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[...i'm not having sex with colin farrell but guess what...]
I have not started my remix or my BDS easter bunny challenge, yet I have at least two relatively lengthy BDS fics--one set in a desert, the other being kind of a crossover with Gossip *leers at this week's bds_drabble challenge*--and they're both waiting to see the light of day. Not this day, though.
Anyway. Troy RPS fics involving Brad Pitt. There are none. And by none, I mean two, which is measly compared to the surprising abundance of Banalando (HEHEHE) thingies out there. So I was like, "Hmm." Then I was like, *fics*.
I'm a-gonna name it BRANDO. Or Ploom. Whichever. Here's the fic, being probably just this side of silly. Find the LOTRips references and win a box of goldfish crackers!
Title: Reruns & Lawsuits
Fandom: Troy RPS
Pairing: Brandoploom
Rating: PG13
Summary: What happens in Middle Earth stays in Middle Earth, but Malta is a whole 'nother ball game.
Disclaimer: This story is a flagrant lie, kind of like what I said back there about giving you goldfish crackers.
-
Reruns & Lawsuits
It was late, they were out, they were drinking, and it wasn't like Brad didn't notice that the 'come hither' look in Orlando's eyes was inversely proportional to the wine he consumed. It would be presumptuous to say 'please stop undressing me with your eyes' so Brad just grinned and shot the shit, as always. Over the years, out of necessity, he had developed a knack for bullshitting.
The topic changed to television shows and Brad said his favorite was Friends. That was his wife's show, by the way.
"Ex-wife's show," said Orlando.
"What?"
"I mean, wife's ex-show." Orlando smiled, raising his glass as if in apology. "I thought they were... pulling the plug."
"Yeah. Yeah, they are. Had a good long run and now it's time for something new and godspeed, you know?"
"That one kid on the show. He has a spin-off."
And that was funny, Orlando Bloom calling Matt LeBlanc 'kid', because Matt had ten years on the boy. A boy who, Brad might add, was getting slightly past tipsy. Orlando was: dark heavy-lidded eyes, pink tongue that peeked out between white teeth and lingered, words swallowed by alcohol. It seemed that with every mouthful of wine, Orlando's limbs grew longer, and that he took up more of the booth without really moving at all. Brad knew it was a display for his benefit and he just watched, amused, daresay entertained and, sitting back, subtly parried. Orlando wasn't the only one with presence in the room.
"You mean Joey," said Brad.
"That's the one," said Orlando, and took another sip. "You must forgive my ignorance. The show isn't to my taste."
"It's a free world," shrugged Brad.
"I suppose there are always reruns, then?"
"Yeah. They're still showing I Love Lucy back home, so why not Friends? People are still into it, and that goes two ways in America: reruns or lawsuits. Research from their marketing team has shown that reruns are usually the way to go. But we'll see." Brad punctuated this by downing his shot, slamming the glass down on the table, and flashing Orlando a shit-eating grin.
Orlando chuckled. "Cynicism is for teenagers, Brad."
"Oh, excuse me, sonny, I must have left my walker out in the parking lot."
"Senility setting in?" said Orlando, raising an eyebrow, and they grinned at each other.
"But I've never understood reruns," said Orlando. (Man, let it go, it was going so well... thought Brad.) "Especially now in the age of DVDs. Why not just shove the show off the TV altogether and go with something newer? Fresher. People always want a taste of something new. Sometimes people don't know they want until it's thrust upon them." Orlando's voice became slower, smoother somehow. His eyes shone and his smile became just a little more wicked. Brad watched the change in his face with fascination. Orlando was getting his mack on. Orlando was getting his mack on and he was going to fall flat on his face. It was funny and kind of sweet, in its way. Poor kid. Poor overly hormonal kid. Talk about typecasting, thought Brad. "People," Orlando said, "always want something new and exciting and different."
"I subscribe to the Joni Mitchell school of thought myself," said Brad, his voice the epitome of laid-back.
"What?"
"You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." He sighed and didn't even blink when someone came to refill his glass. "Friends is gone, but now with the magic of reruns, it doesn't have to be, especially since it's stil widely enjoyed. If it ain't broke, why fix it? If I like what I have, why change? I don't need to go around having what I like."
