Title: Shed Your Skin
Author: Bron --firstname.lastname@example.org
For: Veuki, who asked for Sean/Orli, with sexual tension, smut and angst—Happy Christmas!
Disclaimer: This is a work of amateur fiction. Don’t know ‘em, don’t own ‘em. Just got too much time on my hands.
Summary: Sean is full of angst. Which is not as much fun as being full of Orli.
Notes: Love and thanks to my betas, Verity, Anne, Mark & cupidsbow. The poem “Ode to…” is from the collection People from bones and is (C) Copyright Bron Bateman 2002.
Shed Your Skin
Orlando knows who this guy is, even before Fran does the formal introductions. His skin prickles and he pauses, rapt by the grace with which Sean’s hands move, restless and charged as air. A brief glimpse of the tender skin on the inside of Sean’s left arm, the pewter watch sliding round and round Sean’s wrist as he talks, is all it takes to make Orli hard.
“Legolas, meet our Boromir. Orlando Bloom, this is Sean Bean.”
Sean’s handshake is firm, his hand, nails bitten and fingertips stained with nicotine, swallows Orlando’s finer one. A silver signet ring and a plain band on Sean’s left hand catch the light. Perfect. Orli can’t help but imagine that same hand stroking his dick, and Sean’s square-tipped fingers slick with cum. His preferred version of Imagine the Audience Naked.
“Big hands,” Orlando says softly, with a faint, dimpled grin. And is rewarded with a warm smile in return. “You know what they say about a guy with big hands.”
He pauses for effect and leans in towards Sean. Orli is wearing his black Queer as Fuck T-shirt. No room for confusion. His breath, warm against Sean’s ear. “Big hands. Big feet.”
“Aah…Ok. And big feet, or shouldn’t I ask?”
Orlando makes his eyes wide and sincere. Another pause. “Really. Big. Cock.”
From that moment it was a relationship of two parts. An easy, funny, daytime thing where two people without a lot in common cared enough to find common ground. Getting pissed together at pubs after hours of shooting, running through lines for one another, pulling stupid stunts to make Viggo lighten up, and to delight the Hobbits. He and Sean flirted lazily for weeks, and while Orli was used to straight guys and their flirting—and didn’t take it too personally—there was a frisson of awareness on both sides, a tug that Orlando felt deep in his belly, gazes held a fraction too long, Sean’s hand, helping him up when he fell during shooting one day, carefully stroking his shoulder and back in a way that left Orlando dry-mouthed and hard. An awareness that was all the excuse Orli needed to risk a smack in the teeth.
Orli’s lime green T-shirt reads I Hate Every Bone in Your Body Except Mine.
And Then There Was…
The only constant of their night-time pairing was the dark, wet sounds that men make when they fuck—a private, impossible language of silences and ellipses of understanding. A place of arbitrary rules that were seldom articulated, but understood by Orlando as inviolate:
- Where there was no kissing.
- Where Sean would fuck, but not be fucked.
- Where Sean would use his hand on Orli, but not his mouth.
- Where Sean would always leave before morning.
“What the fuck is that?”
“It’s a sandwich Sean,” Orlando says, with the patience he reserves for really slow people. “You know, two pieces of bread, encasing a filling. Invented by the Earl of Sandwich in 17-something.”
“The Fuck it is. A sandwich is ham, or chicken. Beef, with pickles. Now that’s a sandwich…”
“Peanut paste then,” rattling off the Bean manifesto of acceptable fillings, “even salad. But that….” Sean gestures in horror towards Orlando’s plate. “That’s just sick man. It’s—it’s Fruit.”
Resplendent in his Man Cannot Live By Cum Alone T-shirt, Orlando laughs, gently mocking. “It’s not fruit, hon. It’s a banana.”
“Yeah, but it’s sliced, and there’s sugar. Everywhere. Jesus.” Sean acts as if the perversity of that combination should be obvious, even to a sick fuck like Orlando.
“I thought you knew that queer boys like bananas.” Orlando glints wickedly. “They’re great for gag-reflex practice.”
The first time:
They were watching some pointless, boring video. Sean was on the couch; Orlando was on the floor with his head tipped back, eyes half-closed, feigning relaxation. In truth, he was skittish as hell; his skin felt two sizes too small for his body. Achingly hard. He half-turned and rested his head on the curve of his arm. Absorbed in watching. Did Sean even realise? The light from the TV screen was beautiful on Sean’s skin, blue and shadowed, making his muscles, when he flexed his arms above his head, shimmer and ripple as if he were moving through water.
