Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 04/14/2005 14:25:00

Matter of Inertia 18 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 18: New Equilibrium
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: We don't own these men, unfortunately. Only fiction.


Sean wakes up spooned against Harry's back, face pressed between his shoulderblades, one arm over his chest. The rise and fall of Harry's breath makes Sean snuggle closer at first, until he realizes just how uncomfortable his cock is, trapped between the two of them.

Uncomfortable. But not painful. The grace period's over. And it feels like it's over. His cock doesn't hurt from getting hard, doesn't hurt from coming; instead there's an electric tingle that -- every time he comes -- shoots up his spine and makes him wonder why he doesn't have his nipples pierced.

He licks Harry's shoulder, bites gently. All healed. His hips shift, almost of their own accord, and his cock goes sliding against Harry's cleft. All mine.

Harry's on the edge of deep sleep, not wanting to come out of it, but the light filtering through the window is insisting he open his eyes. And the cock pressing against his arse is -- wait, there's a cock pushing, not pulling back. He smiles and moves his hand up and back, groping till he finds a lover's hip.

"I'm going to assume that's still Sean," he murmurs, yawning as he finishes. "Must be feeling all better."

"Mmmm," Sean purrs, soft against the back of Harry's neck. "All better. Want you. Christ, I haven't been inside you in more than two months." He bites again, harder. "Lube?"

Stretching his hand, Harry rubs over Sean's arse. "You asking my preference? Or if I know where it is?"

"Asking your preference," Sean says, grinning. "I'm easy this morning. I'll let you have it if you want."

"You're easy every morning. Afternoon. Night." Harry smirks, looks back over his shoulder. "Don't bother with it. Want to hurt from feeling you. Been too damned long."

"How did I know you were going to say that?" Sean asks, leaning forward to kiss Harry. "Love mornings," he murmurs. "Love waking up with you." He pulls back, spits into his hand -- if not for Harry's sake, for his own -- and slicks his cock, just barely, with that. "Two months," he breathes, "two fucking long months, God, I've missed having you."

The kiss is awkward, position all wrong. Harry makes a note to correct that later, kiss Sean proper. "You've got me now." He takes the breath, long and deep, knowing it's going to hurt. Hell, even if he had opted for the lube, it'd hurt. He hasn't been fucked in months. "Love having you back. All of you."

"Oh, you're getting all of me," Sean growls, hand at the base of his cock as he finds Harry's opening, starts pressing in slowly. Christ, the squeeze -- it was always incredible, but now, with the piercing through the head of his cock, it's unbelievable -- too many sensations to process all at once, and Sean gasps, groans, holds tight as he keeps working his way in.

"Christ, Sean, that's good. And, fuck, it hurts like a dream." Harry shifts, angling his hips a bit to open up more. He'd imagined how the piercing would feel inside him, Sean fucking him, but it was never like this, never this good or intense or -- oh, hell -- bloody fucking perfect. "More. All of it."

"Greedy," Sean pants, getting one hand on Harry's hip and pulling him backward as he rocks forward. "But I love you that way. C'mere. C'mon. Let me in."

Harry obliges, nudging himself back, ignoring the burn and scrape of metal to push himself solidly onto Sean's cock. "Then fuck me, luv. Hard as you feel like."

"This hard," Sean growls, fingernails dug hard into Harry's hip as he starts moving, every glide harsh and hurting, but Christ he's missed this so much, and it's worth every burning thrust.

"Godfuckingdamnit." Harry bites his lip, bruising and thankful it's not that easy to bite through, draw the blood. The burn's excruciating, but so damn good. "Yeah. Like that."

It's so good already, Sean doesn't know how long he's going to last. He wants it to hurt exactly the way Harry's going to need it to, wants to know Harry's loving the feel of it every bit as much as he is, so he sinks his teeth into the back of Harry's neck and holds on, thrust after thrust, dragging Harry back into them every time.

"Sean, faster, luv. We can do this again at lunch and tonight, a helluva lot slower if you want, but," Harry lurches, twists to take in more of Sean's cock, push back against his body. "Just want it too fast right now."

"Today. Tonight. Tomorrow." Sean growls out every word and sinks in hard with each one, shoving Harry over until he's on his stomach, reaching for his hands so he can pin them above his head. "Missed this so much. Love you. Always."

That's even better, being pinned by his lover, trapped and fucked hard and -- oh, fuck -- that tiny bit of metal is setting him on edge. Not to mention how the ring of silver in his nipple is rubbing against the sheets, rippling down to meet the shirring in his arse. It's damned near perfect. "Loveyouloveyouloveyou," Harry pants out, words muffled by the pillow under the corner of his mouth. Damn, it's good.

"Hope you're close," Sean pants, "because I am, and--" He snaps at the back of Harry's neck. "I've been waiting for this for too fucking long to wait." There's a definite grin at the edge of his words, one he buries against his lover's nape. "Christ, I fucking love you. Harry. God..."

"Then stop waiting, Sean." Harry pushes back as much as Sean's tight grip will allow. "C'mon, then, do it, let me have what I've been missing." He'd get his hand back and onto Sean's hips if he weren't being held. Payback'll be a sweet bitch.

Payback's going to be gorgeous, but it's not happening just yet. Sean grins, bites down hard at the back of Harry's neck as he goes over, almost screaming when the pulse hits and he comes with that damned ring through the head of his cock. "Fuck fuck fuck I love that thing," Sean pants, all one blurry mess of syllables against Harry's skin.

"Bloodyfuckinghell." Harry tries his damnedest not to come just at the bite. Fuck. Been too damned long. Then there's Sean filling his body, and oh hell he's missed that. "Love you so damned much." And he's holding on by the barest of threads in not coming, body clenching around Sean's cock, forcing himself to wait.

Sean's breath comes back to him slowly, like his vision, eyes blinking open as he groans and squirms against Harry's body. "Waiting for something?" he murmurs.

"You're not going to help, are you?" Harry's laughing even as he asks. He knows the answer. He's teetering on the edge, could come on just the sound of Sean's voice, but he wants just a bit more.

"You expect me to move now?" Sean asks, laughing too, scratching his nails up Harry's arms. "Now when you've worn me out already?"

That does it. Scratches on his arm are the perfect last touch. "No. Course not." Harry comes with a moan and a growl, pressing down into the mattress, cock trapped and pulsing hard whether he wants it or not.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," Sean moans, pressing Harry even deeper into the mattress. He's going to end up killing his lover by smothering. Right now it doesn't matter. It's morning. He's happy. He's content. Harry'll elbow him in the ribs if he needs air.

Harry doesn't say anything for several minutes. Hell, he doesn't move. He isn't even sure he can. Then there's an overwhelming need to get out of the wet spot, and he's nudging Sean. "You're gorgeous, too, lover, but if you don't move, I'm going to be dead and last I heard you weren't into necrophilia."

"Oh, fine." Sean rolls over, plops down on his back with a smirk. "You give me about five minutes and I'll get the shower started."

"Five minutes." Harry pushes himself up to hands and knees, glances over at Sean. "You know, Sean, it was definitely worth the wait."

Sean leans up and wraps an arm around Harry's neck, hugs him close. "Yeah, it was." He grins. "I can't wait to have you tugging on that ring with your teeth."

Harry laughs, leans in and kisses Sean's nose. "That'll have to wait till tonight. Shower now, and I'll even take you to breakfast."

Sean grins. "Sex and breakfast ought to get me through the day. Going to meet me for lunch, too?"

"Definitely. Have to tease you mercilessly to make my day go faster."

It takes a couple tries to get out of bed, but Sean manages, pulling Harry with him towards the shower. "Have I told you often enough that I'm glad you're here?" he asks. "Nothing's the same without you."

Harry stumbles, not expecting to be dragged along, then quickly regains his footing. "Wanna promise not to be apart again?" he asks, wrapping his arm around Sean's waist as they make it into the bathroom. He's serious. The separation wasn't comfortable. He doesn't like being away from Sean and it sounds like his lover feels the same way. "We start living in each other's life all the time. If you want."

Sean wraps his arms around Harry's waist in return. "I want that." I've wanted that for-fucking-ever. "How do we work it? Where do we live when I'm not working?"

"Part of the year in London and part in Wellington?" Harry hasn't thought that far ahead. He just knows he doesn't want to be alone anymore. "Split the difference and buy a house in LA?" He leans in, forehead against Sean's. "I'd move everything to London in a heartbeat, you know. Zid's not nearly as enticing when you're not there."

"You wouldn't miss it?" Sean bites at his lower lip, then thinks better of it, leans in and bites at Harry's. "London's easier on me -- it's where the work is, where the Blades are -- but I could stay in New Zealand with you if you need to stay."

"No, what I'd miss is you." Harry turns the biting into kissing, long and lush, pulling back when the need to breathe is too strong. "We could go back to Wellington, a few months a year, or if there's a film reason. But I think I like London better." His grin widens. "Who knows, you might even teach me to love that football of yours."


04/14/2005 14:48:28
MoI! MoI *hugs it, clings to it, snogs Helens & Luna far more than is really necessary*

Yay!HappyHarrySeanPiercingHealedCuddlySexOMG! translation: fantastic chapter! I'm glad the new metal accessories turned out so well. ;)

And: "No, what I'd miss is you." Harry turns the biting into kissing, long and lush, pulling back when the need to breathe is too strong. "We could go back to Wellington, a few months a year, or if there's a film reason. But I think I like London better." His grin widens. "Who knows, you might even teach me to love that football of yours."

Makes me all squishy inside. And all red-faced and flustered on the outside, too.

Thank you so much for the posting of this!


04/17/2005 20:00:10
*snugs* So sorry to be so late getting back to this, and thank you! Glad you liked it!

Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 02/18/2005 10:23:00

Matter of Inertia 17 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 17: Revolving Around Center
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: We don't own these men, unfortunately. Only fiction.


By the time lunch break's called, Sean's starved and ready to eat the set pieces. Luckily for him, there's a crafts table all set up and he shouldn't have to resort to that. He heads over, gets a sandwich and a coffee, and stakes out an empty chair while the lighting is switched off and the stand-ins come up to help get everything ready for the afternoon shoot.

The sandwich is even pretty good. Life would be perfect if Harry would just show up and pound Sean into the nearest wall. There's probably an empty room around here somewhere.

Harry's been standing off to the side, out of sight, for a few minutes. Long enough to watch Sean be menacing. He realizes he's never really watched Sean work, well, outside of Rings, and it's kinda fascinating. Break's called and he walks over, visitor's badge dangling from the lanyard around his neck, and leans over the back of Sean's chair.

"Hmm, sandwich. I'll have to take you out for a decent dinner, I guess," he murmurs, kissing Sean's neck.

"I'd like that." Sean hugs Harry hard and looks around. "You want me to make some introductions? You could meet Michael, Famke... It's a good cast." Well, parts of it are good, though Michael's been smirking at Sean a little more than he'd like. It's been good seeing Famke again, though, even though her character's practically after his character's head on a pike.

"That'd be nice." Harry wraps his arms over Sean's shoulders. "Quick introductions. I'd like to have a bit of your time for something more personal."

"Sure." Oh, God, Sean hopes that means what he thinks it does. He pulls Harry back in the general direction of the crafts table and grins when Famke waves at them.

"You must be Harry," she says, holding a hand out. "I'm Famke."

Harry stands up, takes her hand and shakes it politely. "Yes. Good to meet you." Nice looking. No, erase that. In the drop-dead category. "Sean's said a lot of nice things about you."

"Really." Famke gives Sean a look. "Should I be worried?"

"Not much." Sean wraps an arm around Harry's waist. "Think we ought to leave Michael alone while he's on break or should I try to wrangle an introduction for my lover?"

Famke rolls her eyes. "You know how he is on breaks. You can try..."

"Temperamental star?" Harry chuckles, leaning into Sean's embrace, completing it by putting his arm around his lover's hip. Did he just call me lover? In front of someone? The grin's wide. "Don't want to ruin your afternoon shoot by ticking off the diva."

"Don't worry about it. He's just ticked because Sean wouldn't let him put another Rings notch in his--"

"Enough, really." Sean tightens his grip on Harry's waist as he cuts Famke off. "Maybe we'll get him later. If he's not liable to take someone's head off. Meantime, I think Harry wanted a minute alone, so I'll catch you in a bit?"

"That's fine," Famke says. "It was good meeting you, Harry."

"Likewise. Maybe we could do dinner before the shoot's over." Harry waits until Famke turns away to reach behind him, take Sean's wrist and pull his hand away. "You're cutting off circulation, luv."

"Sorry. Just she's right. Strange thing to be reminded of the first day you walk onto a set, lovers past." Sean shrugs. "My trailer's off the set, out this way. That much privacy, or will a storage closet do for whatever it is you had in mind?"

"It's all right. And understandable." Harry still wishes some nights he'd pulverized Viggo instead of just giving him the nasty bruise. "For what I have in mind, a wall in the nearest alley would be fine. Of course, it'd be in the tabs come morning, most likely, so I imagine your trailer's safer."

"If only because we don't want to get the production in trouble. Haven't got the last payslip yet." Sean smirks. "Trailer's out that way." He puts his hand on the small of Harry's back and pushes him the appropriate direction. "Out the doors and down the lot."

"Oh, definitely want that payslip. I have it spent already." Harry's laughing at Sean's navigation, nowhere near subtle, and it's not really that far to the trailer. He's discreet enough to let Sean open the door and get them inside before he's shoving his lover into the wall.

"Oh, this--" Sean groans, clutching at Harry, dragging him forward, "this is good, this reminds me--" Reminds him of a less-than consensual evening in a trailer in New Zealand, what seems like forever ago. How insane do you have to be to fall in love while you're hurting someone who's asking you to stop? Sean wonders, and doesn't care what the answer is. He's got Harry, and he's never letting Harry go.

"Shut up, Sean." Harry gives his lover a quick kiss and pins him back against the wall, arm across Sean's chest, roughly pushing his knee in between Sean's thighs. "Gonna fuck you." He runs his free hand down over the sweater's sleeve and over the pants leg, fingers making a trail over the thigh. "Might let you come. Or is that make you come."

"Oh, Christ." Sean shivers and squeezes his thighs around Harry's knee. "It's make me. Fuck knows it hurt enough the last time..." He grins and strokes his fingertips over Harry's arm. "Make me, lover."

"Turn around." Harry grabs Sean's wrist, steps back and maneuvers Sean around to face the wall. "There's just something about this," he says, sliding Sean's hand up, pressing palm against metal, "that's, oh, familiar somehow."

Sean's breath catches, and he nods. "I was just thinking about that," he murmurs. "Do I still owe you for that? It was a long time ago."

"It's not about owing. I think you've paid that debt." Harry's only half-concentrating on the words. He's busy stripping Sean, hands on trousers, unzipping, jerking down. "But who says I can't keep collecting." Fingers sliding under fabric and onto flesh, slipping into the cleft, teasing against the hole. "Over and over again."

"Christ. Fuck. Yes." Sean braces himself on his forearms and tilts his hips back. "Fuck, if this is how you collect on debts, I'd better come up with a whole world of evil things to do to you later."

"Like what?" Harry kicks Sean's legs apart a bit farther and shoves his fingers into Sean's arse. Three fingers, twisted in on one another. "Tell me about the evil, Sean." He presses in, putting his full weight behind the forward push.

"Oh--" Sean's mouth drops open. "I've got to start going to work prepped," he groans. "Evil. You. Tonight. You tied down. My teeth on your balls 'til you're bruising your wrists trying to get your hands free so you can push me away."

Harry twists his wrist, driving his fingers in deeper. "Prepping would be an excellent idea, Sean, if you want me dropping by for lunch." He curls them, raking over the prostate, and then flexes, knowing exactly how insane it's driving his lover. "Tied down is good. Teeth are even better. More, Sean. Tell me your fantasy," he says, slipping his other hand around Sean's waist, fingers wrapping cock, thumb rubbing over the metal under it.

It doesn't hurt the way it did the last time. There's something about it that shoots all the way up Sean's spine, makes him gasp and clench his fists hard. "Fuck," he gasps. "More?"

"Yes, luv. Whatever you want." Harry slides his thumb back, pressing along the foreskin, then back over metal. He twists his wrist, tugging on Sean's cock, all the while pushing his fingers deeper, turning and curling them. "You can come whenever it hurts the most, Sean."

Bloody hell. The pain is perfect, everything Sean wants, and he rocks back against Harry's hand, cursing under his breath. "Bastard. Love. Damn, that hurts. Just a little more. Fuck, please, just--" One more rub of thumb over Sean's ring, and he's biting the scream into his arm as he comes, just barely stifling the sound of it.

Harry holds his hands steady, one wrapping cock and being covered in white, the other deep inside his lover. As Sean stops screaming, Harry eases off and leans against Sean's back, kissing the hint of flesh over the edge of his collar. "Love you. Think you can manage your costar for the rest of the day now?"

"Oh, yes." Sean laughs. "Do you want something?" He tightens up around Harry's fingers. "Want me?"

