For Want of a Bean

Recipient: chaosmanor
Author: _nienor_niniel_
Pairing: Sean Bean/Ian McKellen
Rating: R


Maybe it's something in the water.

That's what Orlando keeps telling himself, anyway. Something in the water, something in the air, something about being on the wrong side of the international date-line, or maybe just something about Dominic Monaghan.

Orli decides Dom's magic is today's pet theory for explaining the crew's behavior. After all, Dom has the unique and enviable ability to push beyond the outrageous into the completely impossible. He can make it look obvious and inevitable. No matter what he's pushing, he drags everybody along in his wake as though it were the most normal thing on Earth. Even when it comes to the whole gay thing.

Even when it comes to Orli himself-- he's just as crazy as anybody at this table, and since that includes all of the hobbits, that's saying a lot. But it doesn't help; ever since arriving in New Zealand and getting caught up in all this bi-curious craziness, the only thing he's learned is that wanting everybody on earth is a lot more miserable than only wanting half the planet. It seems even more impossible to get what you want, regardless of your status as an Elf and an honorary Hobbit.

Orli looks across the table, pointedly ignoring the hobbits, who are casually entwined in an ever-shifting combination of alliances. He tries to play casual as he watches Viggo and Sean Bean, who are sitting side by side at the bar.

Viggo is slouched companionably close to Bean, rangy arms and legs seeming to go every which way at once, yet somehow relaxed in spite of it all. Bean sits straighter, the line of his spine tolerant but not at ease; though he's dead butch, something about how he's sitting reminds Orli of a bird who isn't likely to put out for her bloke any time soon.

Sean Bean is the one problem with the Dom theory; he doesn't seem to have caught the trend the way the rest of them did. Of the two Seans, you'd think Astin would be the straighter, but no; he has a lap full of Elijah. Damn the wife and kids; full speed ahead.

Orli sips again and grimaces. Viggo is working it and Bean is listening, tolerant but not really a participant. Everything about his body language says he's not up for it. Orlando shakes his head and takes a pull of his beer. He'd give a pound to have a chance at either of the Men himself, but....

"You're more than a little obvious, you know." Ian slides into the seat next to Orlando, and a jab of his elbow catches one of Orli's ribs. Orli sputters, spewing half his mouthful onto the table.

"No worse than Viggo." Orli hears the slur in his voice that comes from about three too many beers.

"That's true, and he's got about as much hope, by the looks of him. I wonder how all you boys ever managed to pull your first birds; you're so dreadfully clumsy at the fine art of seduction." Ian sips at his own beer, giving Orlando a familiar wink and a sly smile that makes his belly flutter in spite of himself. "Perhaps the birds made all the arrangements for you."

Orli thinks about that and realizes that it's probably true, at least in his case. He'd been too thumb-fingered and terrified of rejection at the time to realize how much the girl wanted it.

Ian's hand falls on his back and strokes up his spine, calm and familiar. Orli thinks disjointedly about the weight of it, and about the way it slides back down again to settle at the hollow of his back, two fingertips dipping into the waist of his jeans, where his shirt rides up to expose him to the draft of the door. Ian's fingertips feel good, two stars of warmth on his skin. Ian isn't thumb-fingered at all.

"Come home with me tonight," he murmurs, his face as pleasant and detached as if he had merely remarked upon the weather. "Spend the night in my bed, and I'll pull them for you. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Orli's throat closes with fear and his cock twitches in his jeans, adrenaline and lust rushing through him, simultaneous and heart-stopping. Four fingers lie on his skin now, sliding inside his pants comfortably, and his muscles tighten instinctively, protective.

"Don't be coy, Orlando. We've all done a turn on the casting couch. Tell yourself it's for the greater good." Ian's hand slips deeper, palming his arse, and Orlando has to think about how to breathe, because his body has forgotten.

He glances about wildly, but nobody seems to have noticed; Elijah is snogging Bill and Dom has his hand on Astin's thigh, watching them hotly. He shifts to ease his cock in his jeans, but it's a mistake-- Ian's hand shifts too, and Orlando's face burns hot at the sensation of the middle finger coming to rest somewhere quite inappropriate. If he doesn't do something, he'll have that finger up his arse in no time.