Sean was wearing grey sweats and an Adidas singlet and Orli couldn’t tear his eyes away from the ₤2 Sheff U tattoo on Sean’s right bicep, dark ink against the soft blue/grey of his skin. Knowing that it was now or never, Orlando climbed up onto the couch. There was a moment of stillness between them both, a moment of poise, where the blood hammered in Orli’s neck and Sean’s breath faltered slightly. Then Orlando leant in, deliberately, and applied the tip of his tongue to the outer lines of Sean’s tattoo, in quick, neat swipes. Sean stiffened, but didn’t pull away, and Orlando was encouraged to continue.
Monday I’ve Got…
Mornings ought not be so complex, Orlando thinks wearily. His intention not to talk about it, to be gallant, and give in gracefully to Sean’s silent refusal to acknowledge what has happened—their whole daytime/night-time divide—is driving him fucking crazy. The past few nights with Sean remind him of what it was like dating girls, years ago. Learning not to over-reach himself, but getting a little bit further every time. Outside clothes. Inside clothes. Hands. Mouth. Finally, skin-on-skin. But he’s pissed off at how one-sided it all is, how he’s left high and dry to jerk off, alone, when Sean does his whole cum-and-leave act. How he has to beg for just about every crumb from Sean’s table. He grimaces at the thought. It’s time to push Sean a bit, and see where that gets them.
On a rare day free from shooting they sit in Wellington’s watery morning sun. A waiter dressed in black carefully places a plunger of coffee and two cups on their table.
“I don’t know if we can even be friends if it’s gonna be like this.” Orlando takes no pleasure in the hurt he sees on Sean’s face. Sean looks exhausted; the ashtray in front of him is already half-full. He leans back into his chair, rubbing knuckles into his reddened eyes.
“I just don’t know if I can do this Orli. And what it means if I do.”
Sex & Videotape
Orli nibbled and sucked Sean’s bicep as if it were the only skin left in the universe, then paused for a moment, pursing his mouth to blow warm air onto Sean’s moist skin. Sean’s hands curled in on themselves on his thighs, and Orlando moaned softly in the back of his throat as he felt Sean’s hips shift a little, as Sean’s breath quickened and started to fill the quiet space around them, as his cock tented the front of his sweats. Orli continued to do nothing but suck, lick, suck, nibble, knowing that he was making the blood sing beneath the ink on Sean’s bicep.
When, finally, Sean made a sound, when a ragged moan escaped his tightly clenched mouth, Orlando was triumphant, and then before the moment passed, he placed his hand underneath the fabric of Sean’s singlet, onto Sean’s bare waist, where the skin was hot and dry. He trailed his fingers to the dark hair spiralling down Sean’s belly and took his mouth away from Sean’s arm, moving upwards, licking a curve of warmth along Sean’s throat. Sean froze at the intimacy of the contact.
“Stop. Orli, stop,” he rasped. “No. I mean it,” as Orlando continued to lap along Sean’s jawline, as his hand tried to ease its way past the waistband of Sean’s sweats. “Stop it. Now.”
…Friday on my Mind
“Because I’m a guy?”
“No,” he says finally. “I’ve—” He stops.
“You’ve done this before?”
“Yeah. A couple of times. Long shoots. Pissed. Horny. You know.”
“Is it an age thing?” He’s genuinely curious.
Sean shakes his head. “Nah. I’ve been with girls as young as you.”
“Then what? Worried the others’ll find out?”
Sean flexes his hands, takes a distracted sip of his coffee. Lights another smoke. “My life’s shit at the moment,” he says softly. There’s a thick burr to his voice now. More Sheffield than Shakespeare when he’s upset.
“Not only my bollocksed marriages, but I’m worried about the girls, missing them so much I can hardly breathe; trying to get all that sorted. Visitation. Maintenance. Fucking lawyers at thirty paces. And these films.” He pauses, takes a drag on his smoke, rubs his eyes.
“Jesus Orli. They’re fucking huge. They might be the biggest things we ever do. And I don’t want to fuck that up too.” He’s answered, yet not answered the question.
“Do you want me?”
