macs on someone in public. That's not so bad. That's, like, live porn. God loves you, man."
"God is punishing me for all the groupie sex," Chris grumbles. He doesn't see the divine love in his stumbling over Orlando and Elijah in a service hallway at the Beverly Hills Hyatt, tongues down each other's throats. Or his walking into the VIP lounge at the Concorde, and seeing Orlando on his knees, head nestled between Nick Carter's spread thighs, head moving up and down with enthusiasm. Or his trip to the poolhouse bathroom at the Playboy mansion, when he was treated to the sight of Orlando on all fours, head down and moaning while a blissed-out and drunk Kevin Richardson grasped him by the hips and jerked into him over and over.
"Hey man, you mind?" Kevin had managed, between thrusts. Orlando had looked up, panting, and Chris could have sworn that he winked, before the door swung closed and Chris had leaned against the wall, willing his erection away. Later that night, after Kevin had passed out in a chaise, Orlando had sauntered over to Chris, a beer in each hand.
"So that's three times now, yeah?" he had said with another wink that had Chris reaching for the Corona and downing it with two gulps. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you have some peeping tom issues."
"How do you know better?" Chris had retorted. Orlando's smile had grown broader, and Chris had mentally kicked himself for not running that through in his head before saying it out loud. "I mean," he had hastened to add, "what I mean is . . . I mean . . . "
"You don't plan it; it just happens," Orlando had finished, smoothly.
"Yeah."
"It's just a coincidence."
"Yeah, yeah."
"Totally unintentional voyeurism."
"Yeah . . . wait, no! I mean-"
Orlando had laughed, a silken ripple of pale throat, and Chris had ardently wished for another beer, like, right then, or sooner if possible. Then Orlando had leaned over him, his mouth barely brushing the stubble on Chris' cheek, and Chris had wished for something a little stronger than a beer.
"You could watch for real some time," he had murmured, and Chris had swallowed dryly. "You could more than watch, if you wanted." He had pressed his nose against Chris' temple, his lips moving warmly over Chris' skin. "You should get my number from your friend, if you're interested." Then a quick, almost imperceptible lick across Chris' cheek, and Orlando had moved away into the waning party, leaving Chris flustered and uncomfortable in his jeans.
"If you want him, you should go for it," Lance encourages him. "It's not like he'll say no."
Chris doesn't know if he actually wants him, though. Sure, he's tall and beautiful and graceful. Sure, the combination of that with his open-ended offer turns Chris on. He's not made of stone, after all. Well, not all of him, anyway. But it just feels a little weird, knowing he's been with everyone and then some.
"He's great, really flexible," Lance continues inexorably, like he hasn't described Orlando's attributes a million times over. "He's just like how I always imagined C . . . well, but you don't really have to imagine that, do you?" He chuckles. "Oh yeah, poooor Chris. Man, I'd kill to see C in action. Tell me again how hot that was."
"It was really hot," Chris admits grudgingly. "But I think Jayce was kinda embarrassed. You didn't tell him I told you, did you?"
"No, I told you I wouldn't. But c'mon man, tell me again."
Chris sighs, tells Lance again about navigating the maze of backstage at whatever charity auction he had been at, finally finding the dressing room that JC had been assigned, so relieved to get there that he hadn't heard the sounds coming from behind the closed door. He had gone in, no knocking 'cause you don't usually need to knock on JC's door, and maybe he should have, but then he'd have missed Orlando's lean, muscled torso straining between JC's raised thighs, and it really had been unbearably hot.
JC had been gasping in breathy little grunts, his ankles knotted in the small of Orlando's back, his ass arching critically off the countertop, his fingers digging into Orlando's upper arms. Orlando had been grunting as well, lower-pitched and rough with need, as his hips jutted forward over and over, one hand wrapped around JC's neck, the other gripping the counter with a white-knuckled intensity. Chris had stood for a moment, slack-jawed, and in that moment, Orlando had seen him reflected in the mirror. JC's eyes had been squeezed shut, but they flew open when Orlando chuckled and said "Well, well, my fan club."
