(no subject)
Another old one.
Title: “Baby, It’s You (42)”
Author: Captain Daisyshine (Hitchcock_Princess182@hotmail.com)
Pairing: OrliBean
Rating: NC-17
Plot Summary: Our dear Orlando is so very, very down. Fortunately, a large dose of one Mr. Sean Bean is just what the doctor ordered!
Disclaimer: Don't sue; I promise you it's not worth it as all you are likely to end up with is my warped twisted imagination. And maybe some LOTR action figures posed in highly suggestive positions. No profit is gleaned from this writing, and I am not implying anything about the sexual orientations of the people contained herein. This. Did. Not. Happen. (except for several times in my head. But then, we all know that‘s La-la-land.)
Warnings: Those Brits, man. They’ve got potty mouths on ’em, yeah? Angsty!Orlando, but once you get past that it’s pure, unbridled smut. Fluffy, schmoopy, sappy, twee smut, at that. Look out for the attack of the run-on sentences near the end! (Hey, how lucid do you expect our narrator to be in the middle of mind-blowing sex with Bean?!?!?!)
Archive: If you want it, let me know.
Feedback: We swears to serve the masters of the feedback. We swearses on… THE FEEDBACK!!!
Notes: Forgive me. This was dashed off relatively quickly, i.e., the idea was thought of and the thing was written in under twenty-four hours. This also means it‘s unbeta‘d, so all mistakes are my own. And it’s only my second RPS fic. Ever.
Dedication: Milady Razzle-love, Duchess of Slashingham. It’s all for you, babe, Hitchhiker references and everything. Now you can finally hear Beanie say “42”, if only in your head. And, of course, this goes out as well to those who read “Up Against the Wall” and clamoured so enthusiastically for more OrliBean. Once again to my muses, the horny bastards.
What can I do? it’s true. I can’t help myself, 'cos baby, it’s you. Baby, it’s you.
~Elvis Costello, “Baby, It’s You”
“Don’t be so fucking apathetic, Bloom,” he teases, not realising he’s unintentionally hit the nail right on the head. These days, I’m not finding it especially easy to give a shit about anything. I mean, yeah, being a part of The Lord of the Rings is cool, and all of the guys are really great. But for some reason, I feel like I’m just going through the motions lately, even when I’m acting, which I’ve always loved so passionately. It’s hard keeping up this façade, but I don’t want my friends to think there’s anything wrong. I lean around and fetch my companion a ringing smack on the arse.
“Oh, fuck you, Bean. You try being up until three in the morning with the bloody hobbits and then having a six-thirty call, and we’ll see if you really care about anything besides several aspirin, some damn strong coffee, and maybe a Benzedrine thrown in for good measure.” Oh, Oscar-worthy performance there, Bloom. Sean doesn’t suspect anything. Does he?
“Nice try, Orlando.”
“Whaddya mean?” I start out with the ‘act innocent’ tactic.
“I mean that was a beautiful performance, but it didn’t quite reach those big brown eyes of yours.” Fuck. Caught red-handed. Or brown-eyed. Or something.
“Who cares? It’s not a big deal,” I reply.
“That’s where you’re wrong. It is a big deal. Some of the guys and I have been worried about you lately. I was sent to find out what’s up.” Oh, fanbloodytastic, just fucking wonderful, my friends are all discussing my mental health over a pint.
“So, now you guys are trying to decide if I’m crazy.” I glare at him. “Well, you can fucking piss off. And stay out of my past and my personal life.” I turn to face away from him, signifying that the conversation is over. But Sean isn’t letting me get away with it.
“No one thinks you’re crazy, Orlando. And who said anything about your past? We’re just worried about you.” He looks a little bewildered. Good. Maybe now he’ll leave me the fuck alone.
“Just forget about it, Sean,” I say wearily. “I’m fine.” I turn to leave, but he grabs my wrist and stops me.
“You’re not fuckin’ ‘fine’, Orlando, and you’re absolutely not going anywhere until you tell me what’s wrong.” There’s an authoritative tone in his voice that scares me a bit, but also sort of turns me on. I’m going to pretend I didn’t just have that last thought and file it away to mull over later, when I’m alone. Right now, though, what I’d really like is to get drunk off my fucking arse, but first I’ve got to convince Sean that I’m really okay so he’ll fucking get off my case. I make my voice as calm and patient as humanly possible.
