written for Blythely and her one-shot come-shot challenge
The tape comes from Malta in the post, sent in an anonymous brown mailer made especially for recorded material. When Elijah rips open the package, the cassette tumbles out into his hand – all black plastic and magnetic tape. Scribbled on the label in Orlando's familiar, exaggerated handwriting are the words: "I miss you, you sad wanker."
He's underlined the word 'wanker' several times, hedged it with crooked arrows, and Elijah knows, somewhere on the other side of the globe, Orlando Bloom is quite pleased with himself.
…
Elijah switches his cell phone to vibrate and turns off all the lights in the apartment before popping the tape into the living room VCR.
There is few seconds' worth of static before Orlando winks onto the screen – naked and heavy-lidded, propped up against the headboard like an obscene rag doll. His thighs are spread wide to the camera – exposing parts of him that Elijah knows only he has seen. Seen and tasted and scraped new with his teeth. Orlando's mouth hangs open, head thrown back – the muscles of his neck sharp and exquisite. Between his spread legs, Orlando's hand is working his swollen cock with long, complete, spitslick strokes.
Elijah fumbles for a moment before managing to turn up the volume.
"Jesus, Lij," Orlando mumbles, as he runs his thumb along the head, rubbing a rough callus across the slit. In his jeans, Elijah's dick goes from softhard to silksolid and it's the rough tone of Orlando's voice that does it. The sound of his name on Orlando's lips and the sight of Orlando's body tightening around the memory of his sex. It's the wetwet noises coming from the motion of Orlando's fingertips; the pressure of his palm as it squeezes harder, whispering, "Jesus fuck."
Tight and slow, that's the way Orlando likes it, and Elijah watches for a moment – dazed and entranced and painfully aroused.
Elijah doesn't realize what he's doing until he's off the couch and on his knees in front of the television. He rubs his fingers across the grainy image of Orlando's torso and almost expects to feel the sweatshiny skin beneath his fingerstips. He wants to have the newly-toned muscle of Orlando's body jump beneath his touch. Instead, all he feels is electric static and illuminated glass. Elijah paws at the screen urgently – leaving dirty smudges on Orlando's face, his arms and his cock – as his other hand claws its nail-bitten way into his jeans.
When Elijah's fingers finally grasp the base of his hard-on, he finds it already leaking onto the inside of his boxers, its head weeping at the possibility of Orlando. There's not enough room in his pants to do the deed properly, so he just thrusts into his damp palm, feeling slightly awkward sprawled out on the carpet.
"You like this?" Orlando asks, and when Elijah pulls his eyes from Orlando's crotch back up to his face, Orlando is looking at him smugly behind the curtain of his hair, which has fallen across his face as he leans forward into the lens. In the periphery of Elijah's vision, Orlando's hand quickens. He sneers and says it again. Less of a question, more of a demand. "You like it. Tell me you like it."
"Yeah, I like it." Elijah obeys quietly, knowing full-well that Orlando can't hear him. He's caught beneath the intensity of Orlando's gaze, the deliberateness of his words. The heaviness of his desire as Orlando's free hand trails its way down the front of his own body, a smirk ghosting across his lips. "I fucking love it."
Elijah watches, his gaze trained, as Orlando's head falls back against the headboard, eyes tracing fantasies on the ceiling. Orlando's voice is tight in his throat as his wandering hand moves across his thighs and under him.
"All the boys here wanna fuck me," Orlando growls, and his upper lip twitches as he pushes the first finger in, his hips bucking involuntarily upwards – a bright hiss of air between his teeth. Then another finger – knuckle deep – and a certain twist of the wrist that he once taught Elijah. "But I don't let 'em, Lij. I want you to do it." The heel of Orlando's palm massages his balls – small, tight, flickering circles – as his hand shifts, his hips shift, all of him shifts in time to his own, personal rhythm.
Fast and then slow. Slow, slow, and then fast.