"But you do like."
"That entirely depends on the whos and whats in question."
Orlando fixed him with a level stare and Brad feign glibness and grinned back with relish. Orlando said, "Are you going to recite axioms all night or are you going to finish your drink?"
"Actually," said Brad, downing the shot before continuing, "I'm turning in for the night. It's a long day tomorrow, kiddo. Better get your beauty sleep, right?"
Brad slid out of the booth and made his way out of the bar. He could feel Orlando's eyes on him to the door.
+
It was kind of funny, actually. Kind of ironic. There was a part of him that felt like flashing Jennifer a toothy grin and saying, "Out of the frying pan and into the fire, honey. I'm not having sex with Colin Farrell but guess what?"
Orlando Bloom was kissing him against a trailer.
The part of him that felt like sneering at his wife's expense was outnumbered by the other parts of him that were quite upset that the elf-prince of Mirkwood was kissing him against a fucking trailer. One minute it was 'so what did you think of that take, Brad' and the next it was 'let me get that piece of spinach between your teeth, Brad... with my tongue', only Orlando didn't say that, because although the current situation showed that Orlando was not above bouts of badly timed stupidity, he was not so stupid that he couldn't recognize the social don't of starting an impromptu makeout session by talking about spinach.
Still, spinach would have been better than what Brad got, which was nothing. Which was, "Yeah, Saffron was saying the same thing last night", a smile, and a mouthful of Orlando.
It was only shock that at the moment prevented Brad from reacting. This was a time for action (and not that kind), not for being held against some trailer by a kid half his age. If Brad had more of his wits about him, he would grab Orlando by the shoulders, hard enough to bruise, and switch their positions, taking care to make sure that Orlando's head knocked back extra hard against the trailer wall. In size and strength, Brad had the upper hand. Brad would knock Orlando's head against the trailer one more time for good measure then ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing.
Instead, Brad laughed. Orlando took the opportunity to slip his tongue between Brad's lips, which made Brad start and jerk his head to the side. He grabbed Orlando by his biceps, switched their positions, and easily held the boy. Orlando barely struggled, and when Brad shook him and knocked the boy's head back against the trailer, he ceased to struggle at all.
"What was that?" Brad asked, grinning a wide and incredulous sort of grin. It was the kind of grin that was just a quieter substitute for cursing your lungs out. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, kid?"
Orlando hung his head and groaned. "Fucking hell, man, my head..."
"Oh, great. I'm glad I didn't damage your brain then, seeing as you have the foresight to store it between your legs." Brad patted Orlando's cheek, perhaps a little harder than necessary. Once, twice, and the third time was as good as a slap. Orlando sputtered and tried to turn away. "It's a good thing I'm too heavy for you to throw over your shoulder and bring back to London, huh?" said Brad. "Or else England and the US of A would be fighting a ten-year war too."
"Fucking hell..." and Jesus Christ, Orlando's head couldn't have hurt that much, could it? He was probably stalling for time.
Brad ruffled Orlando's hair. "Hey. Kid. Tiger. Slugger. Sport." Orlando tried to move his head away. "Are you drunk?"
"It's four in the afternoon. Of course not."
"I don't know whether that makes things better or worse. No, don't go yet," said Brad when Orlando began to struggle. He tightened his grip on Orlando's arms, ignoring the grimace on his face. "Don't think that just because I'm forty and married, you piece of shit elf, doesn't mean I'm too over the hill to notice your game. And that's all it is. A game. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, do not leave your head stuck up your ass, please. Whatever was going on during the Lord of the Rings shoot, keep that shit to yourself. Fly in your hobbit buddies for your bit of fun, whatever, but notice that I'm not the one wearing curly wigs or prosthetic hairy feet. That means something. It means fuck off. I like what I have, I don't go around having what I like." Another disguised slap on the cheek and Brad let Orlando wrench himself away. "And let me say," said Brad, looking him in the eye, "that this is not the road that leads to being something I like."