“I’m fine, Sean. Really I am.” He looks directly at me. He’s not buying it. I sigh exasperatedly. Why does he know me so well?
“Orlando,” he says after a moment, “why don’t you come back to my place for supper?” I eye him warily. “I just want to find out what‘s going on with you.”
“Why, so you can go back to the others with a nice little report of what I say?” I can feel the anger coursing through my veins, something I’ve not felt in a while.
“No, Orlando. Not so I can tell anyone anything. I care about you, whether you believe it or not.” He lets my wrist go. “Look, if that’s what you really want, you can go off to whatever club, pub, or any other place you can get pissed; it’s your choice. But I’d like for you to come over and talk to me.” Oh, you would, would you? Well, and why not? I only have to tell him as much as I want him to know, and maybe I can get some of this off my chest.
“Not going to put up a fight?” He sounds surprised, but maybe he’s faking it. What do I know?
“No.”
“Well, okay then! My car’s this way.” I pick up my bag and follow him. The drive over to his rented house is short, and Sean doesn’t press me for answers to any of the questions he asked me earlier. Here with Sean, in his car, just talking companionably, I almost feel like I could go back to caring about things, the way I used to even.
“We’re here.” Sean pulls up the drive and we get out of the car and go inside. I go to set my bag in the living room, but Sean calls out from the kitchen, “You can put your bag in the guest room. I’ve got Guinness, and God only knows if either of us is going to be fit for driving tonight.” Okay, no big deal, I’ve crashed at friends’ places a lot since I got to New Zealand-- Liv’s, Viggo’s, Elijah’s… So why do I have butterflies in my stomach? I go into the kitchen after dropping my duffel in the guest bedroom.
“I’ve got pasta shells in the oven, spaghetti sauce and ricotta cheese. That okay with you?” I nod. Mmm, pasta shells sound yummy. “You wanna put something on the stereo?” he asks.
“Fine, I’ll leave your precious kitchen! I know when I’m not wanted.” I stalk out, nose in the air. Whoa, did I just make a joke when I wasn’t trying to cover?
Hm, Sean’s got a pretty decent-sized collection of music. I put The Who in the disc changer. Ah, Tommy, that brilliant rock opera. Admittedly a bit before my time, but I like it anyway. I head back into the kitchen, where Sean, in an apron (!) and oven mitts, is taking the pasta shells out of the oven and putting them on a hot plate on the counter.
“Wow, smells good,” I say. It smells heavenly, actually. He beams at me. He should look ridiculous in the apron and oven mitts, but somehow he doesn’t. In fact, if anything, he seems more masculine, like if you put Arnold Schwarzenegger in a pink Cadillac. Eeew, why the fuck am I thinking about Arnold Schwarzenegger? Yuck, yuck, yuck! Sean takes out a giant serving fork and some plates.
“How many do you want?” he asks, indicating the pasta shells.
“Forty-two,” I reply. What? It was the first thing that popped into my head!
“Ha-ha. Oh, my aching sides. Somehow I doubt that is the question. ‘Forty-two’.” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. Wow, he can do both at the same time? Nice.
“Wait, wait, I think the universe has just disappeared and reformed as something even more inexplicable!” I say sarcastically. He slaps my arse, returning the favour from before and chastising me for now.
“Cheeky little bugger, aren’t you.”
“Oh, so it’s not a question, then?”
“Oh, no, definitely no question about it; you are a cheeky bugger.” I shrug. I can’t exactly deny it, now can I? “Anyway, how many shells?”
“Ah, five should be good.” He serves both of us, and we go into the dining room.
“Oh, bollocks, I’ve forgotten the Guinness. Be right back,” he says, returning almost immediately with about six Guinnesses. I take an experimental bite of one of my pasta shells. Oh, tasty.
“Mmm.”
“So it gets the Orlando Stamp of Approval?” I nod eagerly. He opens two of the Guinnesses and hands me one. I drink deep, letting the familiar warmth fill me. We’re quiet for a bit, before Sean breaks the silence.
“So, wanna tell me what‘s going on with you?” Wow, no preliminary pussyfooting around the issue, he just dives right in. I like that, I guess. It proves he’s sincere, anyway. I wait a minute before speaking to “collect my thoughts“, as it were.
