|
If you found this, you likely read all of Les Lettres, so no further explanation is required. Warning for wildly fluctuating POV and the explicitness you’ve come to expect from me.
December 31, 1900
Christian is frozen, for a moment, when Orlando enters the bedchamber. He is not sure how to react, what to say, if he should advance or retreat. He stands by the fire, feeling his calves grow uncomfortably hot, his fingers press against the smooth wood of the mantelpiece. Orlando places a jar on the windowsill by the bed, turns back the covers, runs his long fingers over the pillow and takes a deep breath. When he turns to face Christian, his eyes are dark and large.
“Is this all right?” he asks quietly.
Christian can only nod.
Orlando is tall and lean and unspeakably graceful as he leads Christian to their bed. Christian wonders how so much music can exist in mere movement. How much beauty can one man contain?
Orlando is thinking the same thing.
It astounds him that Christian cannot see his own beauty. They have discussed more than once, as Orlando paints Christian’s portrait. Christian always looks uncomfortable when Orlando tries to capture the perfect symmetry of his face, the wave of his hair, the ever-changing colour of his eyes.
“You should paint a self-portrait,” Christian said the first time. “It would be more likely to sell.” Orlando told him to shush, but was not entirely happy with the results of his efforts. The painting is stilted somehow, as if Christian wishes he were somewhere else. One time, Orlando painted Christian’s portrait as he slept, to see if Christian’s defensiveness was a result of Christian’s discomfort with posing, or Orlando’s lingering jealousy over all the time Christian got to spend with Henri. Even when sleeping, Christian turned out looking disquieted.
When he and Christian first began to keep company, Orlando went through Henri’s books and spent hours looking at all the sketches and cartoons he could find, along with the one painted portrait of Christian that Henri had completed during his final summer. How young and handsome Christian looks without the weight of grief upon him. He must have cut quite a dashing figure in the Argentinean’s best suit, with a top hot and a burning desire to succeed. If only, Orlando wished as he gazed at the partrait, he could do something to make that spark return.
Now, as Orlando slides Christian’s shirt off his shoulders, he can see the boyishness and unfettered passion clearer than ever, and it is not only due to the lack of facial hair.
Yes, that morning, while Orlando was out procuring a commission, Christian shaved off his beard, revealing smooth, sensitive-looking pale skin, and a cleft in his chin that Orlando had almost forgotten.
Along with the hair, which had added years to his visage, Christian seems to have shed much of his anguish. His eyes sparkle in the firelight, the way he always says Orlando’s do. His skin is fair next to Orlando’s, smooth white interrupted by the odd dark freckle, the spray of dark hair on his chest, the rouge of the nipple Orlando has just uncovered.
Orlando bends his head to swipe his tongue across it. Christian jumps. He’s not familiar with this. Of course, Satine would not have… but Orlando must not think of her. This is not the time to speculate about the past. Not the time to fret about what once was.
Christian’s hands are uncertain as they tug at Orlando’s shirt, reminding Orlando of his inexperience, for all the heartbreak he’s faced. His only real encounter with another man was the one with Orlando, and their first time was less than perfection.
No, Orlando corrects his thoughts, it was perfection. Even the fumbling had been perfect. The way Christian kept running his hands over Orlando’s skin and sighing. The way Christian’s mouth tasted, and the scrape of their beards together. The slow, painful slide of Christian’s cock into Orlando. So very long since Orlando had been penetrated by anything more than fingers. The hot bulk of him inside had made Orlando want to cry from the perfection.
But it had been too soon. They weren’t ready for that kind of closeness, that depth of feeling. Now, with Paris behind them, back in England and starting a new life in a new place, with the memories of their dead lovers packed away with the paintings and sketches and the sash of Satine’s gown, and Henri’s apron.
Orlando swirls his tongue around the tightened flesh and hears Christian gasp. That’s what he wants. There’s a delicious edge to it, something that can only be brought out by the unexpected. He must surprise Christian. Spontaneity is required. Orlando has, he must admit to himself, worried that he will seem too practiced. Skilled lovemaking is not necessarily rote, but it can lack a certain…
Christian turns, rolls on top of Orlando, drags his shirt all the way off his wrists and tosses it to the floor. Orlando lies on his back on top of the bed covers, arms still raised over his head. Christian runs his hands over Orlando’s smooth chest. Not a strand of hair interrupts the golden expanse, only wide, flat nipples. Christian drops his head, touches his tongue to a hard tip, purses his lips.
