[FIC] RPF: December 17th
This really is a fic flood and I apologise in advance to my f-list, aha. But honestly, this would probably be the last one for a while. 8D I'm working on more, don't worry. /holidays are the BEST times for writing. I am just as bloody uncreative about my titles as ever, though, so there's that at least. Aha.
Also, afra_schatz inspired this and beta'd this, so it's dedicated to her. ♥!
December 17th
Characters/Pairing: Orlando Bloom/Sean Bean
Rating: NC-17 for sex and language
Words: ~2400
Disclaimer: Didn’t happen, a product of imagination.
Summary: Orlando and Sean try to decorate a Christmas tree. Keyword: ‘try’.
Notes: For the December 17th entry on the lotr_advent.
London, December 17 2004
“You know, today’s old man Bernard’s birthday,” Orlando said.
Sean squinted down at him. He was halfway up the tree, draping the fairy lights on the fronds. It was a small tree really, so he only needed the stepladder for the very top of it. Orlando made full advantage of the limited time he had to stare as much as he could at the glorious arse that Sean’s jeans and his position revealed.
“What?”
“Bernard Hill,” Orlando said. He grinned, not even bothering to look up to Sean’s eyes. Sure, he could look at Sean’s arse whenever he wanted (and he couldn’t help the thrill he felt at the thought, even after so many years; whatever, he could be sappy during the holiday season if he wanted to be), but it wasn’t every day that it was right at his eye level. “It’s his birthday today, and Milla Jovovich’s too.”
“Who the hell is this Milla Jovovich and why should I care?” Sean asked. “And will you stop staring at me arse?”
“Nope,” Orlando answered, leering even more at the object in question. “And she’s in Resident Evil. Tsk, tsk, you should know your horror movie actors better, since you’re going to act in one and everything.”
“You’re having a conversation with me arse,” Sean declared. Out of the corner of his eyes, Orlando saw another strand of fairy lights being put in its proper place. “It can answer you.”
Orlando raised an eyebrow, finally looking up. “I know your arse is amazing and everything, but I didn’t know it could talk.”
“If you keep staring at it, it might,” Sean shot back. He started climbing down the stepladder, and Orlando sighed melodramatically.
“Look at what you’ve done. Now it takes too much effort for me to look at it.”
Sean snorted. He obligingly bent over again- okay, that was to pick up ornaments from the box they bought yesterday to hang on the tree. Orlando was entirely entitled to recreate events if he wanted to, so there.
“What are you doing anyway?”
“What?” Orlando blinked, distracted. He looked up, and up again, because somehow in the five seconds between Sean’s question and his own, Sean had moved over to the dining table.
“I said,” Sean drawled, over-pronouncing the two syllables. “What are you doing? On me laptop at that?”
“I’m looking up today’s date on Wikipedia,” Orlando grinned. “Do you know that Britain declared war on Spain today, around three hundred years ago?”
Sean looked unimpressed, “I thought you said technology’s evil.”
“Well, if an old man like you could master it, why couldn’t I? Besides, you were paying more attention to the tree than to me,” Orlando grinned back. He knew he was asking to be smacked, and Sean didn’t disappoint, reaching over the table to slap him lightly on the back of the head.
“Ow.” Orlando rubbed at his neck, half-pouting. Only half, because he knew he looked ridiculous with that look on his face and he couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of it.
Sean chuckled, “Your head’s too damn thick to be hurt by a little whack like that.” He leaned down more, and his hand slid down Orlando’s face to take hold of his chin. “You can come over and help me with the tree.”
Slowly, Orlando’s hand wrapped around Sean’s wrist, turning it around and biting lightly on the thin skin underneath. “Are you telling me to get off my arse and help you decorate?”
“I’m telling you,” Sean said, and Orlando grinned at the small hitch he could hear in his breath. “You either do something ‘bout that arse of yours, or you come and do something ‘bout mine, since you can’t stop staring at it.”
“I can bring you out to the garage,” Orlando murmured, nipping at Sean’s pulse point and feeling the beat quicken under his teeth and tongue. “You’ll ride behind me on the motorcycle. Feel the winter wind in your hair.”
“Yeah, and fall over and die on the slippery ice,” Sean snorted. “I ain’t trusting your driving.”
“Why not?” Orlando barely managed to keep a whine out of those words.
“Well,” Sean said, shifting his hand so he was tipping Orlando’s head up again. “If you can’t tell when someone is telling you to fuck them in the arse, I can’t trust you to read traffic lights.”