“My life is pretty shitty right now, but it doesn’t feel so awful with you.” Somewhere along the line, I decided I was going to be truthful, both with Sean and myself.
“What do you mean about your life being shitty?” His brow is wrinkled in concern. For me. He’s really, genuinely worried about me.
“I don’t really know. I’ve just been so blah, so… well, apathetic.” He winces. “It’s not your fault,” I assure him. “It’s just… I feel like I’m stuck in a rut that I can’t get out of. But here, it’s better. I can get mad at you, and laugh with you, and be truly happy with you. You make me feel alive again.” Wow. When was the last time I was that honest with anyone? Sean just brings it out in me. And what about this feeling in the pit of my stomach? Is that his doing, too?
“Is that why you came here with me tonight?” I nod.
“It felt like you really cared about what was going on with me.” Oh good God, I’ve gone all sappy and twee on myself. At least I haven’t got a dopey grin on my face.
“I’m glad. So, what’s with the dopey grin on your face?” Oh, shit. Shitshitshit. The warmth I feel suffusing throughout my body… it’s not… love? He smiles indulgently at me. Oh, bloody fuck, am I that transparent? Now that’s silly. Why would I be in love with Sean? Never mind that he’s bloody gorgeous, and really devoted to me… But it’s becoming more apparent by the second that there’s no other explanation for why I ordinarily feel so listless but he’s able to raise my spirits simply by his presence.
“Ehm….” He gets up out of his chair, and I find myself staring up at him, wide-eyed, as he comes to stand in front of me. “Sean…” He puts one finger to my lips to shush me. My eyes get even wider as he lowers his finger and leans in.
When our lips collide, it’s like bangers back home on Guy Fawkes Day, shooting stars in the night sky, a San Francisco earthquake, a tropical hurricane in the Caribbean, and molten lava from a volcano all rolled into one. Sean kisses like an angel who’s sold his soul to the devil. My cock is hard, my knees are weak, and it’s a bloody good thing I’m sitting down or I’d certainly have fallen over by now. I let the moan I‘ve been holding back erupt from my throat. It vibrates through my lips and into Sean‘s mouth, and then he‘s pulling me to my feet, and we’re moving over to the counter, totally wrapped up in one another, and he fumbles around on the counter behind me, pushing things out of the way so he can lift me up to sit on it. He stands there between my legs, colour high in his flushed face, lips parted, breathing almost as shaky as is my own.
“Oh God, Orlando, you’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he growls in that come-fuck-me voice that has me harder than I think I’ve ever been. I don’t answer, I just lean back in and latch myself onto his mouth again, drinking in everything about him like oxygen. His scent, his taste, the feel of his crotch grinding up against mine… I groan loudly.
“Get your trousers off,” he commands, stepping back to remove his own. I keen reproachfully at the loss of the feel of his lips on mine, but he gives me a dangerous look, and I start unbuttoning my trousers as quickly as I’m able to. I try to do it without looking so I can watch as he reveals himself to my scrutiny, but one look at the size of his cock has my head reeling, and my hands forget their task and oh God, he is *so* topping. I close my eyes and suck in a breath to keep from passing out. Fuck, he’s bloody enormous! Now he’s naked from the waist down, and he comes back over to me.
“Having a little trouser trouble, are we?” he taunts, pulling them off along with my pants as he speaks.
“Nnn…nuh.” Mmmhmm, right, ‘cos he understood that for sure. I try again. “Need…y-your cock...” Better, I suppose.
“Oh, really? Is that so?” I glower at him. How the shit is he staying so calm? I want to hit him, but more than that, I want him to impale me with his huge dick and fuck me ‘til I can’t walk straight, can’t see straight, can’t do anything at all straight. He leans over to whisper in my ear. “You want to know a secret? You can have my cock right now. It’s all yours.” Buggery, that voice is lethal. It should be registered, should require a license… or something.
“Pl… Please,” I breathe, gazing into his normally sparkling green eyes, which are currently clouded over with lust.
