First 50_smutlets fic...
Title: Clockwork.
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Summary: PWP. Orlando loves sex in the morning.
Rating: R
Prompt: Day
Words: 888
A/N: Unbetad.
Orlando loves sex in the morning. First thing in the morning. Before the world has time to descend on him, all the things he has to do, the people he has to see, all the crap with which he will have to deal can fuck off.
Because, and this is something almost everyone understands, the world just, you know, stops for sex. You don’t have to excuse yourself any further when the reason for your lateness is ‘I was tied up, wink, wink.’ ‘I was indisposed, if you get me.’ ‘We were shagging. Time got away from us.’ The world grants people in love a little bit of leeway when it comes to their responsibilities.
Orlando, quite frankly, is taking the piss, a bit, given that it is almost a decade since he set up love with his current fella. Possibly it’s the enduring nature of their loved-up, honeymooners relationship. Not even Orlando believes that. Possibly nobody really entertains the possibility that it’s been ten years, ten fucking years and the world is still walking around in its comfortable, invisible, gay-reducing-mask.
Possibly they’re just worried that if they push Orlando too far, he’ll take the bait and give them all an in-depth analysis of exactly what it is that makes him so completely incapable of making a nine a.m. meeting whenever he’s in LA.
Nine o’clock doesn’t really exist to Orlando. Not in LA. In LA, there is ‘night-time,’ and there is ‘running late’.
This is the time between. This is sunshine laughing at glaziers and spiking through twice-recycled curtains to let Orlando see the look on Viggo's face as he reaches down between them, nudging Orlando’s thighs a little wider in an unapologetic way that would be entirely rude if their relationship were young enough. If they had not known each other sufficiently to understand that love not only meant never having to say you were sorry, but also never having to say, ‘are you ready?’ ‘Do you mind if we don’t do that tonight?’ ‘You’re sleeping in the wet patch.’
This is one of Orlando’s familiar little gasps shaming the morning chorus as Viggo does that ‘too fucking slow to be anything but bloody wonderful’ first inward drive.
Sex in the morning is typically not an experience to be taken too seriously. It’s more of a light-hearted tumble, and tumble they so often do, tackling each other, rolling each other, challenging each other to take the lead. It’s Viggo waking up to find Orlando’s mouth wrapped around his cock, ‘See this? Fifty and still wood, every morning.’ ‘Are you humming Good morning?’
It’s sex with conversation, slow and sleepy enough to take it easy, throwing in playful banter as, perhaps, Orlando sits astride Viggo, rolling his hips in steady, comfortable rhythm and enjoying the feeling of Viggo's cock especially deep inside him, without any urgent need to come in a hurry. And they tease each other, or talk bloody nonsense, approaching orgasm, for the minute, at a leisurely pace.
Sometimes someone has a flight to catch in a couple of hours, and then the whole thing gets a little more serious. There’s more eye contact. Viggo tells Orlando he loves him a few more times. Orlando returns the sentiment. Those are the times when it’s most frequently Viggo getting fucked. Orlando thinks it makes him feel more needed. Orlando thinks that’s bloody stupid. Orlando never mentions either of these theories to anyone.
Nobody has to go anywhere today. This time it’s Viggo leaning over Orlando, screwing him at a fair rate, poking him and pinching him once he has been unfortunate enough to squeak, just a little, on one particular thrust.
‘Go on, make that noise again,’ ‘Thirty years old, you still squeal when you get it.’ ‘Shut up, you wanker, or I’ll make you finish yourself off.’
Empty threats, of course. That’s sex in the morning. Seeing the creases deepen around Viggo's eyes as he grins, descending to gnaw on Orlando’s neck, laughing at the voices in his head that tell him this will be a good day. It already is a good day. That’s Orlando biting his lip as Viggo, with infuriating practised perfection, pushes him just the right way. Viggo's close to coming and he’s damned if he’ll let Orlando outlast him on this occasion. Orlando, of course, has a score of his own tricks with which to bust Viggo and knock him along, but if Viggo wants to play silly buggers Orlando’s all for it today.
Today he’ll let Viggo push him and pull him and rub his cock in that wonderful way he does, increasing pressure and taking it away until Orlando can come like the self indulgent sensual whore he has allowed himself to be. On this occasion.
Tomorrow, perhaps, they’ll take themselves very seriously. They will be sexual heathens, wrapped in one another hard enough to make saints blush, with dirty words and demands, Viggo's effort-grunts and Orlando’s beloved ‘porn face’.
This morning, this morning, though, Viggo is a sticky, panting, giggling mess and Orlando just knows he’s just come up with some retarded song or cute little poem or something new to do with marmalade. Orlando looks at the clock and, without a hint of shame or remorse, sees he’s running late.
