"What to do when you're doing hard time" Orlibean one-shot
So here's that one-shot I was talking about.
Beware!
It's dark!
Title: What to do when you're doing hard time
Pairing: Orlibean
Rating: R for the disturbing images and NC-17 for the sex cuz you know sex is worse
Summary: What if the boys were criminal sociopaths? Would they still be there for each other? Taken from Eric Bana's POV
Warning: Um, disturbing images. No major character death. This is dark, okay. So not crack.
Note: Thanks for to my wonderful beta, liriel1810, who did this for me without any hesitation. *hugssquisheskisses you*
I sometimes have to laugh at the reasons people give to do what they do.
I reside in a maximum security wing within a maximum security prison in the middle of Bum-Fuck-Nowhere, U.S.A., a wing where in order to be eligible for placement, you had to have killed quite a shitload of people in the most heinous way possible.
So I say once again, I wonder what shit people are smoking because in a sane world, people would want people like myself and the inner sanctum here, to be put to death for their numerous crimes against humanity.
Maybe a nice quick death, probably by lethal injection - too bad the electric chair was no more - to make sure that other sociopaths, like me and my mates, got the idea that it wasn't that cool to do the things that we like to do.
Things that most people don't like to talk about.
But no.
Most people decide that the best possible punishment there could be for people like me and my kind, is a life-long stint behind bars so we can ponder all the atrocious acts of violence that we visited upon our victims and eventually contemplate wanting to atone for those sins once we realize the extent of what we have done.
Which is total and utter crap.
The only thing we ponder is where the fuck Jerry Springer comes up with the idiots that he finds for his television show.
That and contemplating how much Oprah weighs on any given day.
And I really have to wonder about the sanity of people if they really think that for some of us, life here behind these reinforced concrete walls with their electrified barbed wire is really all that bad.
What they don't seem to understand is that we just don't give a flying fuck. It doesn't matter where we go.
Inside here.
Out there.
It's all the same.
Wall to wall people. Everywhere.
And really, the only thing I ever cared about is getting to see my little girl every now and then.
Which I do, now that is. Every two weeks like clockwork.
It's more than I ever got when I was on the outside.
Now you see, the whole, life-in-prison thing really loses its credibility on people like the two across from me, right here, in this very shower.
Watching these two in here is always way much better than anything going on out in the rec room or in my cell.
I love watching the way the bigger and the older of the two, Sean's his name, drapes his whole body against the lithe form of his younger lover, as if shielding him from the rest of the world. And as for his young lover, Orlando? When I first met him, it was then that I finally realized what the term "bedroom eyes" meant.
I always marvel at the way Sean carefully washes his lover's back, the way he tenderly glides over the tanned skin and the way he strokes the area around the scar along the spine, the only imperfection about the boy.
This is what I'm talking about, right here. It doesn't matter what's going on outside the walls, or in the rest of the prison, or even in the shower room itself. As far as the two of them are concerned, it's just them.
I watch as Orlando closes his eyes and sighs, a blissful smile sketched across his beautiful face.
There aren't many people who would turn their backs on Sean Bean, nor would they knowingly close their eyes with him in such close proximity.
Actually, there was absolutely no one who would close their eyes or turn their backs on the man.
This is not the kind of man that installs trust or tenderness in anyone.
It was said that during Bean's trial, and this was why his trial was closed to the public, when the prosecution was showing evidence of the man's plentiful crimes, most of the jurors had to be excused so they could rid themselves of their large lunch, fully paid for by the citizens of that county, in the restrooms.
Even the media, vultures always on the prowl for further evidence of what man could do to his fellow man, could not testify to the horrors that had been showcased in court that day.
The people in the courtroom should consider themselves lucky that they only saw pictures of Sean's victims that they could actually find.
So even here, in the inner sanctum, Sean Bean was and is considered the worst of the worst.
Or the best of the best. It's all relative.
But here he was, the biggest bad ever, bestowing all his love on one Orlando Bloom.
And yes, I did say "love."
Because despite the fact that we are the worst kind of sociopaths, we do love.