"Want you always." Harry grins, jerks his fingers out, struggling against the clench. "Right now, though, your lover's going shopping for the afternoon while you go back to work like a good boy."

"Yes, sir." Sean smirks and gets his clothes back together. "I'll be home as soon as I can."

"I'll be waiting, cock hard and ropes in hand." Harry turns, grabs a towel off the counter and wipes his hands, then tosses another one toward Sean. "Hit all your marks and don't cause retakes."

Sean grabs the towel and wipes his hands clean. He hooks an arm behind Harry's neck and pulls him in. "Always," he murmurs.

Harry takes advantage of the closeness to steal a quick kiss. "They're going to miss you if you stay much longer." He puts his hands on Sean's hips, nudges him back. "C'mon, go."

Sean's gone, and he's not even walking oddly. Too much practice looking like he didn't just have a good rough fuck in his trailer. He's walking away grinning, though, in a way he wouldn't have -- couldn't have -- without Harry here. Must be love.


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 02/17/2005 17:35:00

I Never... 7 (SB/JLM) NC-17
I Never... Never Had A Dungeon Before
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Jonny Lee Miller
Warnings: Rough sex.
Summary: Sean takes Jonny by the new house to get a look at it. And then some.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: We do not, in any way, shape or form, own these boys. Alas.


Sean doesn't know why he's nervous. It's not as though he thinks Jonny's going to say no outright. He might not like the house, but all that means is they have to keep looking, and they have to find another landlord who won't ask too many questions. And it might be perfect after all.

But he's nervous all the same, palms sweaty as he pulls into the driveway. "Here it is," he says. "It's bigger than it looks." It looks like an ordinary single-floor house, but it's got a full basement, two bedrooms, a bathroom upstairs and one downstairs. It's sixty years old or so, brick, and there's ivy covering one side of it. No garage, but it's got a long driveway and enough room for two cars in it.

It's a big step, moving out of the apartment and in with Sean. In. With. Sean. Jonny says it to himself a few times as the car comes to a stop. "It looks nice." He's nervous. "Can we afford it? I mean, this is a good neighborhood."

"I can afford most of it, so between the two of us, yeah. It'll be tight the first few months, but I have enough saved up for the deposit, first month, last month." Sean cuts the engine and reaches over. "Come inside? Take a look." He squeezes Jonny's hand.

So I'd just be a kept boy. That's not bad, I guess. "Sure." Jonny smiles. "I'll look around. Let go of my hand and I'll get out of the car."

"Yeah." Sean grins. "Yeah, let's go in." He lets go and gets out of the car, walking up to the door as he digs the key out of his pocket. This could be your new place. It's half the size of -- his last lover's house, but it's bigger than the apartment, and it's more than good enough. More than he expected, and a place he can come home to, a place it'll be safe to have a lover he'd just as soon hear screaming as laughing or coming.

Jonny walks in, looking around the living room. It's nearly as big as his apartment. "It's not too far from the club," he says, moving to the room's far end. Wow. Fireplace. Cool. "Close enough to your office to work?"

"Close enough." Sean shoves his hands into his back pockets. "Near enough to the highway it won't be a bad drive. The neighbors are quiet, don't ask questions. The landlord liked me, I think. And the space is good. You want to see the bedrooms first, or the basement?"

"There's a basement?" Jonny turns. He's blushing slightly. "And we only need one bedroom. Don't we?"

"Yeah." Sean catches Jonny's wrists in his hands and starts backing him up, slowly, into the door. "But we can use the other for a study or a guest room or sommat. Whatever we need." Sean's thigh goes between Jonny's legs and presses in hard. "Just need you."

Just need you. Wonderful sentiment. "Need you." Jonny spreads his legs, pushes back against the door for support. Involuntary motion, hands go flat against the wood, wrist held firmly. "And the basement? What we putting down there?"

"A hook in the ceiling. More in the walls. Maybe doublecheck the soundproofing before we get started." Sean pulls Jonny's wrists up, pins them next to his head. "Whips, chains, things that hurt. If it's what you want."

Jonny's jeans are tight, cock twitching in response to Sean's description. "Whips and chains sound wonderful. Maybe paint it black, industrial chrome fixtures."

"Never had a dungeon before," Sean says, grinning. He licks up the center of Jonny's throat. "Never thought I was going to need one." He digs his teeth in just enough to be felt, there at the base of Jonny's throat. "You like it?" he asks.

"Fuck." Jonny slams his head back into the door, closes his eyes. "Hurts, but yeah, I like it. Dungeon, too. Lots of things that hurt. You."

"The house," Sean says, pressing his thigh in harder. "You like the house?" He's confident enough about the rest. The house is the only thing he's wondering about now.

"Oh, the house. Yeah. Like what I've seen." Jonny shakes his head. It still amazes him how he loses it around Sean, just melts. "Wanna show me the rest?"

"Yeah." Sean squeezes Jonny's wrists one last time and pulls back. "Come on. I'll show you the rooms."

He pulls Jonny through the kitchen. It's small, but the appliances are new, give or take a couple years. There's enough room for a small table on one end of the kitchen, and then there's the hallway to the bedrooms and the upstairs bathroom. The larger of the bedrooms is in the back of the house, windows facing out onto the back lawn, and the closet's walk-in, big enough to fuck in if one were so inclined. Another space to christen. The other bedroom's more or less average, a good enough space for a study or a guest room, and then there's the bathroom, plain fixtures, tub with a curtain.

Downstairs is a more-or-less finished basement, plain walls made of concrete, and Sean runs his hand over one of them, tapping at it. "Strong enough, I think," he says. "It's not huge, but it's something that could be ours." He raises both eyebrows and looks at Jonny. "If we want it."

"I want it." Three words. Such simple sentences are potent. He wants the house. The bedroom with the window. And, fuck, he can think about being pressed against that glass, cock hard from hours of not being allowed to come, body bruised, being fucked as the sun rises. And the basement. Damn, yes, the basement, where chains could fall from the ceiling and Jonny could hurt for days. "Yes, sir, want it. Now?"

"Now?" Sean echoes, and then grins over his shoulder at Jonny. "You want to christen it early, before we've got our name on the lease?"

"Huh?" Jonny spins around. "Did I ask for that?" He grins. "Yeah, guess I did." He stretches, the move pulling the tails of the button-up shirt over his jeans waistband, exposing just that hint of flesh. "Maybe a little now. Just to make sure we'd be comfortable."

"Drop." Sean tucks his fingers into Jonny's waistband and drags him forward. "Knees. Now."

It's not conditioned, not quite, but Jonny sinks to his knees in front of Sean. He likes this. A lot.

Sean runs his fingers down Jonny's cheek and then unbuckles his belt, unzips his jeans. "All ours," he says. "It's just ours." He gets his cock out, rubs the head over Jonny's lips. "Suck me."

No more talking. Jonny's mouth is otherwise occupied. He leans forward, sticks his tongue out against the tip, opens and sucks in the cock, taking it all the way in, consciously widening his throat's passage before closing his lips around the flesh and sucking. Hard. Moving his head back and forth. He's getting to know exactly what Sean likes, that little flick of tongue, the graze of teeth.

Sean gets his fingers into Jonny's hair and tugs him forward, pushing in as Jonny opens up for him. Ours. And then, lower, growled out through nearly-clenched teeth, "mine." And he starts fucking Jonny's mouth hard, wanting the feel of Jonny's throat clenching around his cock.

Jonny clenches his hands against Sean's hips, fingers finding flesh and digging in, holding on. His. Yes. He holds steady then, letting Sean fuck him, drive his cock deeper, bruise and rub raw Jonny's throat. Perfect. Great. Just what I want.

It's perfect. It's fucking beautiful. And Jonny can spare his breath for a few seconds while Sean slams in deep and closes his eyes to focus on the sensation. Fuck, that's brilliant.

Another thing Jonny's learning. How to breathe through his nose, not count on getting air into his lungs any other way. He clutches, holds tighter, ignoring for the moment his cock straining against denim, focusin solely on the cock shoved down his throat.

Sean knows this isn't the safest way to play. He knows it's not sane, that there's a limited amount of time he can take Jonny's air and know for certain he can bring him back up. But he pushes that time as far as he can, gets it right to the edge and holds on before pulling back.

Some day it might be too much, too far, but not today. Today it's just right, perfect, and Jonny has just the edge of a lightheaded buzz going when Sean pulls back. He just sucks more greedily.

"That's my boy," Sean whispers, tugging Jonny forward again. "Come on. Need you. Want you. Come on."

Want you. Need you. Yeah. Sean's words collide in Jonny's brain. He's still getting used to having someone who really wants him, needs him, isn't just making time and room for him. He pushes his tongue up against Sean's cock as he moves forward, then lets his teeth touch down again, as far back as he can manage. His boy, Jonny thinks.

Oh God, fuck, so good. Sean tightens his grip in Jonny's hair and gives him one more thrust, which is all he can manage before he comes, hard and hot down Jonny's throat. "Yes."

Jonny manages not to choke, a feat in itself, Sean's cock deep enough the come fills his throat. He swallows, conscious decision forced muscles to work, and keeps sucking until Sean's pushing him back. "Thanks," he murmurs, mouth free again but voice raw. "I think I like the place."

"I like it, too." Sean drops to his knees and catches Jonny behind the neck, pulling him close. He slips his hand down Jonny's chest, between his legs, and squeezes hard. "Want to come?"

"Yes, sir. Please?" Jonny leans back, puts his head on Sean's shoulder, turns enough to kiss the edge of Sean's jaw. "You make me like this. So hard."

"You're so fucking good like this," Sean growls, getting Jonny's fly unzipped and sliding his hand in. He wraps his fingers around Jonny's cock, strokes hard and fast and kisses down Jonny's jawline until he can get his lips on Jonny's and kiss him, lick the last traces of his come out of Jonny's mouth. Fuck, I love you.

"Oh, yeah. Gonna. Can't last." Jonny feels like a 15-year-old again, unable to even think about controlling his cock, much less wanting to. Sean's stroking too fast. Sean's mouth is on Jonny's. The dual assault just slams him, and in another minute, he's coming, body shaking against Sean's hold.

"You are..." Sean licks across Jonny's lower lip as he wraps an arm around his shoulders and hugs hard. "Christ, you are the hottest fucking thing..." He grins and gets his hand out from Jonny's pants, licking up trails of Jonny's come. "Want this. So much. You, me, here."

Jonny's all smiles, near giggles from breathlessness. "When do we move in?"

"As soon as you want. Next week?" Sean asks. "Do you own any of your furniture or are we going to have to improvise for a while?"

"We don't have to improvise. I can get furniture." Jonny figures he can beg his stepmom for the money. He's not on her shit list like he is on his dad's. And she'll even be happy he's getting out of his sister's house, some place where he can be on his own.

"I've got next to nothing," Sean says softly. "But anything I've got--" hell, anything I am-- "it's yours."

"That's cool." Jonny doesn't say anything about the way Sean's voice drops, tries not to read anything into it. "You pay the deposit, I'll get the furniture."

"Perfect." Sean grins, the serious look easing off. "Next week. It's all ours."


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 02/16/2005 16:52:00

Matter of Inertia 16 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 16: Terminal Velocity
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Painful post-piercing sex. But you know our boys; they love that sort of thing.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: We don't own these men, unfortunately. Only fiction.


"Ow ow ow fuck fuck." Sean reaches over to Harry, who's not awake yet. He digs his fingers into Harry's forearm. "Goddamnit, fuck." The morning hard-ons don't always hurt this much, but after last night's fuck and coming so hard he practically saw stars, Sean's cock hurts so much his eyes are crossing. "Jesus Christ."

"Fuck. What the hell?" Harry wasn't awake, but he is now. There's no way to keep sleeping when Sean's nails are digging crevices in Harry's arm. He reaches up, grabs Sean's wrist and, with a bit of tugging, pulls Sean's hand away. "Shite, Sean, let a man wake up gradually unless your mouth's on his cock."

"I would've if I could've woke up gradually myself. Fuck, my cock hurts. Remind me why I thought the piercing was a good idea again?" Sean drops his hand to his cock and squeezes hard at the base, hoping that if he can't get the erection to go down, at least he'll add another sensation he can focus on.

"Because you're a friggin' masochist." Harry turns over, gradual. His piercings don't hurt nearly as much, but there's still the sting of fabric brushing against nipples. "And you love me." He grins, snuggles up against Sean's side, laying his hand on Sean's thigh. "Want me to hold it for you, make it all better?"

Sean groans. "Your hand on my cock isn't going to make the hard-on go away," he points out. "I'd ask you to kiss it and make it better, but that'd mean touching the damned ring. Jesus. I'm fucking glad to have you back, but can you promise not to make me come again until this thing is healed?"

Harry laughs, slides his hand in-between Sean's thighs, brushes his knuckles against Sean's cock. It's cruel, and the payback's gonna be brutal, but Harry can't really resist. "Sure, Sean, and while I'm at it, I'll stop the sun from shining."

"Fuck--!" Sean jerks and then grabs Harry's wrist and pins it above his head, rolling over on his side to face him. "You're going to drive me insane. You know that? If I'm not there already."

"You're there. It's a lovely view." Harry offers a token struggle, nothing of consequence, and stretches his legs. "And the residents adore being manhandled before they've had their coffee."

"That's encouraging," Sean says. "Fuck. I'm going to regret this..." But he doesn't figure his cock could hurt much more, so he rolls on top of Harry and stretches out himself. "How much manhandling do you want before coffee?" he murmurs, biting just below Harry's collarbone.

The weight's a bit much, trapping cocks between bodies. "Enough manhandling to get you past the regret, ease your discomfort and get me off." Harry rolls his head into the pillow. "I might even be convinced to order up breakfast to go with the coffee."

"You think it'll be better if I come, get it over with?" Sean pushes up enough to get a hand between them. He wraps it around both cocks, wincing as the grip moves the ring just a fraction. "Think it's going to be worth it?"

"Hmm, it's a start. You come and we can work on that not coming till it's healed." Harry finds the sensation, new and unfamiliar, intensely arousing, how the ring in Sean's cock rubs against Harry's cock and then Sean's fingers are wrapping them both. "Oh, fuck, yeah, it's going to be worth it."

Sean grits his teeth together and hisses out against Harry's shoulder. "Easy for you to say," he murmurs. "Promise to kiss it and make it better when I'm done?" Oh, good idea, Bean, that'll help.

"Promise to kiss and lick and suck--" Harry grins. "Oh, wait, that won't help, will it? The licking and sucking part."

"Probably not," Sean admits. "But why go halfway?" He grinds down, ignoring the pain, reminding himself he's going to come and come screaming and it's all going to be worth it. "You can lick me clean when I'm finished screaming my bloody head off."

"You've got a deal. You come, get me off and I'll lick you clean, then get you breakfast." Harry squirms, shifting Sean's weight just a bit. "C'mon. Now."

"Fuck." If he weren't hurting so much, just the order would be plenty. But he's aching so hard he's surprised he's not seeing stars. He gives both cocks another half-dozen strokes, gritting his teeth together and trying to get himself past the pain. Come on. What happened to taking everything you could and bouncing back from it screaming for more? His teeth unclench as his hand speeds up, and it's right there -- just another touch, just another -- oh fuck what the hell made him think this was a good idea, fuck fuck it's going to hurt -- and he does scream as he comes, screams and squeezes Harry's cock and nearly passes out from it, whole body shaking.

Harry's hands are on Sean, rubbing over hips and sliding onto his back, holding tight. "C'mon, you can do it," he murmurs. Encouragement? Or taunting? It's not really fair to make Sean come through this pain. No, not fair at all. But no one ever said Harry was fair. Or that Sean wants him to play fair. It hasn't been that way since the first night. And when Sean gets them there, when Harry comes, it's with eyes open and vision blurred and it's better than it has been in months, long days of not having but wanting so badly.

It feels like hours before Sean can talk again. It's really only minutes, but they're long ones, with Sean's breath hitched and then slowing and finally steady. He groans as he finally rolls over to the side. "I'm going to end up bloody conditioning myself to love this," he says, laughs, arm thrown over his face. "It does hurt like hell, but fuck, if I come like that every time..." He peeks out from under his arm at Harry. "Still want to clean me up?" Fuck, hope I'm not bleeding.

"Promised, didn't I?" Harry maneuvers and goes up on his side, kisses Sean's chest. He starts licking there, down the center and swirling his tongue around the navel. Then he shifts around, kneels up. "Not just a bad thing to love." He licks down along the groin crease. "Is it?" Then Harry concentrates on what he'd said he would do, cleaning up. He drags his tongue around Sean's cock and up it, licking along and around until there's nothing left to lap up.

Sean whimpers, clenching both hands in the covers and trying not to scream. It hurts like hell, drives him crazy, and he can already tell how much he's going to love it when it's healed. "Fucking sadist. Love you. Get up here."

Harry looks up, grins. "Aw, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." He crawls up Sean's body, taking care not to press on sensitive areas. Then he kisses his lover, a quick snog, lips on lips. "Love you, too."

"You still want to kill me for waking you up so early?" Sean asks, wrapping his arms around Harry's shoulders and hugging him. He leans up and nuzzles Harry's neck. "Glad you're awake all the same."