“That’s two entirely different things and you know it,” Orlando retorted immediately. It took a little while more before Sean’s other words sank in.
“You know,” he said slowly. “We haven’t christened the dining table yet.”
“You mean desecrated. We’re going to have guests over, if you’ve forgotten. Me parents, the girls, and all that.”
Orlando wasn’t listening any longer. He always had a rather one-track mind, really, and he was already standing up, leaping over the table, and pinning Sean down onto the wood.
“You were saying?”
“I was saying,” Sean’s breath hitched as Orlando’s fingers found their ways underneath his shirt. “Are you going to just look at it, or are you going to do something ‘bout it?”
“I don’t know,” Orlando replied. His hand found the edge of a nipple, and he started tracing it with his fingertip. “There’s plenty to enjoy from just looking. Do you know you have new wrinkles,” his other hand skimmed the sides of Sean’s left eye, “right over here?”
Sean raised an eyebrow. His knee lifted, grazed the insides of Orlando’s thigh and rubbed against his half-hard cock.
“You sure you want to start talking ‘bout me wrinkles now?”
“Cheater,” Orlando gasped. He leaned down, elbows hitting the wooden table. Their lips brushed and he felt Sean open up beneath him. Rough fingers slid up his back, teasing the scar there. Years ago, Orlando would have wriggled away from the touch, but now he only stayed still, concentrating on tasting Sean’s mouth all over again while Sean’s fingers walked up his ribs, surely counting them for the umpteenth time.
“I don’t think we have lube here,” Orlando murmured, nipping on Sean’s lower lip. This close, Sean’s eyes were a deep green, like a leaf seen in the darkness of the forest, bright and waxy from the moon’s light. Orlando thought he would never tire of counting the shades of Sean’s eyes, because they always changed according to the light. It was entirely unlike his own, which were brown. Like dirt, and particularly boring dirt at that.
Sean chuckled into his ear, his breath warm and gusting across the shell. “Check the drawer.”
Reaching over, Orlando pulled it open. He raised an eyebrow, staring incredulously at Sean as he took out the tube of lubricant, still in its plastic seal. “You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?”
The only response was a soft chuckle. Sean hooked his thumbs beneath his jeans, sliding them off his hips. Orlando tugged at the pant leg, dropping denim on the floor.
“Am I really that predictable?” It was a rhetorical question. He was already pulling the top open, slicking his fingers. His other hand was busy pulling his fly open and getting his cock out.
“Well,” Sean said, and Orlando took a moment to admire the sight of him spreading his legs. God, he would never tire of this. Not this sight of Sean, entirely shameless as he opened himself up for Orlando, his fingers curling around his own cock and starting to stroke slowly.
“You’ve always had a bit of a fixation on me arse.”
Orlando laughed. He leaned down, capturing Sean’s lips, breathing in his stuttering moan as he pushed two fingers inside. Sean was fucking tight, hot as a goddamn furnace, and Orlando had to find a way to not come in his pants immediately. He was ten years away from being a teenager, for fuck’s sake. He took a deep breath and looked deep into Sean’s eyes. Fluttered his lashes a little bit.
“Does that feel good, baby?”
Sean punched him.
Orlando’s head snapped to the side, jaw aching, but he was still smiling as he rubbed at the spot.
“That’s abuse you know,” he said archly.
“Your damn pet names is a fucking form of verbal abuse,” Sean snarled, but there was no real vitriol in his voice even though his eyes were narrowed into a glare. He reached up, callused fingertips brushing across Orlando’s jaw.
“C’mon and fuck me already, aye?”
If he was just a little bit more coherent, if the sound of Sean asking him to fuck him didn’t kill his mind so entirely, Orlando would be thinking about how much he loved this man; how he couldn’t exactly understand the way Sean juxtaposed violence with affection so easily, but at the same time it was part of what drew Orlando to him. It was something Orlando loved about him.
But he wasn’t thinking right now. Thoughts weren’t important when he could taste Sean instead, when he could feel Sean’s hand burying itself into his hair, holding him down. When Sean’s legs -- strong, powerful things, and God as if Orlando wasn’t perfectly aware that Sean could flip them over and pin him down and fuck him if he wanted to -- wrapped around him.
“Don’t make me repeat meself,” Sean growled, right against his lips.