The defiance was obvious on Orlando's face, but defiance was a flimsy mask for hurt pride. There might be other emotions there, lurking beneath the light foundation and darkened eyes, but Brad didn't have the patience or compassion to look for them.
"I don't know if you regularly jump your co-stars or what," said Brad, scratching his head. "I mean... Jesus. Look, I don't know what your problem is. Maybe the Lord of the Rings people know all your issues and intrigues, but they're not here and I have no fucking clue. I don't want a fucking clue, not now. So, can you do us a favor and just... chill out? Just calm down, increase your daily minimum of cold showers, that's all, and you should be fine."
Brad hadn't done that much extemporaneous orating since the Fight Club publicity appearances when Edward had philosophized himself out and the interviewers were still hungry for more po-mo catchphrases. Honestly speaking, Orlando was a good kid. Maybe. If only he'd snap out of this phase of making out with the next pretty face in sight, he might actually make for some decent company. Leaving Orlando to stew, Brad gave him one last look and strode purposefully away.
Jesus. Make them wear a wig and prance around in a genre film one time and they think they own the goddamn world.
+
Out of curiosity, the next day Brad asked Sean what did happen during the Lord of the Rings shoot. Orlando had been avoiding him the entire day, which Brad didn't mind, but he was beginning to wonder if he had struck a particular nerve with his Lord of the Rings remarks.
Sean shrugged and said, "What happens in Middle Earth stays in Middle Earth."
Fucking Ring nuts.
Still, this was probably be better than sitting on your ass the entire day and listening to your wife channeling her biological clock angst into micromanaging your career.
Brad grinned, despite himself. As far as being jumped for stolen kisses go, one could do a lot worse than Orlando Bloom.
"Hey," said Sean, snapping his fingers in front of Brad's face. "You there?"
"Huh?" He swatted Sean's hand away. "Yeah."
"You went somewhere for a few seconds there," Sean said, amused. "You alright?"
Brad smiled at him, a shit-eating sort of smile. "Why wouldn't I be?"
[end.]
AUTHOR NOTES: Refer to this article about the Colin Farrell thing. The Joni Mitchell lyric is from 'Big Yellow Taxi'. Brad Pitt played a long-haired vampire in Interview with a Vampire, and may or may not have pranced.
Anyway. Troy RPS fics involving Brad Pitt. There are none. And by none, I mean two, which is measly compared to the surprising abundance of Banalando (HEHEHE) thingies out there. So I was like, "Hmm." Then I was like, *fics*.
I'm a-gonna name it BRANDO. Or Ploom. Whichever. Here's the fic, being probably just this side of silly. Find the LOTRips references and win a box of goldfish crackers!
Title: Reruns & Lawsuits
Fandom: Troy RPS
Pairing: Brandoploom
Rating: PG13
Summary: What happens in Middle Earth stays in Middle Earth, but Malta is a whole 'nother ball game.
Disclaimer: This story is a flagrant lie, kind of like what I said back there about giving you goldfish crackers.
Reruns & Lawsuits
It was late, they were out, they were drinking, and it wasn't like Brad didn't notice that the 'come hither' look in Orlando's eyes was inversely proportional to the wine he consumed. It would be presumptuous to say 'please stop undressing me with your eyes' so Brad just grinned and shot the shit, as always. Over the years, out of necessity, he had developed a knack for bullshitting.
The topic changed to television shows and Brad said his favorite was Friends. That was his wife's show, by the way.
"Ex-wife's show," said Orlando.
"What?"
"I mean, wife's ex-show." Orlando smiled, raising his glass as if in apology. "I thought they were... pulling the plug."
"Yeah. Yeah, they are. Had a good long run and now it's time for something new and godspeed, you know?"
"That one kid on the show. He has a spin-off."
And that was funny, Orlando Bloom calling Matt LeBlanc 'kid', because Matt had ten years on the boy. A boy who, Brad might add, was getting slightly past tipsy. Orlando was: dark heavy-lidded eyes, pink tongue that peeked out between white teeth and lingered, words swallowed by alcohol. It seemed that with every mouthful of wine, Orlando's limbs grew longer, and that he took up more of the booth without really moving at all. Brad knew it was a display for his benefit and he just watched, amused, daresay entertained and, sitting back, subtly parried. Orlando wasn't the only one with presence in the room.