“Please what?” Oh God, he’s evil. But very sexy. Entirely too sexy for his own good. Or mine, for that matter. Or… Oh fuck, sensory overload; we interrupt this programme to describe how amazingly hot the look in Sean’s eyes is as he pulls my legs up over his shoulders, smirking, and reaches for the bottle of olive oil he’s left on the countertop and drizzles some of said oil onto his fingers and then reaches down under me and probes around until he finds the entrance he’s looking for and pushes in and it hurts a little but then OH FUCK! he’s found *that spot* and he’s curling his finger and brushing over the place over and over and then he’s adding another finger, and another, and… He stops and pulls them out. I whine noisily at the cessation of stimulation, but he’s too busy coating his cock in the slippery oil to pay much attention. Then he’s done and he looks up at me, eyes shining with desire and something else I can’t quite place but it doesn’t matter because he’s lining himself up, the tip of his cock at my entrance.
“This okay?”
“What are you, fucking daft?” Aha, the power of speech returns! “Of course it’s fucking okay; in fact, if you don’t fucking get inside me this second it’s highly likely that I’ll spontaneously combust and-” He clamps his hand over my mouth and begins to push in, stretching me slowly so I have time to adjust to his size. My eyes flutter shut; that’s one powerful feeling, being totally and completely filled like this, and he takes his hand off my mouth, lays me almost reverently on the counter, dishtowel under my head, and even this part is the most erotic thing anyone’s ever done with me and oh fuck, he’s starting to move inside me, pulling out carefully and thrusting in with a quick twist of his hips that has me screaming and it’s a good thing there are no other houses nearby ‘cos oh holy fucking hell that feels so good…
“SEAN!” I yell, shouting my pleasure to the figurative rafters, and he increases his pace until I think I’m going to explode if he doesn’t touch me soon. I reach for myself, but he swats my hands away and takes my swollen, leaking cock in his large hand and begins to move his hand up and down in time with his thrusts. He moans brokenly, and I clench my inner muscles around him, urging him on.
“Ohhhh fuck, Orlando-ohh!” he groans, and I feel the familiar tensing of my balls as I start to climax. My breath comes in great heaving gasps.
“Oh fuck I’m-” but I don’t let Sean finish. I crush our lips together, drowning out our combined screams as we come together.
“Forty two.”
“Huh?” He looks at me like I’ve gone mad.
“Forty-two. The number of times you pushed into me. The answer to the universe.” I grin. He grins back. Oh God. This is going to be a long night.
Title: “Baby, It’s You (42)”
Author: Captain Daisyshine (Hitchcock_Princess182@hotmail.com)
Pairing: OrliBean
Rating: NC-17
Plot Summary: Our dear Orlando is so very, very down. Fortunately, a large dose of one Mr. Sean Bean is just what the doctor ordered!
Disclaimer: Don't sue; I promise you it's not worth it as all you are likely to end up with is my warped twisted imagination. And maybe some LOTR action figures posed in highly suggestive positions. No profit is gleaned from this writing, and I am not implying anything about the sexual orientations of the people contained herein. This. Did. Not. Happen. (except for several times in my head. But then, we all know that‘s La-la-land.)
Warnings: Those Brits, man. They’ve got potty mouths on ’em, yeah? Angsty!Orlando, but once you get past that it’s pure, unbridled smut. Fluffy, schmoopy, sappy, twee smut, at that. Look out for the attack of the run-on sentences near the end! (Hey, how lucid do you expect our narrator to be in the middle of mind-blowing sex with Bean?!?!?!)
Archive: If you want it, let me know.
Feedback: We swears to serve the masters of the feedback. We swearses on… THE FEEDBACK!!!
Notes: Forgive me. This was dashed off relatively quickly, i.e., the idea was thought of and the thing was written in under twenty-four hours. This also means it‘s unbeta‘d, so all mistakes are my own. And it’s only my second RPS fic. Ever.
Dedication: Milady Razzle-love, Duchess of Slashingham. It’s all for you, babe, Hitchhiker references and everything. Now you can finally hear Beanie say “42”, if only in your head. And, of course, this goes out as well to those who read “Up Against the Wall” and clamoured so enthusiastically for more OrliBean. Once again to my muses, the horny bastards.
What can I do? it’s true. I can’t help myself, 'cos baby, it’s you. Baby, it’s you.