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Orlando laughed again. He pulled his fingers out, sliding them around Sean’s ankles. Sean was looking at him with such an expectant, impatient look that he had to kiss him again, breathing in his exhale as Orlando pushed inside.
Fuck.
“That good enough for you?” he panted.
Sean laughed at him, and Orlando gave in to the impulse to kiss the wrinkles at the side of his eyes.
“You expect a medal fer finding the right hole to put it in?”
Orlando threw his head back, thrust hard inside. But he was giggling still, his lungs aching from arousal and amusement both. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears but he barely heard it, because he was surrounding by their combined laughter, Sean’s deeper voice joining his own.
“C’mere,” Sean said.
He went -- how could he refuse, really? Sean kissed him again, barely brushing their lips together as Orlando pushed himself inside him, over and over, taking the heat, the tightness, that beautiful arse that belonged to him and only him. No one else, and if anyone wanted a piece of Sean they would have to get through him first.
“You’re thinking again,” Sean said, his words muffled against Orlando’s jaw.
“I’m just--” his breath hitched. Orlando slammed his hands down on the table, pushing himself up so he could look into Sean’s eyes. The pupils were so dilated that all that remained of the green was a slight, green-silver rim. I did that, Orlando thought, giddy with the thrill. He wants me so damn badly.
“I’m thinking that you’re one bossy old man,” he said instead.
Sean chuckled. His hands found their way to Orlando’s hips, pulling him in, slamming in all the way inside. Their cries rang out together, and Orlando impatiently brushed a strand of hair out of Sean’s eyes. Nothing was going to stop him from looking, damnit.
“If you’re quicker ‘bout this...” Sean drawled. Orlando shut him up with a particularly vicious thrust.
“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” he said, but he was grinning again. “That’s all you ever do, old man.”
“Aye, I’m a cradle robber, that I am,” Sean chuckled, and he was rocking back to Orlando’s thrusts, his words broken up by pants. “And you’re the poor innocent soul I corrupted to me horribly deviant ways.”
Orlando choked. On mirth, on want, on the edge of orgasm that teased at the edge of his vision; he didn’t know, he didn’t really care. Instead, his hands found Sean’s thighs, shoving them fully apart before he leaned down.
“I love you, you crazy bastard,” he blurted out.
Sean’s smile softened, and his hand traced the side of Orlando’s jaw again, over the admittedly rather pathetic facial hair that he had to grow for Will Turner.
“Aye, I know,” he whispered. “G’on, Orlando. Touch me. Make me come.”
Orlando kissed him again. His fingers wrapped around Sean’s cock, stroking him roughly as his hips pistoned even faster. He felt Sean come all around him: the clenching of his arse, the come that painted his hands. None of that was as important as the shaky little exhale he caught with his mouth.
“Sean.”
There weren’t any fireworks, not really. There was just Sean. Sean’s warmth underneath him, Sean’s tongue in his mouth, Sean’s hand in his hair.
They breathed against each other, lips brushing over and over, not kissing, just touching, breathing, and Orlando was giggling again as Sean ran his hands over his side.
“We should get a new table,” he said. It probably wasn’t on topic, but Orlando wasn’t sure the two of them ever had a topic anyway.
“Nah,” Sean said, his smile obvious against Orlando’s throat. “This one held up pretty well, didn’t it?”
“That’s your criteria of a good table? That it can be fucked on?” Orlando tried to sound sceptical, but he knew he failed miserably. The giggle probably didn’t help.
“Sure,” Sean said. “It ain’t like we ever ate on this thing.”
Orlando frowned, trying to deny it. Usually they had takeout on the couch in front of the television, or they ate out, because two men were usually too lazy to do the washing up and who had ever heard of movie stars doing grocery shopping anyway?
“You have a point,” he conceded.
“I always do,” Sean said. He thumped Orlando hard on the shoulder. “Now get off me. You’re heavy.”
“Aye,” Orlando tried for an impression of Sean’s accent, but all he received for his efforts was a dirty look. He sighed melodramatically and pulled out, dropping onto the dining table beside Sean.
“It’s your turn to put up the ornaments, by the way,” Sean informed him, complete with a nudge to his side.
Orlando poked at his arm to get him to move it. “But I want to ogle your arse,” he whined.
“You just had your way with it,” Sean snorted. “Besides, it’s my turn.”
“I don’t have an arse!”
“So?” Orlando didn’t even need to turn to know that Sean was arching an eyebrow. “I still have ogling privileges.”
