| Title: Time And Again Author: Jo Pairing: Karl Urban/Orlando Bloom; Paris Howe Strewe Rating: R Summary: Voyeurism of a different kind. Disclaimer: Didn't happen. I made the whole thing up. Well, it could have happened, but they didn't see fit to tell me about it. Which is a shame, since it's such a lovely image. However, this IS a rewritten version of another story. Notes: Written for the 2004 Remix challenge. Original story is "Tripartite" by Ghani Blue. I can only hope that my attempt here matches up to the quiet beauty of her story. Thanks to Brenda for the beta.
Too caught up in Orlando. Not that Karl's complaining. Not at all. He likes being caught up in Orlando. Especially when Orlando's like this: warm, yielding, almost kittenish. Karl steps in, shifts his weight. Rubs against Orlando. Heavy bulk against lithe grace. And Orlando rubs back, arching, shifting, hands grasping as he makes a soft sound deep in his throat. It's not quite a moan, but Karl loves it just the same. He loves every sound he can wring from Orlando. Karl wants more of that sound. Wants more of every sound that Orlando can make. Wants it all. So he shifts again, grinds against slender hips framed by his hands. His fingers dig in, denim rough under sword-calloused palms, thumbs pressed hard over the sharp points of Orlando's hipbones. And Orlando bucks, grinds back against Karl. Perfect. Just like that. And again. Only this time, the grinding is accompanied by sliding. Lips sliding over Orlando's jaw, down the line of his bared throat. Karl flicks his tongue over Orlando's skin, tastes the lemonsage scent of Orlando's soap. Full lips fasten over Orlando's pulse-point and suck, just hard enough to raise a pale-purple mark. The mark will give the make-up artists fits in the morning, but Karl doesn't give a damn right now. All that matters is Orlando. Then, just as Karl opens his mouth, tongue snaking out to capture a bead of sweat that trickles down Orlando's neck, the wind shifts. A new scent -- smoke and sandalwood -- drifts to Karl's nostrils, and he almost pauses. Almost. But his brain's registered the new presence in the split-second between scent and recognition, and Karl knows exactly who it is. Paris. Watching. And Karl smiles, lips curving against Orlando's collarbone. Of course it's Paris. Karl's not sure which of them -- himself or Orlando -- that Paris wants, but he's positive it's one. Or, perhaps, both. Paris isn't easy to read at the best of times. But Karl's convinced. He has something Paris wants. Or Orlando does. Either way, doesn't matter. Doesn't matter at all. They stay like that for a moment longer, then another. Just long enough to fully captivate Paris, to draw him into the smoke and shadow image they've created. And then sharp teeth graze Orlando's skin as Karl steps back and smiles. Only Orlando's moan lingers, reverberates in the air after Karl's hooked his fingers in Orlando's belt loops and has tugged him away into the darkness. When it happens the second time, Orlando's eyes are nearly closed, blocking out the surreal, misty half-light of dawn not quite arrived. The trailer wall is solid against his shoulders, cold seeping through his tunic from the dew-covered metal. But Orlando doesn't pay much attention to that. Every sense, every fiber of his being, is focused forward and down. Focused on Karl. On his knees. For Orlando. Leather straps unbuckle, velvet and linen slip aside. Costumes give way to nimble, demanding fingers. Then Karl's hand closes around him, and Orlando gasps. The sound trembles in the damp air. They should be inside, having their wigs fitted, but Karl has other plans. Plans that Orlando was perfectly willing to go along with when Karl shoved him against the side of the trailer. Orlando's not going to say a word in protest if Karl wants to do this, wants to kneel before Orlando, wants to worship Orlando in the way that only Karl can. Silky strands of raven hair slipslide under and over Orlando's fingers. His palm cradles the back of Karl's skull, holds him with a light touch. Orlando's entire world is reduced to this exact moment. A whisper-soft moan escapes him, followed by another. And another. Until the moans are coming one on top the other, breathless, gasping. All for Karl. All for the lush lips wrapped around him, the heat and wet enveloping him, the velvety tongue dancing and curling along tight skin. Orlando can't help the instinct that tilts his hips forward as his fingers tighten. He's coming undone, losing control, and he can't stop it. Doesn't want to stop it as Karl's muted chuckle shivers along his length, up his spine. Doesn't want to stop it at all. Instead, he surrenders to it, welcomes it, embraces it with the abandon that only Karl can bring out in him. And Karl's response is to speed up, fingers sliding, curling over warm flesh, lips gliding over heat, so tight Orlando thinks they'll never come apart. Then Orlando hears it. A quiet almost-sound from nearby. His lashes flicker, eyes shift, and then he sees him. Paris. Partially hidden by the shadows, but definitely there. Watching. Wanting. Orlando can almost taste the want in the air as he parts his lips, sighs Karl's name. He's close. So close. If Karl would just...yes. There. Like that. Perfect. As Orlando watches, Paris twitches, left hand closing and then opening. As if he wants to touch, to take. But he doesn't. Orlando smiles as the sun bursts into view, and he slips over the edge, coaxed by Karl's mouth, caught by Karl's hands. When it happens the third time, the day is almost over and the cot is hard against his back. Karl doesn't mind. It's a welcome relief from kneeling on the cold, stone floor as Paris dies over and over. The scene is brutal, emotionally exhausting, and Karl knows it will retain every bit of its impact in the final cut. But it's over. Forgotten, almost. Karl looks up into Orlando's eyes, smiles. Harsh sunlight slants in through the window over his head, casts Orlando into an odd mixture of sharp, bright angles, and smooth, shadowed curves. It's bizarre and sublime and constantly shifting as Orlando moves over Karl, strong thighs straddling Karl's hips. The rhythm is perfect. The rise and fall of Orlando's body is a thing of beauty. The feel of Orlando, snug around Karl, is painfully perfect. And it's almost more than Karl can stand as Orlando leans down, drags his tongue up the side of Karl's neck. Wet, raw silk sliding over stubble has Karl gasping, arching. His head falls back, inviting more, and Orlando obliges. Tiny licks. Sharp nips. Karl's entire throat is explored, left damp by the heat of Orlando's tongue. And all the while, Orlando's body continues to move. Rising and falling. Taking everything Karl has to give and demanding more. Exactly as Karl wants it. Gentle hands grip a slim waist and guide Orlando's movements. Tongues tangle lazily. Nothing hurried about this. No need to rush. They're done for the day, and the rest of the evening is theirs. Karl smiles when Orlando gasps softly and sits up. That's it. Shift. Move. Again. Then Orlando's doing something, rolling his hips, and Karl's hard pressed to retain any semblance of coherency. He holds on to his control by his fingernails, knowing the least effort on Orlando's part will send him screaming over the edge. And he won't care in the least. He's proven right mere seconds later when his lips part, molding soundlessly into the shape of Orlando's name. Karl doesn't care that it's over for now when Orlando slumps forward, head resting on Karl's shoulder, lips moving in a soft smile against Karl's skin. All that Karl cares about is warmth and satiation and Orlando curled against him. Then the floor creaks. It's Paris' trailer. Orlando doesn't hear it. But Karl does. And he looks. Meets Paris' eyes. Smiles when Paris doesn't look away. Thinks Paris can't look away. Knows Paris doesn't really want to look away. Perfect. Beautiful. Karl wonders what would happen if he were to speak. But he doesn't. Because words aren't what Paris wants. And they all know it.
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