JC had mewed, and tried to squirm away, but Orlando had held him fast with a hand, still thrusting into him, eyes dancing merrily on Chris' shocked face. "We've got to . . . uhh . . .stop meeting . . . uhh, yeah, sshh, that's it . . . meeting like this," he had said before dropping his head to nuzzle at JC's neck. Chris' mouth had worked silently for a minute before he had realized that he should probably leave - JC was bucking beneath Orlando's body, face red and uncontrollably contorted, and it really was a private moment, really. He had backed out of the room, trying very hard not to think about the escalating moans that he could hear very clearly now, thank you.
"Damn." Chris can practically hear Lance shaking his head. "Chris, I'm telling you, you wanna get some, you get some before he hits the 'Oh shit, I'm supposed to be straight' speed bump. He might never get back on our road, and it'll be Justin all over again."
Chris doesn't want to talk about Justin's permanent detour from Homo Highway, though, so he begs off with Lance, crossing his heart and hoping to die with a promise to call the next time he inadvertently comes across Orlando Bloom demonstrating his sexual prowess - which will probably be within the next week or two, he thinks. It's been awhile, so the odds are good, he tells Lance, who heaves a sigh of relief before hanging up the phone.
A few hours later, Chris thinks he should have taken his odds and headed to Vegas. He's walking back from the Coffee Bean, a decidedly non-non-fat mocha in his hand, and there's a towncar driving on the street next to him. He doesn't think much about it, until he notices how slow it's going, like it's trailing him or something. It pulls up alongside him; the window begins to roll down, and he automatically braces himself for squeals or camera flashes before remembering that it's not exactly like that anymore.
"I thought I recognized you," comes an amused British voice, and Chris can't fucking believe it. Seriously. On the fucking street. Give him a break.
"In town for the Oscars?" he asks, keeping his eyes on the sidewalk in front of him.
"Something like that," Orlando drawls, and then "Ooohh . . . mmm, ah, you, ah, need a ride somewhere?"
Chris glances up then, raises an eyebrow at Orlando's flushed face and glittering eyes, the slight heave of his chest. Is it possible? Does he have someone in there right now? Chris is suddenly dying to know. "Sure," he says expansively, "why not?"
"Excellent." Orlando smirks a smile and tips his head towards the door on the other side of the car. "Hop on in, yeah?"
The towncar eases to a stop and Chris trots around the back to the other side, pops open the door and slides into the seat - and then notices that yep, this ain't no bicycle built for two. Orlando motions for him to shut the door, and he does so without looking, his eyes glued to the figure crouched on the floor between Orlando's knees.
"You're unbelievable," he shakes his head. Orlando runs a hand through the man's short, dark hair, licks his lips almost lazily as he hums deep in his throat and turns to look at Chris as the car drives off.
"What's unbelievable is the head you pop stars give," he says. "I thought . . . mmm, with the voice training and all, actors would be the best . . . ohhh, yes, mmm," his eyes slip shut, and Chris winces a bit at the wet noises of sucking - he's not getting hard, no he's not, no he's not. "But," Orlando continues, a bit hoarsely, his hips moving ever so slightly, "I see now that I was ignoring a whole demographic . . . uhhhh . . . that I'm finally able to . . . able to . . god, fuck, yeah . . . to take advantage of."
"That's great. Really." Chris shifts one leg over the other, but Orlando's completely onto him, sliding a hand over the seat and onto Chris' thigh. Chris sucks in a breath, tries not to close his eyes. This is such porn, this isn't really happening, that isn't Orlando Bloom's index finger stroking over the bulge in his jeans, his cock is not quivering under the touch, he is not sitting in a car watching a movie star getting sucked off by some guy.
"Relax," Orlando whispers. "It's cool, yeah?" And it is, it's very cool, but it's also kinda slutty, and Chris still feels kinda weird about it. He feels a little less weird and a little more turned on, though, when Orlando's hand leaves his crotch and clasps the man's head gently, because it really is some live fucking porn, and maybe God does love him after all. God certainly seems to love Orlando.