He reaches for his beer to buy time, but it's empty; Ian slides his own mostly-untouched glass over for Orlando to gulp from. The finger is moving, and Orlando's cock is on fire, the flames and the alcohol slowly work at burning the terror right out of him, even as the slow shift and press of Ian's finger feeds it anew. Orli can hear his own pulse in his ears, thready and too quick. That remark about the casting couch stung; it isn't true. No, he's never done it because he had to. Only--

Orli turns his face away, but the memory pursues him-- a night in the dorms at the Guildhall School with the lads, a drunken dare, and Orli the youngest and the prettiest of the six of them. For a second, the sour taste of the beer on his tongue turns acrid, and Orli is confused; he's badly drunk now, and Ian's finger is pushing in.

He sits there with the finger sliding up his arse and struggles for breath, drawing air frantically through his nose, staring wildly into the puddle which is all that's left of the beer. A droplet of sweat trickles down his temple, and he remembers warm jets hitting his face, cooling as they ran down along his cheeks and onto his lips. A muscle in his clenched jaw cramps, and he remembers the ache in his jaw that night, locked open for too long. Ian's finger slides deeper, and he remembers how much it fucking hurt at first, before it turned good. Good like-- that. He shudders as Ian finds what he's looking for, and presses.

Orlando's head spins; the bar is still hovering around his ears, noisy and surreal. Ian is making facetious conversation with Astin; his mild, cultured voice washes past Orlando, making him feel as if he isn't fully present. As always when he talks to Astin, Ian's tone has a faint, too-smooth mocking note to it; he doesn't like Sean very much. It's obvious he thinks Sean is a fool and an upstart, but Orli doesn't give a good goddamn what they're saying, because he is melting like lava around that finger, liquid fire pouring through his insides. Ian crooks his finger just so and Orli sags, breath rushing from his mouth.

He hears a chuckle as though it is the only sound in the crowded room, and lifts his head with an effort to lock eyes with Bill; Bill has spotted what's happening to Orli, and is laughing his fool head off, reaching without compunction to adjust himself and slouching back to watch while Dom and Elijah snuggle, forgotten, in the corner. Ian crooks his finger again and turns it with a deft little motion, and Orlando's vision goes grey around the edges as pleasure fogs through his brain.

He can't breathe; his face is burning and his chest is heavy and tight, and that finger is still working inside him, devilishly clever. But then it slides out, quick as lightning, leaving Orli feeling strangely bereft. He can feel Ian doing something at his waistband, probably cleaning his hand on Orli's pants.

"...all right, Orli?" Sean's voice finally penetrates the fog, and Orli blinks at the fingers waving in front of his face.

"He's perfectly fine." Ian's voice is rich with amusement. "He's just never had a horny old man's finger up his arse in public before." He folds his hands primly in front of him on the table.

For a minute Orli isn't sure he heard that, but then Elijah's machine gun giggle lets him know he did-- and so did everyone else. Sean's face fills up with color, red spots burning high on his cheeks, and Orli hears Dom gasp with exaggerated delight. Only Bill is silent-- Bill, the only one of the lot who knows Ian isn't lying. Bill winks at Orli, smiling a cherub's smile, and Orli glances at Viggo again, hoping their voices haven't carried.

He needn't have worried; Viggo is standing up, one courteous hand on Bean's arm, and the two of them head for the door.

"I'm just fine, mother," Orli tells Astin archly, redirecting the hail of laughter in a more satisfactory direction, and the moment passes, except for Bill's pale, alert eyes, which follow Orlando with calm curiosity.

"Well, Orlando? Do you want that ride, or not?" Ian stands; he isn't a party animal, and bars with this sort of music aren't his preference-- Orlando ought to know; he's heard Ian complain about it often enough. Trouble is, if he leaves now, Orli may as well confirm what Ian said-- that the "ride" he's so casually mentioning doesn't mean a car ride at all. Still, Ian's tacit offer is perfectly clear: this is the deal, take it or leave it.

Orli waffles, and as he does, he is struck suddenly by the way Elijah is hanging on Dom and Sean, both at the same time. Orli blinks-- who the hell does he think he's fooling, and who the hell cares? After all, Viggo has wooed Bean out, and the other hobbits are already coupled off-- or trio'ed, or quadrupled, or they might not be doing anything with one another in private at all, for all Orlando knows.