Damnit. He vowed to fuck Sean harder the next time. He was still making sense after sex, and that just didn’t seem fair somehow.
End.
Also, afra_schatz inspired this and beta'd this, so it's dedicated to her. ♥!
December 17th
Characters/Pairing: Orlando Bloom/Sean Bean
Rating: NC-17 for sex and language
Words: ~2400
Disclaimer: Didn’t happen, a product of imagination.
Summary: Orlando and Sean try to decorate a Christmas tree. Keyword: ‘try’.
Notes: For the December 17th entry on the lotr_advent.
London, December 17 2004
“You know, today’s old man Bernard’s birthday,” Orlando said.
Sean squinted down at him. He was halfway up the tree, draping the fairy lights on the fronds. It was a small tree really, so he only needed the stepladder for the very top of it. Orlando made full advantage of the limited time he had to stare as much as he could at the glorious arse that Sean’s jeans and his position revealed.
“What?”
“Bernard Hill,” Orlando said. He grinned, not even bothering to look up to Sean’s eyes. Sure, he could look at Sean’s arse whenever he wanted (and he couldn’t help the thrill he felt at the thought, even after so many years; whatever, he could be sappy during the holiday season if he wanted to be), but it wasn’t every day that it was right at his eye level. “It’s his birthday today, and Milla Jovovich’s too.”
“Who the hell is this Milla Jovovich and why should I care?” Sean asked. “And will you stop staring at me arse?”
“Nope,” Orlando answered, leering even more at the object in question. “And she’s in Resident Evil. Tsk, tsk, you should know your horror movie actors better, since you’re going to act in one and everything.”
“You’re having a conversation with me arse,” Sean declared. Out of the corner of his eyes, Orlando saw another strand of fairy lights being put in its proper place. “It can answer you.”
Orlando raised an eyebrow, finally looking up. “I know your arse is amazing and everything, but I didn’t know it could talk.”
“If you keep staring at it, it might,” Sean shot back. He started climbing down the stepladder, and Orlando sighed melodramatically.
“Look at what you’ve done. Now it takes too much effort for me to look at it.”
Sean snorted. He obligingly bent over again- okay, that was to pick up ornaments from the box they bought yesterday to hang on the tree. Orlando was entirely entitled to recreate events if he wanted to, so there.
“What are you doing anyway?”
“What?” Orlando blinked, distracted. He looked up, and up again, because somehow in the five seconds between Sean’s question and his own, Sean had moved over to the dining table.
“I said,” Sean drawled, over-pronouncing the two syllables. “What are you doing? On me laptop at that?”
“I’m looking up today’s date on Wikipedia,” Orlando grinned. “Do you know that Britain declared war on Spain today, around three hundred years ago?”
Sean looked unimpressed, “I thought you said technology’s evil.”
“Well, if an old man like you could master it, why couldn’t I? Besides, you were paying more attention to the tree than to me,” Orlando grinned back. He knew he was asking to be smacked, and Sean didn’t disappoint, reaching over the table to slap him lightly on the back of the head.
“Ow.” Orlando rubbed at his neck, half-pouting. Only half, because he knew he looked ridiculous with that look on his face and he couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of it.
Sean chuckled, “Your head’s too damn thick to be hurt by a little whack like that.” He leaned down more, and his hand slid down Orlando’s face to take hold of his chin. “You can come over and help me with the tree.”
Slowly, Orlando’s hand wrapped around Sean’s wrist, turning it around and biting lightly on the thin skin underneath. “Are you telling me to get off my arse and help you decorate?”
“I’m telling you,” Sean said, and Orlando grinned at the small hitch he could hear in his breath. “You either do something ‘bout that arse of yours, or you come and do something ‘bout mine, since you can’t stop staring at it.”
“I can bring you out to the garage,” Orlando murmured, nipping at Sean’s pulse point and feeling the beat quicken under his teeth and tongue. “You’ll ride behind me on the motorcycle. Feel the winter wind in your hair.”
“Yeah, and fall over and die on the slippery ice,” Sean snorted. “I ain’t trusting your driving.”
“Why not?” Orlando barely managed to keep a whine out of those words.
“Well,” Sean said, shifting his hand so he was tipping Orlando’s head up again. “If you can’t tell when someone is telling you to fuck them in the arse, I can’t trust you to read traffic lights.”
“That’s two entirely different things and you know it,” Orlando retorted immediately. It took a little while more before Sean’s other words sank in.