The car picks up speed, and it feels like they're getting on the freeway, which means they're going into town, and Chris hasn't even said where he wants to go. He has the feeling he's not the one behind the wheel of this particular ride anyway, and when he looks at the scene next to him, he pretty much doesn't care. The most compelling thing is Orlando's face -his eyes are closed, he's not even looking at Chris anymore, and his mouth drops open with each little gasp and sigh. When Chris drops his gaze from Orlando's face, runs his eyes down Orlando's chest to his groin, he can see Orlando's cock disappearing deep into the guy's mouth, the guy who hasn’t looked up once this whole time.
Chris barely notices where the car is going, but Orlando comes just a few minutes before they arrive, hissing and swearing and arching into the guy's mouth, and Chris, who has kept his hands clenched in fists on his legs, feels his cock twitch in sympathy, and groans to himself. Orlando echoes the groan, leaning down and grabbing the back of the guy's head, pulling him into a deep, hungrily satisfied kiss. The cab comes to a complete stop, and the driver's studiously impersonal voice comes out tinnily over the intercom.
"The Beverly Hilton."
"That's your stop, doll," Orlando says breathily, breaking the kiss, and Chris gets his first good look at the guy's face. Funnily, he isn't wholly surprised when he sees who it is.
"Hey Howie." He gives a half-hearted wave.
"Uh, Chris." Howie blinks at him, and breaks into a smile. "How's it going, man?"
"Uh, fine. And uh . . . you?" Chris isn't exactly sure what to say to him, but he doesn't have to worry about it, because Howie is already climbing out of the car, leaning back through the open window to claim another hard, wet kiss from Orlando.
"-all weekend, yeah. Call me," Orlando tells him, pats him on the cheek. Howie gives Chris a thumbs-up as the window rolls up, and the car is moving again.
"So." Orlando sits back against the seat. His jeans are still unzipped, and the smile on his face is lazy and warm.
"Yeah, uh . . . so."
"Any particular destination in mind?"
Chris stifles the urge to say "Your ass," and settles for a shrug of the shoulders.
"Well," Orlando says, turning slightly towards Chris, "the night is young. It shouldn't be hard-" with a pointed look, "-to think of something to do." His arm, resting on the back of the seat, falls down, and his hand brushes lightly down the length of Chris' arm.
Chris suppresses a shiver, and wonders if maybe the fly enjoys getting eaten by the spider. And it looks like he means that literally. And when Orlando's fingers start playing on the back of Chris' hand, Chris decides that he doesn't really care if it's a disease or not. He's just glad he finally caught it.
ETA: I forgot to use my fuckbutorli'shot icon!
This didn't turn out how I wanted it to, but here it is, regardless. I can't determine if it's smutty or not. It might be. Possibly. Plus, the tenses might possibly be screwed up. Hopefully, you can navigate it without too much trouble. :)
*****
It isn't a disease, Chris decides, because calling it that makes it seem like a bad thing, and everyone sure seems to think that it's the best damn thing ever. So, not a disease, maybe not even an affliction. But it certainly is contagious, and it's spreading fast.
"Oh, we're still talking about this? He was, like, the cast slut, I guess," Lance says, when Chris brings it up in a phone call one weekend. "Lucky cast. Hey, why didn't we have a band slut? Would've made all those nights on the bus pass a bit faster."
"Yeah," Chris sighs, thinking wistfully of Justin's slim waist and dangerous hips. "You can say that again."
"I'll say the lucky cast part again," Lance laughs. "I can think of worse ways to spend a year and a half."
Chris has heard the story a hundred times in the two months since it happened, but he listens patiently as Lance tells him again about running into one of the hobbits - "No, not the one who sang, the other one. Dominic Monaghan. C'mon, Chris, Lord of the Rings isn't just for JC anymore." - in a bar in Santa Monica. After numerous reciprocal purchases of pints, a slurred and cheerful Dominic had been eager to respond to Lance's questions about filming in New Zealand - different in a thousand ways from his own movie-making attempt, and Lance was naturally jealous in a good-natured, typical-Lance kind of way. And then Dominic had started talking about the off-set experiences, and Lance had been jealous in a whole new way.