~Elvis Costello, “Baby, It’s You”
“Don’t be so fucking apathetic, Bloom,” he teases, not realising he’s unintentionally hit the nail right on the head. These days, I’m not finding it especially easy to give a shit about anything. I mean, yeah, being a part of The Lord of the Rings is cool, and all of the guys are really great. But for some reason, I feel like I’m just going through the motions lately, even when I’m acting, which I’ve always loved so passionately. It’s hard keeping up this façade, but I don’t want my friends to think there’s anything wrong. I lean around and fetch my companion a ringing smack on the arse.
“Oh, fuck you, Bean. You try being up until three in the morning with the bloody hobbits and then having a six-thirty call, and we’ll see if you really care about anything besides several aspirin, some damn strong coffee, and maybe a Benzedrine thrown in for good measure.” Oh, Oscar-worthy performance there, Bloom. Sean doesn’t suspect anything. Does he?
“Nice try, Orlando.”
“Whaddya mean?” I start out with the ‘act innocent’ tactic.
“I mean that was a beautiful performance, but it didn’t quite reach those big brown eyes of yours.” Fuck. Caught red-handed. Or brown-eyed. Or something.
“Who cares? It’s not a big deal,” I reply.
“That’s where you’re wrong. It is a big deal. Some of the guys and I have been worried about you lately. I was sent to find out what’s up.” Oh, fanbloodytastic, just fucking wonderful, my friends are all discussing my mental health over a pint.
“So, now you guys are trying to decide if I’m crazy.” I glare at him. “Well, you can fucking piss off. And stay out of my past and my personal life.” I turn to face away from him, signifying that the conversation is over. But Sean isn’t letting me get away with it.
“No one thinks you’re crazy, Orlando. And who said anything about your past? We’re just worried about you.” He looks a little bewildered. Good. Maybe now he’ll leave me the fuck alone.
“Just forget about it, Sean,” I say wearily. “I’m fine.” I turn to leave, but he grabs my wrist and stops me.
“You’re not fuckin’ ‘fine’, Orlando, and you’re absolutely not going anywhere until you tell me what’s wrong.” There’s an authoritative tone in his voice that scares me a bit, but also sort of turns me on. I’m going to pretend I didn’t just have that last thought and file it away to mull over later, when I’m alone. Right now, though, what I’d really like is to get drunk off my fucking arse, but first I’ve got to convince Sean that I’m really okay so he’ll fucking get off my case. I make my voice as calm and patient as humanly possible.
“I’m fine, Sean. Really I am.” He looks directly at me. He’s not buying it. I sigh exasperatedly. Why does he know me so well?
“Orlando,” he says after a moment, “why don’t you come back to my place for supper?” I eye him warily. “I just want to find out what‘s going on with you.”
“Why, so you can go back to the others with a nice little report of what I say?” I can feel the anger coursing through my veins, something I’ve not felt in a while.
“No, Orlando. Not so I can tell anyone anything. I care about you, whether you believe it or not.” He lets my wrist go. “Look, if that’s what you really want, you can go off to whatever club, pub, or any other place you can get pissed; it’s your choice. But I’d like for you to come over and talk to me.” Oh, you would, would you? Well, and why not? I only have to tell him as much as I want him to know, and maybe I can get some of this off my chest.
“Not going to put up a fight?” He sounds surprised, but maybe he’s faking it. What do I know?
“No.”
“Well, okay then! My car’s this way.” I pick up my bag and follow him. The drive over to his rented house is short, and Sean doesn’t press me for answers to any of the questions he asked me earlier. Here with Sean, in his car, just talking companionably, I almost feel like I could go back to caring about things, the way I used to even.
“We’re here.” Sean pulls up the drive and we get out of the car and go inside. I go to set my bag in the living room, but Sean calls out from the kitchen, “You can put your bag in the guest room. I’ve got Guinness, and God only knows if either of us is going to be fit for driving tonight.” Okay, no big deal, I’ve crashed at friends’ places a lot since I got to New Zealand-- Liv’s, Viggo’s, Elijah’s… So why do I have butterflies in my stomach? I go into the kitchen after dropping my duffel in the guest bedroom.
“I’ve got pasta shells in the oven, spaghetti sauce and ricotta cheese. That okay with you?” I nod. Mmm, pasta shells sound yummy. “You wanna put something on the stereo?” he asks.
“Fine, I’ll leave your precious kitchen! I know when I’m not wanted.” I stalk out, nose in the air. Whoa, did I just make a joke when I wasn’t trying to cover?