"You mean Joey," said Brad.
"That's the one," said Orlando, and took another sip. "You must forgive my ignorance. The show isn't to my taste."
"It's a free world," shrugged Brad.
"I suppose there are always reruns, then?"
"Yeah. They're still showing I Love Lucy back home, so why not Friends? People are still into it, and that goes two ways in America: reruns or lawsuits. Research from their marketing team has shown that reruns are usually the way to go. But we'll see." Brad punctuated this by downing his shot, slamming the glass down on the table, and flashing Orlando a shit-eating grin.
Orlando chuckled. "Cynicism is for teenagers, Brad."
"Oh, excuse me, sonny, I must have left my walker out in the parking lot."
"Senility setting in?" said Orlando, raising an eyebrow, and they grinned at each other.
"But I've never understood reruns," said Orlando. (Man, let it go, it was going so well... thought Brad.) "Especially now in the age of DVDs. Why not just shove the show off the TV altogether and go with something newer? Fresher. People always want a taste of something new. Sometimes people don't know they want until it's thrust upon them." Orlando's voice became slower, smoother somehow. His eyes shone and his smile became just a little more wicked. Brad watched the change in his face with fascination. Orlando was getting his mack on. Orlando was getting his mack on and he was going to fall flat on his face. It was funny and kind of sweet, in its way. Poor kid. Poor overly hormonal kid. Talk about typecasting, thought Brad. "People," Orlando said, "always want something new and exciting and different."
"I subscribe to the Joni Mitchell school of thought myself," said Brad, his voice the epitome of laid-back.
"What?"
"You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." He sighed and didn't even blink when someone came to refill his glass. "Friends is gone, but now with the magic of reruns, it doesn't have to be, especially since it's stil widely enjoyed. If it ain't broke, why fix it? If I like what I have, why change? I don't need to go around having what I like."
"But you do like."
"That entirely depends on the whos and whats in question."
Orlando fixed him with a level stare and Brad feign glibness and grinned back with relish. Orlando said, "Are you going to recite axioms all night or are you going to finish your drink?"
"Actually," said Brad, downing the shot before continuing, "I'm turning in for the night. It's a long day tomorrow, kiddo. Better get your beauty sleep, right?"
Brad slid out of the booth and made his way out of the bar. He could feel Orlando's eyes on him to the door.
+
It was kind of funny, actually. Kind of ironic. There was a part of him that felt like flashing Jennifer a toothy grin and saying, "Out of the frying pan and into the fire, honey. I'm not having sex with Colin Farrell but guess what?"
Orlando Bloom was kissing him against a trailer.
The part of him that felt like sneering at his wife's expense was outnumbered by the other parts of him that were quite upset that the elf-prince of Mirkwood was kissing him against a fucking trailer. One minute it was 'so what did you think of that take, Brad' and the next it was 'let me get that piece of spinach between your teeth, Brad... with my tongue', only Orlando didn't say that, because although the current situation showed that Orlando was not above bouts of badly timed stupidity, he was not so stupid that he couldn't recognize the social don't of starting an impromptu makeout session by talking about spinach.
Still, spinach would have been better than what Brad got, which was nothing. Which was, "Yeah, Saffron was saying the same thing last night", a smile, and a mouthful of Orlando.
It was only shock that at the moment prevented Brad from reacting. This was a time for action (and not that kind), not for being held against some trailer by a kid half his age. If Brad had more of his wits about him, he would grab Orlando by the shoulders, hard enough to bruise, and switch their positions, taking care to make sure that Orlando's head knocked back extra hard against the trailer wall. In size and strength, Brad had the upper hand. Brad would knock Orlando's head against the trailer one more time for good measure then ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing.
Instead, Brad laughed. Orlando took the opportunity to slip his tongue between Brad's lips, which made Brad start and jerk his head to the side. He grabbed Orlando by his biceps, switched their positions, and easily held the boy. Orlando barely struggled, and when Brad shook him and knocked the boy's head back against the trailer, he ceased to struggle at all.