"Glad I'm awake now. But--" Harry looks over Sean's shoulder, checks out the clock on the nightstand. "Hell, Sean, it's not even 7 yet. Yeah, I want to kill you."

Sean laughs, then rolls Harry over, stretches out on top of him, and laughs while he kisses Harry's face, tiny kisses all over his chin and his cheeks and his jaw. "Want to sleep more or should I ring up for coffee and breakfast?"

"Sleep wins out. Till sometime around 10." Harry's firmly in playful mode, letting Sean kiss away the pout. "You missed a spot. Corner of the mouth."

"Right here?" Sean licks into the corner of Harry's mouth and follows it with a kiss. He can indulge both of them with playfulness. It's been too damned long since they've seen each other, and he's still so grateful to have Harry here for the end of filming that he's not going to say no to much of anything. "Or over here?" He gets the other corner, too, same teasing treatment.

"Well, it was just the one spot, but then the other spot would've been jealous so it's good you kissed it, too. Now, roll over and let me get back to sleep, lover."

Sean nuzzles Harry's cheek before sliding out of bed. "Have to get up for my set call," he murmurs. "Meet me for lunch?"

"Maybe." Harry pounds the pillow with his fist, gets it into the perfect spot against the headboard. "Unless I get a better offer from room service. Stop at the front desk and arrange to have coffee sent up later." The last words are muffled into the pillow, Harry burying his head and tugging the blanket up around his body.

Sean grins. If room service makes him a better offer, Sean wants to be home to watch. He pulls the covers up and tucks Harry back in, then heads off to the bathroom. And if he weren't trying to let Harry sleep, he'd be whistling.


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 01/17/2005 09:10:00

Exception 5 (EB/HS) NC-17
Exception 5: Overload
Universe: Chiaroscuro
Authors: Helens and Luna
Pairing: Eric Bana/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Roughness. It's Evilverse; you gotta expect that.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: We don't know, own, or have anything to do with these men (or we'd never get anything done). Please step away from the crack pipe, this is completely fictional.


There are masters who insist that their slaves sit at their feet for every meal, and certainly Eric's no stranger to such an arrangement, but he's got no desire to look down to get at Harry's eyes every time they have dinner. Besides which, part of what he likes about Harry is that Harry can be a damned good conversationalist, and hearing what Harry's been working on is interesting. Harry's got more freedom than a lot of slaves, at least in terms of work and leisure, and Eric's fascinated by what Harry chooses to spend that freedom doing.

Dinner's almost over, though, and Eric leans back in his chair, looking at Harry with the full knowledge that he will be dessert. It's just a matter of how he wants to take him this time.

Sitting or kneeling, it's all the same to Harry. He has nothing to compare anything to. Has never been a slave, so he takes what Eric does, what Eric gives him, as the way it's supposed to be. And he finds Eric fascinating. He hasn't quite figured out what to make of him, the work, the hobbies, the obsessions, but Harry figures he'll have time enough.

"Your eyes devour, Eric, cut through and consume," Harry says, taking a last sip of water, "but I'm sure you know your slave feels like he's been eaten and it's not even the desseer course." He smiles.

"Glad to hear it," Eric says, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hands. "You were very good today in the garage. I've been thinking of ways to reward you for that. I think I'll let you have another choice." He grins. "I can take you apart with pain, take you apart with pleasure. What's your poison tonight?"

Harry cocks his head, thinks on the options. Just like choosing chains or release, it's a Scylla-Charybdis situation. Pain is a familiar death, one Eric's dealt him repeatedly. Pleasure, though, is a lesser known conquerer, one that piques Harry's curiosity. "I think I'd like to try pleasure, sir."

"You know, I'd hoped you'd say that," Eric says. "Let's get this cleaned up and then I'll take you back to the bedroom." He slides out of his chair and grabs up his dishes, carrying them into the kitchen.

That's another thing Harry's getting used to, that Eric doesn't want a service slave. He's content to help load the dishwasher, scrubs the pots, even does the laundry if it needs doing. Harry rakes the leftovers into a plastic container, seals it and pops it into the fridge, then finishes off the load of dishes, pouring in detergent and setting it to cycle through a heavy load.

"All done," he says, looking around, double-checking, snagging a drying cloth and folding it before draping it over the sink's edge. "Bedroom?"

"Bedroom," Eric says, nodding at the kitchen door. "Don't strip off. I'll be doing that myself tonight."

"Yes, sir." Harry makes his way down the hall into the bedroom, opts for standing at the foot of the bed instead of kneeling, since there weren't specific instructions for it. He's still mostly hard from the garage fun, and the thought of Eric stripping him has his cock twitching in his jeans.

Eric takes a brief detour to go around the house, check the doors to make sure everything's locked up, wash his hands and generally give Harry just a little time to settle in before he gets back to the bedroom. When he does get there, he smiles at the position Harry's taken up. "Good," he says, stripping his shirt over his head and dropping it on the floor. He kicks his shoes off, too, strips off his socks. "Very good." Jeans go next and then he's bare, and he heads for Harry, settling his hands on Harry's hips and leaning in to press a kiss to his lips.

Harry watches Eric strip, smiling at the praise offered, his eyes and mind more intent on the sculpted body being revealed in front of him. Not overly bulky. Near-perfect proportion. Except the hands. Like Michaelangelo's David, they seem out of place on the body. And then they're on Harry's hips and Eric's lips are pressing in and Harry forgets about the director's mind and focuses on being the slave, yielding to the touch, the almost-too-soft caress of flesh.

For the first few minutes it's all about the lips. Just that brush of lips over lips, Eric's hands still on Harry's hips, Eric's lips nuzzling Harry's apart. Eric's cock is getting hard just from that, and by the time he slides his tongue into Harry's mouth and starts tasting him, his cock's pressed nice and tight against Harry's thigh.

The brush of lips on lips tingles, unnerves in a strange way. Harry's not used to pleasure, not without the pain. He's had it, but it's been so long, and he's sure it was never quite like this. Eric unravels Harry, shreds his defenses in ways Harry thinks it'll take a lifetime to understand, if even then.

Eric runs his hands all over Harry's chest, over his back, touching, caressing through fabric, not in any hurry to get to the part where clothes are tossed off haphazardly and it's skin on skin. Every moment needs to be experienced for its own sake; that's the whole point. He's not in any rush. And he hasn't stopped kissing Harry, has let his lips drift over cheeks, nose, chin, back to lips for long, tongue-sliding kisses that leave Eric breathless, but the kissing hasn't stopped.

The kissing takes Harry's breath away. He's gasping between kisses, in those tiny gaps Eric's barely leaving. Lips. Face. Lips. And Eric's hands. They're everywhere. Harry's overloading on the sensory. Pleasure. He's never been allowed this much. Not just pleasure, not without paying for it. He feels dizzy, but he's standing, taking what his master wants to give, not even sure if he's meant to respond other than take.

The next time Eric pulls back, he grips Harry by one wrist -- firm touch, but gentler than usual -- and tugs him into bed, levering Harry down on his back. He stretches out at Harry's side, one leg over Harry's, hand rubbing over Harry's chest and moving lower. "You can touch me," Eric murmurs. "You still don't get to come until I tell you."

"Touch you." Harry reassures himself of the permission granted before laying his hand on Eric's hip, rubbing down, slow-moving fingers gliding over the curves. He's taking time he hasn't in all his weeks of living with Eric, hesitant in his tracing down over thighs.

"Mm. Nice," Eric breathes. "I like your touch." He rubs his cock against Harry's hip before drawing his own hand down, past Harry's cock to tease at his inner thighs.

"I like touching you," Harry says, "but it's strange. I've never been this intimate with a lover." He slides his hand to the back of Eric's thigh, up over his arse, shivering even as Eric's fingers tease at his own flesh. "Never this slow, gentle."

"Never is a long time," Eric whispers. He curls up closer, lips leaving tiny soft kisses over Harry's shoulder, down along the line of his collarbone and moving up to the center of his throat. "Right now, right here, you've got all the time in the world."

"Oh, fuckin' Christ, that's --" Harry loses the words as Eric's tongue slides over his collarbone, the lick rippling into his brain, turning his thoughts and words to whimpering moans. All the time in the world may end up killing him, he thinks, the pleasure quickly becoming more intense than any pain he knows.

Eric shifts, climbs on top of Harry fully and stretches out, cock rubbing against Harry's. He reaches for Harry's hands, catches his wrists in a gentle grip and pushes them down into the pillows, licks softly across Harry's collarbone again, a wide, flat, achingly slow lick that goes from shoulder to shoulder.

The ripple's full-body this time, the shiver hitching Harry's breath and cascading down, his chest drawing in, hips arching up, legs stretching under Eric's. "Fuck, Eric, that, uh, that," he can't find the right words, "never, oh, fuck."

"You're amazing," Eric grins, "and I love driving you wordless." He nudges Harry's legs apart just a little, settles between them and keeps thrusting his hips forward, gentle, easy. Such gorgeous reactions. Eric wonders if another twisting little lick over Harry's collarbone will have him completely out of his mind. Let's try it. Twisting, flickering licks, this time stopping to bite every few inches or so.

It does drive him completely mindless. Harry tilts his head back, his body shuddering, and he bites his lip to keep from coming just at the bite. You don't come till he tells you. He clamps down on the urge to push up, make more connection, knowing it would drive him over the edge.

Eric lifts his head for a moment. "Is this how you'd like to come? The first time," he clarifies. "I'm not going to stop until you're practically passing out on me."

If I have to die, let it be this way. "Yeah, Eric, this way. Please." Harry knows he's asking for more torture. Doesn't care, as long as it's at Eric's hands.

"This way's fine. Come when you want." And Eric slides his hands under Harry's shoulders, curls his fingers around them as he starts thrusting more seriously, cock sliding against cock, lips and teeth slowly making love to one patch of skin after another, licking in that same slow, steady path across Harry's upper chest.

Permission to come when he wants. Harry shakes his head, one sensation piling on another and then the words, those words. Oh, fuck, it's too much for him to take and Eric's middle of the fourth or fith lick then Harry comes, his cock twitching against Eric's, spurting pulses of sticky whiteness between their bodies. He doesn't scream, much as his body wants to, but moans and whimpers out the orgasm he knows is only the first of the night.

Gorgeous. Absolutely fucking gorgeous. Eric's cock slides through hot smears of come, and Eric shudders, slowing down, not ready to spill his own come over Harry's stomach. He comes to a rest, nuzzling softly into Harry's neck. "Good boy," he whispers, "so fucking good for me, wanted it just like that..."

"Yes, sir," Harry mutters. "Thank you, sir." He can't move, body on edge, not quite down from the orgasm yet, shivering with the sudden chill after an intense heat. "Fuckin' great, sir."

"Mmhm." Eric licks the side of Harry's neck, nuzzling softly. "Go on. Put your arms around me and rest awhile." He chuckles. "Tell me if I'm crushing you."

Putting arms around his lover -- no, he mentally corrects, his master -- is easier said than done. Harry slowly moves them, stretches out the muscles and eases his arms down around Eric's body. "You're crushing me," he murmurs, "but I like it. Comforting."

"Comforting?" Eric asks, levering up just a touch to look down in Harry's eyes. He brushes the hair back from Harry's forehead, strokes the backs of his fingers down Harry's cheek. "That's one I haven't been accused of before."

"Sorry. Didn't mean it that way." Harry shivers again, the touch of Eric's fingers along his cheek. "It's just, the pressure, it hurts, and that's reassuring."

"That's good." It's unfamiliar territory, not being able to set his slave on edge with a look, or -- no. No, that's not what's unfamiliar. What's truly unfamiliar is being able to shut that off. Having a few moments of edgeless pleasure and familiarity.

Harry's not so sure about how good it is. It's unsettling, the pleasure and familiarity. All he's known is pain. It's all he's ever wanted. Till now. It's different with Eric, and that's not bad. It's just, well, unsettling. Harry wriggles under Eric's weight, letting it press him into the mattress, bind him with flesh restraints, work at settling his mind again. Want this. All of it. Just have to get used to it.

Eric presses his lips to Harry's forehead. "You want a bit of rest before I keep going?"

"No, sir," Harry mutters, enveloped in Eric's body. "Not really. Unless you're just wanting me to have it."

"Just checking," Eric smiles. He starts crawling down the bed, then, licking a path down Harry's chest, going for Harry's stomach where he starts licking up the leftover sticky traces of come.

No matter how much Harry might want the rest, he's not going to ask for it. He pushes back into the pillow at Eric's licks, deliciously painful in how they tickle, his body already on edge and begging for more in spite of itself.

When the come on Harry's stomach is all cleaned up, Eric moves lower, taking gentle licks over his cock, careful around still-too-sensitive skin.

Too sensitive. Too much. Harry bites at his lip, small tugs of teeth over flesh. Excruciating in the most subtle of ways. He wraps his hands in the sheets.

Eric lifts his head up. "No?" he asks, sliding a hand up Harry's thigh. "This isn't supposed to hurt, Harry."

"Doesn't hurt," Harry murmurs, "not exactly. Just intense."

"Mm. All right." Eric licks from balls to tip again, long and slow. "You taste good," he murmurs. "Like you've spilled out everything for me."

"Everything. For you." Harry shivers at the long lick. "Like what you take, what you make me want to give."

"I like it, too," Eric says, and he realizes the next time he slides his lips up the length of Harry's cock that that's unusual, too. Being able to say he likes something, someone he's topping. Normally that doesn't even factor in.

You're not supposed to like it. Are you? Harry doesn't know if the internal question's for him or Eric. He clutches the sheets again, that last lick doing its damnedest to make him hard again, and that's painful in itself so soon after coming.

Eric's finished, though, and he comes up the bed, stretching out on his back. "Your turn," he murmurs. "Clean me up. Take your time with it. Carte blanche for whatever you want to do."

There's a "fuck" on Harry's tongue and he barely catches it before pushing up, crawling over Eric's body, settling between his master's spread legs. "Yes, sir," he says, dropping his head and swiping his tongue over Eric's stomach, the come nearly dry but yielding at the moistness of his lick. Take your time.

Eric's hand slips behind Harry's neck and he sighs, scratching lightly, settling in to enjoy his slave's tongue on him. "That's good," he murmurs, "that's excellent."

Harry purrs, rolling his neck into the scratches. It's nice, better than nice, and he licks harder, forcing the sticky white stains up onto his tongue, easing his way down around Eric's cock, languid movements designed to draw out the attention he's being permitted.

It would be easy to shift things, bury both hands in Harry's hair and drag his mouth down over Eric's cock, but Eric's not going to. He's curious, partly, about what pleases Harry when he has free rein, and he's also not in any hurry. He wants Harry nice and hard again before he starts thinking about fucking him, and he wants to fuck his slave more than he wants to come in his slave's mouth. Well... so far.

Harry swirls his tongue around the base of Eric's cock, sucking at the short hairs until every last one's clean, wet with saliva instead of come. Then he drags his tongue along the shaft, feels it stiffen under the slight pressure he exerts, feels himself harden. It would be simple to take it in his mouth, push down, let it rub the back of his throat.

Carte blanche. He gave you free rein. You can take it. With the mental reminder, Harry does just that, slurping as he sinks himself onto Eric's cock, inching down and sucking back up.

"Ohhhh. Oh, fuck, Harry, yes, so good," Eric murmurs. His slave's got an incredible mouth, hot and wet and eager, and Eric digs his fingernails in a little harder, an unconscious demand for more.

Harry gives him more, opening his mouth wider and taking in all Eric's offering, the thick cock stretching his throat as he braces his forearms on either side of Eric's hips, leverages to get just the right angle.

No choking, no forcing, just Eric's cock deep in Harry's mouth, as deep as Harry wants to take him. And it's as delicious as it is unusual, every stroke making Eric gasp. He wonders how long Harry's going to keep it up, and he decides it doesn't matter; he'll hold out for as long as Harry wants to keep doing it.

He's content to go on for hours, but Harry's realistic, too. He knows his jaw will be aching long before then. For the moment, though, he's sucking, long pulls back on Eric's cock, all the way to its head before he sinks back down, making sure the weeping tip brushes his throat on every stroke. Fuck, it's good. It's serving, being used, what he's used to.

"Good boy," Eric murmurs, sliding his fingers through Harry's hair, petting, stroking, scratching through the strands. "I want this in the mornings. Just after my shower. Here, in the bed, this way. Feels so good."

It's a new order. Harry doesn't have many rules, and the overriding one is whatever Eric says, Harry does. That seems to work. He's excited at the prospect of doing this every morning, giving his master this pleasure. He wants to pull back enough to talk, but doesn't dare, not until Eric decides he's finished.

There's a feeling of interest there, and Eric squeezes the back of Harry's neck, implying he can stop if he likes. "Would you like more structure?" he asks softly.

Harry does pull back, off the tip of Eric's cock. "Not necessarily. Only what the master's comfortable with." He smiles, flicks his tongue out, drags it through a drop of precum. "Your slave's wondering, though, if he's to do this every morning, is he to presume he's allowed to make you come?"