He gets up, feeling defiant, and blushes anyway at Ian's faint, knowing smile. The way to make this go over is to let on it isn't important-- just the way Dom always does. "Goodnight, lads, and when you see me next, I'll be walking so bow-legged, I won't have to step out of my way to pass by the phony pony!" Orli announces his departure with a grand flourish.

"You wish!" Elijah hoots, and the hobbits dissolve in giggles, which lets Orlando make his undignified escape. He pulls his jacket off its peg by the door and elbows clumsily into it, having a hard time with balance and coordination as he goes trotting in Ian's wake, feeling puppyish and awkward-- and highly visible, as though every eye in New Zealand is following his unsteady exit.

"It was easy, really," he hears Ian say into the dark cold air of the alley, and then his hood is jerked down over his head, and he's pushed forward and down by strong, unyielding hands and shoved into the back of a car.

After the doors slam behind him, he can smell cigarette smoke-- but that may just be himself, the residue of the bar. There is something under his head-- a human thigh? and he still can't see, tangled up and half-smothered in his jacket. A firm hand keeps his head where it is, and he's too drunk to struggle, or even to panic properly; he can't believe Sir Ian McKellen would deliver a co-star into human slavery or anything else ridiculous like that-- especially not with the movie only half-made. He kicks a little anyway, and hands grab his ankles, forcing them to lie still.

"Don't be foolish, Orlando." Ian sounds calm. "Viggo, stop that nonsense; this isn't one of your joke kidnappings." A hand peels Orlando's hood back, and he finds himself in the back of Ian's car, blinking up into Viggo's amused face. A second look shows him Sean Bean has his legs.

"The fuck's going on, wankers?" Orli manages to make himself understood the second time he articulates the phrase.

"It's very simple. You want Viggo, Viggo wants Sean, and Sean wants you. And I," Ian chuckles as he backs the car out, jovial, "want the lot of you."

Orli blinks. Sean wanted him? No way he was so clueless as to miss that... was he? He is startled by the sensation of Sean's fingers sliding along the bare skin of his calf, just above his ankle. It seemed he had been.

Wonders won't ever cease.

Orli thinks about struggling to sit up, but decides to stay where he is. Viggo hums tunelessly, and his hand rests on Orli's shoulder. The rocking motion of the car lulls Orli, and by the time it slows to a stop, he is nearly asleep.

The rush of cold air from the opened door awakens him, and he blinks, letting Viggo help him up; they are at Viggo's latest place, a rambling low house with more window than wall and a sprawling porch that wraps around three sides of the building. The wind from the water is cold, and Orli hurries clumsily. Sean steadies him on the steps, and Viggo precedes them all inside, immediately kicking off his shoes and strolling into the kitchen, pausing only to light a heavily-shaded table lamp.

He puts on water and measures coffee, still humming, while Sean gets rid of his coat and slouches on a bar stool. Orli takes a seat at the kitchen table, his eyes darting back and forth between the three other men, who all seem maddeningly calm, even Sean, though he doesn't meet Orlando's eyes. Ian drifts to the refrigerator and helps himself to wine, pouring a glass of something white and inhaling deeply, an appreciative look on his face, visible in the white light before the refrigerator closes. He sips, and silence descends, only moderately uncomfortable in the half-light of the kitchen.

Viggo pours the coffee for Orlando as soon as it brews, and Orli drinks it without asking for cream or sugar. Viggo likes more chicory than he's used to, but the caffeine will help sober him up, so Orli is content to sip and glance from face to face in the dim room, wondering what will happen next.

"Orlando, is the coffee very hot?" Ian's voice breaks the silence, which has begun to stretch and ratchet into tension.

Orli nods, a little baffled by Ian's shadowed smile. "I guess so."

"I'm sure it must be delightfully hot." Ian's voice insinuates, rich and merry. "I think you should show Sean how hot it has made your mouth."

Orli blinks at him for a moment, trying to make sure he has understood correctly. Sean is tense on his barstool, his knuckles white, and Orlando swallows hard; if Sean isn't used to men, this will be difficult for him. Hell, Orli isn't used to men himself!

"Take your coffee with you," Ian prompts when Orli starts to get up, so he does. "On your knees," the next calm command catches him half-standing.

Orli hesitates, then again decides that dignity is a moot point, and sinks to his knees. Crawling awkwardly, one-handed, he approaches Sean, intensely aware of Viggo and Ian's eyes on him. There is a certain logic to this that even his alcohol-blurred brain can appreciate; it's a sink-or-swim situation, and only total immersion will work.

