fox_confessor: (Billy (skint))
[personal profile] fox_confessor
Disclaimer: A work of fiction; the recognizable people in the story belong to themselves and have never performed the actions portrayed here. I do not know the actors nor am I associated with them in any way. If you are underage, please do not read this story. I am not making any profit from these stories, nor do I mean any harm.


Title: Public Indecency
Author: Danielle
Pairing: BB/DM, Ewan McGregor
Rating: Strong R
Notes: Written as part of the bb/dm remix challenge. Remix of dreambastion’s Kilts & Public Places



I’m always mildly amused by these award parties. The Los Angeles ones are always these ostentatious affairs with chocolate fountains and professional dancers alongside the stuffed shirt film executives. It’s ridiculous, really.

But these London parties…they’re really something else altogether. To begin with, one doesn’t have to travel all the way across a pond and bloody-fucking-America to get to one. This one, for example, has no less than six page 3 girls—one who was already kind enough to help a bloke out with an itchy kilt.

Of course, it isn’t just the girls that makes parties in London attractive. There’re also the boys. Boys with accents.

Seems contradictory, I know, that I should like boys with accents given that I have, I’ve been told, an accent myself, and a very sexy one at that. But that’s kind of the point, right? Boys with accents are sexy, and there are too many boys at those LA boys who either affect an accent, which isn’t sexy, or speak with that flat American accent, which isn’t an accent at all but some kind of anomaly of the English language. So yeah, accents and London parties.

So, if you are Ewan McGregor and at a London party, fucking surrounded by boys with accents and girls with DD breasts, you’re pretty much in fucking heaven. Especially if your wife happens to be visiting her mother for a week in a place decidedly not London.

So, I’m standing there, brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other—not lit but damn it looks good—when who should come up to me, but Billy Boyd. Now, this is the funny part. I know Billy’s like me—fancies a bit of everything—must be the Scot in us. The fact that he only has to give a bit of a nod and look in the direction towards a door that appears to be holding not much of anything except a little privacy in a room full of London’s best and brightest--bright as in shiny, by the way—is definitely the Scot coming out. Or inviting the Scot to come out.

I chuckle at my own lame joke and watch with some interest as Billy rejoins the side of a bloke who looks fairly familiar. It doesn’t take me too long to remember that we’ve met—in Australia while they were on break from filming their little movie. Can’t remember his name, but then that doesn’t really matter, because I can remember the important things. Things like his voice that is somewhere between dead and sexy and his ass, which is young and tight—not that I know personally, but I certainly know the type.

I also know that he hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I walked into the room.

I finish my brandy, laughing at those around me, waiting for the signal—because I know there will be a signal—not missing a beat with Miss Page 3 and Mr. Multimillionaire East Ender, who are simultaneously courting me and each other. Amusing, of course, but not the action I’m interested in.

What I’m seeking is disappearing into the little closet—the appointed rendezvous site—and I feel myself in a precarious position. Stay here for a moment, building the anticipation, letting Billy get the boy excited before I join yet risk being discovered myself. Discovering as if I didn’t know before that a kilt isn’t a good way to hide an erection that is at this moment twitching away as I consider the two of them tucked away from the rest of the party in that little closet doing god knows what…

I did have a point but it’s lost completely as I make my apologies and make my way towards the little door, setting my empty glass on a crowded table and leaving two confused devotees staring into my wake.

I wonder what I’ll find—two hot bodies pressed against each other in the dark, maybe. Or maybe they’re further than that. I’ll open the door and flood the room with that brief bit of light—enough to show one or the other pressed face first against a wall, the other’s hips going like a piston engine. Fuck but it’s hot in here.

Imagine my surprise then when I find Billy on his knees and the boy against the wall, eyes screwed shut but opening in shock to see me standing there. I didn’t expect the light, or that the room would be anything more than a closet. Wrong on both counts, but that’s perfectly fine with me.

Leaning against the wall, I smirk at the boy. Taking the cigar from my mouth, I hold it between two fingers as I lean against the wall in my best Dean Martin impression.

“Ewan,” Billy says.

He’s got a voice that one. Heard him sing once in Glasgow. Sweet little mouth, too—something else I’ve discovered during that summer playing at the Traverse. I smile and nod at him, just to acknowledge that time but wave my hand, definitely not wanting to interrupt. “Don’t let me stop you. I was just…” pause and another grin. After all, we’re all in the same profession, “…trying to get away from the crowd for a bit.”

Billy mimics my grin and nod, going back to his task. The boy, however, continues to stare, just as he’s been doing all night, and damn if that’s not hot. He’s got these eyes—how did I miss them when we met before. They practical beg you to fuck him without his ever even opening his mouth to ask. But there’s obviously something going on between these two, and I’m smart enough to know when I’m just being invited for a little spectator sport.

Well, not completely spectator. This is like one of those peep houses like they used to have in Times Square before Disney came in and replaced Debbie does Dallas with Jasmine does Agrabah. Taking the same kind of advantage, I grip my cigar back between my lips and slide my hand up under my kilt, already hard from the earlier anticipation of discovering what was behind the door.

The movements of my companions are a bit frantic, and I’m half tempted to tell them to slow down and enjoy each other—but that’s a bit of my own selfishness coming through. I’ve missed the build-up, remember. These two have been probably playing at this game all night, and I’ve just been called in to witness the final act: the boy gets off.

And get off he does.

Picture this. Billy’s nails digging in to the boy’s hips, in a way you know are going to leave bruises tomorrow, when all of a sudden one of those perfectly shaped hands disappears between the boy’s legs and the boy’s head snaps back against the wall. I know that sound he makes, having made it myself two seconds after he does. It’s too much, really. I can’t fuck him. Can’t even drop to my knees and finish him off. So, I so the next best thing to let him know that I’m thinking of it.

Dropping the cigar onto the floor, I capture one of his hands, taking one of his long fingers into my mouth—sucking. This is usually something I do in foreplay, not as the main event, but fucking hell, this boy. He’s clean—smells like soap and water. Another odd thing about me, forget the fucking 300£ bottles of cologne; soap and water—that clean smell—drives me fucking insane. I remember being in the States once and watching their horrid telly, but there was this commercial for Irish Springs. Fucking killed me, like the Irish are who I want to go around smelling, but again: not the point.

This boy is the point.

I can’t limit myself to just sucking on one finger and begin teasing each of his fingertips, licking down each and across the palm and back up—nipping then kissing. The whole time my other hand is working under my kilt. I’ve no idea what stops me from just replacing my hand for his. That’s what’s great about guys—they know the machinery, you know? But I don’t because I can’t stop looking. Billy’s head is bobbing faster and this boy’s face is about two seconds from ecstasy—fucking beautiful and bringing me with him.

It’s over way faster than it should be, but then that’s the way it is with men. We’re in and out, all coming like freight trains and then rolling over to sleep. The boy comes—shatters—and Billy’s down there swallowing like a trooper, then we’re all cleaning up and I’m on my way out the door while they’re doing those things that remind me why I thought they were a couple in the first place.

“You fellows should come back out soon before someone thinks you’re up to no good.” I throw it over my shoulder, my thoughts already on the open bar and a page 3 girl. Reaching into my jacket, I pull out another cigar, thinking that maybe I’ll actually step outside and smoke this one.

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