"What was that?" Brad asked, grinning a wide and incredulous sort of grin. It was the kind of grin that was just a quieter substitute for cursing your lungs out. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, kid?"
Orlando hung his head and groaned. "Fucking hell, man, my head..."
"Oh, great. I'm glad I didn't damage your brain then, seeing as you have the foresight to store it between your legs." Brad patted Orlando's cheek, perhaps a little harder than necessary. Once, twice, and the third time was as good as a slap. Orlando sputtered and tried to turn away. "It's a good thing I'm too heavy for you to throw over your shoulder and bring back to London, huh?" said Brad. "Or else England and the US of A would be fighting a ten-year war too."
"Fucking hell..." and Jesus Christ, Orlando's head couldn't have hurt that much, could it? He was probably stalling for time.
Brad ruffled Orlando's hair. "Hey. Kid. Tiger. Slugger. Sport." Orlando tried to move his head away. "Are you drunk?"
"It's four in the afternoon. Of course not."
"I don't know whether that makes things better or worse. No, don't go yet," said Brad when Orlando began to struggle. He tightened his grip on Orlando's arms, ignoring the grimace on his face. "Don't think that just because I'm forty and married, you piece of shit elf, doesn't mean I'm too over the hill to notice your game. And that's all it is. A game. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, do not leave your head stuck up your ass, please. Whatever was going on during the Lord of the Rings shoot, keep that shit to yourself. Fly in your hobbit buddies for your bit of fun, whatever, but notice that I'm not the one wearing curly wigs or prosthetic hairy feet. That means something. It means fuck off. I like what I have, I don't go around having what I like." Another disguised slap on the cheek and Brad let Orlando wrench himself away. "And let me say," said Brad, looking him in the eye, "that this is not the road that leads to being something I like."
The defiance was obvious on Orlando's face, but defiance was a flimsy mask for hurt pride. There might be other emotions there, lurking beneath the light foundation and darkened eyes, but Brad didn't have the patience or compassion to look for them.
"I don't know if you regularly jump your co-stars or what," said Brad, scratching his head. "I mean... Jesus. Look, I don't know what your problem is. Maybe the Lord of the Rings people know all your issues and intrigues, but they're not here and I have no fucking clue. I don't want a fucking clue, not now. So, can you do us a favor and just... chill out? Just calm down, increase your daily minimum of cold showers, that's all, and you should be fine."
Brad hadn't done that much extemporaneous orating since the Fight Club publicity appearances when Edward had philosophized himself out and the interviewers were still hungry for more po-mo catchphrases. Honestly speaking, Orlando was a good kid. Maybe. If only he'd snap out of this phase of making out with the next pretty face in sight, he might actually make for some decent company. Leaving Orlando to stew, Brad gave him one last look and strode purposefully away.
Jesus. Make them wear a wig and prance around in a genre film one time and they think they own the goddamn world.
+
Out of curiosity, the next day Brad asked Sean what did happen during the Lord of the Rings shoot. Orlando had been avoiding him the entire day, which Brad didn't mind, but he was beginning to wonder if he had struck a particular nerve with his Lord of the Rings remarks.
Sean shrugged and said, "What happens in Middle Earth stays in Middle Earth."
Fucking Ring nuts.
Still, this was probably be better than sitting on your ass the entire day and listening to your wife channeling her biological clock angst into micromanaging your career.
Brad grinned, despite himself. As far as being jumped for stolen kisses go, one could do a lot worse than Orlando Bloom.
"Hey," said Sean, snapping his fingers in front of Brad's face. "You there?"
"Huh?" He swatted Sean's hand away. "Yeah."
"You went somewhere for a few seconds there," Sean said, amused. "You alright?"
Brad smiled at him, a shit-eating sort of smile. "Why wouldn't I be?"
[end.]
AUTHOR NOTES: Refer to this article about the Colin Farrell thing. The Joni Mitchell lyric is from 'Big Yellow Taxi'. Brad Pitt played a long-haired vampire in Interview with a Vampire, and may or may not have pranced.
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Twice it's happened that I've loved a fic so much and gave it so much feedback that it had to be split into two replies each.
Word about the Brad. I just quite like him, I do.