We may not love too many, but when we find that one person, we love with the intensity of...what was that phrase I heard the other day?
Oh yeah.
We love with the burning intensity of a thousand suns.
And that about sums it up.
You may think that we're monsters incapable of normal feeling or love, and you would be right in that assumption.
About being monsters incapable of normal feeling.
But you would be dead wrong about the love part.
For me, I love my baby, Sophia. She's the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I think about at night.
She's everything to me.
I may hate the bitch who mothered her, but I'm thankful every day that I breathe that she had given her to me.
It doesn't matter where I am, on the outside or here behind these walls with their state-of-the-art security system, if my little girl is in trouble, I'll be there.
So yeah, for me it's Sophia.
For the two across from me, it's each other.
I can't blame him for falling for the kid.
He's a sweet boy.
Well, he's certainly sweet looking.
Which is just what his victims thought before they met the real Orlando Bloom. He never got a cool nickname from the papers like I did.
Yeah. Before my identity was revealed, I was just known as 'The Skinner.' Once they found out who I was, I was dubbed 'Bana the Urbanite Flayer.'
That one was way cool.
Nope. Bloom never got a name. But his victims did.
The Casanova Cadavers.
That's what the media called them.
I remember two years back when Orli was the media darling. His trial became the media circus everyone assumed it would be.
The questions and concerns went flying.
'How could someone as sweet and charming as this kid possibly be the one guilty of the malicious crimes they were accusing him of?'
'He was the kind of guy you brought home to meet mom.'
Of course, he didn't find the women who would bring him home to mom.
He found the other ones.
The lonely ones.
After all, how could a gal resist a guy who seemed too good to be true? One that looked like Orlando, who talked like Orlando with his sweet and refined British accent, who brought you red roses and cooked a stunning dinner just for you and then after dinner, asked you to dance to an old R&B favorite. A woman couldn't resist that, even at her best, let alone someone who had no one in the world.
Ea-sy pickings.
And so Mr. Bloom had left a string of dead bodies behind him, all with one organ missing, at the crime scene.
The heart.
When asked 'why the heart?' when he was first apprehended, he just looked at the person, tilted his head and said 'duh.'
Really, was symbolism totally lost to humankind?
And when it came time for the trial, women were lined up outside the courthouse, waiting and wanting to catch just a glimpse of the infamous 'lady killer.' Female jurors seemed to pay extra careful attention to their appearance for court and female reporters had fought their way to the front so they could have the best view.
When the prosecutor asked Orlando what he did with the hearts, the boy looked up quietly and without any reserve or hesitation said, "I ate them."
Of course there was a collective and shocked gasp while the reporters started to scribble across their notepads.
It was when the prosecutor continued his interrogation, albeit in a shaky voice after having cleared his throat and regrouping himself, "but how could you eat the heart Mr. Bloom?"
Orlando looked back up and with one of the most evil smiles calmly replied, "why, sauteed with garlic and butter, of course."
It was then that the female jurors and reporters and all the rest who had been creaming their panties during the whole ordeal, had revised their opinion of the sweet kid from Canterbury.
Despite the media's sudden turn around on that 'sweet boy from Canterbury,' human nature is what it always has been and soon enough, that little confession had been broadcast over every station and the papers and the internet was swarming with reports from women who said they were pregnant with Orlando Bloom's love child, and in one report in particular, a woman claimed that she had escaped almost certain death at his hands but because he was so taken with her, he had let her go, making her promise to keep his secret.
Yeah right.
And I'm the Easter Bunny.
But this is the way it is with the public. The public that supposedly hates and despises us yet lets us live here.
Lets us live. Period.
They hate us yet they look at us as some kind of grotesque entertainment.
We are the things that urban legends are made of.
We are the villains from the stories mommy told you about to keep you from going into the dark without caution.
We are the things that go bump in the night.
You need people like me and the rest of us to let you know there are worse things out there besides your tax returns and your credit report and high gas prices.
"Hey Bana, got any shampoo? I won't be getting mine till the next time my old lady visits."