He takes a swig of the coffee, almost hot enough to burn, and holds it in his mouth as he reaches up and unfastens Sean's fly. Sean doesn't move to help Orli; he just sits there, so tense he nearly quivers with it, but his cock is a heavy ridge against the denim.

Orli reaches and eases the zip down, popping the button. His hands are shaking, stiff and uncooperative in spite of the coffee; it takes him several tries. He swallows his coffee and takes another mouthful, reaching to ease the band of Sean's Y-fronts down. The kitchen is so silent you could hear a pin drop; Orli can't even hear Viggo or Ian breathing. Certainly Sean isn't, his fingers clenched on the bar, knuckles white, his face turned away.

Only his cock seems alive, thick and flushed dark, half in shadow, but with a faint gleam where the foreskin has slid back to expose the tip. Orli doesn't let himself think; he swallows the hot coffee, opens his mouth, and slides down over the tip.

Sean gasps, a shiver running through his spine, and Orli has to pause, struggling with the unaccustomed flavor of musk on his tongue. His knees feel weak with the knowledge that he's being watched.

Then Sean's hand comes down on his head, long fingers threading into the tufted ridge that's all Orli has left of his hair his hair and tightening there. "Hell," he breathes thickly.

"Suck him, Orlando." Ian is still across the room, his voice as lazy and rich as honey. So Orli does, his cheeks hollowing. He sucks so hard the inside of his mouth tingles and turns numb. The seam of his jeans binds his cock, which has turned rock-hard without him even noticing. He bobs his head and Sean curses again, lower this time, almost a growl, so Orli fucks his own mouth with Sean's cock. He wonders if Viggo is watching; he wonders what he thinks. It's a fine incentive for Orli to do the best job he can.

Sean's hand tightens, pushing him farther down, and Orli struggles to take the shaft into his throat, whimpering until his air is cut off. Both of Sean's hands close around his head, and they guide him; he struggles to find a rhythm to breathe, his eyes streaming. He remembers to suck, at least, the taste of salt on his lips and tongue. He steadies himself instinctively, his palms against Sean's powerful thighs. Sean groans when he remembers to move his tongue, so he does it again and again, ignoring the ache in the hinge of his jaw, and the dizziness in his head that isn't all from the beer, but comes from the lack of breath, too.

He dares to look up, and finds sea-grey eyes waiting for him, startled but stormy with heat. Sean's hand moves to cup his cheek, fingertips tracing beneath his eye, but then he looks away, and Orli realizes Viggo has come, slipping behind Sean. He turns Sean's face and kisses him, in that curiously mild, yet aggressive, manner he has-- and Sean allows it, even answers, his jaw working with the kiss.

Orli feels a soft touch on his back, and then at his waist; Ian's hands unfasten his jeans. He unties Orli's hiking boots and pulls them off, then works his jeans and his pants down, helping him lift his knees to be rid of them, tugging them off his ankles.

"Let's get him up," Viggo's voice is as smooth as good scotch, with a burn behind it. "You can't reach him down there."

Orli releases Sean reluctantly, and levers himself to his feet at Ian's urging. He glances back, nervous and unsure what he should do next, but Ian has things well in hand-- literally. His left hand tugs Orli's cock with expert ease even as Viggo and Sean reach to rid Orli of his t-shirt.

Orli hears a thud on the bar, and looks to find his boots. Ian lets go of him and he whimpers; Ian attacks the laces of Orli's boots instead of touching his skin, pulling the rawhide thongs free of the eyelets with swift precision. Orli is torn between watching him and looking to Viggo and Sean, who are still kissing-- rougher now, a battle for dominance.

Sean bites Viggo's lip and Viggo growls, his arms locked around Sean's waist. He nips back, the muscles in his shoulders rippling as he pushes Sean back against the bar and Sean struggles to reverse their positions. Their breath whistles harsh in their nostrils; their mouths work as their tongues struggle to fuck deeper, each trying to conquer the other's mouth. Sean's fingers hook into Viggo's jeans, which are half-open; Viggo's cock pushes visibly at the zipper, and it works down slowly.

Orli gasps when Ian's hands touch him-- he had all but forgotten Ian was still there. But he has the laces in his hands, and before Orli can protest, he loops them around Orli's cock and balls, pulling gently, but firmly, taut. Orli shivers, and Ian kisses his throat-- a wicked lash of lips and tongue that leaves Orli wondering dizzily how on earth he manages it-- it seems wrong that such a dignified older gentleman could have such a lascivious tongue.