It’s a dangerously simple inquiry. It hovers, frantically beating its wings, in the air between them. Sean falls silent and examines the backs of his hands.
“Look at me Sean. Do you want me?”
“What sort of a stupid bloody question is that?”
“How much?” Orlando is relentless.
“Enough. Too bloody much.”
“This is what it is,” Sean said. His recurring mantra, after the sweat dried on his body and his breathing returned to normal. “It will never be anything more.” Orlando kissed Sean’s neck and remained silent. What was there to say?
One day on set, while they’re waiting for camera track to be laid: “Ever played Twenty Questions?”
Sean looks confused. “Yeah. Why?”
“This is my version. Ready?” Orlando rests his face on his hands, gives Sean the full benefit of his 1000-watt, take-no-prisoners smile. “Ok? First question.” Taking pity on him, he decides to make it easy. “What makes you hard?”
Sean’s eyes widen.
Orlando waits like he’s got all day, and then some.
Ok. “Hint Sean. This is a sex-quiz. I don’t want to hear about the fucking football.”
Orlando blows a raspberry through the funnel of his fingers. “Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect ₤200.”
“Get stuffed. Be more specific.”
He’s asked for it. “Rough or gentle?”
Sean hesitates. Good.
Sean makes a what the fuck do you think? face, but says, mildly enough, “yes.”
“Yeah. Jesus Orli.”
“No.” Clipped. Definite.
Another shake of his head. Another cigarette.
Sean looks mightily pissed off.
“Yeah. And before you ask—No I Don’t Bottom.”
Orlando realises he’s pushed far enough.
“Final question.” He grins at Sean’s brief sigh of relief. “Favourite fantasy in five words or less.”
Sean closes his eyes in concentration. Then he puts his left hand up in front of Orli’s face. Counts off the words, one precise finger at a time. “Why. Don’t. You. Surprise. Me?”
Unable to shake the image of it as something planted,
the way it grows to fill the curve of my hand;
lanceolate a. (lanceola dim. of lancea);
venous a. [f. L as prec., or f. L vena].
Orlando stood in the doorway. Backlit from the lamp in the bedroom. In faded and torn baby-blue jeans, top button already undone, his hair still dripping from the shower. Sean lowered his book. Stared, open-mouthed, as Orli took two steps into the room. Unbuttoned the rest of his fly. Kicked off his jeans. Naked. Whispers
“What do I look like to you?”
Sean shook his head. Mouth and head filled with one word. Wanting to tell Orlando about the night of the party at Viggo’s house, how, as he came up over the rise of grass, he saw Orlando walking towards him with a glass of wine in his hands; how the sight of him was overwhelming, that Orlando was so—that his stomach had cramped and his teeth chattered on his own glass, as he gulped down its contents and prayed for another, prayed for Orli to go away to stay to make him feel better to leave him the fuck alone. Beautiful. Beautiful. A hundred times beautiful. But he’ll never say it. Once would be one time too many. A thousand times would never be enough. Sean clenched his teeth
Orlando knelt between his thighs, undid his belt, unzipped his fly tooth-by-metal-tooth
swiped his tongue over the wet-spot on Sean’s boxers. Nipped the end of Sean’s cock with his teeth.
Sean groaned, pushing up helplessly towards Orli’s mouth, grabbing at the back of his head, urging him on.
Orlando drew back, freed Sean’s cock with a steady hand, rubbed, then squeezed the sensitive spot underneath its head, milking the clear drops that pooled at the slit, and licked them off his finger.
An enthusiast re: appropriate terminology,
campanulate a. (Bot. & Zool.)
retuse a. (Bot. etc.)
lactiferous a. yielding milk or milky liquid,
and proving the laws of physics, namely the juxtaposition of
“Say it,” he ordered. “Or I’ll stop.”
Sean moaned again.
“Say it. You know you want to…”
Consonants pressed hard against Sean’s teeth. He clamped his mouth tighter.
Orli dropped his head again. Put the end of Sean’s cock in his mouth and began to swirl his tongue around the head, just enough to tease.
Sean groaned, a harsh sound deep in his throat. “You bastard,” he whispered. Anger and desire battled for supremacy. “You fucking bastard.”
I take the opportunity to explain that this is a
fraenulum n. [mod. L, dim. of foll.].