Orlando cries out. Neither of them expected that. Christian licks across the hardened nipple. It tastes no different from the rest of Orlando. Other than the texture it feels not unlike the rest of Orlando’s skin, skin Christian has tasted before. But there is a difference. It makes Orlando writhe. It makes his breath hitch. It makes him moan. And not quietly. Full-throated, heartfelt moans, louder the harder Christian sucks on the little nub, and they make Christian tingle all over. He grazes his teeth over the flesh and Orlando grips his hair almost painfully.
Christian leaves that spot for later. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome. Besides, he wants to explore every inch of Orlando, find every bit of skin that makes him moan like that. Or moan even better. The surge of enthusiasm, confidence, desire, rushes through Christian’s blood and pools between his legs.
He can remember, with aching detail, the sensation of entering Orlando’s body. He’s relived it dozens of times at night, using his fist, or a silk scarf and his fist, in the dark, sometimes twice before dawn, in his fitful sleep or fully conscious, with his hand on his hard cock, guilt burning his ears, lust boiling his blood. He’s been terrified he might say something inadvertently, or unconsciously, and betray his longing to repeat the experience. Seeing Orlando like this, naked to the waist and spread out on the bed, with his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling unevenly, makes him want it more.
Even more than that, it makes him want to give Orlando all the pleasure possible, every moment possible. He curses his own inexperience, but Orlando’s reactions have given him courage. He doesn’t need experience to know when he’s pleasing Orlando. He doesn’t need experience to know that trailing his tongue up Orlando’s chest, nuzzling his neck and nibbling on the tender skin of his throat will make Orlando moan again.
The dizziness passes, and Orlando finds the wherewithal to release his hands from their tangle in Christian’s hair and feel the solid curve of his shoulder, the slight stubble on his jaw, the hard flex of his bicep as he pulls himself up the bed to kiss Orlando. The opposite of practiced. Far from studied. This is raw passion, and it does not know etiquette. Nor does it take unthinkingly. Christian seems frantic to find every sensitive part of Orlando, every patch of skin that craves attention, every plane and curve that will revel in his touch.
Orlando opens himself to the experience. It is new for him, and that is shocking. No one, except for Henri, has ever wanted so much to make him feel so good. No one, except Henri, ever gave him this much. And when Henri gave, it was with the erudite hands of a scholar in the ways of love. Henri might not have had bad luck with relationships before Orlando came along, but he’d had more than his share of experience with men and women. He’d had the advantage, in addition to his own experience, of watching others with his artist’s eyes, watching the women in the brothels, the dancers in the dance halls, the amateurs on the street. He’d known what he was doing, and he’d appreciated Orlando from head to toe, the way a connoisseur appreciates fine wine.
Christian has nothing with which to compare Orlando. His hands stutter as they grope, stumble as they fondle, like the legs of a foal, and with the same determination. Orlando’s body flows under them. Liquid. Christian caresses supple limbs and an arched back, urging Orlando to moan some more. He wracks his brain for what will give Orlando the most, the best, the deepest.
“Of course,” he says aloud.
And offers himself to Orlando.
He rolls on his stomach and spreads his legs in what he hopes will be an enticing manner. Orlando hums and runs his hands up the backs of Christian’s thighs. Firm and round, Christian’s behind fills Orlando’s hands. Orlando lets his fingers creep toward the centre. “Is this…” he starts to ask.
Christian pushes up into Orlando’s hands. “What I want.”
If that is so, then Orlando will make it perfect. He lays a kiss on the small of Christian’s back. The skin there is soft, and so pale. He lets his hands wander freely, ruffling coarse leg hair, soothing nervous flanks, testing the dip of waist, the swell of arse. He spreads the cheeks and nuzzles, which makes Christian start, but only as long as it takes for him to begin to wriggle. Orlando licks at the delicate little opening. So tender. So fragile. So hot inside, hot and soft and tight and beckoning.
He has to restrain himself to keep from going too fast or too hard. He must pace this out, give a little at a time, take at a measured pace. He mustn’t startle Christian, or cause him any pain.
But Christian is offering, and offering freely, wantonly. Hips pushing up and back, legs spreading. Orlando takes a moment to savour the view, pale round arse and the dark cleft and even darker virginal hole. Virginal, but not entirely unknowing.
“Fill me,” Christian moans, and Orlando’s restraint snaps like a twig. He lunges between Christian’s legs and laps furiously at the proffered opening, pushing Christian’s legs so wide they fold and tuck under him, leaving him more than naked. Tongue, spit, lips, fingers, the face cream from the jar by the bed, more fingers, Orlando’s cock. Fast. Too fast for Christian, not nearly fast enough for Orlando. No complaints.