“You know,” he said slowly. “We haven’t christened the dining table yet.”
“You mean desecrated. We’re going to have guests over, if you’ve forgotten. Me parents, the girls, and all that.”
Orlando wasn’t listening any longer. He always had a rather one-track mind, really, and he was already standing up, leaping over the table, and pinning Sean down onto the wood.
“You were saying?”
“I was saying,” Sean’s breath hitched as Orlando’s fingers found their ways underneath his shirt. “Are you going to just look at it, or are you going to do something ‘bout it?”
“I don’t know,” Orlando replied. His hand found the edge of a nipple, and he started tracing it with his fingertip. “There’s plenty to enjoy from just looking. Do you know you have new wrinkles,” his other hand skimmed the sides of Sean’s left eye, “right over here?”
Sean raised an eyebrow. His knee lifted, grazed the insides of Orlando’s thigh and rubbed against his half-hard cock.
“You sure you want to start talking ‘bout me wrinkles now?”
“Cheater,” Orlando gasped. He leaned down, elbows hitting the wooden table. Their lips brushed and he felt Sean open up beneath him. Rough fingers slid up his back, teasing the scar there. Years ago, Orlando would have wriggled away from the touch, but now he only stayed still, concentrating on tasting Sean’s mouth all over again while Sean’s fingers walked up his ribs, surely counting them for the umpteenth time.
“I don’t think we have lube here,” Orlando murmured, nipping on Sean’s lower lip. This close, Sean’s eyes were a deep green, like a leaf seen in the darkness of the forest, bright and waxy from the moon’s light. Orlando thought he would never tire of counting the shades of Sean’s eyes, because they always changed according to the light. It was entirely unlike his own, which were brown. Like dirt, and particularly boring dirt at that.
Sean chuckled into his ear, his breath warm and gusting across the shell. “Check the drawer.”
Reaching over, Orlando pulled it open. He raised an eyebrow, staring incredulously at Sean as he took out the tube of lubricant, still in its plastic seal. “You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?”
The only response was a soft chuckle. Sean hooked his thumbs beneath his jeans, sliding them off his hips. Orlando tugged at the pant leg, dropping denim on the floor.
“Am I really that predictable?” It was a rhetorical question. He was already pulling the top open, slicking his fingers. His other hand was busy pulling his fly open and getting his cock out.
“Well,” Sean said, and Orlando took a moment to admire the sight of him spreading his legs. God, he would never tire of this. Not this sight of Sean, entirely shameless as he opened himself up for Orlando, his fingers curling around his own cock and starting to stroke slowly.
“You’ve always had a bit of a fixation on me arse.”
Orlando laughed. He leaned down, capturing Sean’s lips, breathing in his stuttering moan as he pushed two fingers inside. Sean was fucking tight, hot as a goddamn furnace, and Orlando had to find a way to not come in his pants immediately. He was ten years away from being a teenager, for fuck’s sake. He took a deep breath and looked deep into Sean’s eyes. Fluttered his lashes a little bit.
“Does that feel good, baby?”
Sean punched him.
Orlando’s head snapped to the side, jaw aching, but he was still smiling as he rubbed at the spot.
“That’s abuse you know,” he said archly.
“Your damn pet names is a fucking form of verbal abuse,” Sean snarled, but there was no real vitriol in his voice even though his eyes were narrowed into a glare. He reached up, callused fingertips brushing across Orlando’s jaw.
“C’mon and fuck me already, aye?”
If he was just a little bit more coherent, if the sound of Sean asking him to fuck him didn’t kill his mind so entirely, Orlando would be thinking about how much he loved this man; how he couldn’t exactly understand the way Sean juxtaposed violence with affection so easily, but at the same time it was part of what drew Orlando to him. It was something Orlando loved about him.
But he wasn’t thinking right now. Thoughts weren’t important when he could taste Sean instead, when he could feel Sean’s hand burying itself into his hair, holding him down. When Sean’s legs -- strong, powerful things, and God as if Orlando wasn’t perfectly aware that Sean could flip them over and pin him down and fuck him if he wanted to -- wrapped around him.
“Don’t make me repeat meself,” Sean growled, right against his lips.
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Orlando laughed again. He pulled his fingers out, sliding them around Sean’s ankles. Sean was looking at him with such an expectant, impatient look that he had to kiss him again, breathing in his exhale as Orlando pushed inside.