He rocks pushes down/up reins my hair;
which the dictionary
a small fraenum
The muscles in his thighs rippled with tension. Orlando reached up and grabbed Sean’s right nipple between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed it. Hard. Sean’s hips bucked and he pushed further into Orli’s mouth. Gasped as Orli’s teeth scraped him. Pleasure-pain-intensity. In and out in and out. Harder. Faster. Riding Orli’s mouth.
“Oh God,” Sean panted.
Every boy a Christian boy, thought Orlando, stroking himself to the same rhythm, dizzy, exultant.
“Do it. Oh God Orli, just fucking do it.”
the motion of an organ…
Orli always said it was the magic word.
Orlando balances the box against his forearm and knocks peremptorily on Sean’s trailer door.
“What?” Annoyed. Belligerent.
“Care package for Mr Bean.”
The door is flung open, almost hitting Orli in the chest.
Sean sighs. “What do you want Orlando? We’ve only got an hour. I was trying to kip.”
“We’d better get on with it then.” Orli presses past Sean in the confined space and pulls the door shut, then hands Sean the box, wrapped in silver metallic paper. Sean shakes it, warily. Things rattle inside.
“You got lube?” asks Orlando.
“You do now. Condoms? Do you use condoms?”
Sean Bean, father of three daughters, smiles ruefully.
Sean tears off the paper and tips the contents of the box onto his clothes-strewn mattress. A dozen different kinds of condoms and a couple of bottles of lube lie there. Invitingly.
“Well what?” Husky now.
He’s very drunk. And a little high. Has spent the last hour lavishly tongue-kissing and grinding his arse into the groin of a young blonde guy he spotted on the dance floor. Wanting a reaction. Hoping everyone will see. It’s obviously working, because all of them, from Elijah down, have looked at him in anger, disappointment, puzzlement, or a mixture of all three. All of them—Hobbits, Humans and Elves—had agreed to his suggestion of a night out at The Ramrod. When he’d heard the name of the club, Viggo had rolled his eyes and sighed. But he’s here nevertheless, huddled in a booth with Sean, speaking earnestly to him, pointing his finger for emphasis. Orlando watches as Sean shakes his head vehemently and Viggo shrugs as if there’s nothing else he can say.
Needing to piss, Orlando makes a “Back Soon” gesture to Tim/Tom—whatever the hell his name is—and weaves his way through the crowd, in the direction of the loo. He unzips, feeling woozy from the thudding in his head, a combination of booze, crap drugs, and the relentless thump-thump-thump of the music. He starts pissing, slowly leaning forward to rest his forehead against the cool of the porcelain tiles.
The creak of the door makes him lift his head. It’s Sean. He’s bristling.
“What the fuck are you playing at?”
“I’m having fun. You ought to try it sometime.”
“What are you doing? You’re practically fucking that boy in front of everyone.”
Orli is suddenly furious.
“Why should that matter to you? Christ, Sean, what do you expect? Every restriction. Every rule. Every skulk behind closed doors. Every fucking proviso you put on us being together. I’m sick of feeling like crap.” His voice falls away. “ Like you’re ashamed of me.” Orlando’s vaguely aware of the tears streaming down his face. Hears the catch in his throat. Hates how childish and needy he sounds. He takes a deep, steadying breath. Carefully zips up. Glares at Sean.
“I’m going home with him. I’m gonna kiss him. Get sucked off. Fuck him stupid. Sleep in his bed and have coffee and toast with him in the morning. It’s what I deserve after three months of your bullshit.”
He pushes past Sean, deliberately knocking his shoulder. Hard. Leaves Sean standing there, silent, stricken, one arm held out in entreaty.
The night’s ruined. Orlando’s victory, if that’s what it is, tastes like ashes. He grabs his coat and leaves, without a word to anyone.
The Deep Blue
A week passes. A week where Orli watches Sean watching him. On set, off set. At the pub. At Dom and Billy’s weekly piss-up. Orli wishes he could apologise, ask Sean’s forgiveness, ask him if this tension, this limbo, is what he wants. Fear, anger and desire tumble together in confusion. They’ve lost their ease with one another. Viggo notices, of course, but even the Hobbits have commented. Asking them both, separately, if things are ok. If there’s anything they want to talk about. Orlando can’t sleep. Sits for hours on the swing-seat on his veranda, drinking and smoking the night away. He misses the sex, but more than that, he misses the incidental fun, the in-jokes, the small touches that no-one else sees. And yes, he has to admit, the hard, fast fucks against the wall of Sean’s trailer that leave them both shaken and panting.