Dominic had told Lance about late nights, frantic groping behind in alleyways behind pubs, or tumbling through doors of rented houses, hands grabbing at clothes, nails raking across skin. Dominic had told Lance about the threesomes with Elijah, starting off slow and steamy in the trailer after hours, with Billy hurrying out of the room and Viggo slouched in the corner, a lazy eye on the tangled trio and a hand stroking himself through his pants.
Lance had been amazed, curious, and wickedly turned on. Dominic had smiled knowingly and offered to set the two of them up - he'll be thrilled to meet you, Dominic had assured Lance. Sure enough, Orlando had called Lance's cell the very next day and met him for a drink that night. Lance had been slightly nervous, but Orlando had been relaxed and jovial, a mischievous grin slipping across his face when he had leaned over to whisper suggestively, working his tongue quickly into the hollow of Lance's ear.
Afterwards, Lance tells Chris, he had shaken out sweaty curls, grown long for his upcoming film, and licked the come right off of Lance's stomach, smiling that a boyband member was definitely a feather in his cap.
"And now he has, like four feathers," Chris sighs again. "I just don't know why I have to be the one to see him pluck them out of the bird."
"Is that a naughty double-entendre?" Lance asks. "'Cause if it isn't, it should be."
Chris grimaces. He's pretty sure that golden Hollywood it-boys are supposed to maintain a low profile when it comes sexual divergence from the accepted norm. He's also pretty sure that Kate Bosworth is the best actress ever, because Orlando Bloom is about as gay as they get, and doesn't try all that hard to hide it. A fact that he is personally well aware of.
"I still don't see what you're complaining about," Lance chides him. "It's, like, fate or something. Karma. You're destined to walk in on him every time he macs on someone in public. That's not so bad. That's, like, live porn. God loves you, man."
"God is punishing me for all the groupie sex," Chris grumbles. He doesn't see the divine love in his stumbling over Orlando and Elijah in a service hallway at the Beverly Hills Hyatt, tongues down each other's throats. Or his walking into the VIP lounge at the Concorde, and seeing Orlando on his knees, head nestled between Nick Carter's spread thighs, head moving up and down with enthusiasm. Or his trip to the poolhouse bathroom at the Playboy mansion, when he was treated to the sight of Orlando on all fours, head down and moaning while a blissed-out and drunk Kevin Richardson grasped him by the hips and jerked into him over and over.
"Hey man, you mind?" Kevin had managed, between thrusts. Orlando had looked up, panting, and Chris could have sworn that he winked, before the door swung closed and Chris had leaned against the wall, willing his erection away. Later that night, after Kevin had passed out in a chaise, Orlando had sauntered over to Chris, a beer in each hand.
"So that's three times now, yeah?" he had said with another wink that had Chris reaching for the Corona and downing it with two gulps. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you have some peeping tom issues."
"How do you know better?" Chris had retorted. Orlando's smile had grown broader, and Chris had mentally kicked himself for not running that through in his head before saying it out loud. "I mean," he had hastened to add, "what I mean is . . . I mean . . . "
"You don't plan it; it just happens," Orlando had finished, smoothly.
"Yeah."
"It's just a coincidence."
"Yeah, yeah."
"Totally unintentional voyeurism."
"Yeah . . . wait, no! I mean-"
Orlando had laughed, a silken ripple of pale throat, and Chris had ardently wished for another beer, like, right then, or sooner if possible. Then Orlando had leaned over him, his mouth barely brushing the stubble on Chris' cheek, and Chris had wished for something a little stronger than a beer.
"You could watch for real some time," he had murmured, and Chris had swallowed dryly. "You could more than watch, if you wanted." He had pressed his nose against Chris' temple, his lips moving warmly over Chris' skin. "You should get my number from your friend, if you're interested." Then a quick, almost imperceptible lick across Chris' cheek, and Orlando had moved away into the waning party, leaving Chris flustered and uncomfortable in his jeans.
"If you want him, you should go for it," Lance encourages him. "It's not like he'll say no."
Chris doesn't know if he actually wants him, though. Sure, he's tall and beautiful and graceful. Sure, the combination of that with his open-ended offer turns Chris on. He's not made of stone, after all. Well, not all of him, anyway. But it just feels a little weird, knowing he's been with everyone and then some.