Hm, Sean’s got a pretty decent-sized collection of music. I put The Who in the disc changer. Ah, Tommy, that brilliant rock opera. Admittedly a bit before my time, but I like it anyway. I head back into the kitchen, where Sean, in an apron (!) and oven mitts, is taking the pasta shells out of the oven and putting them on a hot plate on the counter.
“Wow, smells good,” I say. It smells heavenly, actually. He beams at me. He should look ridiculous in the apron and oven mitts, but somehow he doesn’t. In fact, if anything, he seems more masculine, like if you put Arnold Schwarzenegger in a pink Cadillac. Eeew, why the fuck am I thinking about Arnold Schwarzenegger? Yuck, yuck, yuck! Sean takes out a giant serving fork and some plates.
“How many do you want?” he asks, indicating the pasta shells.
“Forty-two,” I reply. What? It was the first thing that popped into my head!
“Ha-ha. Oh, my aching sides. Somehow I doubt that is the question. ‘Forty-two’.” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. Wow, he can do both at the same time? Nice.
“Wait, wait, I think the universe has just disappeared and reformed as something even more inexplicable!” I say sarcastically. He slaps my arse, returning the favour from before and chastising me for now.
“Cheeky little bugger, aren’t you.”
“Oh, so it’s not a question, then?”
“Oh, no, definitely no question about it; you are a cheeky bugger.” I shrug. I can’t exactly deny it, now can I? “Anyway, how many shells?”
“Ah, five should be good.” He serves both of us, and we go into the dining room.
“Oh, bollocks, I’ve forgotten the Guinness. Be right back,” he says, returning almost immediately with about six Guinnesses. I take an experimental bite of one of my pasta shells. Oh, tasty.
“Mmm.”
“So it gets the Orlando Stamp of Approval?” I nod eagerly. He opens two of the Guinnesses and hands me one. I drink deep, letting the familiar warmth fill me. We’re quiet for a bit, before Sean breaks the silence.
“So, wanna tell me what‘s going on with you?” Wow, no preliminary pussyfooting around the issue, he just dives right in. I like that, I guess. It proves he’s sincere, anyway. I wait a minute before speaking to “collect my thoughts“, as it were.
“My life is pretty shitty right now, but it doesn’t feel so awful with you.” Somewhere along the line, I decided I was going to be truthful, both with Sean and myself.
“What do you mean about your life being shitty?” His brow is wrinkled in concern. For me. He’s really, genuinely worried about me.
“I don’t really know. I’ve just been so blah, so… well, apathetic.” He winces. “It’s not your fault,” I assure him. “It’s just… I feel like I’m stuck in a rut that I can’t get out of. But here, it’s better. I can get mad at you, and laugh with you, and be truly happy with you. You make me feel alive again.” Wow. When was the last time I was that honest with anyone? Sean just brings it out in me. And what about this feeling in the pit of my stomach? Is that his doing, too?
“Is that why you came here with me tonight?” I nod.
“It felt like you really cared about what was going on with me.” Oh good God, I’ve gone all sappy and twee on myself. At least I haven’t got a dopey grin on my face.
“I’m glad. So, what’s with the dopey grin on your face?” Oh, shit. Shitshitshit. The warmth I feel suffusing throughout my body… it’s not… love? He smiles indulgently at me. Oh, bloody fuck, am I that transparent? Now that’s silly. Why would I be in love with Sean? Never mind that he’s bloody gorgeous, and really devoted to me… But it’s becoming more apparent by the second that there’s no other explanation for why I ordinarily feel so listless but he’s able to raise my spirits simply by his presence.
“Ehm….” He gets up out of his chair, and I find myself staring up at him, wide-eyed, as he comes to stand in front of me. “Sean…” He puts one finger to my lips to shush me. My eyes get even wider as he lowers his finger and leans in.
When our lips collide, it’s like bangers back home on Guy Fawkes Day, shooting stars in the night sky, a San Francisco earthquake, a tropical hurricane in the Caribbean, and molten lava from a volcano all rolled into one. Sean kisses like an angel who’s sold his soul to the devil. My cock is hard, my knees are weak, and it’s a bloody good thing I’m sitting down or I’d certainly have fallen over by now. I let the moan I‘ve been holding back erupt from my throat. It vibrates through my lips and into Sean‘s mouth, and then he‘s pulling me to my feet, and we’re moving over to the counter, totally wrapped up in one another, and he fumbles around on the counter behind me, pushing things out of the way so he can lift me up to sit on it. He stands there between my legs, colour high in his flushed face, lips parted, breathing almost as shaky as is my own.