He drops his eyes and watches Ian tie up his cock-- three taut circles around the base, and then another three up the middle, pulling his balls apart and snugging them up tight inside their sac. Orli moans, shuddering.

"You're exactly like a skittish horse," Ian murmurs in his ear. "But I've got the reins." He finishes the job by lashing a criss-cross pattern along the shaft of Orli's cock and looping the thong tightly at the base of the head, then tying the leathers neatly. "Next we'll clean you out, and then..." he leaves Orli hanging and propels him towards the bathroom, where he steers him into the shower and turns on the water, as hot as Orli can stand it, positioning him under the spray. Orli stands there, quivering; the hot water beats down on him. He hears Ian making unidentifiable noises beyond the curtain, but his attention is focused in his cock-- the leathers are shrinking in the hot water, pulling taut on his cock and balls. He moans, running has hand over himself, feeling the unyielding thongs sinking into his flesh.

"Don't touch." Ian slaps his hand away. "Bend over."

The cleaning is quick and clinical, and Orli lets it be done to him; the haze of the alcohol is starting to burn away, leaving behind a loose-limbed daze of sensation. He still feels surreal and strange, looking at Ian's hands on him. His cock aches, and his balls too-- a strange, hot burn, an odd contrast to Ian patting him dry with one of Viggo's luxuriant, fluffy white towels.

"Don't stand up yet," Ian cautions, bending Orli over the sink, and something cold and wet touches Orli's arse, making him shy and nearly slip on the wet tiles. He feels his own coltishness now that Ian has pointed it out, and bites his lip. Ian sinks first one, and then two slick fingers in him-- again and again, pushing in the cool of the lubricant. He adds a third at length, with more lubricant, and Orli whimpers as Ian's fingers touch the sensitive spot inside him, trying to push back for more, and Ian laughs, low and dark.

"You're a greedy little thing, but I assure you, you'll have as much as you can handle before the night is done." He slaps Orli's hip. "Now let's rejoin Viggo and Sean."

He takes Orli firmly and casually by the cock, and Orli trots gingerly to keep up, returning to the kitchen-- where Sean's shirt is gone, and his hand is on Viggo's cock now, stripping it, and Viggo has stepped out of his jeans, but Sean is still the one with his back to the bar, for all his maneuvering. Their lips are dark, and red marks mar their throats; Sean's eyes burn hotly as he glances to Orlando.

"I want him first," he rasps, and steps forward.

"But of course," Ian laughs again, delighted and rich. "Bend over the table, Orlando."

Orlando chafes at the casual order, but feels all their eyes on him, and realizes that if he resists now, the whole night could fall apart-- and this opportunity may never come again. His balls ache as he steps forward, and he licks his lips, nervous, avoiding their eyes as he steps to the table and pushes a chair aside. Both of the leaves are down; the middle of the table is narrow. He leans over it, resting his belly on the smooth polished wood, hearing Viggo make a low, appreciative noise in his throat, and that gives him the courage to spread his legs, even though his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

There is a rustle and crinkle-- a condom, and Orli is relieved, because he would never have had the balls to demand, or even to ask. And then Sean's hands are on him, and Orli can feel how uncertain he is, in comparison to Ian, just by the way his hands hover and hesitate, not quite knowing just where to settle or just how to move him.

A hand catches his chin, and Orli looks up, finding that Viggo has stepped in front of him. His long, slender cock curves up just a little at the end-- longer than Sean's, but narrow. He isn't cut, and he smells darker than Sean in some indefinable way. He takes his cock in his hand, his thumb and forefinger sliding the loose skin around the head for Orli to watch.

Orli's mouth waters, and a jolt of eagerness burns through him; he's wanted Viggo since he first laid eyes on the man, but never thought he'd see this day-- Viggo only has eyes for Sean, it seems.

"Do you want it?" Viggo murmurs, and now his voice is as rough as sandpaper. "Do you?"

Orli can't find words to answer him; Sean's blunt cock is questing between the cheeks of his arse, rubbing over his perineum. He wants it-- wants them both. All he can do is open his mouth, but Viggo is out of reach, cockhead shiny and tantalizing. Orli strains for it, tongue over his lip, stretching his neck, and Viggo edges forward-- only a little, enough to paint the tip of his cock, wet and salty with precome, over Orli's lips. "You're beautiful," he says, dreamy and slow. "I would take a picture..."