"He's great, really flexible," Lance continues inexorably, like he hasn't described Orlando's attributes a million times over. "He's just like how I always imagined C . . . well, but you don't really have to imagine that, do you?" He chuckles. "Oh yeah, poooor Chris. Man, I'd kill to see C in action. Tell me again how hot that was."
"It was really hot," Chris admits grudgingly. "But I think Jayce was kinda embarrassed. You didn't tell him I told you, did you?"
"No, I told you I wouldn't. But c'mon man, tell me again."
Chris sighs, tells Lance again about navigating the maze of backstage at whatever charity auction he had been at, finally finding the dressing room that JC had been assigned, so relieved to get there that he hadn't heard the sounds coming from behind the closed door. He had gone in, no knocking 'cause you don't usually need to knock on JC's door, and maybe he should have, but then he'd have missed Orlando's lean, muscled torso straining between JC's raised thighs, and it really had been unbearably hot.
JC had been gasping in breathy little grunts, his ankles knotted in the small of Orlando's back, his ass arching critically off the countertop, his fingers digging into Orlando's upper arms. Orlando had been grunting as well, lower-pitched and rough with need, as his hips jutted forward over and over, one hand wrapped around JC's neck, the other gripping the counter with a white-knuckled intensity. Chris had stood for a moment, slack-jawed, and in that moment, Orlando had seen him reflected in the mirror. JC's eyes had been squeezed shut, but they flew open when Orlando chuckled and said "Well, well, my fan club."
JC had mewed, and tried to squirm away, but Orlando had held him fast with a hand, still thrusting into him, eyes dancing merrily on Chris' shocked face. "We've got to . . . uhh . . .stop meeting . . . uhh, yeah, sshh, that's it . . . meeting like this," he had said before dropping his head to nuzzle at JC's neck. Chris' mouth had worked silently for a minute before he had realized that he should probably leave - JC was bucking beneath Orlando's body, face red and uncontrollably contorted, and it really was a private moment, really. He had backed out of the room, trying very hard not to think about the escalating moans that he could hear very clearly now, thank you.
"Damn." Chris can practically hear Lance shaking his head. "Chris, I'm telling you, you wanna get some, you get some before he hits the 'Oh shit, I'm supposed to be straight' speed bump. He might never get back on our road, and it'll be Justin all over again."
Chris doesn't want to talk about Justin's permanent detour from Homo Highway, though, so he begs off with Lance, crossing his heart and hoping to die with a promise to call the next time he inadvertently comes across Orlando Bloom demonstrating his sexual prowess - which will probably be within the next week or two, he thinks. It's been awhile, so the odds are good, he tells Lance, who heaves a sigh of relief before hanging up the phone.
A few hours later, Chris thinks he should have taken his odds and headed to Vegas. He's walking back from the Coffee Bean, a decidedly non-non-fat mocha in his hand, and there's a towncar driving on the street next to him. He doesn't think much about it, until he notices how slow it's going, like it's trailing him or something. It pulls up alongside him; the window begins to roll down, and he automatically braces himself for squeals or camera flashes before remembering that it's not exactly like that anymore.
"I thought I recognized you," comes an amused British voice, and Chris can't fucking believe it. Seriously. On the fucking street. Give him a break.
"In town for the Oscars?" he asks, keeping his eyes on the sidewalk in front of him.
"Something like that," Orlando drawls, and then "Ooohh . . . mmm, ah, you, ah, need a ride somewhere?"
Chris glances up then, raises an eyebrow at Orlando's flushed face and glittering eyes, the slight heave of his chest. Is it possible? Does he have someone in there right now? Chris is suddenly dying to know. "Sure," he says expansively, "why not?"
"Excellent." Orlando smirks a smile and tips his head towards the door on the other side of the car. "Hop on in, yeah?"
The towncar eases to a stop and Chris trots around the back to the other side, pops open the door and slides into the seat - and then notices that yep, this ain't no bicycle built for two. Orlando motions for him to shut the door, and he does so without looking, his eyes glued to the figure crouched on the floor between Orlando's knees.