Old lady.
The chick is half his age.
"Yeah, here Vig."
Reverend Viggo Mortenson.
He was (and in some circles, he still is considered), the leader of a doomed cult.
The guy made Jim Jones from Guyana look like Mr. Rogers. He was responsible for the murder and mutilation of approximately 27% of his flock.
Of course, if you ever asked him about that, he would reply that, "sometimes you have to cull the herd."
"The show start yet?"
I look over at the good 'Reverend' while he stands there, lathering his hair, a lazy smile gracing his face as he takes in the 'lovebirds,' as he is want to call them.
I can bet my last dollar I know why he likes to watch them.
As for me? I don't know why I come here when I know they're in here.
I'm just drawn to it you could say.
'Sides. It's not like I have anything better to do.
Okay, you got me. I do like watching them. And even though each time there's something new, something I didn't catch before, it's always the same.
Sean soaps his boy up and cleans him thoroughly, and then when he's done, Orlando reciprocates.
And I guess that's what I'm drawn to. The way they each take great care in their way of the other's comfort. The way they lavish attention on the other. It's all there in the caresses, the small smiles only meant for each other and the deep longing looks.
It's the way it progresses from just getting each other clean to their mutual joining. It's the way that Sean carefully prepares his young lover. The way he takes great pains to make sure he's ready for him. The way he slips in oh so effortlessly because they had been building up to this moment.
It's the way Orlando quietly whimpers and sighs when Sean hits that particular spot deep within. To Viggo this may be his way of quietly masturbating to the free porn show, but to me it means more.
An affirmation.
Yes, we are monsters.
But you always say we're monsters incapable of loving.
Because as I said before, we do love.
And it's always confirmed when I watch the two of them. They're not only in it for the sex, to ignore each other after the act is done. They're in it for the long term.
They love each other and for them it's as long as they have time left.
And you, as the well meaning and well intentioned public have given them just that.
Time.
-Fin-
Feedback is love
And yes, I think Orlando Bloom should so play a criminal sociopath. I think it could reinvent him. :)
Beware!
It's dark!
Title: What to do when you're doing hard time
Pairing: Orlibean
Rating: R for the disturbing images and NC-17 for the sex cuz you know sex is worse
Summary: What if the boys were criminal sociopaths? Would they still be there for each other? Taken from Eric Bana's POV
Warning: Um, disturbing images. No major character death. This is dark, okay. So not crack.
Note: Thanks for to my wonderful beta, liriel1810, who did this for me without any hesitation. *hugssquisheskisses you*
I sometimes have to laugh at the reasons people give to do what they do.
I reside in a maximum security wing within a maximum security prison in the middle of Bum-Fuck-Nowhere, U.S.A., a wing where in order to be eligible for placement, you had to have killed quite a shitload of people in the most heinous way possible.
So I say once again, I wonder what shit people are smoking because in a sane world, people would want people like myself and the inner sanctum here, to be put to death for their numerous crimes against humanity.
Maybe a nice quick death, probably by lethal injection - too bad the electric chair was no more - to make sure that other sociopaths, like me and my mates, got the idea that it wasn't that cool to do the things that we like to do.
Things that most people don't like to talk about.
But no.
Most people decide that the best possible punishment there could be for people like me and my kind, is a life-long stint behind bars so we can ponder all the atrocious acts of violence that we visited upon our victims and eventually contemplate wanting to atone for those sins once we realize the extent of what we have done.
Which is total and utter crap.
The only thing we ponder is where the fuck Jerry Springer comes up with the idiots that he finds for his television show.
That and contemplating how much Oprah weighs on any given day.
And I really have to wonder about the sanity of people if they really think that for some of us, life here behind these reinforced concrete walls with their electrified barbed wire is really all that bad.
What they don't seem to understand is that we just don't give a flying fuck. It doesn't matter where we go.
Inside here.
Out there.
It's all the same.
Wall to wall people. Everywhere.
And really, the only thing I ever cared about is getting to see my little girl every now and then.