Orli gasps and his hands curl over the edge of the drop leaf; Sean is pushing, tentative. "Right now," Viggo murmurs. "Right between virgin..." Sean's cock pushes through, and through the flare of pain, Orli can hear Viggo's voice, like sandy caramel, "...and whore."

He pushes his cock between Orli's lips and over his tongue, a gesture as smooth and measured as Sean's thrust is clumsy-- but both go deep, and Orli writhes between them, filled. He digs his nails into the wood of the tabletop, the pain of Sean's thrust searing through him, but he has nowhere to go.

"Beautiful," Ian comments, and Orli feels his hands join the four already on him-- Viggo's on his shoulders and Sean's on his waist. Ian's deft, clever hands spread Orli's arse wide, letting Sean in deeper. Sean's breath rasps in his throat, with a faint whimper at the top of each inhalation, and Orli would moan, but he can't with Viggo's cock deep in his throat. "Start slowly," Ian advises. "Let him get used to you."

Two more thrusts come, slowly, and then Ian's hands leave Orli's arse. After a moment Sean makes a startled noise, but Orli can't see why; he feels Sean's hands clutch hard at his hipbones. Viggo chuckles, sliding out of Orli's throat to let him breathe. "We should do this more often." His words run together, sliding from his mouth as smooth as oil. Orli would agree if his mouth weren't full; the burn of Sean's thick cock is shading into pleasure, sliding back and then nudging in to fill him again. Viggo matches the motion, pushing into Orli's throat, learning forward. Orli hears the wet sound of their mouths meeting, and his vision sparkles gray at the edges as the kiss stretches out; he can't breathe with Viggo inside him.

"Boys," Ian admonishes. "Let Orlando breathe."

They pull back, and Orli gulps air gratefully, pulling it in through his nostrils. It smells of male heat and Viggo. He hasn't time to drink his fill before Viggo pushes in again, and his head swims, every nerve in his body alight with sensation. Sean jerks again, and he hisses a curse, his voice harsh and throttled.

"Very nice indeed," Ian murmurs. "You're doing very well. Relax."

"It's good," Viggo encourages him. "Let him do it."

Orlando swallows, piqued, trying to regain Viggo's attention, and Viggo slides his cock smoothly in and out of his mouth, setting a steady rhythm.

"That's it. You'll have to fuck yourself on my fingers, if you want to fuck him. You'll find you like it very much," Ian coaxes, and Sean shudders, the motion telegraphing its way through Orlando. The next push of Sean's hips comes harder, and then the next comes harder still, thudding solidly against Orli's prostate, and sending a wash of pleasure through his cock and balls, throbbing against the bindings.

"Oh, yes. Excellent." Ian purrs.

Sean groans, full-throated and hoarse, and slams in. Orli writhes, eager for the next stroke, and that seems to break Sean; he pistons his hips forward hard, and Viggo withdraws his cock from Orli's mouth. "Fuck him," Viggo whispers. "Fuck him hard."

Sean does, pushing Orli's cock tight against the edge of the table with every stroke. His mouth free, Orli cries out-- babbling and pleading, reaching for Viggo. Viggo ignores him, stroking his cock slowly, just out of Orli's reach.

Sean is keening now, deep wounded cries jerked out of him in time with the rhythm of his hips; Orli can tell he's close. He wants Sean to come inside him, nearly as much as he wishes Viggo had come in his mouth. He clenches tight and Sean's hips jerk hard-- once, twice, three times, his hands so hard on Orli's hips that there will be bruises tomorrow.

And then he is gone, and Sean's cock slips out of him. Orli twists his head, desperately craning his neck to see what is happening-- and is shocked when Sean comes down to rest next to him, belly across the table, his shoulder touching Orli's.

"Lovely," Ian purrs. "Viggo?"