"Yes." Eric smiles. "Where I come is something I might decide at the time. And for now, I don't want to come until I'm inside you. I want more than just your mouth."

"Understand. Thank you, for the clarification." Harry licks around the edge of the foreskin, nudging it down with his tongue. "I like being your boy, like doing this, serving you."

"You're doing well." Eric slides his fingers into Harry's hair again, tugs him up. "But right now I want you to ride me."

"Oh, God, yes." Harry doesn't have to be asked twice. He kneels up, shifts, straddles Eric's legs. There's no need for prep, even if Eric would allow it, and he's inching himself down, one hand guiding Eric's cock into his hole. Burn's instant, sharp and seeping, but he ignores it, works through it, bit by bit sinking his body as deep as his mind's going.

"Ah -- yes -- God, so tight for me," Eric moans, hips moving up as his head tilts back and every inch of his body centers on his cock filling Harry's arse, just steady movement in, and Christ it's so good he could scream from it.

It takes a long minute but then he's finally seated, Eric's cock deep inside him, and Harry breathes in and out for another minute before starting to pull back up, then push down, settling into a steady rhythm, building up speed slowly. Yeah, he's tight. And the friction's unbearable. Almost. And sweeter than treacle on toast.

"Yeah," Eric breathes, hands coming down to Harry's hips, "just like that, Harry, come on, fuck yourself on me, show me how much you want it."

Christ, he does want it. Harry slams himself down, hard, deep, and jerks back up, doing it again, taking the full brunt of what Eric can give him on each stroke. "Yeah," he pants out on rising, "fuck," going down, "want it so bad."

"Good," Eric pants, fingers curling deep, bruising. "Fucking perfect. So fucking perfect. Harder."

Master ask, master gets, and Harry drops himself harder, not thinking about how much it hurts, how deep Eric's cock is going. Fuck, he'd swear he could taste it. His eyes water from the pain, the intensity. Fuck, it's gonna hurt later even worse. But it doesn't stop him. Harry keeps stroking, moving up and down as Eric's fingers bruise and mark him. Yours. To take and use.

The angle's not enough. Eric sits up, wraps an arm around Harry's waist and shoves them both over, getting Harry on his back and pushing in all over again. "Mine," he growls, pinning one of Harry's arms down. "Mine."

"Yours," Harry growls back. "Only yours."

Need's been building all night, the need to be here, just like this, buried in his slave's body, and now that he's here Eric wants his marks on Harry, wants his claim all over him. He bends down, bites Harry's shoulder, draws blood to the surface; he can feel it pulsing under the skin, like it's begging to come free, and stops just shy of tasting blood.

Harry screams. He doesn't hold back, not anything. He's claimed, marked, just like he wants. He thrashes, enough to deepen the wound, make sure the bruise will last for weeks instead of days, almost forces the blood to spill into Eric's mouth.

Christ, he's just incredible. Eric growls softly, braces himself on his forearms and bites harder, thrusts in harder, holds Harry down while he's fucking him. Harry's reactions are incredible, everything Eric's been hoping for, and he doesn't know how long he'll be able to hold back with his slave under him this way.

"Please, sir." Harry moans. "May I beg?"

"What do you want to beg for?" Eric answers.

"For you to hurt me, come inside me, mark me."

"Beg for it, boy," Eric growls, "your master's close." And he thrusts in hard, hard enough to stab deep and burn.

"Please, Eric, sir, use your slut, your slave, fuck him till he screams. Please come. Want to feel it inside me." The burn's intense, too much capsican on a muscle ache kind of intense, searing through muscle.

Yes, Eric thinks, but by now he's beyond words, growling and gasping and throwing his head back to scream as he comes, completely blind from the pleasure.

Harry's screaming, as loudly as Eric, his voice, what he can find of it, piercing the room's stillness. No words. Just guttural sounds, Harry pushed beyond the point for needing articulation.

As the sound dies off, Eric lowers himself onto Harry's chest, exhausted and panting and trying to catch his breath. "Christ." He licks at a bruise just above Harry's collarbone. "Christ, that was good."

"Good? Not a strong enough word, Eric." Harry's panting. "It was pretty damned great from this side."

Eric chuckles. "Glad you thought so." He leans up, kisses Harry's forehead... pauses to lick up a bead of sweat from his temple. "We're all sticky," he murmurs. "Come shower with me."

"Yes, sir. Sticky's not bad." Harry's moving slow, shifting under Eric's touches, kisses. "Shower sounds better, though."

"Mmm." Eric drags himself off Harry, crawling down the bed and licking, then biting, at Harry's chest along the way. He curls his tongue in a slow lick over Harry's cock, bites hard at the inside of one thigh.

"Oh, fuck." Bite. Lick. Harry's gonna be hard again, whether he wants to be or not. "That's not helping to get to the shower." He doesn't think Eric minds much at all when they actually get to the bathroom.

"No?" Eric grins, teases the tip of his tongue up along the crease of Harry's thigh.

"No. Fuck, master." Harry doesn't call Eric that much, or even drop into formal tone, but it seems right sometimes. "Your slave can barely concentrate. Know that's your intention, but, oh, god, that's good."

"Yes, it is." There's something about not insisting on hearing Master, not hearing it every day, that makes it all the better when it does come out. Your slave. Eric moves lower, licks at Harry's balls and sucks one, then the other, into his mouth. "You taste good. Like sweat. Like sex. Like you've been such a good slave for me."

Eric's undoing Harry with each lick, unraveling whatever preconception Harry had about belonging to Eric, whatever sense of reality Harry had about his life and where it was heading. All that melts away at the first swipe of Eric's tongue. "He tries, Master," Harry murmurs, liking how the word warps his mouth. "Your slave wants to be good for you."

"Mmmm." Eric breathes hot air up the length of Harry's cock. "I'm getting distracted from that idea of showering. Starting to think I'd rather taste you all over. Make you come again, screaming."

Harry shivers. "You could do that. Easily." He grins. "Or we could take the shower, Master," Harry says, almost purring out the word, "and you could torture your slave under hot steam."

"Best of both worlds," Eric says. He licks up the length of Harry's cock, then stands up. "All right. Off to the shower. And run the water hot enough to scald."

"Yes, sir." Harry scrambles for the edge of the bed, pulls himself off and heads for the bathroom. Getting the water to scalding's easy enough, and within minutes the mirror is fogged over and the room steamy.

Eric follows Harry into the bathroom a few minutes later, already pleased with the way the room's steam-heated. He wraps an arm around Harry's waist and pulls him close, kissing the side of Harry's neck. "Can you stand it that hot?" he asks. "No matter what I'm doing to you?"

Harry nods. "Yes, sir. That's not too hot. Can take whatever you give." He tilts his head, leans back into Eric's body and hazards a brush of fingers over Eric's hand holding him tight. "No matter what."

"Good." Eric squeezes Harry's waist and then pushes him gently towards the shower. "Let's climb in."

Harry steps into the shower, wincing when the first jets hit his shoulders. It's near scalding. He knows he'll adjust, but those first seconds take Harry's breath, have him touching the tile wall for a moment of cool.

Eric loves it when the water's this hot. Nearly enough to take his skin off. He runs his hands down Harry's chest, watches as the heat starts turning them both red, and bends down to bite at the side of Harry's neck. Harry's already marked all over; Eric wants to see more.

The scream's silent, drowned in the water trickling down Harry's face into his mouth as he tilts his head. Eric's hands are leaving white prints in his red skin. Marks on top of marks, claimed and reclaimed, over and over. It's never enough. Never will be, he imagines.

That's how it's supposed to be, the word enough meaningless as long as Eric's got his hands on his slave. Most of the time enough is several steps past too much, but Eric isn't letting himself think about that. Not when he's got his hands all over Harry's body and he's layering bruise on top of bruise under pounding, searing water.

It's oddly therapeutic, being bruising under scalding water. Harry can't feel all the pain he knows is there, should be there, when Eric's fingers dig into his sides, his back. He can't imagine how much he's going to hurt. Well, he can, if he tries, but he's more focused on the moment, on closing his eyes and mentally tracking Eric's fingers pressing under his rib cage before tracing down his stomach.

Down Harry's stomach, fingers wrapping around his cock and squeezing. "Good slave," Eric murmurs. "Want to feel you come for me again. What are the chances?"

You've got be kidding. Harry thinks it, but he doesn't say it. "Honestly don't know," he manages. "Can try."

"Try for me," Eric urges, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulders and shielding him from most of the scalding water. "Do you know how good you sound when you're screaming?"

"Okay." Harry sucks in a breath, filtered through water. It's going to be torture, not that torture's a problem. "Want to scream for you. Make me. Please?"

"Good slave. Tell me if you find you can't." Eric pushes Harry back, pins him against the tiles and wraps his hand around Harry's cock, starting to stroke. Nothing easy about it, not even this early on; there's no way pleasure's going to give Harry enough to focus on, so it'll have to be about the pain.

It is about the pain. That's all Harry has, all he can concentrate on. Every stroke agonizes, slurs the pain from unbearable to excruciating. There's nowhere to go except through it, so Harry focuses on that, tapping into a place in his brain where he can disassociate enough to let the pain carry him through. He feels his cock respond, slow stretching, blood flowing back into it.

"Good," Eric murmurs, licking Harry's neck. "Focus for me. Let the pain get you hard and then harder. Think about how perfect the burn's going to be when you come through it."

"Yessir." Harry hisses out the word, then another breath. He focuses, getting harder under Eric's touch. He's still not sure he can manage it, but he's trying, 'cause Eric wants him to, is encouraging him to succeed.

Eric squeezes, merciless under steaming water. The ache has to be brutal, and Eric's never pushed a slave for this much before. He's never given a slave so much that the reward's going to be not coming for a day. But he's never had anyone like Harry before, never had someone so ready to give. And he's going to see just how far that willingness goes.

"Goddamn, Eric, fuck, it hurts." Harry pants through the roll of pain, the one that unleashes from his groin and doesn't stop till he's coming. He's never done that, never come under this much pressure, never been asked for this much. His cock jerks in Eric's fingers, the pulses taking an eternity, his body having so little to give to the agony.

"Yes, oh fuck, Harry," Eric groans, licking over Harry's lips and then kissing him hard as the last jets fall. All this, he's been given all this, and he wonders if Harry's going to wake up in the morning with that look in his eyes that says run.

Harry's beyond thinking, beyond reasoning that what's he doing is insane, pushing his body this far. He collapses in Eric's hold, letting himself go limp from the inside out. He'll think about it in the morning. Maybe. Or maybe he'll just put aside thought and go with instinct, and that's telling him this is right, this is where he needs to be.

"Just give me a second--" Eric reaches behind him, gets the water shut off. "Let me get you into bed."

"Bed," Harry echoes. It sounds perfect. Not that he'd argue if there was something else Eric wanted to do. He's past the point of no return on that front, possessed completely.

It's not easy getting Harry out of the shower, toweling him off enough he won't drip when Eric gets him into bed. But Eric's patient, and Harry's worth all the effort, and when Eric has him lying across the foot of the bed, he runs a hand down Harry's arm. "Good slave," he murmurs. "So proud of you."

The words sink in slowly. Good slave. And he's made his master proud. There's no higher praise. Harry sinks into sleep quickly. Tomorrow he'll worry about hurting.


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 12/04/2004 06:53:00

I Never... 6 (SB/JLM) NC-17
I Never... Can Never Get Enough
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Jonny Lee Miller
Warnings: These boys never do anything easy...
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: We do not, in any way, shape or form, own these boys. Alas.


It's nervewracking sometimes, trying to spring good news on a lover. Sean's sure Jonny's going to look at him and ask if he's out of his mind. Or he'll want to know why Sean's doing this, or have some question Sean can't answer. Maybe this was a bad idea. God.

He parks the car and heads upstairs, slipping his key out of his pocket and letting himself in. "Jonny? I'm home."

"Sure thing, Chad. Yeah, I can cover for you." Jonny's on the phone, sitting on the couch, t-shirt and jeans, half-buttoned, no shoes. He waves at Sean, motions him over. "I understand. No, dude, really. Chance of a lifetime. Take it."

Sean drops his keys on the kitchen counter and heads over, sprawling across the couch -- and Jonny -- resting his head in Jonny's lap.

Jonny laughs, tousles Sean's hair, long true blonde strands. "Hi, lover," he says, smiles. "Uh, no, Chad, not you." He rolls his eyes. "I don't call you lover, no matter how good you kiss. Now, it's two shifts first of the week, you owe me a holiday shift later." He pauses, listens. "Sure. Have fun."

"Welcome home," Jonny says, toggling the phone off and dropping it on the couch. "Comfortable?"

"Mm, very," Sean says, grinning up at Jonny. "Trading off with Chad for something?"

"Yeah. He got this incredible flight deal to London and we juggled so he could do it. I'm working his Monday and Tuesday shifts and then he'll give me a holiday shift later." Jonny smooths back Sean's hair. "You need this cut just a bit. Want me to do it later?"

Sean grins; the idea's impossibly cute. "Yeah," he murmurs. He shifts a little, settling in better on Jonny's lap. "I have news."

"What?" Jonny squirms with Sean's movements, the shift rubbing his head against Jonny's crotch, cock responding. "Good news or bad?"

"Good news," Sean says, then bites his lower lip, hoping it goes over well. "I found us a house we can rent."

"A --" Jonny starts, then goes silent. His hand stills in Sean's hair. He's shocked, surprised. He really means not to leave. "A house?" He finds his voice again, clearing his throat. "Where?"

"It's further out than here. It'd mean a longer drive to work for both of us, but..." Sean takes in Jonny's expression, thinks it's a good one. "But there's a basement and it's pretty far away from any neighboring houses. Kind of small, but bigger than here. I thought maybe in the next couple of days you could come look at it..."

"We need a basement?" Jonny suspects where Sean's heading with the idea, but he's not wanting to assume. He's tried not to get too far ahead in this relationship, take too much for granted. "Bigger than here. Real walls even, I bet."

"Real walls," Sean says softly, "space to grow into. Between us it'd be something we could afford. Is it something you'd want?"

"Yeah. I think so." Jonny doesn't turn away, makes himself look at Sean while he asks what he needs to make sure of. "You want to stay around that long? You're sure? I don't want you trapping yourself."

"I was ready to ask you the same thing," Sean murmurs, reaching up and brushing his fingers across Jonny's face. "I like what we have. A lot. I don't want to lose it."

Jonny kisses Sean's fingertips. "Don't want to either. House sounds good. I'm sure sis wouldn't mind having me out of here."

"I just like the idea of having more room. And having it with you. And you know... I've not had a place of my own here. Moved in with him, then moved in with you and... I like the idea of having someplace we can call our own." Sean grins, rubs his index finger over Jonny's lips.

"Our place. Yeah." Jonny sucks in the edge of Sean's finger, tugs it between his teeth before letting go. "Fuck me, Sean. Like you wanna break me."

"Yeah," Sean breathes, sitting up and turning, pushing Jonny to his back against the couch cushions. "Want that," he whispers, biting at Jonny's lips, "want you, so much..."

"Ditto. Want all of it. Every inch. Every bruise. Every word of love you whisper when you're beating me till I can't stand up." Jonny scoots himself back, coy grin. "C'mon, take it."

Sean crawls up on top of him, lands between Jonny's legs and wrestles for Jonny's wrists. "Love you when you're hurting for me and fighting me and screaming the walls down with my name," Sean grins. "Love the way your body opens for me like you can never get enough."

"Can't get enough. Ever." Jonny struggles, albeit half-heartedly. "Love it when you take me down. Want more of it. Want you to teach me what I don't know."

"Want room to play as rough as I'd like," Sean says, pinning Jonny's wrists and pressing them to the couch's arm. "Have I ever told you how much I love the way you go to work bruised for me?"

Jonny's squirming again, tugging his wrists up, working for those bruises. "Yeah, Chad's admired your handiwork, says I'm a lucky boy."

Sean grins, ducks his head just a little. "You show off?" he asks softly, glancing back up at Jonny's face and then licking at the side of his neck.

"Not intentional. He nudged me and I winced, that big bruise on my side, the one that's been black for a week, so he asked and I," Jonny stops, takes a breath, "sorry if I did something wrong."

"You're talking too fast," Sean murmurs, still licking in the spaces between words. "And you didn't do anything wrong. I like the idea of people we can trust seeing my marks on you."

"Sorry. Always do that when I'm nervous." Jonny takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, something that's more difficult than it should be with Sean licking him. "Chad's safe. He's in the scene, and was gushing over the patterns."

Sean's going to start blushing any minute. But at the moment he's more busy turning patches of Jonny's neck and shoulders red than worrying about his own cheeks, and he bites down hard, then harder. "So proud of you," he whispers. "You're so good when you're taking pain for me."

"Oh, fuck." Jonny pants hard at the bite. Damn, it's good. Fuckin' good. Hard. And it'll bruise like a saint. "Love taking it."

Fuck me like you want to break me. Sean lets one of Jonny's hands go and reaches down between them, tugging down Jonny's zipper and sliding his hand inside.