Which I do, now that is. Every two weeks like clockwork.
It's more than I ever got when I was on the outside.
Now you see, the whole, life-in-prison thing really loses its credibility on people like the two across from me, right here, in this very shower.
Watching these two in here is always way much better than anything going on out in the rec room or in my cell.
I love watching the way the bigger and the older of the two, Sean's his name, drapes his whole body against the lithe form of his younger lover, as if shielding him from the rest of the world. And as for his young lover, Orlando? When I first met him, it was then that I finally realized what the term "bedroom eyes" meant.
I always marvel at the way Sean carefully washes his lover's back, the way he tenderly glides over the tanned skin and the way he strokes the area around the scar along the spine, the only imperfection about the boy.
This is what I'm talking about, right here. It doesn't matter what's going on outside the walls, or in the rest of the prison, or even in the shower room itself. As far as the two of them are concerned, it's just them.
I watch as Orlando closes his eyes and sighs, a blissful smile sketched across his beautiful face.
There aren't many people who would turn their backs on Sean Bean, nor would they knowingly close their eyes with him in such close proximity.
Actually, there was absolutely no one who would close their eyes or turn their backs on the man.
This is not the kind of man that installs trust or tenderness in anyone.
It was said that during Bean's trial, and this was why his trial was closed to the public, when the prosecution was showing evidence of the man's plentiful crimes, most of the jurors had to be excused so they could rid themselves of their large lunch, fully paid for by the citizens of that county, in the restrooms.
Even the media, vultures always on the prowl for further evidence of what man could do to his fellow man, could not testify to the horrors that had been showcased in court that day.
The people in the courtroom should consider themselves lucky that they only saw pictures of Sean's victims that they could actually find.
So even here, in the inner sanctum, Sean Bean was and is considered the worst of the worst.
Or the best of the best. It's all relative.
But here he was, the biggest bad ever, bestowing all his love on one Orlando Bloom.
And yes, I did say "love."
Because despite the fact that we are the worst kind of sociopaths, we do love.
We may not love too many, but when we find that one person, we love with the intensity of...what was that phrase I heard the other day?
Oh yeah.
We love with the burning intensity of a thousand suns.
And that about sums it up.
You may think that we're monsters incapable of normal feeling or love, and you would be right in that assumption.
About being monsters incapable of normal feeling.
But you would be dead wrong about the love part.
For me, I love my baby, Sophia. She's the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I think about at night.
She's everything to me.
I may hate the bitch who mothered her, but I'm thankful every day that I breathe that she had given her to me.
It doesn't matter where I am, on the outside or here behind these walls with their state-of-the-art security system, if my little girl is in trouble, I'll be there.
So yeah, for me it's Sophia.
For the two across from me, it's each other.
I can't blame him for falling for the kid.
He's a sweet boy.
Well, he's certainly sweet looking.
Which is just what his victims thought before they met the real Orlando Bloom. He never got a cool nickname from the papers like I did.
Yeah. Before my identity was revealed, I was just known as 'The Skinner.' Once they found out who I was, I was dubbed 'Bana the Urbanite Flayer.'
That one was way cool.
Nope. Bloom never got a name. But his victims did.
The Casanova Cadavers.
That's what the media called them.
I remember two years back when Orli was the media darling. His trial became the media circus everyone assumed it would be.
The questions and concerns went flying.
'How could someone as sweet and charming as this kid possibly be the one guilty of the malicious crimes they were accusing him of?'
'He was the kind of guy you brought home to meet mom.'
Of course, he didn't find the women who would bring him home to mom.
He found the other ones.
The lonely ones.
After all, how could a gal resist a guy who seemed too good to be true? One that looked like Orlando, who talked like Orlando with his sweet and refined British accent, who brought you red roses and cooked a stunning dinner just for you and then after dinner, asked you to dance to an old R&B favorite. A woman couldn't resist that, even at her best, let alone someone who had no one in the world.
Ea-sy pickings.
And so Mr. Bloom had left a string of dead bodies behind him, all with one organ missing, at the crime scene.