Orlando stares as Viggo vanishes; Sean's face is covered with sweat, and his eyes are screwed tight-shut. His mouth comes open, a silent cry, and he clutches the table. Viggo murmurs something-- incomprehensible syllables, Danish?-- and Orli hears the slick of skin on skin and watches Sean bite his lip as Viggo pushes deep. Then he feels a cock nudge against his own arse-- Ian. But he doesn't have time to think, because Ian pushes deep in one swift, hard stroke that feels like it goes all the way to Orli's tonsils. He yelps, struggling with surprise, but Ian's hands are on his shoulders, tight and surprisingly strong. It's not that it hurts, but Ian is good in a way Sean wasn't, hitting his prostate just so with every single stroke, sliding a hand under his chest to pinch his nipple and twist.

Orli yelps, but Ian's other hand is hard on his neck, and he can't ease the pinch-- only ride it as it arrows pain to his cock, where it blazes into the pleasure and turns it fire-white, leaving Orli cold with sweat. He feels like he's riding a fire plug, splitting open like a ripe watermelon; Sean's gasps fade out of his hearing and he can only feel the cock inside him, driving deep over and over again, patient and merciless. He needs to come, but he can't yet; the thong on his cock bites deep at him, stinging lines of fire that hold him back from the edge. He can taste salt again, and knows his eyes are streaming; Ian maintains a steady, wicked rhythm that leaves Orli shuddering and unable to breathe, gasping for short shallow pants of air.

He opens his eyes, and dimly sees Sean next to him, his mouth open, his lip mottled from the ridge of his teeth. Viggo is singing again, that low, sonorous, tuneless hum; Sean rocks with him, taking it without a sound. Orli watches, fascinated by that hawkish face gone slack with inward focus, and then Sean utters a low sound, a low startled cry, and then shakes again-- the unmistakable, bone-deep tremors of orgasm. He lies still in its wake; his tongue creeps out to slick his lips. Behind him, Orli can hear Viggo's labored breathing, the moments stretching in a gorgeous liquid river until Viggo can't hold back his low groan of pleasure any longer. Orli watches Viggo's strong, dark hands knead Sean's pale back.

"Exquisite," Ian murmurs, breathless. "Well done."

Orli braces himself for the next thrust, but it doesn't come; instead Ian slides out. "And now, turn about is fair play, don't you think?" He slaps Orli's arse briskly. "A bargain is a bargain."

Orli looks up, startled and dazed, failing to understand for a long moment until Ian nods towards Viggo, who is pulling back and shedding the condom. His cock is still half-erect, gleaming wet. Orli swallows hard. He gets to fuck Viggo? He's never dreamed he might do such a thing; always in his imagination, Viggo has bent him over and had him, or tucked his knees up to his ears and made him squeal.

He doesn't know how to say it, though, not under Viggo's eyes-- eyes that want him, sending a flush of heat through him, making his blood sing.

"Let's take it to the bed," Viggo murmurs lazily. "My knees won't hold me, and he looks like his won't, either."

Ian collects Sean, who is shaky and boneless-- it must not be easy for a man his age to come twice, so quickly-- and precedes Orli and Viggo up the hall. Orli pads after, his breath coming short and fast in his lungs, listening to the syncopated rhythm of Viggo following after. He fancies he can feel Viggo's heat at his shoulder.

His toes curl into the plush white throw rug as he waits for Ian to arrange Sean on the bed; Ian's skin is loose and very pale, echoing the silver of his hair, but he looks strong, solidly built and muscular even in his age, his cock a thick, proud column that shows no sign of age other than the thatch of grey at its base. Ian catches his appreciative eye and throws him a sly wink; Orlando smirks in return, feeling a giddy happiness swell in his chest-- a very masculine happiness, deeply sexual, uncomplicated, and unashamed.

Is this what it's like to be gay, not having to worry about some bird turning up pregnant next week, not worrying about spending half an hour getting her off after you come? Just rolling and rutting and taking what you want, hot and sweaty and urgent?

He doesn't know, but he suspects it'll be a hell of a lot of fun finding out.

Bolstered by Ian's confidence, Orli nestles up against Viggo when he lies down-- up against his back, letting his bound cock slide against Viggo's arse. He wants to fuck Viggo with the thong still on him, and let Viggo feel it; reaching down, he lifts Viggo's thigh, stroking his palm over the coarse, crisp hair there. He's never done this before, but he remembers Ian's careful, thorough preparation and decides some preparation of his own would be prudent. Wondering where Viggo keeps the KY-- wondering if there IS any KY, other than the tube Ian used on him earlier-- Orli reaches tentatively, and his eyes blink wide with surprise; Viggo is slick already, and he takes Orli's questing finger easily. Viggo purrs amused laughter and reaches over his shoulder, producing a condom between his two forefingers.

