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fellowshippers2003-12-27 11:23 am
jcole.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-12-27 11:23 am
New Fic: Flirt (BB/OB, pre-slash, G)
Title: Flirt
Author: Jamie
Rating: G
Pairing: Slight Billy/Orlando (pre-slashy, pretty much)
Disclaimer: Not real. Don't know 'em. Don't own 'em. Wish I did.
Summary: Orlando was a flirt and Billy knew it.
Flirt
by Jamie
Orlando was a flirt.
Billy knew this, of course. He had, in fact, known it for years. But while he was more than used to observing Orlando’s flirtatious behavior when they were out at clubs, on the set, or were getting a bite and a drink at a local pub, he was most certainly not used to being the subject of said flirtation.
Especially when he was not in a club, or in a pub, or on the set, (or on a jet), but was instead in Wellington, New Zealand, dressed up in suit and sunglasses, and was working his way up the red carpet and into the Embassy Theater.
At first, Billy thought that he was mistaken. He thought, maybe, that Orlando had just been innocently staring in his direction once, twice, three times, and that he, Billy had just happened to catch him at it.
The third time that Billy’s eyes met Orlando’s, however, he started to wonder, because there was nothing furtive about the looks that Orlando was giving him, what with the way that he was staring out at Billy from underneath thick, dark lashes. Staring, until Billy met his gaze, and staring, then, for a moment or two longer, even.
Twice, after that moment or two, Orlando deliberately looked away, to the side, in a way that emphasized the fact that he had been staring in Billy’s direction in the first place. He looked up to the sky, down at the red carpet, around at the crowd, at Viggo, Ian, Liv, or at one of the other hobbits. He smiled at people. He nodded his head.
He looked anywhere but at Billy.
Until the next time that Billy felt the tickle of that gaze on the back of his neck, that is. Until the next time that Billy’s gaze met his.
Three of the times that Billy caught him staring, though, Orlando smiled at him, winked. And no matter how many feet of red carpet, how many actors and extras and bodyguards there were between them, Billy couldn’t help but notice how Orlando’s eyes glittered and sparkled, reflecting the light of the hundreds of cameras that clicked and flashed around them.
It was after those times that Billy found himself staring back, and then continuing to stare even after Orlando had finally looked away.
He studied the curve of Orlando’s lips, the slightly mussed curls of his hair. He strained his ears, trying to see if he could pick out Orlando’s voice in the noise of the crowd which, however unlikely it might have been, he almost thought that he could.
Once, he didn’t look away.
That time, Orlando was the one to catch him.
He didn’t react in any of the ways that Billy had thought that he would. He didn’t flutter his eyelashes, or grin widely, triumphantly. And, most noticeably, he didn’t deliberately look away as he’d done before.
Instead, he blew Billy a kiss: a playful touch of lips to fingertips that Billy knew would be warm and sweaty from signing autographs, from the heat of the air, just like his own were. And although Billy had tried to look down, away, as soon as Orlando had looked up, he wasn’t able to make himself break the stare until long after the kiss should have reached him. Until he realized that—*that* time, at least—Orlando wasn’t going to be the one to turn away first.
It was that time, after he’d finally managed to drag his gaze away, that he told himself he wasn’t going to let himself look at Orlando again, not for the entire night. Or, well, not while they were out on the red carpet, anyway. Not even if he felt the other man’s gaze on him again.
Which he did—or thought he did, anyway, because he certainly didn’t turn to check.
Twice.
It was a stupid promise, maybe, but it was also a promise that he was (technically) able to keep. Because the next time he let himself look up—to just generally scope out the crowd, of course—Orlando was entering the theater, his back to Billy, his eyes straight ahead.
After Orlando was gone, Billy looked away again, and in doing so, he turned back to the fans in front of him. He signed a few more autographs, shook a few more hands, and waved a few more times. Then, he went in, too, and looked around—not searching for Orlando, of course—only to find that the other man was nowhere in sight.