Both bound by what will not let them go.
There is a knock at his door. It’s too late to be anyone else but Sean. Orli hesitates. Thinks about not answering. But what would that achieve? He’s sick of holding his breath, sick of the ache in the pit of his stomach. Of waiting for the other shoe to clatter to the floor. He opens the door, gestures for Sean to come in. Then stands there. Watching; waiting for Sean to make the first move.
“Orlando,” Sean begins. Awkwardly formal. He twists his hands. “I’m—” He stops. Begins again. “I’m so sorry Orli. I’ve been worried about biting off more than I can chew.” He gives a wry, shaky smile. “I’ve decided that I can probably chew more than I thought.” He covers the two paces between them, grasps Orli’s wrist with one hand, and encircles his waist with the other, drawing him closer. The heat radiates off his skin.
“No,” says Orli, “I’m the one who should say sorry, I was such a prat. I should never have pushed you like that—”
He falls abruptly silent as Sean leans down and kisses him, with soft, closed lips. Again, then again, each kiss longer and more demanding. Sean’s hands slide up Orli’s forearms, up, pressing into his biceps, scratching the skin lightly with his nails, raising ripples of delight that make Orli shudder, up either side of his neck, past his ears, to cradle his head with such tenderness that Orlando feels like weeping. Sean smooths his thumbs in an arc across Orli’s cheeks, and then kisses him again, this time probing with his tongue, sliding it inside, past his teeth, teasing, testing Orlando’s response, and taking his time to explore his mouth. Orli sucks on Sean’s tongue, tasting cigarettes, whiskey. Tasting—oh God—tasting Sean.
He wraps his arms tightly around Sean, revelling in Sean’s strength, the play of muscles underneath his shirt, and then grinds his cock, which is straining the fabric of his jeans, against Sean’s thigh. Sean pulls back a little, eyes glistening; pupils dilated, and lightly sucks, then nibbles on Orli’s bottom lip. Their kisses become more urgent; Sean’s hands lace themselves in Orli’s hair. The sounds he can’t help making in his throat, the raggedness of his breathing, the small kisses he rains on Orli’s cheeks, forehead, neck and jaw, are like food and drink to Orlando, who
“Do you like kissing?”
Sean splays his legs to get better leverage, and rocks his hips insistently. Orlando moans, rocks his own hips in response, pressing the fingers of one hand against Sean’s throat, to feel the skittering pulse of Sean’s arousal.
Orlando understood, in that moment, the fierce beauty of sportsmen. Sean, who could barely string two words together in an interview, was fluid and eloquent in his body, possessing a language that could only be expressed through motion. He held, stroked and caressed Orlando with perfect grace, muscles moving in synchrony as if he were running running running in slow-mo, hands cupped in readiness above his face, the red of a ball and the vast blue of a summer sky flooding his vision, the crowd as one, willing him on, yearning, screaming, cheering. A seamless union of flesh and intention.
Orlando slips his hand between their chests, grasping for Sean’s belt, desperate for the feel of silken skin in his hand, pausing to press the heel of his palm against Sean’s fly. Sean holds Orlando’s gaze for a long moment, then pushes him gently backwards, towards the couch, holds him by both shoulders and forces him to sit. He then drops, slowly, gracefully—impossibly—to his knees, in front of Orlando. His hands are insistent; sliding up Orli’s calves, thighs, to the cleft between his legs, which he strokes through Orli’s jeans. Sean unfastens Orli’s fly buttons, unbuttons his shirt, pulling it open with hands that are now shaking and uncertain. Orlando is dumbstruck. He can’t shift his gaze from the pulse thudding in Sean’s throat.
“What are you doing?”
Sean looks up through his lashes. His eyes are wet. “Please,” he whispers, “I want to do this. For you.”
Sean’s tentative touch is the most exquisite sensation of Orlando’s life. It floods his nerve-endings with such heat that his skin throbs. Orli groans, in disbelief, as Sean trails kisses down his chest, caresses one nipple then the other with the lightest brush of his lips. Orli feels Sean tremble against him when they harden in response. Sean moistens them with his tongue, scrapes them gently against his teeth, then harder, with more confidence, biting sucking them, as Orli moans. Sean groans when Orlando’s cock pulses against his arm.