Orli laughs, exultant, and takes it, fumbling to get it open and put it on. He is giddy with anticipation, a feeling that embodies the love and lust he feels for his friends. The condom feels strange over the tight-wrapped leather, but he manages it, then lazily pushes his cock along the crack of Viggo's arse. His balls throb dully; he's so ready for this his head is swimming. The next stroke finds its mark and pushes in; Orli holds his breath, every inch of Viggo's body blazing hot as it closes against him, the whip-thin lines of the rawhide pressing deep, making a delightful rippling pressure as he pushes inside. Beyond Viggo's body, he can see Ian coaxing Sean, stroking his hair and his neck, guiding Sean's mouth toward the pale jut of his cock.

Viggo groans and his hands clench to fists in the bed sheets. Orli lets his breath hiss through his teeth and pulls in another, settling himself deep. He reaches around and finds Viggo's cock, half-hard and just a little sticky; he pulls it through his fist as he slides out and then pushes back in. It firms a little in his hand, and he coaxes it, leaning around to nuzzle at the angle of Viggo's jaw. Viggo turns his head lazily, and his tongue meets Orli's. They ignore the awkward angle, licking into one another's mouths; the half-soft, half-hard stubble of Viggo's rough beard scratches Orli's face pleasantly.

When Viggo is taut in Orli's hand, he speeds things up, letting the friction and the heat build between them. Viggo crooks his leg and Orli reaches under it to catch his cock again; he moves his hips harder, loving the sound of Viggo's hoarse gasps in his ears. He abandons the kiss before it can give him a crick in his neck and nuzzles against Viggo's throat, catching soft skin between his teeth, suckling and worrying there-- Viggo will wear his mark tomorrow, regardless of whether or not it's a good idea.

Viggo pushes back, urging him to fuck harder, and Orli obliges him, sliding over Viggo, who turns onto his belly and spreads his thighs wide. Orli braces on his fists and uses the leverage to give Viggo a good pounding, trying to hit the pleasure spot-- and judging by Viggo's groans, he manages it. His cock and balls are on fire with the need to come; without the thongs he would have been done for before Ian ever finished fucking him. Viggo's skin is slippery like a seal's, and he doesn't sound drowsy anymore; Orli's palm is caught beneath them, still pressing and rubbing against Viggo's cock, which is hot and wet with sweat.

He remembers what Ian did to him, and slides his other hand under Viggo, looking for his nipple; he pinches and twists, and Viggo jerks, yelping; his cock pulses, and Orli bites down on his throat, riding him hard as he crests. Viggo's cries die slowly into moans, and Orli pulls his hand out; hardly thinking, he lifts it near to Viggo's face. Viggo lifts his head and licks at Orli's palm, his tongue hot and sleek.

That's all it takes; Orli's cock blazes with sudden fury, and he shakes like a leaf in the wind as his orgasm strikes-- like a tsunami, wave after wave of throttled pleasure cresting as it struggles to push through the binding.

Orli collapses, his heartbeat ringing in his ears, Viggo's back warm beneath him. Next to them, Ian murmurs to Sean, who yawns and relaxes; Orli lost track of them sometime during the last few minutes, but clearly, they managed to finish. Sean wipes shakily at his mouth and lifts his head, and Ian sinks in for a kiss, his tongue pushing Sean's mouth open, a low murmur of satisfaction in his throat.

Orli finally manages to pull out, shaken, kissing the dark purple love-bite on Viggo's throat. He tugs at the condom, then at the knot Ian made below his balls; slowly the thongs unravel and he milks himself clean, the pearly fluid shining on the curve of Viggo's arse.

Viggo purrs sleepily, his back vibrating gently against Orli's chest, and Orli wriggles off of him to let him breathe; he comes to rest in the hollow between Viggo's body and Sean's, and Viggo's arm slides over him.

He doesn't know if they will respect him in the morning-- hell, he doesn't know if he'll respect himself. He has a pretty good idea Sean's going to find it hard to look in the mirror even if none of the rest of them do, but for now, he doesn't care.

For now, everybody has what he wants.


Concept created by Megolas in 2002
Fabulous artwork ©2002 by Hope.
Moderated since 2004 by MSilverstar and yueni.
Site revised ©2006 by yueni