Orlando was a flirt and Billy knew it. He just wasn’t used to being the subject of said flirtation, just wasn’t used to the unsettled feeling that it gave him. And it was for that reason, Billy thought, that it wasn’t until the next morning, when he was standing on the tarmac outside of the airplane painted with Liv and Viggo’s faces, the plane that would be taking them all to Los Angeles, that he realized he had no reason not to flirt back. That he had no reason not to try to unsettle Orlando in the same way that Orlando had unsettled him.
His chance came while they were on the steps that led up to the plane, all of them slowly making their way up and into the cabin. Because as they were waving and smiling at the assembled crowd of fans, mugging for the last few pictures that the photographers would be able to snap of the Fellowship in Wellington, Orlando started to lift his shirt.
First, he raised it just a little bit, showing an inch (two, three) of boxers—a hardly noticeable feat—but then he raised it higher, showing off far more than a sliver of skin.
With the rest of the crowd, Billy watched as the shirt rode up, gripped tightly in the curl of Orlando’s fingers. With the rest of the crowd, he eyed the smooth expanse of exposed skin, the gentle swells of ribs, the toned muscle. He eyed and appreciated and the difference between his position and the position of the thousands of screaming fans down below, Billy realized, was that he was close enough to touch.
So, when Orlando’s chest was bared to the nipples, with his belly button just sitting there, deep and shadowed, Billy did. Billy made his move.
Then, afterwards, when they were both safely ensconced on the plane, Billy gave Orlando what could only be described as a non-furtive look (or, perhaps, it could have been described as a leer), and he watched as Orlando smiled back at him, not unsettled at all.
Which shouldn’t have—and didn’t—surprise Billy in the end (although it had been his goal to unsettle Orlando) because Orlando was a flirt and Billy knew it. And now Orlando knew that Billy could be a flirt, too.
What mattered was that they both seemed to have come to the conclusion that there was no reason not to flirt back. Because there wasn’t. And that, Billy thought, was the best way for it to be.
Author: Jamie
Rating: G
Pairing: Slight Billy/Orlando (pre-slashy, pretty much)
Disclaimer: Not real. Don't know 'em. Don't own 'em. Wish I did.
Summary: Orlando was a flirt and Billy knew it.
Flirt
by Jamie
Orlando was a flirt.
Billy knew this, of course. He had, in fact, known it for years. But while he was more than used to observing Orlando’s flirtatious behavior when they were out at clubs, on the set, or were getting a bite and a drink at a local pub, he was most certainly not used to being the subject of said flirtation.
Especially when he was not in a club, or in a pub, or on the set, (or on a jet), but was instead in Wellington, New Zealand, dressed up in suit and sunglasses, and was working his way up the red carpet and into the Embassy Theater.
At first, Billy thought that he was mistaken. He thought, maybe, that Orlando had just been innocently staring in his direction once, twice, three times, and that he, Billy had just happened to catch him at it.
The third time that Billy’s eyes met Orlando’s, however, he started to wonder, because there was nothing furtive about the looks that Orlando was giving him, what with the way that he was staring out at Billy from underneath thick, dark lashes. Staring, until Billy met his gaze, and staring, then, for a moment or two longer, even.
Twice, after that moment or two, Orlando deliberately looked away, to the side, in a way that emphasized the fact that he had been staring in Billy’s direction in the first place. He looked up to the sky, down at the red carpet, around at the crowd, at Viggo, Ian, Liv, or at one of the other hobbits. He smiled at people. He nodded his head.
He looked anywhere but at Billy.
Until the next time that Billy felt the tickle of that gaze on the back of his neck, that is. Until the next time that Billy’s gaze met his.
Three of the times that Billy caught him staring, though, Orlando smiled at him, winked. And no matter how many feet of red carpet, how many actors and extras and bodyguards there were between them, Billy couldn’t help but notice how Orlando’s eyes glittered and sparkled, reflecting the light of the hundreds of cameras that clicked and flashed around them.