Elijah's hand struggles in his pants, trying to touch everything at once, and he can hear Orlando telling him in the back of his mind, Don't make me come yet, Lij, I don't wanna. Slow the fuck down. Want you to fuck me all night. The words make Elijah dizzy – whimpering and frantic – and his mind is full of Orlando, while his hand is full of desperate cock.
When Orlando's hips thrust down, he is fucking his finger; when they pump up, he is fucking his hand, and Elijah wishes – he fucking aches – to be one or the other or both. The blunt heat inside Orlando's ass, the tight fist around Orlando's cock. "You know how to do it, Lij." Orlando's voice has thinned down to a rasp between his quickening breaths. "I want you to fucking do it. To do me." Orlando's eyes flutter open, head tilted forward, and he is looking at Elijah again through his dark lashes – boring into Elijah with a gaze that is hotter and sweeter than any mouth or cock or ass he's ever had the opportunity to enjoy or imagine.
"Fucking do me," Orlando hisses, and that's enough. Enough for Elijah who doesn't take much to get off.
Elijah comes – hard and quick and dirty – in his jeans and all over his boxers. A warm satisfying stickiness fills his palm, whose fingers ache, and Elijah feels sixteen again: fucking around in bar bathrooms with boys in band t-shirts. He milks himself for what its worth, using the come to re-slicken his shaft. Trying to make it last longer. More bang for his buck, that sort of thing.
On the screen, the muscles of Orlando's stomach begin to contract in strange, arrhythmic patterns, and Elijah knows he's close, so fucking close. He waits for Orlando's hips to pump, for his balls to tighten; waits for the moment when Orlando's cock jumps in his fist and his body arches upwards off the mattress.
Elijah doesn't notice, but his mouth waters at the sight: the milky streaks that Orlando's dick paints across his bare chest in a series of enthusiastic shudders. He keeps his hand round his softening cock as Orlando orgasms, listening to the clipped, amorphous grunts that fall from his slack-jawed mouth – the sounds mixed with half-formed obscenities.
When it's over Orlando slumps back against the headboard, pulling his greedy fingers from himself. Delicious aftershocks send shivers through his body a moment later, and Orlando bites his lip and fists the sheets and rides them out too, his dick twitching against this thigh. He traces lazy circles across his sex-spattered torso as the tremors dissipate in tiny, echoing waves.
Elijah watches and fiercely wishes it were his fingers doing the dirty work. His tongue. Lapping at Orlando's skin to collect every bitter, sainted drop with rough, hungry swipes. Yeah, Orlando would want that. Elijah knows it; they both do.
There is a moment of quietness, the kind that always seems to come after sex, and eventually Orlando's breathing starts to even. His eyes dart back and forth behind closed lids and he says, amusedly: "You'd better be behaving over there." The tone of his voice is different now, and it breaks through the sex-haze clouding Elijah's mind. He blinks at Orlando, who starts to smile from the screen. "I fucking miss you, man," he then says and begins to suck teasingly on his dirty fingers. When Orlando finally looks up to meet the gaze of the lens, there is a hint of shyness in his expression. The hint of embarrassment grazing his cheeks.
Elijah smiles back.
There is come smeared on Orlando's chin and it glistens – catches the light – when he leans forward to switch off the camera. His mouth moves out of focus, blurred by proximity as he murmurs, "I'll see you later, you fucking porn star." Orlando flashes teeth – bright smudges on the screen – before disappearing in a flash of white noise.
Elijah sits there quietly for a while, alone with the flurried snow flickering on the blank television. His orgasm is still warm in his belly and he can smell the sharp sweat matting his hair. He still has his hand shoved down the front of his jeans, and when he tugs his hand free, he's surprised to discover he's hard all over again. His fingers stick together as he pulls up his shirt to wipe them absently on his belly, leaving wet streaks on pale skin.
Elijah struggles in the darkness to find the remote, and when he does, he presses rewind.