Jonny pulls his hips up, stretches into Sean's grasping. "Oh, yeah, been thinking 'bout that all damned day. Much better than paying bills."

"It's been distracting me all day at the plant, too," Sean says, wrapping his hand around Jonny's cock, squeeze-stroking. "I keep wanting to add things to my spreadsheets like tortion test, performed on lover and pressure statistics... speaking of..." The stroke turns into a hard squeeze, and Sean doesn't let up.

There's no word to properly convey the intense pain of that sudden move, so Jonny just screams, letting out a multisyllabic nonword, following it up with a sharp panting, trying to regain a moment of sense before Sean moves to the next step.

Sean lets himself revel in the sounds Jonny's making just for a minute before easing up and dragging his hand back out of Jonny's pants. He jerks his clothing down, around Jonny's thighs, and shoves his shirt upwards on his chest.

Being stripped excites Jonny and he tugs his shirt on up, over his head, letting it dangle and twist in his hands. "Please, Sean, want you inside me, hand on my cock, telling me I can't come till you do."

As the words are spilling out, Sean's shoving his own pants down and looking for the lube, shoving a hand under the couch cushions and groping for it. There. Yes. Not too much, though; he slides a palmful of it over his cock and then drops the tube into the cushions again. Jerks Jonny's pants down further, enough to give himself room to fit between his legs. "You don't get to come 'til I tell you," Sean says, and he pushes Jonny's thighs as far apart as he can and then shoves in, awkward at first, angle far from perfect, but oh, God, there, and as soon as he starts sinking in it's so good he can't stand it.

The angle's all wrong, Jonny's back bent against the couch arm and aching as Sean sinks in. "Don't come. Yes, sir." He's ignoring the pain in his body that's not good, focusing on Sean.

Sean can't get himself all the way in this way, can barely rock the head of his cock in, but it doesn't matter. What matters is what Jonny's giving him, his body stretched out under him and willing to take whatever Sean's pressing on him. Sean gets his hand between them, wraps long fingers around Jonny's cock. "You're so good for me," he breathes, jabbing in as deep as he can go. "So -- fucking -- good for me..."

It hurts, the jabbing, and not in a good way, but Jonny's taking it. Maybe he shouldn't. Maybe, he thinks, he should be thinking it hurts too much. And what's wrong with him for not thinking that way. So good for me. Then all he concentrate on is Sean's hand, long fingers easing over swollen flesh.

The angle's just a little too awkward, fingers slipping, body already aching. Sean bends forward, slants his lips over Jonny's, then pulls back, bracing himself on the couch and catching his breath for a second. "Up," he says, "on your knees, bent over, can't get at you the way I'd like." He grins.

"Thanks," Jonny mutters, nearly under his breath, shifting and turning himself. He settles again, after a moment, a few breaths, on his knees, forearms on the couch's edge. It's much better, not that he was was going to complaing about the other.

"There," Sean murmurs, curling up behind Jonny and just pressing the length of his body against Jonny's back, running a hand down Jonny's chest and tangling his fingers in the curls at the base of his cock. "Better?"

"Yeah, better." Jonny moans the last of that, Sean's fingers working a magic he has yet to comprehend. "Fuck me now?"

Sean licks up the side of Jonny's neck and runs his tongue over the curve of Jonny's ear. "You know, we could do this easy," he murmurs. "Doesn't always have to break us both."

"I know. I like the rough, how you pull me apart before all the pieces come together." Jonny whimpers at the licks. "I'll take the easy, too. Just want you, Sean."

"Just want you," Sean agrees, biting the back of Jonny's neck as he slides into him again, hands tight on Jonny's hips. He's almost curious what easy for them would look like.

"Yeah, that's," Jonny gasps, "perfect." He pushes back, hips angled and arse begging for more, deeper, harder. Easy would be fine, it'd be great, but it's not what Jonny wants at the moment.

Sean might've been happy with easy if it weren't for the way Jonny's body is arching for him, the curve of his spine, the way his arse is just begging to be ridden hard and fucked deep. Sean grabs the hair just at the nape of Jonny's neck and shoves his face into the cushions, and he slams in hard, rough, one deep, brutal shove after another.

That's it. Exactly what Jonny wants, needs, craves more than the nicotine habit he developed in high school. It's brutal, exacting, better than every fuck he's ever had. Easy they'll do later. Sure. At the new house. The thought catches in Jonny's brain. Buying a house together. Okay, big step.

"Fuck, Sean, yes," Jonny mutters into the couch arm when one thrust hits perfectly, his mind snapping back to where it belongs.

Sean wraps his hand around Jonny's cock again, squeezing hard at the base. "Don't come," he whispers. "Mine. You come when I tell you."

"Yes, sir," Jonny snaps out, brain brought sharply into tune with body. He wouldn't think of coming, ever if it's what Sean demands.

"Love you," Sean breathes, and then he lets himself get lost. Just lost to the pounding rhythm and the bone-jarring thrusts, body slamming against Jonny's and cock aching from the roughness. It doesn't have to be this way, wouldn't need to be this brutal, but the fact that it can be, that Jonny wants it this way, every bit as much as Sean wants to give it... God, that's amazing, and Sean doesn't think he'll ever take it for granted.

Love's not supposed to hurt, if Jonny believes what he's been spoon-fed all his life. It's also not supposed to involve letting guys shove their cock up your ass. Or so his so-called loved ones tell him. "Love you," Jonny whispers. Love is supposed to wrack your soul and sear your heart. And, in Jonny's case, shred your body into aching pieces. He shoves back as much as Sean's hold will allow, meeting every thrust with force until he feels like he's torn apart, can't take anymore. But he will.

Sean's grip on Jonny's cock must be past painful by now. Sean knows how far Jonny's going for him, how far he's willing to go, and there's no words for how grateful he is for it. He slides his hand down Jonny's cock, starts stroking hard and fast. "All right," Sean breathes. "When I come, you can follow me over."

Thank you. Oh, fuck, thank you. Jonny's cock is way past hurting, and the strokes are almost painful, but, god, they're good, so fuckin' good, and he can will himself to hold back just long enough. "Yes, sir," he pants, "when you come. Thank you, sir."

Sean holds back as long as he can, just to give that added bit of torture -- you can come any minute now, just not yet... not yet... -- but he can't last too much longer, and he comes screaming, arm wrapping around Jonny's waist and tugging him back hard.

The force of Sean's orgasm slams into Jonny's body, and he's coming just as hard, with screams to match. It's never felt so good, he thinks, every single time he comes for this man. He's spilling out over Sean's hand, the couch arm, not giving a damn about either getting sticky.

Hot, wet, and sticky all over. Sean collapses against Jonny's back and holds him close, leaving warm soft kisses all over his shoulder. "I love you forever," he whispers, everything about his body language saying he could stay this way indefinitely.

Forever's a long time, Jonny thinks, but he's willing to love Sean that much, for that long, trust that nothing's going to go wrong. "Forever and the night after," he murmurs.


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 12/04/2004 06:50:00

Matter of Inertia 15 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 15: Balanced Forces
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Schmoop, rough sex.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: We don't own these men, unfortunately. Only fiction.


At the rate he's going, Sean's going to start associating airports with getting hard, which would be a hell of a lot nicer than associating them with panic. Unfortunately, getting hard now, while waiting for Harry at the gate, just means he's trying not to let his eyes roll back in his head from pain. He's gotten used to it, and it is one hell of a lot better than it was five weeks ago. He's still got three weeks before he's supposed to jerk off or fuck. The fucking part's not a problem; he's been too damned busy to think about fucking anyone on either of his sets. Jerking off... well, he fucked that up once. That was plenty.

The ring rubs against fabric as Sean paces, and Sean bites down hard to keep from groaning. Any minute now. Christ, I miss you.

Harry's first off the plane, but then there's customs to clear, smiles to make and questions to answer. He's at the last hurdle, luggage reclaimed and waiting in line for the last official, when he spots Sean at the end of the long corridor. Fuck, I've missed you. It's tempting to just break and run when he's waved through, but he's at least showing some decorum, shrugging his backpack over his shoulder and tugging up on the suitcase.

Just one more minute, Sinclair, and you can touch him.

Just one more minute, but damn if those last sixty seconds don't seem long. Sean's rooted himself in place, determined not to draw any more attention than necessary by walking -- jogging -- half-running down the hall and tugging Harry into his arms. No, relax. He's here now. Five weeks was far too fucking long. Sean jams his hands into his pockets, a last-ditch effort to remind himself to behave.

Just a few more feet and he's there. Harry leans against the wall when he gets to where Sean's standing. "You the bloke here to pick me up?" he asks, grinning. Be good, Harry. Still in public.

Sean's tongue pokes out between his teeth, and he grins. "Yes, sir, Mr. Sinclair. Got the car right out front for you. How was your flight, can I take your luggage, and did you know your lover's missed you so much he could barely sleep this last week?"

"Yeah, take the suitcase. I've got the backpack." Harry hands off the heavier bag. "Barely sleep. Hmmm. Maybe he'll sleep better tonight after a good shag." He leans in, casual move to the casual observer, whispers against Sean's cheek. "Plan on fucking him till he's screaming, but suppose I'll have to gag him then, just so's not to wake up the neighbors."

"Yeah, that'll help," Sean says. And they can't get back to the hotel fast enough for him. "Anything else?"

"Baggage? No, that's it. I don't plan on needing many clothes next few weeks." Harry's grinning, ear to ear. "Or were you wanting details on what I plan on doing to this lover of mine? Sexy bloke, he is. Natural blonde, although his hair's a bit shorter these days than I like."

Sean grabs Harry's suitcase and leads him off toward the car. He gives a quick ruffle to the short haircut and grins sheepishly at Harry. "Promise I'll grow it long enough you can grab hold of it when I'm done with the shoot," he says.

"Oh, I think I can manage." Harry nudges Sean's shoulder as they cross the road to the parking garage. "I'll just grab your throat instead."

If it wouldn't mean stopping in traffic, Sean would come to a halt at that, grab his lover and finally get his mouth on Harry's. But the minute they're at Sean's car, he drops the suitcase and shoves Harry up against the car door, hissing when his cock drives into the front of Harry's thigh and honestly not giving a damn. "Come here," he growls, "think we've both waited long enough."

"Fuck, yes," Harry snarls, wincing when Sean presses full body, moving enough to rub over the nipple ring, send a ripple through Harry's chest. He wraps his hands around Sean's waist and pulls him closer, sucking on his lover's lower lip, biting, then pulling back a second. "Too. Damned. Long."

"Nnhh." There's not enough air anymore; everything's being taken up by the feel of Harry's body against his and the way they fit together, still perfect after all this time. What amazes Sean is there's no sense of relief, no whispering voice in the back of his head saying oh, God, he still wants me. There was never any question about it. This is real, this is permanent, this is right. And it's so goddamned good to be back in Harry's arms.

This is where he belongs. Sean's arms. Sean's life. He hasn't stopped wanting Sean, not from the moment he dropped him at the airport, wants him even more now than before, now that he's gone months without him. The kisses are hurried, harsh, pulling back when air's desperately sucked in. "Hotel, Sean," Harry rasps out, "unless you want to be fucked over the car in the public garage. Now."

"I'd almost take that except for the screaming," Sean says, shoving himself backward and grinning the way he hasn't done since leaving New Zealand. "Come on, get in." He digs the remote out of his pocket, pops the trunk open. Suitcase and backpack get tucked away, and Sean's heading for the driver's side, wishing there were an easy shortcut back to the hotel.

Harry slides into the passenger side, buckles up and settles back into the seat. He's a bit tired, but enthusiasm at seeing Sean is winning out. "Everyone sends their love, by the way," he says as they clear the airport parking lot. "Well, most everyone. What's it to town? Half hour or so?"

"Closer to an hour." Sean sighs. "But then again, that'll give us time to finish catching up verbally before we tackle each other into walls." Sigh turns into smirk, and Sean slides a hand over to Harry's thigh. "I'm liking New York one hell of a lot better than I liked Berlin. Berlin was fucking cold."

"Oh, right, Sean, verbally." Harry looks down, watches Sean's fingers glide over worn denim. "Zid's not bad right now. I haven't been to New York in years. Or back to Berlin." He spreads his legs, stretching out as much as the car will allow. "What you're looking for is down and to the right a bit," he says casually. "Didn't bring a lot of clothes. Figured I could use the excuse to go shopping."

"Down and to the right?" Sean grins, moving his hand the offered direction. "Oh," he murmurs, palm pressing down against hard cock, "yeah, that's just what I was looking for."

"Figured that was it." Harry lays his hand over Sean's, pressing down hard. "I recall you being very tactile, needing the sensory experience. Damn, I've missed your touches, your fingers gouging and bruising and my body's been mark-free for way too long."

"I've been good," Sean says, "made it through five weeks, five fucking weeks without coming." Except for that one time he jerked off, which is better forgotten. "I wake up hard," he murmurs, squeezing hard enough to feel through denim, "every goddamned morning, and I've been late more than once because there's not enough cold water in any shower to make me stop thinking about you. How it's going to feel when your mouth's on me again and what you'll do with my ring."

"And the good boy'll be rewarded. Been thinking about your mouth, on my cock, my nipple. Piercing's through crucial healing phase. You can't get greedy, but you can at least test it out." Harry's shifting in the seat, his erection growing by the second, hard cock pressing into denim as it responds to Sean's squeezes. It's going to be the longest drive he's ever taken.

"You want me practicing restraint, you may want to use restraints on me," Sean murmurs, voice edging into growl territory. "Tie me down and straddle me, maybe. So you can move out of my reach if I start trying to take too much."

"Oh, fuck, Sean, that sounds good. This hotel, amenable to handcuffs left on nightstands?" Harry's scrambling not to slide over the edge. He could come just from this barest touch, the sound of Sean's voice, but it'd take away all the fun of being able to fuck him the minute they get to the hotel."

"They won't even notice," Sean says. "Aren't I a cliche? Nasty villain type likes playing rough." And with rough he's squeezing cock and balls tight enough to hurt, tight enough to hurt a lot.

Harry grimaces, hand clutching the door's padded leather. "Let me guess," he growls out, "that's about how much you hurt when you get hard."

Sean grins, eases up a fraction. "It's gotten a lot better," he admits. "Still think I'll be screaming when I come. You probably ought to gag me."

"I like hearing you scream." Harry sighs, as much for the rippling out of release pain as the thought they'll still be in public, in a hotel, not at home. "Suppose the people in the next room wouldn't like it, though. Alley, perhaps. Close to the hotel?"

"Oh." And Sean's cock jerks hard enough to make him draw his hand back, curse as he adjusts himself. "Fuck. Fuck, yeah. Soon."

Harry's not going to laugh. Honestly, he's not trying to torment Sean. Well, not any more than usual. "Sorry," he says, trying to be sincere. "Just drive, Sean. We'll get there sooner."

Sean does laugh -- God, it's good to have Harry back -- and the rest of the drive passes by with both of them staying relatively unmolested. Pulling into the hotel's driveway is a relief, and tossing the keys to the valet with a quick note of which room the luggage goes to is even more of one. Everything's taken care of; now it's just a matter of getting inside and finding a private spot. Fuck, the lifts'll do.

Harry sees the glint in Sean's eye, the smirk on his lips. He's laying odds the doors to the lift barely close before Sean's on him. And he's praying, as they cross the lobby, that no one wants on the damn lift with them.

Prayers are answered; the lift's fast and it's empty. Sean hits the button for his floor and pushes Harry into the back wall as soon as the lift starts moving, fingers searching through the fabric of his shirt for the nipple ring. His mouth slants over Harry's; he's said everything that needs to be said more than once. Love you. Missed you. So glad you're here.

Want you. Need you. Fuck, I missed you. There's nothing left to say that can't be screamed into Sean's mouth in brutal kisses, telegraphed in Harry's fingers wrapping Sean's waist and sliding under the shirt, bunching up the fabric, nails raking over flesh he hasn't marked his own in too many weeks.

Nothing Sean's felt in the last five weeks has been as good as the pain that arcs into him when Harry scratches trails into his body. Everything fits again, all the pieces feeling perfect, and he moans into Harry's mouth, blunting all his sounds and wondering if kicking the damned lift wall would make the thing go faster.

Mine. Forever. Harry's digging his nails into Sean's back, reclaiming even as he wishes the lift would go faster, get to their damned floor. Now. He needs completion, needs to be inside Sean, wrapped around him, coming hard and then screaming for more.

For all the mental complaint about the lift taking too damned long, Sean barely notices when it comes to a halt. It takes the combined chime, stutter-stop and the doors opening to get his attention, and he pulls away reluctantly. "Guess we ought to get a room, eh?" He grins.

"Yeah, we should," Harry says, letting his hands drop away from Sean's body. He moves out through the doors before they begin to close. "I'll even be patient enough to wait till we've closed the door to start stripping you."

"That's generous. In your shoes, I'd be hard pressed to keep myself in line." But Sean's dragging the keycard out of his pocket, ready to jam it into the slot as soon as they're at the right door. Three more doors down the hall. Two. And there they are, Sean's keycard tripping the green light and the door opening obediently.