It was after those times that Billy found himself staring back, and then continuing to stare even after Orlando had finally looked away.
He studied the curve of Orlando’s lips, the slightly mussed curls of his hair. He strained his ears, trying to see if he could pick out Orlando’s voice in the noise of the crowd which, however unlikely it might have been, he almost thought that he could.
Once, he didn’t look away.
That time, Orlando was the one to catch him.
He didn’t react in any of the ways that Billy had thought that he would. He didn’t flutter his eyelashes, or grin widely, triumphantly. And, most noticeably, he didn’t deliberately look away as he’d done before.
Instead, he blew Billy a kiss: a playful touch of lips to fingertips that Billy knew would be warm and sweaty from signing autographs, from the heat of the air, just like his own were. And although Billy had tried to look down, away, as soon as Orlando had looked up, he wasn’t able to make himself break the stare until long after the kiss should have reached him. Until he realized that—*that* time, at least—Orlando wasn’t going to be the one to turn away first.
It was that time, after he’d finally managed to drag his gaze away, that he told himself he wasn’t going to let himself look at Orlando again, not for the entire night. Or, well, not while they were out on the red carpet, anyway. Not even if he felt the other man’s gaze on him again.
Which he did—or thought he did, anyway, because he certainly didn’t turn to check.
Twice.
It was a stupid promise, maybe, but it was also a promise that he was (technically) able to keep. Because the next time he let himself look up—to just generally scope out the crowd, of course—Orlando was entering the theater, his back to Billy, his eyes straight ahead.
After Orlando was gone, Billy looked away again, and in doing so, he turned back to the fans in front of him. He signed a few more autographs, shook a few more hands, and waved a few more times. Then, he went in, too, and looked around—not searching for Orlando, of course—only to find that the other man was nowhere in sight.
Orlando was a flirt and Billy knew it. He just wasn’t used to being the subject of said flirtation, just wasn’t used to the unsettled feeling that it gave him. And it was for that reason, Billy thought, that it wasn’t until the next morning, when he was standing on the tarmac outside of the airplane painted with Liv and Viggo’s faces, the plane that would be taking them all to Los Angeles, that he realized he had no reason not to flirt back. That he had no reason not to try to unsettle Orlando in the same way that Orlando had unsettled him.
His chance came while they were on the steps that led up to the plane, all of them slowly making their way up and into the cabin. Because as they were waving and smiling at the assembled crowd of fans, mugging for the last few pictures that the photographers would be able to snap of the Fellowship in Wellington, Orlando started to lift his shirt.
First, he raised it just a little bit, showing an inch (two, three) of boxers—a hardly noticeable feat—but then he raised it higher, showing off far more than a sliver of skin.
With the rest of the crowd, Billy watched as the shirt rode up, gripped tightly in the curl of Orlando’s fingers. With the rest of the crowd, he eyed the smooth expanse of exposed skin, the gentle swells of ribs, the toned muscle. He eyed and appreciated and the difference between his position and the position of the thousands of screaming fans down below, Billy realized, was that he was close enough to touch.
So, when Orlando’s chest was bared to the nipples, with his belly button just sitting there, deep and shadowed, Billy did. Billy made his move.
Then, afterwards, when they were both safely ensconced on the plane, Billy gave Orlando what could only be described as a non-furtive look (or, perhaps, it could have been described as a leer), and he watched as Orlando smiled back at him, not unsettled at all.
Which shouldn’t have—and didn’t—surprise Billy in the end (although it had been his goal to unsettle Orlando) because Orlando was a flirt and Billy knew it. And now Orlando knew that Billy could be a flirt, too.
What mattered was that they both seemed to have come to the conclusion that there was no reason not to flirt back. Because there wasn’t. And that, Billy thought, was the best way for it to be.
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I just saw that picture of Billy poking Orlando and had to write about it.
Glad you enjoyed!
S
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Oh, he so is, and everyone does love it.
I'm so glad you enjoyed!
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no subject
I'm so glad you enjoyed!