End of.
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Summary: PWP. Orlando loves sex in the morning.
Rating: R
Prompt: Day
Words: 888
A/N: Unbetad.
Orlando loves sex in the morning. First thing in the morning. Before the world has time to descend on him, all the things he has to do, the people he has to see, all the crap with which he will have to deal can fuck off.
Because, and this is something almost everyone understands, the world just, you know, stops for sex. You don’t have to excuse yourself any further when the reason for your lateness is ‘I was tied up, wink, wink.’ ‘I was indisposed, if you get me.’ ‘We were shagging. Time got away from us.’ The world grants people in love a little bit of leeway when it comes to their responsibilities.
Orlando, quite frankly, is taking the piss, a bit, given that it is almost a decade since he set up love with his current fella. Possibly it’s the enduring nature of their loved-up, honeymooners relationship. Not even Orlando believes that. Possibly nobody really entertains the possibility that it’s been ten years, ten fucking years and the world is still walking around in its comfortable, invisible, gay-reducing-mask.
Possibly they’re just worried that if they push Orlando too far, he’ll take the bait and give them all an in-depth analysis of exactly what it is that makes him so completely incapable of making a nine a.m. meeting whenever he’s in LA.
Nine o’clock doesn’t really exist to Orlando. Not in LA. In LA, there is ‘night-time,’ and there is ‘running late’.
This is the time between. This is sunshine laughing at glaziers and spiking through twice-recycled curtains to let Orlando see the look on Viggo's face as he reaches down between them, nudging Orlando’s thighs a little wider in an unapologetic way that would be entirely rude if their relationship were young enough. If they had not known each other sufficiently to understand that love not only meant never having to say you were sorry, but also never having to say, ‘are you ready?’ ‘Do you mind if we don’t do that tonight?’ ‘You’re sleeping in the wet patch.’
This is one of Orlando’s familiar little gasps shaming the morning chorus as Viggo does that ‘too fucking slow to be anything but bloody wonderful’ first inward drive.
Sex in the morning is typically not an experience to be taken too seriously. It’s more of a light-hearted tumble, and tumble they so often do, tackling each other, rolling each other, challenging each other to take the lead. It’s Viggo waking up to find Orlando’s mouth wrapped around his cock, ‘See this? Fifty and still wood, every morning.’ ‘Are you humming Good morning?’
It’s sex with conversation, slow and sleepy enough to take it easy, throwing in playful banter as, perhaps, Orlando sits astride Viggo, rolling his hips in steady, comfortable rhythm and enjoying the feeling of Viggo's cock especially deep inside him, without any urgent need to come in a hurry. And they tease each other, or talk bloody nonsense, approaching orgasm, for the minute, at a leisurely pace.
Sometimes someone has a flight to catch in a couple of hours, and then the whole thing gets a little more serious. There’s more eye contact. Viggo tells Orlando he loves him a few more times. Orlando returns the sentiment. Those are the times when it’s most frequently Viggo getting fucked. Orlando thinks it makes him feel more needed. Orlando thinks that’s bloody stupid. Orlando never mentions either of these theories to anyone.
Nobody has to go anywhere today. This time it’s Viggo leaning over Orlando, screwing him at a fair rate, poking him and pinching him once he has been unfortunate enough to squeak, just a little, on one particular thrust.
‘Go on, make that noise again,’ ‘Thirty years old, you still squeal when you get it.’ ‘Shut up, you wanker, or I’ll make you finish yourself off.’
Empty threats, of course. That’s sex in the morning. Seeing the creases deepen around Viggo's eyes as he grins, descending to gnaw on Orlando’s neck, laughing at the voices in his head that tell him this will be a good day. It already is a good day. That’s Orlando biting his lip as Viggo, with infuriating practised perfection, pushes him just the right way. Viggo's close to coming and he’s damned if he’ll let Orlando outlast him on this occasion. Orlando, of course, has a score of his own tricks with which to bust Viggo and knock him along, but if Viggo wants to play silly buggers Orlando’s all for it today.
Today he’ll let Viggo push him and pull him and rub his cock in that wonderful way he does, increasing pressure and taking it away until Orlando can come like the self indulgent sensual whore he has allowed himself to be. On this occasion.
Tomorrow, perhaps, they’ll take themselves very seriously. They will be sexual heathens, wrapped in one another hard enough to make saints blush, with dirty words and demands, Viggo's effort-grunts and Orlando’s beloved ‘porn face’.
This morning, this morning, though, Viggo is a sticky, panting, giggling mess and Orlando just knows he’s just come up with some retarded song or cute little poem or something new to do with marmalade. Orlando looks at the clock and, without a hint of shame or remorse, sees he’s running late.
End of.