Harry shoves Sean into the room, shoving the door shut behind them. "Okay, so I lied." Harry smirks, shrugs off his jacket and tosses it on the floor. "Out of the clothes, Sean. Faster you do, faster you get fucked." His shirt's unbuttoned before he finishes the sentence.

Sean strips his jacket off; it hits the floor, and it's followed by shirt, shoes kicked off haphazardly, socks toed out of and jeans shoved down hips. Boxers join the pile and he's naked, licking his lips and giving a quick glance to his cock. Hard, dark, and then there's that damned ring through the head of it, silver with a captive bead holding it together.

Shoes are toed out of and jeans shucked and Harry's naked same time as Sean. He's staring, eyes captivated by the ring. "Oh, fuck, Sean, it's temptation worse than the best sin I know." He moves quickly, stepping behind Sean, pressing against him, the ring in Harry's nipple rubbing against Sean's back, and his cock tight against the cleft of Sean's arse. "You got any lube handy? Or you want to hurt?"

"In my jacket if you want it," Sean says, bracing his palms against the wall, "wouldn't complain if you don't. Tear me open, Harry. Missed you so much."

Harry shoves Sean's legs apart with his knee, running his hand down over Sean's arse, fingers into the cleft, circling once around the tight pucker before pushing in. "I don't turn down invitations like that, Sean." He leans in, kissing Sean's shoulder, working two fingers into his lover's body, the tightness fighting every nudge forward. "Open for me, luv."

Sean pushes back, grits his teeth against the invasion and blows out a breath to get his muscles to relax. Relax. That's it. You've been dreaming of this every night for the last goddamned week. Give it to him.

Weeks. Goddamned. Fucking. Weeks. Harry pushes in farther, forced into slowness by Sean's body clenching around his cock. He kisses the center of Sean's upper back, licks over the neck, flesh exposed by the short hair cut. "C'mon, Sean, that's it." He pulls back and slams forward, covering old territory and picking up another few inches. He's almost all in, but that last bit's going to burn like hell. "Been wanting you like this for weeks. Thinking about it. Dreaming. Fuck, you're good. Tight and burning me up."

"You think it burns for you," Sean says, but he's laughing through it, laughing and wincing and shoving back, giving as good as he's getting. "Come on. More. Make me wonder which is going to hurt more at the end of all this, arse or cock. Christ, fucking love you."

Harry's in, balls pushing against Sean's arse, and he stops. "Well, if it's too much," he says, slowly pulling back after a momentary wait, "I can always stop." It's a lie. A really big one. Harry couldn't not fuck Sean tonight if his life depended on it. He's been waiting. He doesn't wait, though, for Sean's comeback. He slams forward, brutal and harsh thrust nearly flattening Sean against the wall. "Not gonna last long, so that'll reduce your pain a bit. Oh, god, I love you for this."

Panting, eyes squeezed tight against the pain, Sean drops a hand to his cock and grits his teeth. "Love you for this, too. Put your hand over my mouth, lover," he growls. "I'm going to end up screaming."

"Of course." Screams. Harry wants to hear them, but, fuck, they're in a hotel. He makes a mental note to go out scoping for the perfect alley while Sean's filming, but for the moment he puts his hand over Sean's mouth. And he pounds into Sean's body harder a few more times, then comes, biting down on his own lip to keep his screams in check and when that's not enough, he bites into Sean's shoulder, his cock pulsing with the release, orgasm shuddering his spine, tightening his chest. Fucking perfect.

Five weeks. Five weeks without this, without his lover hurting him, breaking him, tearing him apart. Sean starts screaming into Harry's fingers as soon as they're there, jerking himself off, fingers flicking at the ring and its beautiful electric ripples of sensation. Coming burns, like nothing he's ever felt before, and even Harry's hand isn't enough to stifle all the sounds. And Sean loves every moment of it.

Harry clutches at Sean's mouth. Christ, he doesn't want to muffle the sounds. They're beautiful, sweet music to his ears. He slams into Sean's arse, continuing the thrusts way past the point of being empty, beyond the edge of pain until it's hurting his cock to continue, and then not stopping until Sean's through his orgasm, reaching his free hand around Sean's body and twining his lover's fingers, coating himself with the white streams.

Sean licks at Harry's fingers, teeth scraping across them as he starts to catch his breath. He holds his hand still, grimaces as Harry's fingers tighten on his.

"That's it, Sean, give me the pain, everything." Harry's whispering, kissing the edge of Sean's ear, licking. "Bite if you want."

Breathing heavily behind Harry's fingers, Sean shakes his head. If he's going to bite Harry, he wants to draw blood. He doesn't want to have to stop.

Harry knows Sean well enough to know he's holding back. Harry's not sure exactly with what or why, but he knows there's no reason to. "Whatever you need, Sean, take it," he says, voice in a low growl. "It's been too long to hold back." Well, except for the screaming, and that's just because Harry's not in any mood to explain matters to the police.

"Want," Sean breathes, shaking his head just enough to get his lips free, "want to get you into bed. God, I'm aching."

He pulls back, slipping out of Sean's body, moving his hands from mouth and cock to wrap Sean's chest. "Then let's get us there," Harry murmurs, stepping to the side, trailing kisses over Sean's shoulder. "Want to fall asleep wrapped around you, wake up hard next to you. Like it's supposed to be every night."

"God, I'm glad you're here," Sean says. He turns around, wraps both arms around Harry's waist and pulls him close. "I'm never going to get used to traveling without you."

"How 'bout you just not do it?" Harry's been thinking about it, how he doesn't want Sean away from him anymore. "No reason I can't go with you when you film. Except that it means everyone knows we're together."

Sean pulls back, trapping himself between the wall and Harry, needing a good look at Harry's expression. "I don't care who knows," he says slowly. There's a twist in his chest, and a hard lump in his throat that's making it hard to talk. "I don't know how much faith you put in promises from a man who's had three forevers that didn't last, but I don't want to go anywhere without you."

Harry's expression is pure love, something he's never felt before, not until he discovered Sean. "I'll take out an ad in Variety, tell the world you're mine," he says, leaning in, touching forehead to Sean's. "Not saying forever 'cause those don't last. All I know is it took us a lifetime to find each other, and I'm not ever letting you go."

How did we get here? Sean wonders, nodding as he runs his hands up Harry's back. He remembers the first night they met, driving home with Harry, taking a risk and sliding his mouth over Harry's cock in the car. Every day that's come since driving them closer and closer together. And now they're here, New York, and it feels like something Sean's needed longer than he could put words to it. "Not ever letting go," he whispers, hugging Harry hard. "Ever."


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 11/28/2004 16:07:00

Matter of Inertia 14 (SB/HS) PG-13
Matter of Inertia 14: Action-at-a-Distance
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Schmoop.
Rating: PG-13. (No sex, but they sure talk about it.)
Disclaimer: We don't own these men, unfortunately. Only fiction.


As soon as the plane touches down in Berlin, Sean's out of his seat. Oh dear fucking Christ that hurt. He's the first off the plane, and he's impatient as hell getting to the hotel.

As soon as he's checked into his room, he strips off and pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket. The time difference doesn't even matter; he's supposed to call whenever he touches ground, no matter what time that is in Wellington.

It's middle of the night, or somewhere thereabouts. Harry isn't sure. He's still awake, caught up in a late-night movie, and the phone's ringing startles him. For a moment. Then he remembers that Sean's headed to Berlin and supposed to call. He picks up the phone, hits the talk button.

"This'd better be my lover," he says, pressing the remote to turn down the TV's volume, "or someone willing to offer phone sex at," he glances at the clock, "3 a.m."

Sean groans. "Don't talk about sex," he says. "Don't mention sex. In fact, don't even think about sex, because I can hear your bloody thoughts, lover, and my dick's sore enough without getting hard."

"Poor Sean." Harry has little sympathy. "You think my nipple's not aching? And my bloody thoughts are on this movie I'm watching, not you." It's a decadent little lie, but it is one of Sean's films and Harry is paying attention. "How was the trip?"

"Too goddamned long, but shorter than it would've been to London, so I guess I'm grateful for that." Sean sighs, stumbles across the room to his luggage. He unzips the smaller bag and digs out his toiletries, heads into the bathroom so he can get at his toothbrush and clean his teeth. "Sitting in a plane for more than ten hours with a brand-new ring through the head of your cock isn't a hell of a lot of fun, though. At this point I'd almost take getting hard if it meant having my cock hurt in a different way."

"If I were there, I'd comfort you. Give you a back rub." Harry pauses. "Can you be on your stomach yet? Or still supposed to not squash things?" He's really trying hard to be sympathetic, not laugh, but it's damned hard, harder than his cock, which is sending ripple pangs to his nipple, which is short-circuiting his brain.

"Bastard," Sean mutters through a mouthful of toothpaste. He pauses to spit, holding the phone away from his ear, then comes back to it. "No, I'm sleeping on my back the next few weeks. Be glad you're not here. The snoring's going to wake neighbors four rooms down."

Harry laughs hard. "Okay, you win. Glad I'm not there."

Sean rinses his mouth out, heads back for the bedroom where he pulls the covers back and slides in, stretching out flat. "Miss you already," he says. "I can't wait to come home to you."

"Can't wait to have you home. For a long time." Harry scrunches down into the chair, stretching out his legs. "I'm driving everyone crazy missing you. Jacko's given me extra unit directing duties just to keep me busy."

"Really?" Sean can't help grinning. He knew Harry was going to miss him; he wasn't sure it was going to be as bad for Harry as it is for him.

"Yeah." Harry's not above admitting just how much he misses Sean. He's fallen in love with the daft Englishman. "Love you, you know. So, yeah, I miss you." He swallows. "Miss waking you up to fuck. Miss watching you bleed."

Sean groans. "Oh, God, I miss that, too. Miss curling up with you. Having you up against the wall, your legs spread for me, slamming into you and knowing I'm bruising you all over, I -- agh, fuck, goddamnit." Sean grabs for his cock, squeezes hard, past the point of pain. And when that doesn't work, he grits his teeth and squeezes his balls, letting out a choked, strangled yelp and dropping back against the pillows, gasping. "Getting hard still hurts," he mumbles.

"Then don't do it." Harry smirks, knowing Sean can feel it through his voice even if he can't see it. "Soon as it's healed, I want to be on my knees, your cock down my throat. Oh, fuck, the feel of it scraping. And you're holding the chain attached to my nipple ring and ..." Harry's hand finds his own cock, squeezes hard through denim. "Christ, how long till you're back?"

The question crashes Sean's mood straight through the floor. "Ten weeks," he says, cringing. "Ten fucking long goddamned weeks."

"Want a visitor? Or that be too distracting?"

"Can you get away?" Sean asks, instant and eager. "I won't have enough time free in Berlin for it to make a difference, but if you could get to New York in two weeks..."

"There long enough to make it worth my time?" Harry's just as eager, the notion of being separated for more than two months decidedly unnerving.

"Six weeks," Sean says, "but my cock's still going to be healing for most of it. Then it's London for two weeks to pack up the house and get everything in boxes to be shipped." He swallows; they've talked about that, but actually doing it is still, somehow, just a little scary.

Pack up the house. Yeah, they're really doing it. Harry breathes in. It's a big step. "I can wrap up whatever I'm needed for here in another under a month, so we could cut that not-seeing time down to four or five weeks." He lets out the breath. Okay, just ask. "I'll come to New York, stay, I can do some promotional stuff for Price and then go on to London with you. If you don't mind me under foot."

"Underfoot's good, under body would be even better." Sean's smirking, and he has a feeling Harry can picture the way Sean's tongue is skirting out and sliding over his upper lip. "I want you here. I thought I could handle ten weeks without you. I don't want to, though, if we can make it happen another way."

Harry can picture it, and he's wanting to suck on that sliver of tongue, pull it between his teeth and tug, while his hands rub over Sean's chest, slip down and through the light curls, carefully, methodically avoiding touching the piercing. "I'll start packing tomorrow, luv. You have a place to stay? Or should I look into a short-lease apartment?"

"They have me in a hotel, which is always fine with me. Want to join me in that or do you need more of the comforts of home?"

"Never done much hotel living. Could give it a try." Harry might think later on how many things in his life will change, like living out of hotels while following a lover around. "Wherever you are is fine. Not as if we can cause too much damage both being physically limited like we are."

Sean chuckles. "Physically limited. Is that how they're putting it? And how limited are you going to be? You can still fuck me 'til I'm begging you to stop." Oh, not a good idea; Sean grits his teeth and squeezes around the base of his cock, hoping he's caught it in time. "Christ, I hope it doesn't hurt like this to get hard all eight weeks..."

"Yeah, I can do that. Fuck you till you're screaming 'cause your cock's burning with the need to be touched." Harry doesn't mean to taunt his lover. Not really. It's just too easy. "I think it'll feel better after a month, at least so you're not screaming every time I make you come."

"The next few weeks are going to kill me," Sean whimpers, giving up on the fight against his erection and pressing himself back into the mattress. "Miss you so much. And at least you know I won't be getting myself into trouble. Cock's too fucking sore to think of sex, unless I happen to be on the phone with you and you're pressing all the right buttons."

"Like now. Am I pressing buttons? Wanna come, even though it's gonna hurt like me slicing into your back with that kriss dagger?"

"Christ." Sean digs his fingernails into his palm. "I didn't... could've gone to sleep without it... but now that you're talking about it, all I can think about is how much it's going to hurt and if my dick's going to throb all night from it." His voice lowers. "Maybe I want it to. Lover's souvenir from thousands of miles away."

"Well, don't let your lover deprive you of a painful souvenir. Go to sleep hard, Sean. I'll do the same." Harry thinks for a moment. "Could offer not to come till you can. That'd be mutual punishment."

"You make an offer like that and the next thing I know it's two weeks on and you're trying to get me off against my better judgment so you can come while I scream," Sean teases. "I love you. And I am going to bed hard now. You get the blame for that."

"Love you, too." Harry's laughing. Sean knows him, can read him like a translated Russian novel, all the good parts marked. "I'll take the blame and you can beat me when I get to New York."

"Miss you already," Sean murmurs. "Not going to be the same sleeping without you."

"Just wrap yourself up in that shirt of mine you pilfered," Harry says, voice getting quieter, sighs soft. "I'm wearing your sweater."

"You are, are you?" Sean says. He slips out of bed and goes to his suitcases; the shirt he stole -- one he didn't even realize Harry was going to miss -- is right on top. He feels vaguely silly for having stolen it in the first place, for wearing it to bed... but it smells like Harry, and it's comforting. "You'll be with me again soon enough," he murmurs.

"Yeah, five weeks max." Harry doesn't have to ask to know Sean's curled up in the shirt. He pulls the edge of the rolled-neck black sweater up and inhales. Sean. Leather and Guinness and blood and everything Harry wants. "Now hang up and go to sleep, or I'll sing to you."

"That's not incentive to hang up," Sean says through a yawn. "Like your singing."

"You don't really want me to sing you to sleep, Sean, do you?"

"No," Sean says. "Unless you want to. Wouldn't mind your heavy breathing in my ear, but you might get stuck with my snoring if I got that."

"Bloody fuckin' hell, Sean, just hang up." There's nothing but love in Harry's voice. "I'll call next time. Two days. You'll last."

He got you, Sean thinks. You were stalling.

"Goodnight," Sean murmurs, and he hangs up the phone.

"Night, lover," Harry says to the static, taking in a deep breath before toggling off the phone. "Think I'll just sleep in the chair."


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 11/20/2004 07:10:00

Exception 4: Breaktime (EB/HS) NC-17
Exception 4: Breaktime
Authors: Helens and Luna
Pairing: Eric Bana/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Rough kinky smut.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: This is not real. It's a work of fiction. Step away from the crack pipe.
Notes: Harry settled down into Eric's house after Negotiations, and it's a typical day in the life for slave and Master. Which means chains and spanking and harsh, rough fucking around here...


It's two-eighteen in the afternoon and Eric's been working on his Ford's engine all day. He rubs the back of his wrist over his forehead, knocks a bit of sweat off.

It's time for a break.

He heads for the intercom on the garage wall and hits the "all points" button. "Harry? Downstairs. Garage. Now."

Harry's sitting in the living room, jeans and t-shirt and no shoes, propped up against the couch's cushions with the laptop perched on his lap. He's been writing, taking advantage of Eric wanting to tinker with the cars. He jumps at the intercom's chatter. "Fuck, not used to that yet," he mutters, putting the laptop aside.

And then he's on his feet, heading to the garage. He stops at the bottom of the stairs, bare feet tingling at the cement's cold. "Here, Eric. What can I do for you?"

"Strip," Eric says, grabbing for an oilstained grease-smeared rag and getting his hands something close to clean. He drops the hood on the Ford and heads around to a toolbox against the wall, rummaging through it. "Put your chest on the hood and your hands behind your back. Hope you're prepped."