Orlando is shaking as if he has a fever, as Sean moves lower, spending an agonising amount of time swirling his tongue in and out of Orli’s navel.
“Oh God, Sean, I never knew…oh God—uuh—”
Sean sucks livid marks on Orlando’s soft, secret skin, raising pinprick bruises beneath the sun tattoo at the base of his belly. And Orli whimpers, then arches his back, makes fists of his hands in Sean’s hair, as Sean hesitates for just a moment over Orlando’s weeping cock, before lowering his head and taking it into his mouth, hot soft wet and never before.
Orlando’s arousal is wearing away the smooth edges of his restraint. Made even more impossible when he looks down and there—in glorious, noisy technicolour—is what he’s imagined for months, beating off to, alone at night: the hot, wet slide of Sean’s mouth on his cock. Sean’s eyes closed in concentration. Face flushed, a sheen of sweat on his skin. The choked moans in his throat as his cheeks fill, then hollow, tongue swirling, sucking, one hand encircling the base of Orli’s cock, the other cupping rolling pinching the skin of his balls. With such… Orli searches for the word. Care.
Then just as swiftly, Orli feels everything catch and shift in his belly, realises how close he is, strains for it, feels it retreat just beyond his reach, searches for it again, thrusting desperately into the back of Sean’s throat. Sean gags, falters, loses his rhythm. Orli snags it again—perfect—his cock, Sean’s mouth, sensation spiralling like a ribbon unfurled, close, and getting closer. Jagged breaths, jagged heat in his throat,
The spasms rip through his chest and thighs, coalesce in his balls and belly, he tries to warn Sean, chokes out—
“Gonna come, no Sean, gonna…” Then,
“Oh—” wordless delight, wonderment, as Sean lifts his head slightly, nods, reels Orli in.
Simple as that, he lets go.
Fills Sean’s mouth. Again. Slower. Again. Once more. Sean swallows. Deliberately swallows, then proceeds to lick Orli clean, sucking the last drops of cum from the end of his softening cock.
Simple as that.
Panting, eyes squeezed shut, stomach heaving, shuddering with the small aftershocks of sensation, Orli eases his death grip on the sides of Sean’s head, caressing the planes of his throat, his cheeks, his beautiful, swollen, red-lipped mouth. He then drops his chin onto Sean’s hair, wraps his arms around Sean’s waist and pulls him closer, using his mouth and the side of his face to mindlessly caress the top of Sean’s head.
Sean looks up. Eyes depthless green. Guileless.
“I can’t tell you….” Orlando’s voice is rough. “I—” He shakes his head. “Thanks. That was so fucking good.” He grins fondly at Sean’s proud, I-blew-Orli smile. “Can’t wait to tell Mum I’ve been sucked off by Bean—and that he swallowed!” He pulls away, laughing, from the punch that Sean lands on his arm.
Sean stretches and groans, hoists himself onto the couch, wraps Orli in his arms.
“Jesus,” he says. “Next time we’re going somewhere more comfortable. That floor bloody kills my knees.”
Something inside Orli leaps at the casual mention of a next time.
“Well, it’s your turn now, anyway. There’s one of us here who’s definitely not finished.”
Orli presses two fingers and a thumb either side of the swollen and wet patch on Sean’s jeans. Sean grits his teeth and pushes into Orli’s hand. Then puts out his own hand to stop him.
Sean hesitates. Then…
“If you don’t mind. There’s something else I’d like.”
Orli is bemused by Sean’s formality, his obvious shyness, the embarrassment flooding his cheeks. Who would’ve thought?
He makes his contact with Sean easy and gentle, what he understands will answer Sean’s need. Loses himself in the prospect of leading Sean to pleasure. He knows what Sean wants, but Sean must ask for it, for himself. Says, as gently as he can, “What do you want me to do?”
Sean closes his eyes. Swallows hard. Leans his forehead against Orli’s. Murmurs words that Orli has to strain to hear.
“I want to go to bed. I want…I want you to…Oh Fuck.” He closes his eyes. Starts again.
Kiss You in Four Places
“Are you sure?”
Sean swallows. “Is it going to hurt?”
“Yeah. At first. But I promise you,” Orli, naked, astride Sean’s torso, takes Sean’s hand in his, and presses it against his chest, “I’ll make it good. So good that a year from now you’ll still be jerking off to the memory of it. I’ll make you call my name. I promise.”