Christian strains at the unfamiliar press of cock inside his body. He’s breathing heavily, trying to relax, but it’s not easy when he wants to seize Orlando and pull him inside. He can feel the slide of it up his spine. His guts feel heavy. His own cock has gone limp, but he doesn’t notice because all his feelings have moved deeper inside, and to the place where he and Orlando are joined. Orlando spread over him, lips on the back of his neck, sucking, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his hip. His chest is pressed to the tops of his thighs, and his cock is crushed, becoming more crushed as it begins to grow.
The cock inside him feels wonderful, but it doesn’t make him erect. The hand on his hip is intimate. It steadies him, but it doesn’t make him grow hard. The lips send shivers down his spine, shivers that reverberate around Orlando’s cock, not his. The noises, though, the noises make him hard. Orlando is panting, groaning, whispering, pleading.
“Christian, Christian, want you so much,” he moans into Christian’s neck. He presses in another inch and whimpers. “Can’t wait, another second.” Orlando’s hand leaves his hip, fumbles with the jar. He pulls his cock out, slides a cream-slicked finger inside. The cream is cool, a bit shocking. It warms quickly. “Wanted to make it perfect.”
The cool head of Orlando’s cock is perfect. Christian braces his arms on the bed and pushes back steadily. The slide warms as it deepens, stretches as Orlando sighs, and Christian is filled beyond belief.
The hand on Christian’s hip is slippery. The bed cover is scratchy. The room is not as warm as it could be, but the fire keeps crackling and the heat at his core is spreading out swiftly. Christian rocks back and makes Orlando grunt.
“Christian.” The name comes as a gasp. “If you do that again…”
Christian does it again.
“I won’t be able to stop myself.”
And again.
Orlando pulls Christian’s legs back so he lies flat on the bed with Orlando on top, embedded. Thrusting. Fucking. Nothing has ever thrilled him so much. The pinch of teeth where Orlando nips at his shoulders. The exquisite stretch of being opened for the first time. The scratch of wiry hair against his rear. The chill of saliva drying on his skin in patches. The non-stop noise from Orlando.
“Fuck me,” Christian manages to grunt.
Orlando raises himself up on straightened arms. There are pink marks across Christian’s shoulders where Orlando has been tasting him. Christian’s back is hard, tense, but the right kind of tense. His ass isn’t tense. It’s tight, but Christian isn’t resisting penetration at all. He isn’t resisting anything. He’s demanding more with every harsh breath.
Christian puts out his hands to keep from slamming against the headboard. Orlando has begun to pound into him, and he’s hoping this will last long enough. The friction of the blanket is starting to feel too good. He flails a bit when Orlando suddenly digs his fingers into Christian’s flanks and speeds his thrust, shallow and fast, slick and hot. These short jabs make his opening flutter and then clench. Orlando’s hand slithers between Christian and the bed. There isn’t enough space for him to put his fingers around Christian’s cock, but he cups his hand and the leftover cream is smooth and silky.
Orlando plunges deep without warning and hits something inside that makes Christian bite his lip. Too much. Orlando’s fingers tighten and Christian grimaces. Too much pleasure hurts. Its release is imminent. Orlando’s hips move erratically. He’s sucking on Christian’s shoulder with a desperate whine. There is no control left on either side. Christian jerks against Orlando’s hand. Orlando buries himself with a low groan.
Orlando finds his release first. It is prolonged. Seems endless, to Christian, who can feel every pulse, every twitch, every spurt, deep inside. Orlando rolls them both on their sides and moves his hand on Christian’s cock, fast, desperate once again. Christian is surprised to feel himself clenching around Orlando at the same time he jumps within Orlando’s hand. Orlando has his opened mouth pressed to Christian’s shoulder, his legs twitching against the back of Christian’s legs.
As close to perfect as sex ever gets, Orlando thinks.
Christian has stopped thinking. He is only reacting.
After they have taken the time to rest, to drink a little wine, to feed the fire and face each other, kissing, for eternity, Orlando gets up to retrieve his gift for Christian.
Christian gazes at the glittering green gem for a long time after Orlando falls asleep with his head on Christian’s chest. He can almost imagine Oscar Wilde winking at him from across the room.
End
Here’s a happy picture of Ewan McGregor kissing Orlando Bloom. It has nothing to do with the story at all. Ewan McGregor looks nothing like Christian in the pic, and Orlando Bloom looks nothing like Rentboy, and I’m positive that there’s nothing sexual about it at all, it’s simply one of Ewan’s delightful greetings for which we, his pervy fans, are so very grateful.
But it’s a nice way to end the fic and who knows?
It could lead to the stimulation of some happy slasher’s imagination...
Obviously, the pic was nabbed from ewanmcgregor.net.
I believe it’s from the Japanese premiere of Black Hawk Down.
Comment on this fic, or anything related to it, here.
Go back to Fandoms
|
|