"Yeah. Always." Harry's out of the t-shirt almost before Eric finishes his sentence, dropping it on the bottom stair, then the jeans come off. Easy. Efficiently. No show. He walks over and puts himself on the car, chest flat and hands behind his back.

Eric comes back to the car, to his slave, lightweight chain in his hands. He wraps it around Harry's arms, all the way from wrists to elbows, padlocks the ends together. "Legs aren't far enough apart," he says, but he's fixing that as he speaks; he kicks Harry's legs apart and shoves a thigh between them, knee up against the Ford's grill.

The chain's heavy, snug against Harry's arms, and the weight pulls his shoulders back even more. Muscle burn to the extreme. He breathes out as he's jerked lower on the car, legs spread roughly.

"Yeah," Eric breathes, "that's what I'm after." He runs a hand up Harry's thigh, slips his thumb into the cleft of Harry's arse. "You look good spread out over the hood of my car, Harry. You're going to look even better with my cock drilling into you."

Harry doesn't even try to hold back the moan. "Yeah, oh fuck, yeah." His cock's rigid almost in a heartbeat, tight against the Ford's hood, and he's spreading himself wider, as much as he can, to take what master's wanting to give.

One tug gets all the buttons of Eric's fly open, and he reaches in, tugs his cock out. He gives it several long, easy strokes, free hand running over Harry's skin, and the flat of his hand comes down hard on Harry's arse, bringing up a red mark instantly.

His body jerks forward, motion stopped by the car's metal, slightly warm but not near enough to matter. Not that it'd really bother Harry if Eric'd been running the car full up until the second he slammed him over it. The relationship's not about what makes Harry comfortable.

Oh, yes. One red mark isn't enough for Eric; he brings his hand down again. And again. Until his skin stings and his palm aches and Harry's arse is going pink, then red, for him.

A dozen? More. Harry's not keeping count. There aren't the rules here about counting and thanking and being proper. So he closes his eyes, lets the pain wash over him, his arse burning at the perfect temperature.

By the time Harry's skin's gone red for him, Eric's cock is dripping precome. He smears it over the head of his cock, comes up between Harry's legs and snugs the head against Harry's opening. "Perfect," Eric murmurs. "When you've beaten someone 'til they're red," and a hard solid thrust moves him in nearly halfway, "they're so much fucking tighter for you. Fuck, yes."

"Oh, fuck." Harry's cock is wedged tight against the edge of the Ford's grill. Yes, he's tight. Damn tight. Doesn't stop him from consciously pushing back, spreading his legs a little wider, giving Eric as much access as he can.

"Come on, slave," Eric growls, hands working between car and Harry's body, curling around Harry's thighs. "Open the fuck up. Let me in." He shoves forward again, another few inches. Harry still doesn't have him all yet.

Harry's stretching, shoulders burning as he pulls his upper body down snug against the hood, the chains cutting in against his arms. He's opening, giving up everything, relaxing completely. "Take it, master. There for you."

"There," Eric snarls, finally getting himself all the way inside. He leans over Harry's body, pins Harry to the hood by the back of his neck. "Now hold -- fucking -- still," every word punctuated by a sharp thrust, "and take everything I've got for you."

"Yes, Eric." Harry goes completely still, dropping his breathing even . "Not moving." It's hard against the thrusts, but he's concentrating, letting his body be used instead of participating, and it gets easier with each brutal thrust.

It's the ultimate in selfish fucks, Eric simply using Harry's body because he was bored and horny and had his slave nearby to take the edge off. Draping Harry in chains because he knew he'd like the way chains looked on Harry's skin. Turning Harry's arse red just to give it that sweet, tight sensation all around his cock. He grins, closes his eyes and sinks himself deep into the awareness of who he is, who he's got under him, what he's doing. Every thrust is brutal. Every thrust is impossibly, insanely good. It's been a long time since he's had a slave who set every nerve ending in his body on fire. Fuck, yes. So good for me.

As selfish as the fuck is for Eric, it's nearly as selfish for Harry. He relishes being used, doesn't remember a time when he felt so wanted, needed.

Eric grips the back of Harry's neck hard, certain he's leaving bruises. "Such a good fucking slave," he growls, and he slams in one last time, coming in hot, jerking pulses, filling Harry's arse with his come, marking his slave. "Mine."

"Yours." The word's muffled by metal, Harry's face flush into the Ford's hood. He's marked, well and true, bruises already raising on his flesh, his body filled with Eric's come.

Eric sighs, pulling back and running his hand down the curve of Harry's arse. "Good slave," he murmurs, then gives Harry another hard slap. "I'll get the key for the padlock. Get on your knees."

Harry sinks to his knees, wincing from the slap, his arse already sore. It's not a graceful drop, awkward without his hands to balance, but he manages, and he's down, knees against the cold concrete.

Eric gets his cock put away, gets another rag and wipes his hands off. And then it's back to the toolbox, where he comes up with the key and brings it over to Harry.

He drops down into a crouch, sitting on his heels, elbows on his knees. "Your choice. You can come now, and stay in chains through dinner, or I can let you out now, and you don't come 'til after dessert."

"Tough choice," Harry muses, thinking on the options. He's betting either way that coming's not going to be easy, and as nice as the chains feel, he'd like to not have to manage dinner with them. "Out now, come later," he says, letting out a breath. "Please, Eric."

Eric gives Harry a rough pat on the head and leans in to kiss his cheek. And then leans further in to nip hard at his earlobe, almost drawing blood. "My slave," he murmurs. "Mine." And he moves around, fits the key into the padlock and unfastens Harry's chains.


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 11/20/2004 07:08:00

Exception 3: Negotiations (EB/HS) NC-17
Exception 3: Negotiations
Authors: Helens and Luna
Pairing: Eric Bana/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Early morning sex with some negotiations. And it's Evilverse, so we've got a heavier brand of rough than usual.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: Entirely fictional. Cf. "step away from the crack pipe".

Summary: After a memorable first date and waking Harry up in the middle of the night, it's time to talk about where they're going.


Eric's a decent enough cook, and Harry's in no condition to be standing in the kitchen for as long as it'd take to see to breakfast. So Eric finds himself taking charge of making coffee, toast, bacon, eggs, porridge. Basic breakfast food.

He brings it into the bedroom on a tray, slides the tray onto the foot of the bed before curling back up around Harry. "Morning," he whispers. And he has to remind himself not to jump Harry all over again; his cock's definitely voting for that plan of action.

"Morning," Harry mutters, still half-asleep. He shifts, allowing for Eric's body to curl around him, wincing at every move. "Think it's morning, at least. Could still be middle of the night."

Eric chuckles, licking over Harry's shoulder and sinking his teeth in hard. It's almost casual, hurting Harry that much, a perfectly ordinary part of the morning. "It's nine," he says. "Hope you don't have anywhere to be."

His body jerks at the bite, not away but just twitching at any touch, his skin oversensitized. "No, nowhere to be," Harry says, trying to think. "Phone. Need to make a call later, but other than that," he moans at the thought, "I'm yours, sir."

"I've got a phone," Eric says, hand running down Harry's chest, searching under sheets for Harry's cock. And you are mine, aren't you. "I've got breakfast, too. Want some coffee?"

"Coffee. Yeah." Harry turns, putting his cock right in the path of Eric's hand. "Breakfast? I should've gotten up. Done that."

Eric gives Harry's cock a rough squeeze. "Says who?" he asks.

"Nnghh." Harry's wincing again, despite how good the squeeze feels. "Just assumed you'd want me fixing it."

"We're going to have to talk about that. Assumptions." Another squeeze, and Eric lets go, sits up and tugs the tray back. "For now, how do you take your coffee?"

"Yes, sir." Harry pushes himself back and up onto the pillow. He's moving with too much care, over-used muscles rebelling at every inch. "Black, hint of sugar." He lets out a breath. "Didn't mean to assume. Would rather be told what to expect."

Eric adds a bit of sugar to Harry's coffee and hands it over. "You ever been owned before?" he asks.

"Not owned," Harry says. What he'd been might be called "leased" or "used" but he'd never been owned outright, never had anyone express that much an interest in him. He takes the coffee, sips at it, letting his hands wrap the mug and siphon off the heat.

"Ever thought about it?"

"Yeah." The answer's low, cautious. "Now and then. Never had anyone ask before."

"I shouldn't." Eric takes a long, slow drink of his coffee. "There are rules. There's a way this is supposed to go. First date. Feeling each other out. Getting to know each other better. And then I think about how you felt against the fireplace. What else is there to know?"

"Not assuming I know the answer, sir," Harry says, taking a quick sip of coffee. "Are you asking me if you can own me? Or telling me you do?"

"Let's say I'm asking," Eric says. "I know why I'd want to. What I'd get out of it. What are you here for?"

Harry scoots up more, leaning against the headboard. "The pain. Being told what to do. Serving you. Having someone push every limit I have." He shrugs. "That's off the top of my head."

"I don't need a traditional service slave. You're not going to be fixing my breakfast or mending my shirts." Eric pauses, frowns. "Might have to mend your own, though, if I go through them as fast as I want to. Not the point. You will be expected to serve me. Whenever I want. However I ask it of you. Without reservation. And I will ask."

"Yes, sir. Wouldn't expect any less of being owned," Harry pauses, "or being your slave. Would you want me here all the time? Live here?"

"While you're mine." Eric takes a piece of toast and a plate and puts a bit of jam on his toast, as if deciding another man's future is something he does every day over breakfast in bed. "Which is until you walk out the door."

Harry swallows hard, the coffee nearly going down the wrong way. While you're mine. It's intoxicating, the notion of being possessed. "What about work? My friends?"

"You keep working if you want to. You can see your friends, but your schedule's up to me apart from work; if you want to stay out, you run it by me first. You call home. I might make you kneel at the pay phone in the bar. I might not. You don't fuck anyone unless I tell you, you don't come unless I tell you, and you can't fuck the rules up enough to make me kick you out. You fuck up and you won't like what happens, but it's not that."

"Do I call you master? Or just sir?" Harry doesn't even venture near the comments Eric made. They have his cock rigid, his brain on fire. Can't fuck up. That's a new one.

"You call me whatever it takes to get the job done," Eric says. "It's not about the words, Harry. It's not about the voice, the things we say in role." He shoves breakfast away and rolls on top of Harry, taking the coffee out of his hands and setting it aside. "If you stay here, I own you. All of you. I won't have to call you boy to remind you of that."

Harry understands, even without the director's cut version of the script. It's life. Not a role. Not a game. "Yeah, Eric," he says, voice lighter than a moment earlier, "I belong to you. 24/7. No matter what names we're using."

Eric squirms his way between Harry's legs, exhaling softly. It's addictive, this chemistry; it's so easy ignoring all the rules about how these things start, how he's supposed to behave early on. "I want you," he breathes.

The response is immediate. Harry's legs spread and he puts his arms down on the sheet, palms up. "I'm yours. Take whatever you want."

"Hands up," Eric says, nodding at the bedframe. "By the bars." He swings himself out of bed, heads for a chest of drawers in the corner.

Harry moves his hands, stretching his fingers out and gently weaving them against the bars. He watches Eric's movements. He owns you. He sucks in a breath, the words slamming his brain. Own. His. Whatever he wants.

At the dresser, Eric pulls out a pair of cuffs and comes back to the bed with them, wrapping leather around Harry's wrists and tugging at the cuffs to make sure everything's in place and secure. He slides back onto Harry's thighs, arse pressed down hard against Harry's cock. "How's that?" he asks.

"Nice." He tugs at the cuffs. They're secure, tight just to the edge of being too much. "Perfect." Just like the feel of his cock pressing up against Eric's arse.

"Good." Eric gets breakfast within arm's reach and tears toast into bite-sized pieces, not caring that he's going to get his fingers sticky with jam; Harry can lick them clean as he eats. "You look good in cuffs."

"Thanks." Harry's mind skips into director mode, thinking on how surreal the whole setting is. He's cuffed to the bed while his lover -- no, correct that, his master -- eats breakfast, crumbs dropping on Harry's thighs as Eric pulls the toast from tray to mouth.

The next bite's Harry's. Eric's grinning at the picture, too; this isn't a traditional boy-on-his-knees-being-fed moment, nothing as clean and tasteful as Harry at Eric's feet at a long oak dining room table. It's likely to get messy, but Eric doesn't have a problem with that.

Harry leans up, takes the bite of toast, licking away the hint of jam that demands it cling to his lip. It's awkward, in a good way. Never been fed while being cuffed. He smiles, imagining he has a lot of nevers to eradicate with Eric. And he's still wrapping his brain around being owned. "Thanks," he says after swallowing.

A little awkward. More than a little messy, and when Eric switches from toast to porridge he suspects it'll get that much worse. He's got roleplay fantasies twitching to the surface now, thinking about what it'd feel like to do this on concrete, in the basement, maybe, with just the right kind of background noise. Water dripping. The harsh buzz of lights that keep flickering on and off. And Harry's cock, harder than hard under him.

Eric grins.

"Am I allowed to ask why you're grinning?" Harry thinks he might be better off not knowing, but he's still testing the waters here, feeling his way.

"Always." Eric sets food away for now, reaches for Harry's coffee instead. "You can always ask. You might not get an answer, but you can ask." He brings the mug down, holding the ceramic to Harry's skin at his side, just below his ribcage. "I was thinking about how this would play in my basement, on cold concrete, coming down to check on you and fuck you and hurt you every few hours."

Harry jerks at the touch, more abrupt than really hot, the coffee having started to cool, but the burn's enough to warm his skin up nicely. His cock, though, responds eagerly to Eric's word image. "Every few hours. Hmm. Chained, I imagine, other restraints." Fuck, yes. Some logical part of Harry's brain really wants to tell him he should be horrified by the thought of being left alone, being used like that. Fortunately, that part of his brain died off from lack of use years ago. "I like your answers," he murmurs, "when you choose to give them."

"I like your reactions," Eric says, sliding the coffee mug down another inch. "I could be kinder. Chain you to the bedframe for a week or two, letting you up only when it's absolutely necessary. It's better than concrete." Another grin. "But I'd probably be inclined to hurt you that much harder to make up for it."

"I'm not seeing the downside to this yet." Harry bites the tip of his tongue, the heat pattern spreading. Chained to a bed is marginally better than concrete, or so Harry thinks.

"Maybe there isn't one." Eric slides the mug down a little further, glancing down to see if Harry's skin is going red. Not as much as he'd like. He can fix that later.

Harry watches Eric's movements. "It's not hot enough to scald," he murmurs. "But it's definitely setting off a ripple effect, if you want to know."

"No hurry," Eric says, setting the mug aside. He digs into the drawer and finds condom, lube; he moves back off Harry's cock and runs his fingertip along abraded flesh. "Looks like you took more than a few scratches for me," he murmurs. "Do they still hurt?"

The tracing of a finger hurts almost more than making the scratch, Harry's flesh being too sensitized. "Some of 'em. Not so badly as to make me not want more."

"You look good in pain." Eric tears the condom open, eyes fixed on Harry's as he rolls it over Harry's cock.

Harry's cock twitches, anticipation rolling through his body. "You deliver pain well. Suppose I'll always look good."

The lube's more for Harry's benefit than his. The press in's going to be tight either way; this way it'll be slick, slippery, one long glide squeezing around aching skin until Eric's got him all. Eric kneels up, still watching Harry, and presses two fingers inside himself, exhaling softly as he starts fucking himself on his hand.

There shouldn't be anything erotic about watching another man fuck himself. Not to a rational brain. Harry grins. That rules him out. He's mesmerized by Eric's actions, the slow, steady movement, the care he seems to take. Maybe it's just knowing that his cock's going to get to replace those fingers in another minute. Hopefully.

Two fingers. Three, with a lot of twisting and stretching. It feels good opening himself up this wide; it's going to feel even better fucking himself on Harry's cock. And as soon as he's stretched enough, he slides his fingers out and wraps his hand around the base of Harry's cock, not giving a second's thought to whether Harry's ready or not. It doesn't matter. Eric's taking him in.

Harry shifts, better positioning himself for Eric's descent, as much as he can with Eric's hand on his cock, legs straddling his hips. It's enough. Not that it matters. It's gonna burn. Friction's always there, no matter how well you prep, and Eric only did what was absolutely necessary. So Harry just braces himself for it.

Eric's teeth lock together as he works his way down Harry's cock. It's good -- so fucking good having a hard cock in him, and he doesn't stop or slow down until he's got every inch.

There's no pushing up. Eric's thighs are locked against Harry's and he's not moving one fraction of an inch more than Eric allows. The burn's sweet, just like he knew it'd be. Nothing something he's done in a while. Mostly it's been getting fucked, hard and fast and hurting in hallways. This is so much better, he thinks, jerking his wrists, rubbing the leather against his skin.

Eric draws himself up, slams back down, slides his hands over Harry's chest to pin him even harder. "Christ, you look good under me," he growls. "You're mine."

"Yes. Yours." Harry's cock throbs inside of Eric's arse, clenched in moist heat. He's not hard enough to come, not yet. "Feels good. You like that."

"You're not bruised enough yet," Eric says. He gets a nipple between thumb and forefinger and twists, hard, all-at-once.