The heart.
When asked 'why the heart?' when he was first apprehended, he just looked at the person, tilted his head and said 'duh.'
Really, was symbolism totally lost to humankind?
And when it came time for the trial, women were lined up outside the courthouse, waiting and wanting to catch just a glimpse of the infamous 'lady killer.' Female jurors seemed to pay extra careful attention to their appearance for court and female reporters had fought their way to the front so they could have the best view.
When the prosecutor asked Orlando what he did with the hearts, the boy looked up quietly and without any reserve or hesitation said, "I ate them."
Of course there was a collective and shocked gasp while the reporters started to scribble across their notepads.
It was when the prosecutor continued his interrogation, albeit in a shaky voice after having cleared his throat and regrouping himself, "but how could you eat the heart Mr. Bloom?"
Orlando looked back up and with one of the most evil smiles calmly replied, "why, sauteed with garlic and butter, of course."
It was then that the female jurors and reporters and all the rest who had been creaming their panties during the whole ordeal, had revised their opinion of the sweet kid from Canterbury.
Despite the media's sudden turn around on that 'sweet boy from Canterbury,' human nature is what it always has been and soon enough, that little confession had been broadcast over every station and the papers and the internet was swarming with reports from women who said they were pregnant with Orlando Bloom's love child, and in one report in particular, a woman claimed that she had escaped almost certain death at his hands but because he was so taken with her, he had let her go, making her promise to keep his secret.
Yeah right.
And I'm the Easter Bunny.
But this is the way it is with the public. The public that supposedly hates and despises us yet lets us live here.
Lets us live. Period.
They hate us yet they look at us as some kind of grotesque entertainment.
We are the things that urban legends are made of.
We are the villains from the stories mommy told you about to keep you from going into the dark without caution.
We are the things that go bump in the night.
You need people like me and the rest of us to let you know there are worse things out there besides your tax returns and your credit report and high gas prices.
"Hey Bana, got any shampoo? I won't be getting mine till the next time my old lady visits."
Old lady.
The chick is half his age.
"Yeah, here Vig."
Reverend Viggo Mortenson.
He was (and in some circles, he still is considered), the leader of a doomed cult.
The guy made Jim Jones from Guyana look like Mr. Rogers. He was responsible for the murder and mutilation of approximately 27% of his flock.
Of course, if you ever asked him about that, he would reply that, "sometimes you have to cull the herd."
"The show start yet?"
I look over at the good 'Reverend' while he stands there, lathering his hair, a lazy smile gracing his face as he takes in the 'lovebirds,' as he is want to call them.
I can bet my last dollar I know why he likes to watch them.
As for me? I don't know why I come here when I know they're in here.
I'm just drawn to it you could say.
'Sides. It's not like I have anything better to do.
Okay, you got me. I do like watching them. And even though each time there's something new, something I didn't catch before, it's always the same.
Sean soaps his boy up and cleans him thoroughly, and then when he's done, Orlando reciprocates.
And I guess that's what I'm drawn to. The way they each take great care in their way of the other's comfort. The way they lavish attention on the other. It's all there in the caresses, the small smiles only meant for each other and the deep longing looks.
It's the way it progresses from just getting each other clean to their mutual joining. It's the way that Sean carefully prepares his young lover. The way he takes great pains to make sure he's ready for him. The way he slips in oh so effortlessly because they had been building up to this moment.
It's the way Orlando quietly whimpers and sighs when Sean hits that particular spot deep within. To Viggo this may be his way of quietly masturbating to the free porn show, but to me it means more.
An affirmation.
Yes, we are monsters.
But you always say we're monsters incapable of loving.
Because as I said before, we do love.
And it's always confirmed when I watch the two of them. They're not only in it for the sex, to ignore each other after the act is done. They're in it for the long term.
They love each other and for them it's as long as they have time left.
And you, as the well meaning and well intentioned public have given them just that.
Time.
-Fin-
Feedback is love
And yes, I think Orlando Bloom should so play a criminal sociopath. I think it could reinvent him. :)