Fuck.
“That good enough for you?” he panted.
Sean laughed at him, and Orlando gave in to the impulse to kiss the wrinkles at the side of his eyes.
“You expect a medal fer finding the right hole to put it in?”
Orlando threw his head back, thrust hard inside. But he was giggling still, his lungs aching from arousal and amusement both. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears but he barely heard it, because he was surrounding by their combined laughter, Sean’s deeper voice joining his own.
“C’mere,” Sean said.
He went -- how could he refuse, really? Sean kissed him again, barely brushing their lips together as Orlando pushed himself inside him, over and over, taking the heat, the tightness, that beautiful arse that belonged to him and only him. No one else, and if anyone wanted a piece of Sean they would have to get through him first.
“You’re thinking again,” Sean said, his words muffled against Orlando’s jaw.
“I’m just--” his breath hitched. Orlando slammed his hands down on the table, pushing himself up so he could look into Sean’s eyes. The pupils were so dilated that all that remained of the green was a slight, green-silver rim. I did that, Orlando thought, giddy with the thrill. He wants me so damn badly.
“I’m thinking that you’re one bossy old man,” he said instead.
Sean chuckled. His hands found their way to Orlando’s hips, pulling him in, slamming in all the way inside. Their cries rang out together, and Orlando impatiently brushed a strand of hair out of Sean’s eyes. Nothing was going to stop him from looking, damnit.
“If you’re quicker ‘bout this...” Sean drawled. Orlando shut him up with a particularly vicious thrust.
“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” he said, but he was grinning again. “That’s all you ever do, old man.”
“Aye, I’m a cradle robber, that I am,” Sean chuckled, and he was rocking back to Orlando’s thrusts, his words broken up by pants. “And you’re the poor innocent soul I corrupted to me horribly deviant ways.”
Orlando choked. On mirth, on want, on the edge of orgasm that teased at the edge of his vision; he didn’t know, he didn’t really care. Instead, his hands found Sean’s thighs, shoving them fully apart before he leaned down.
“I love you, you crazy bastard,” he blurted out.
Sean’s smile softened, and his hand traced the side of Orlando’s jaw again, over the admittedly rather pathetic facial hair that he had to grow for Will Turner.
“Aye, I know,” he whispered. “G’on, Orlando. Touch me. Make me come.”
Orlando kissed him again. His fingers wrapped around Sean’s cock, stroking him roughly as his hips pistoned even faster. He felt Sean come all around him: the clenching of his arse, the come that painted his hands. None of that was as important as the shaky little exhale he caught with his mouth.
“Sean.”
There weren’t any fireworks, not really. There was just Sean. Sean’s warmth underneath him, Sean’s tongue in his mouth, Sean’s hand in his hair.
They breathed against each other, lips brushing over and over, not kissing, just touching, breathing, and Orlando was giggling again as Sean ran his hands over his side.
“We should get a new table,” he said. It probably wasn’t on topic, but Orlando wasn’t sure the two of them ever had a topic anyway.
“Nah,” Sean said, his smile obvious against Orlando’s throat. “This one held up pretty well, didn’t it?”
“That’s your criteria of a good table? That it can be fucked on?” Orlando tried to sound sceptical, but he knew he failed miserably. The giggle probably didn’t help.
“Sure,” Sean said. “It ain’t like we ever ate on this thing.”
Orlando frowned, trying to deny it. Usually they had takeout on the couch in front of the television, or they ate out, because two men were usually too lazy to do the washing up and who had ever heard of movie stars doing grocery shopping anyway?
“You have a point,” he conceded.
“I always do,” Sean said. He thumped Orlando hard on the shoulder. “Now get off me. You’re heavy.”
“Aye,” Orlando tried for an impression of Sean’s accent, but all he received for his efforts was a dirty look. He sighed melodramatically and pulled out, dropping onto the dining table beside Sean.
“It’s your turn to put up the ornaments, by the way,” Sean informed him, complete with a nudge to his side.
Orlando poked at his arm to get him to move it. “But I want to ogle your arse,” he whined.
“You just had your way with it,” Sean snorted. “Besides, it’s my turn.”
“I don’t have an arse!”
“So?” Orlando didn’t even need to turn to know that Sean was arching an eyebrow. “I still have ogling privileges.”
Damnit. He vowed to fuck Sean harder the next time. He was still making sense after sex, and that just didn’t seem fair somehow.
End.