"You're unbelievable," he shakes his head. Orlando runs a hand through the man's short, dark hair, licks his lips almost lazily as he hums deep in his throat and turns to look at Chris as the car drives off.
"What's unbelievable is the head you pop stars give," he says. "I thought . . . mmm, with the voice training and all, actors would be the best . . . ohhh, yes, mmm," his eyes slip shut, and Chris winces a bit at the wet noises of sucking - he's not getting hard, no he's not, no he's not. "But," Orlando continues, a bit hoarsely, his hips moving ever so slightly, "I see now that I was ignoring a whole demographic . . . uhhhh . . . that I'm finally able to . . . able to . . god, fuck, yeah . . . to take advantage of."
"That's great. Really." Chris shifts one leg over the other, but Orlando's completely onto him, sliding a hand over the seat and onto Chris' thigh. Chris sucks in a breath, tries not to close his eyes. This is such porn, this isn't really happening, that isn't Orlando Bloom's index finger stroking over the bulge in his jeans, his cock is not quivering under the touch, he is not sitting in a car watching a movie star getting sucked off by some guy.
"Relax," Orlando whispers. "It's cool, yeah?" And it is, it's very cool, but it's also kinda slutty, and Chris still feels kinda weird about it. He feels a little less weird and a little more turned on, though, when Orlando's hand leaves his crotch and clasps the man's head gently, because it really is some live fucking porn, and maybe God does love him after all. God certainly seems to love Orlando.
The car picks up speed, and it feels like they're getting on the freeway, which means they're going into town, and Chris hasn't even said where he wants to go. He has the feeling he's not the one behind the wheel of this particular ride anyway, and when he looks at the scene next to him, he pretty much doesn't care. The most compelling thing is Orlando's face -his eyes are closed, he's not even looking at Chris anymore, and his mouth drops open with each little gasp and sigh. When Chris drops his gaze from Orlando's face, runs his eyes down Orlando's chest to his groin, he can see Orlando's cock disappearing deep into the guy's mouth, the guy who hasn’t looked up once this whole time.
Chris barely notices where the car is going, but Orlando comes just a few minutes before they arrive, hissing and swearing and arching into the guy's mouth, and Chris, who has kept his hands clenched in fists on his legs, feels his cock twitch in sympathy, and groans to himself. Orlando echoes the groan, leaning down and grabbing the back of the guy's head, pulling him into a deep, hungrily satisfied kiss. The cab comes to a complete stop, and the driver's studiously impersonal voice comes out tinnily over the intercom.
"The Beverly Hilton."
"That's your stop, doll," Orlando says breathily, breaking the kiss, and Chris gets his first good look at the guy's face. Funnily, he isn't wholly surprised when he sees who it is.
"Hey Howie." He gives a half-hearted wave.
"Uh, Chris." Howie blinks at him, and breaks into a smile. "How's it going, man?"
"Uh, fine. And uh . . . you?" Chris isn't exactly sure what to say to him, but he doesn't have to worry about it, because Howie is already climbing out of the car, leaning back through the open window to claim another hard, wet kiss from Orlando.
"-all weekend, yeah. Call me," Orlando tells him, pats him on the cheek. Howie gives Chris a thumbs-up as the window rolls up, and the car is moving again.
"So." Orlando sits back against the seat. His jeans are still unzipped, and the smile on his face is lazy and warm.
"Yeah, uh . . . so."
"Any particular destination in mind?"
Chris stifles the urge to say "Your ass," and settles for a shrug of the shoulders.
"Well," Orlando says, turning slightly towards Chris, "the night is young. It shouldn't be hard-" with a pointed look, "-to think of something to do." His arm, resting on the back of the seat, falls down, and his hand brushes lightly down the length of Chris' arm.
Chris suppresses a shiver, and wonders if maybe the fly enjoys getting eaten by the spider. And it looks like he means that literally. And when Orlando's fingers start playing on the back of Chris' hand, Chris decides that he doesn't really care if it's a disease or not. He's just glad he finally caught it.
ETA: I forgot to use my fuckbutorli'shot icon!