Sean closes his eyes. Breath jags in his throat.
“First thing to remember: Lube is Your Friend.”
Sean grimaces. “ Sounds like one of your bloody T-Shirts.”
Orli laughs, pops the top off the tube, and slathers it onto his fingers. “Ok baby, we’re gonna take this nice and slow. Tell me if this feels ok.” Presses his thumb against the puckered opening. “Stroke yourself while I do it.” Breath thickens as Sean does what Orli says, sliding one fist up and down, as his other hand rakes his chest. Orli watches as his thumb disappears inside Sean, beyond the nail, to the first knuckle. Smoothly in, a little further, back out. Then in again. Mimicking Sean’s rhythm, a breathy hum at how hot, how tight Sean is.
“I can’t wait to get inside you,” he whispers. His dick jolts at the thought. “Two now, you ready?”
Sean nods, unable to talk, groaning, as he pushes into his hand, continuing to stroke himself. Orli’s thumb and finger slick, pressed together, slippery. Orlando checks himself as Sean freezes, gasps, “Hot, too much, hurts…”
“S’all right baby, breathe,” Orli soothes, slowing the pace, adjusting the angle of his fingers, is rewarded by the pleasure that floods Sean’s face, in out, in out, as Sean’s body opens, relaxes.
Sean moans, squeezes down on his cock, chokes out, “Too close Orli. Don’t know how much longer I can…” shallow pants, then there are three, lubed up and sticky, fingertips locked together. Panic clouds Sean’s face.
“Bear down against me, don’t try to open. You’re doing so great hon, you can do this Beanie, we’ve got all the time in the world.”
Sean’s heels scramble against the sheets as he opens his legs wider, one thigh flat against the mattress, held in place by Orli’s hand, until the channel is slippery and open enough for Orli’s fingers to slide in and out easily, so good that they’re both panting and Sean begs
“Please Orli, fuck, please, can’t wait gotta come—”
All the invitation that Orlando—ready to fuck Sean from the minute they reached the bedroom—needs.
Condom. More lube.
Orlando’s voice is ragged. He closes his eyes, trying to capture some poise. What Would Legolas Do? Explains.
“It’d be easier for you on your hands and knees. But I really wanna see your face. You’re so beautiful. Can we try and see if it’s ok with you like this?” Sean nods. “I’ll go slow and you can tell me to stop. I will, I promise.”
Sean stills. His expression both grave and desperate. “Fuck me Orli. Please.”
Orli takes his cock, places it against the ring of muscle, nudges pressing until just the head slips inside. So fucking tight. The back of his skull is about to come off. He can see the pain and fear on Sean’s face, wills himself to be patient, slow, then edges in another fraction a little more and suddenly no resistance, he’s in, all the way, impossibly hot and tight the thump thump of Sean’s pulse drumming on his cock his balls hard against Sean’s arse.
“Can you put your legs around my waist?” Orli gasps. Sean does, locking his heels together. “Oh God Sean. So good. So beautiful love this so much.” Orli is crying with the immensity of being right here, of doing Sean like this.
He rocks, incrementally increasing the pace, leans over and kisses Sean bruisingly on the mouth, grips either side of Sean’s hips with white-tipped fingers finds the spot deep inside Sean—there—noticing the light of pleasure on his face, thrusts again and again, because it’s flaring now, he can feel it in the way Sean’s pushing back to meet his thrusts as they slide together and apart, it’s running alongside the pain, swallowing it up, wave upon wave of sensation and Sean is sobbing and Orli can’t hold back any longer reaches down between them slides his hand once, twice, again; three rough strokes of Sean’s cock and Sean is coming calling Orli Orli oh God
Orli’s name echoes bouncing off the walls as Sean comes warm and wet on his chest and belly, soaking Orli, who feels the answering jolt at the base of his own spine and slams into Sean, pouring into him, sobbing, panting; a knot of limbs, mouths pressed sharing breath…
back to reason.
Falling towards one another like water.
Let’s Get Started
“You know what you always say?”
“That ‘this is what it is…’”
“What is it?”
Sean’s chin against his shoulder. Sean’s hair tickling his cheek. Sean’s arms around his chest. The flickering candle. The spicy scent of hot wax and sex.
“This is what it is. Now shut up and go to sleep.”