The little AU: interludes and whispers: Sometimes
The little AU: interludes and whispers: Sometimes
slashfairy
~~
It's another night alone for each of them. Another night in some bed that's not their bed, some bed that doesn't feel right, doesn't smell right, doesn't have the right sags and wrinkles and just isn't the right bed.
Karl deals with it in a practical way.
He gets on the phone, puts it on speaker, and dares them to make him come.
It's not for nothing that they call him "Reaper"- he can get anything he wants when he talks to them that way.
What he does is, he talks to each one about the other.
He tells Viggo how beautiful Orlando is. How fine his skin is, how his sparse beard tickles when he kisses Viggo just there behind the crease of his armpit where the skin never gets old. How his eyes darken when Viggo's fucking him in front of Karl, how Orlando's lips part, and his tongue touches the corner of his mouth, and how he pulls it back in slowly just before Viggo shouts his name once, twice, then grunts and howls like a coyote. How Orlando's hands, scarred by years, now, of horse riding and blacksmithing and sword fighting and rough-housing with Sidi, slide down Viggo's ribs like water when he's sliding down Viggo to suck his cock.
Orlando blushes to hear this, blushes because he knows it's making Viggo hard to listen to it, blushes because thinking of Viggo getting hard makes him hard, too. Karl hears the hitch in his breathing, hears him whisper hoarsely "keep going", knows it's not keep going talking about me, it's keep going until he's ready to come, make him happy, make Viggo happy. He reaches for his own cock, then waits until Karl changes topics.
Because he does. He's got lots to say about Viggo, to Orli. About the way Viggo's eyes go translucent when Orlando comes up behind him and wraps his arms around him, pulling his loosely tucked shirt out of his jeans, sliding his hands up to palm Viggo's nipples. How Viggo rises into Orli's hands, how his head falls back and how he leans back into Orlando, his mouth open, Adam's apple working as he swallows, trying to keep from turning around and kissing Orlando hard, pressing him into the counter or wall or hood of the car or whatever is nearby. About how, when Viggo's just about to pull the last bit of come out of Orli's cock, he looks up as though he is in a state of obscene grace, and how afterward, his face against Orli's thigh, he glows as though lit from within.
Karl talks, envisioning each of them in his hotel bed, or slouching a chair, or leaning against a wall straining not to touch himself until Karl says to.
He talks, gauging them by how their breath shortens, how they slur their words, by how often each one says "fuck" or groans until he knows they're in sync, until he knows he can join them.
Then he begins the real fucking. Says "touch yourself," says "wrap your hand around your cock." Tells them what to do, until they're saying things to each other and to him. Groans when he slides his thumb over the slit of his own cock, groans and hears each of his men groan too because they can feel him do it, because it reverberates in their bellies as he lifts into his fist and fucks them and they fuck him.
Viggo comes first this time, then Orlando, and Karl follows by only a moment or two, panting after the prolonged grunt that's his signature. They slow each other down, slow down with each other, muttering loving curses and crude caresses, making promises to lick each other clean the next time they're together.
Much much later, after each of the others has hung up, Karl puts his robe on and goes out to the deck to smoke. Overhead the moon, nearly dark, smiles at him as if to say she loves his lovers too.
previously: The December boy.
next: Certainty of tides
slashfairy
~~
It's another night alone for each of them. Another night in some bed that's not their bed, some bed that doesn't feel right, doesn't smell right, doesn't have the right sags and wrinkles and just isn't the right bed.
Karl deals with it in a practical way.
He gets on the phone, puts it on speaker, and dares them to make him come.
It's not for nothing that they call him "Reaper"- he can get anything he wants when he talks to them that way.
What he does is, he talks to each one about the other.
He tells Viggo how beautiful Orlando is. How fine his skin is, how his sparse beard tickles when he kisses Viggo just there behind the crease of his armpit where the skin never gets old. How his eyes darken when Viggo's fucking him in front of Karl, how Orlando's lips part, and his tongue touches the corner of his mouth, and how he pulls it back in slowly just before Viggo shouts his name once, twice, then grunts and howls like a coyote. How Orlando's hands, scarred by years, now, of horse riding and blacksmithing and sword fighting and rough-housing with Sidi, slide down Viggo's ribs like water when he's sliding down Viggo to suck his cock.
Orlando blushes to hear this, blushes because he knows it's making Viggo hard to listen to it, blushes because thinking of Viggo getting hard makes him hard, too. Karl hears the hitch in his breathing, hears him whisper hoarsely "keep going", knows it's not keep going talking about me, it's keep going until he's ready to come, make him happy, make Viggo happy. He reaches for his own cock, then waits until Karl changes topics.
Because he does. He's got lots to say about Viggo, to Orli. About the way Viggo's eyes go translucent when Orlando comes up behind him and wraps his arms around him, pulling his loosely tucked shirt out of his jeans, sliding his hands up to palm Viggo's nipples. How Viggo rises into Orli's hands, how his head falls back and how he leans back into Orlando, his mouth open, Adam's apple working as he swallows, trying to keep from turning around and kissing Orlando hard, pressing him into the counter or wall or hood of the car or whatever is nearby. About how, when Viggo's just about to pull the last bit of come out of Orli's cock, he looks up as though he is in a state of obscene grace, and how afterward, his face against Orli's thigh, he glows as though lit from within.
Karl talks, envisioning each of them in his hotel bed, or slouching a chair, or leaning against a wall straining not to touch himself until Karl says to.
He talks, gauging them by how their breath shortens, how they slur their words, by how often each one says "fuck" or groans until he knows they're in sync, until he knows he can join them.
Then he begins the real fucking. Says "touch yourself," says "wrap your hand around your cock." Tells them what to do, until they're saying things to each other and to him. Groans when he slides his thumb over the slit of his own cock, groans and hears each of his men groan too because they can feel him do it, because it reverberates in their bellies as he lifts into his fist and fucks them and they fuck him.
Viggo comes first this time, then Orlando, and Karl follows by only a moment or two, panting after the prolonged grunt that's his signature. They slow each other down, slow down with each other, muttering loving curses and crude caresses, making promises to lick each other clean the next time they're together.
Much much later, after each of the others has hung up, Karl puts his robe on and goes out to the deck to smoke. Overhead the moon, nearly dark, smiles at him as if to say she loves his lovers too.
previously: The December boy.
next: Certainty of tides