“Oh God, Orlando, you’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he growls in that come-fuck-me voice that has me harder than I think I’ve ever been. I don’t answer, I just lean back in and latch myself onto his mouth again, drinking in everything about him like oxygen. His scent, his taste, the feel of his crotch grinding up against mine… I groan loudly.
“Get your trousers off,” he commands, stepping back to remove his own. I keen reproachfully at the loss of the feel of his lips on mine, but he gives me a dangerous look, and I start unbuttoning my trousers as quickly as I’m able to. I try to do it without looking so I can watch as he reveals himself to my scrutiny, but one look at the size of his cock has my head reeling, and my hands forget their task and oh God, he is *so* topping. I close my eyes and suck in a breath to keep from passing out. Fuck, he’s bloody enormous! Now he’s naked from the waist down, and he comes back over to me.
“Having a little trouser trouble, are we?” he taunts, pulling them off along with my pants as he speaks.
“Nnn…nuh.” Mmmhmm, right, ‘cos he understood that for sure. I try again. “Need…y-your cock...” Better, I suppose.
“Oh, really? Is that so?” I glower at him. How the shit is he staying so calm? I want to hit him, but more than that, I want him to impale me with his huge dick and fuck me ‘til I can’t walk straight, can’t see straight, can’t do anything at all straight. He leans over to whisper in my ear. “You want to know a secret? You can have my cock right now. It’s all yours.” Buggery, that voice is lethal. It should be registered, should require a license… or something.
“Pl… Please,” I breathe, gazing into his normally sparkling green eyes, which are currently clouded over with lust.
“Please what?” Oh God, he’s evil. But very sexy. Entirely too sexy for his own good. Or mine, for that matter. Or… Oh fuck, sensory overload; we interrupt this programme to describe how amazingly hot the look in Sean’s eyes is as he pulls my legs up over his shoulders, smirking, and reaches for the bottle of olive oil he’s left on the countertop and drizzles some of said oil onto his fingers and then reaches down under me and probes around until he finds the entrance he’s looking for and pushes in and it hurts a little but then OH FUCK! he’s found *that spot* and he’s curling his finger and brushing over the place over and over and then he’s adding another finger, and another, and… He stops and pulls them out. I whine noisily at the cessation of stimulation, but he’s too busy coating his cock in the slippery oil to pay much attention. Then he’s done and he looks up at me, eyes shining with desire and something else I can’t quite place but it doesn’t matter because he’s lining himself up, the tip of his cock at my entrance.
“This okay?”
“What are you, fucking daft?” Aha, the power of speech returns! “Of course it’s fucking okay; in fact, if you don’t fucking get inside me this second it’s highly likely that I’ll spontaneously combust and-” He clamps his hand over my mouth and begins to push in, stretching me slowly so I have time to adjust to his size. My eyes flutter shut; that’s one powerful feeling, being totally and completely filled like this, and he takes his hand off my mouth, lays me almost reverently on the counter, dishtowel under my head, and even this part is the most erotic thing anyone’s ever done with me and oh fuck, he’s starting to move inside me, pulling out carefully and thrusting in with a quick twist of his hips that has me screaming and it’s a good thing there are no other houses nearby ‘cos oh holy fucking hell that feels so good…
“SEAN!” I yell, shouting my pleasure to the figurative rafters, and he increases his pace until I think I’m going to explode if he doesn’t touch me soon. I reach for myself, but he swats my hands away and takes my swollen, leaking cock in his large hand and begins to move his hand up and down in time with his thrusts. He moans brokenly, and I clench my inner muscles around him, urging him on.
“Ohhhh fuck, Orlando-ohh!” he groans, and I feel the familiar tensing of my balls as I start to climax. My breath comes in great heaving gasps.
“Oh fuck I’m-” but I don’t let Sean finish. I crush our lips together, drowning out our combined screams as we come together.
“Forty two.”
“Huh?” He looks at me like I’ve gone mad.
“Forty-two. The number of times you pushed into me. The answer to the universe.” I grin. He grins back. Oh God. This is going to be a long night.