Harry screams, not caring if it echoes off the walls. That pain is abrupt, harsh, and it shoots straight to his cock, making him rigid in a heartbeat. Eric can spend all day bruising him and Harry'll be happy.

"Better," Eric says, "not enough," and he drags his nails across Harry's nipple, scratching and then pinching again, twisting harder.

No, it's not enough. Harry doesn't think it'll ever be enough. He pulls at the cuffs, just to have movement, his lower body trapped rather efficiently. "Christ, yes. Thank you."

"You couldn't look better if you tried," Eric grins, starting to move his hips in a rough, rocking motion, squeezing hard every time Harry's deep inside him. "Hurting for me, tied down for me, your cock up my arse. You're not going anywhere. You're mine now. And I can't wait to see how much you can take." He punctuates the threat, promise, offer, by sliding his hand up the center of Harry's chest, pressing his palm down against Harry's throat.

I could look better, Harry thinks as Eric's hand grips his throat. Just like that. With the air pushed out of my lungs. He cranes his head, silently asking for more of the touch. Gasping for air. His body answers where his voice doesn't. He'll take everything.

Eric tightens his grip as he fucks Harry harder, arse slamming against Harry's hips, teeth tight together as he damn near snarls at the man on his bed. "Mine. Down to your last goddamned breath."

Yours. Every last breath. Harry would say it aloud, reaffirm, but he's losing control, air dwindling, and body begging for release, and it's taking all his mental capacity to focus on holding back, not doing anything unless Eric allows, commands.

Eric isn't counting off seconds. He should be. It's safer, not that taking someone's air away is ever really safe. He waits until Harry looks like, feels like, he can't last another second without a breath, and he relaxes his palm, lets the air in, runs his fingertips down the center of Harry's throat. He's going to end up leaving bruises, fingerprints marking Harry's neck, and the thought makes him drop his other hand to his cock and start stroking in time with the rocking movements of his hips.

Harry sucks in the air when it's offered. He's been here before, knows it's a fleeting offer, given and taken back in a heartbeat. It's perfect. Just like the bruises he can feel seeping into his flesh. Black and blue and purple. His favorite colors. He smiles. Next to red. His vision's a mottled shade of all of them, his cock throbbing inside Eric's arse, his hands rubbed raw from the tugging, and all he can think of is not wanting it to end too soon.

But ultimately it's not up to Harry, and Eric's not going to wait any longer to come. He tightens his hand on his cock, strokes his thumb down the side of Harry's neck. "You can come when I do. And you won't get another breath until you do." There's barely a two-second pause between Eric's hand cutting off Harry's air and Eric's cock jerking in his hand, streaking white over Harry's stomach and Eric's arse slamming down hard over Harry's cock. "Fucking hell."

You can come when I do. And you won't get another breath until you do. It's a power-laden promise that has Harry holding back for a split-second after Eric comes, letting that last breath be stolen before his cock pulses, spills into latex and silently screams, cuffs tighten when his body jerks, the orgasm rippling outward.

Eric lets Harry breathe as soon as he feels Harry's cock pulsing inside him, rests his hand on Harry's shoulder instead of his throat. Bruised. He'll be bruised for days, and every time Eric sees the marks he's going to want Harry all over again. He trails a hand through the come on Harry's stomach, sighing softly. "Yes."

Harry gasps when the air returns, involuntary intake of oxygen. Like an ice cream brain freeze, it surges into his head. Yes, the bruise will last for days. Jacket pulled up tight won't keep the questions away. Harry doesn't mind. He might even opt for the collarless shirts, just to show off his marks, those signs that he's owned.

Eventually, Eric has to move, and he uncuffs Harry's wrists before climbing off Harry's body. "Stay here," he murmurs, "I'll get a towel to clean you off." He leans down before he goes, licks his way over the bruises on Harry's throat. "I like the way these look on you."

"Wouldn't move if I could," Harry mutters as Eric leaves. He's managed to drop his hands to the bed, but that's about as far as he's going.

It only takes a minute to get a warm washcloth, and Eric sits down on the bed next to Harry to get him cleaned up. "We've got arrangements to make," Eric says. "How long will it take you to pack what you need to move in here?"

Move in? Harry smiles at the thought. "A day for the essentials."

This is all going so fast. Broken rule after broken rule. And Eric can't remember a time he's felt this sure about someone. He lets go of the washcloth and runs his fingertips over Harry's throat. "I'll give you two."

"Two days is more than enough, sir," Harry says, swallowing at Eric's touch, wincing as fingers caress the bruises. "Does that include today?"

"I'd rather have you here sooner than later." The wince is perfect. Eric presses his fingers down a little harder. "Today and tomorrow. And midnight tomorrow you're my slave."

Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 11/20/2004 07:08:00

Exception 2: Daybreak (EB/HS) NC-17
Exception 2: Daybreak
Authors: Helens and Luna
Pairing: Eric Bana/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Rough early morning sex. And it's Evilverse, so we've got a heavier brand of rough than usual.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: Entirely fictional. Cf. "step away from the crack pipe".

Summary: After a memorable first date, Eric wakes Harry up in the middle of the night.


It's four in the morning.

Eric hasn't had nearly enough sleep, but neither has the man in his bed, which is more important. He glances over; Harry's on his side.

Not quite where I want you. Let's get you moved.

He slides over, plants a hand on Harry's shoulder, and pushes him face-first into the bed, coming up and straddling Harry's hips as he goes.

Harry feels himself being moved, wants to resist, his body aching from too little sleep. He moans something akin to a no but doesn't resist the tug.

Then he's suddenly awake, face buried in pillow and a weight on his back. He panics for an instant, bucking up. "What? Who?" It takes another moment for Harry to process the night, realize he came home with Eric, he let Eric fuck him into the -- that's why it hurts so much -- stone hearth, against the floor.

Now he's in bed, most likely getting ready to be fucked again.

"Was that a no?" Eric breathes, lips brushing the back of Harry's neck. "Do you think you get to say no to me?" He nudges Harry's legs apart with his thigh, bracing his hands to either side of Harry's shoulders.

Fuck. "No, sir," Harry says, words wadded into cotton under his mouth. "Not saying no. Just the sleep talking, sir." Harry wouldn't think of saying no to his new -- master, he bandies the term around his brain -- owner, he slides in just as easily. Every move, no matter how small, brings a wince of pain. Not completely unwelcomed.

"Good," Eric says, stretching an arm out and reaching for lube and condoms from the nightstand. "Warned you I'd probably want you in the middle of the night. It's almost daybreak, Harry. But the middle of the night's not gone yet."

"Yes, sir, you did." Harry stretches, or tries to, working out the kink in his shoulder. Eric'd all but promised a mid-night fuck. What's sleep? Don't need it.

Eric's breath is warm as his teeth take small bites from the back of Harry's neck down toward the spot just between his shoulderblades. "You taste good this morning," he murmurs. "Like sweat, and sex, and not quite fear. You don't scare easy, do you?" He gets his fingers slick, guides three of them into Harry's arse straight off. No rush, but no letting him have it easy in the morning, either.

Harry's body jerks at the bites, involuntary reaction to the sharp sensation, unseen and unexpected. "No, not easy. Doesn't do any good to scare easy." If he weren't still so loose from being used so hard, Harry might wince more at the invasion of three thick fingers. But, as it is, his body welcomes them, tightens around the familiar stretch.

Christ, and Harry's right about that -- men who scare easily have never held Eric's attention for long. There's a certain flinch to them when Eric's coming after them for the third, fourth, fifth time. And that flinch isn't what they're after. Isn't what Eric's after, either, when it comes to that. He's looking for someone who comes back staring. "You hungry for it yet?" he asks softly.

"Hungry?" Harry turns his head to the left, just to be able to get the words out better, the breaths in. "For your cock up me arse, sir. Yeah. Craving it."

"Good," Eric grins, coming up again, biting Harry's earlobe. "I haven't fucked anyone the way I fucked you last night in months. And I'm starved for it."

It shouldn't be a compliment, not considering the way normal society operates compared to the way Eric'd fucked him, but Harry takes it as one of the nicest things he's heard in months. "Please, then, sir, use my body more. Fuck me till you've sated your appetite."

Chuckling, Eric licks Harry's lobe and slides his hand free, kneeling up to roll the condom on. "That's a rather open-ended offer. It might not just be the once, you know. Or the twice. I could," and he's reaching down, using both hands to part Harry's cleft and line his cock up, "be at this... for a while," he growls, sliding in, eyes closing as he sinks in hard.

"Christ," Harry breathes out at the rough breach. Even slickened and loosened, it's brutal, Eric's long, thick cock filling him quickly, demandingly. "That's fine, sir. Offer's good for," he gasps as Eric sinks in deeper, "for long as you want."

I'm breaking my rules for this one. I'm breaking all my rules. Eric gets his hands under Harry's hips, tugs him back hard. "Fuck, you feel good," he growls. "Do you always talk this much?"

"When my mouth's not full or gagged," Harry says quietly. "I can shut up if you prefer, sir."

It's not going to be long before Eric has trouble forming words himself. "No," he breathes, "I want to hear it. Want to hear the tone of your voice change when the pain gets past the point you can stand." And he slams in, another few sharp, hard thrusts, all of them meant to hurt.

"Yes, sir," Harry spits out, his voice edgy as he continues. "It takes a while to get that point. Sir. Don't give into pain easily." Even when it's as pristine as the kind Eric's giving him. Harry bites the pillow, sucking in his lip between teeth and cotton, mutilating both as the thrusts become more brutal, deeper, every single one hurting and cutting through his body.

Eric leans a forearm across Harry's shoulders, bracing himself and pushing Harry further down into the bed. "You feel amazing," he whispers. "And if this is what you give when it's just my cock, what do you do when it's leather or chainmail or fiberglass? How well do you scream, Harry?"

"Damned well." Harry's close to letting Eric hear just how well, the bed's soft abrasion against his raw, scraped cock is blood-searing, and overlaid with the pressure of arm on flesh pushing him deeper into the bed, he's ready to implode. "I'd scream as much as you want, sir," he says, voice breaking into gaspy pants, "or not at all, if you chose."

"When I want you quiet, I'll gag you," Eric grins, free hand gliding down Harry's side, fingers curling into the curve of his hip. Such a gorgeous spot on the body, big enough for a handhold, letting Eric tug him back hard, hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises along with all the other marks he's given Harry so far.

At that image, those words, the thought of being gagged, Harry's mind shuts down. Bulletproof kinks they call them, those things that make the cock hard in a flash, the thing that has Harry's cock leaking onto the sheets. Gags are one. Losing the ability to cry out, rail against the assault, even safeword -- having all that stripped away. Harry shivers, then whimpers at the new bruising he feels, the imprint of master's fingers.

Oh, that's interesting. Eric leans down enough to bite at Harry's shoulder, wondering if it's just the mention of gags that has him shivering that way. He'll think about it later. Right now it's his body driving him forward, pushing him to take everything Harry can give. "Mine," he whispers, before pounding in with another half-dozen aching, brutal strokes. "Mine," and he barely knows he's saying it.

There's no shiver at the bite, but a decided jerk, Harry's flesh yielding to teeth, tugging to make it more gnawing that bite. "Yours," he counters, just as softly, with the edge of questioning, still so unsure about where he'll be in the morning, or tomorrow night.

Eric's hand moves off Harry's hip, slides underneath to wrap around his cock. Still aching, he's sure; still raw, still red, still torn. Good. "I want you to come, and I want it to hurt like hell," he murmurs. "You close?"

"Christ, yes, sir. Damned close." Harry's breathing is more ragged, his words bitten off. "And it's gonna. I promise you that, sir."

"When you can," Eric says, "come for me." And he gives Harry stroke after stroke, matching the thrusts of his cock into Harry's body, squeezing hard and growling as he sinks himself in deep.

A half dozen strokes and Harry's coming, cock aching, the roughness of Eric's hand tearing open scratches that were just starting to not hurt. He screams with torture of coming through that, of feeling the orgasm rip through him, trapped between Eric's body deep inside him and Eric's hand wrapped around him, the bed unyielding in letting him escape the moment.

Oh, God, he does scream well. He screams beautifully, in fact, and Eric's lost as soon as he hears it, coming with a growl and a last half-dozen thrusts that nearly pitch Harry forward into the headboard.

Harry collapses under the weight, the forces, not concerned that he can barely breathe, that his body is aching in new places or, most of all, that he wants more, doesn't want it to stop.

Fuck bracing himself up so Harry can breathe; Eric wants to sink into Harry's skin, doesn't at all mind pressing him into the bed and leaving it up to fate whether he'll be able to get a breath after. He waits until his own breath's caught, and then rolls over, groaning softly.

The moment Eric's off, the minute he can move, Harry's pushing up enough to get his face out of the pillow, coughing for the breath, sucking it in and then taking more, deep and slow. He shifts, the sheet soaked under him, mix of semen and sweat sticky, strangely reassuring. Harry doesn't speak, doesn't ask about cleaning up, makes the assumption he'll sleep like this till Eric's ready to wake him again. The smile's caught in-between breaths.

Eric turns away just long enough to get the condom off. And then he's back, running his fingernails down Harry's back, nothing gentle about it. You look good in my bed. And I'm still breaking all my rules for you.

Harry's just starting to settle when the fingernails work their magic, his slowly closing eyes snapping open, body jerking into the touch. God, I may never survive this. Don't care. It'll be the best death imaginable.


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 11/20/2004 07:04:00

Exception 1: Meeting (EB/HS) NC-17
Exception 1: Meeting
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Fandom/Pairing: Chiaroscuro, RPS, Eric Bana/Harry Sinclair
Warnings/Rating: Wow, we're back in Evilverse. This is a place where the muses are often insane, play unsafe, and go for the nonconsensual. Consider yourself warned. NC-17.
Disclaimer: This is not real, did not happen, please step away from the crack pipe.


Eric's not wearing a watch, but he knows what time it is. There are clocks all over the pub, ticker clocks on the screens showing tonight's footie matches, and his date's not here yet.

His date. His date's an intriguing man by the name of Harry Sinclair, who Eric was ready to ask out after an exchange of about seven words. It wasn't the words so much as the look on Harry's face, and though it didn't surprise Eric when Harry agreed to meet him for dinner and drinks, it did please him.

But now Harry's late, and Eric's wondering whether that's a sign of disinterest -- he doesn't think so -- or a statement of some kind -- he doubts that, too -- or whether he'll get to lean on Harry for this later. Or, given that look on Harry's face, whether Harry will end up leaning on himself. Oh, the evening's going to be a good one.

Harry's late. He got wrapped up in editing and lost track of time and, pushing his sleeve up and glancing at his watch, he knows he was supposed to be there a good 15 minutes earlier.

"Fuck," he curses as he skids his bike into the parking lot, nearly catching the edge of the concrete planter. "Why the hell do they need plants outside a bloody pub?" He's mad at himself. Late for his date. He gets off the bike and runs his hand through his hair, fixing it as much as possible, and shrugs his jacket down.

Date's a guy name of Eric. He stops halfway to the pub's front entrance. "Last name, Sinclair. Think. You know it." The film has him way too absent-minded, and he can't remember the last name of the guy he let pick him up after a passing conversation at a cocktail party he can't even recall who was hosting. "It's weird like Marton's," he mutters as he walks in, looks around and spots Eric across the way. "Bana. That's it." He gives a slight wave and heads over to the table.

Eric's already got a pint in hand, three-quarters full still, but he's been drinking slowly. He raises it and nods to Harry, waiting for Harry to get there, and oh yes, Harry would look beautiful sinking to his knees and pressing his face against Eric's thigh. But it's not that sort of date just yet, so no need to get ahead of oneself.

He takes to his feet once Harry reaches the table. "Harry. Good to see you again." He extends a hand, and a grin to go along with it.

"Eric," he says quickly, suppressing the desire to say Mr. Bana, knowing it's not exactly the place and they haven't really discussed that. Seven words made for very little exploration of anything other than yes, you're damned hot and would you?

Harry takes the hand, shakes it firmly, then slowly lets go, dropping himself into the chair opposite Eric's. He looks around, as much for someone to get him a pint as just checking out the room, seeing if anyone he knows is here. "You following anything particular?" he asks, hitching a thumb toward the screens of footie matches.

"No, my team's not up tonight," Eric says, settling himself back down and waving a waiter over. "Only thing worth watching was the clock." He lifts an eyebrow, teasing with a grin, but it's as casual or serious a criticism as Harry wants to make it.

"Clock? Oh, Christ, I'm sorry." The waiter decides on that moment to show up. "Uh, whatever you've got on tap," Harry says, not caring about what he drinks, just that he has something in his hands soon.

"Caught up in traffic?" Eric asks. "And get him the amber ale you've got. I think he'll like it." The last instructions are for the waiter, but his eyes are on Harry.

Harry doesn't bother to object that Eric ordered his ale. "No, um, caught up in editing," he continues as the waiter leaves. "New film's mostly in the can, but final edits have to be done in time for festival entry in another month. Really sorry. I get like that, preoccupied and no one bothers to remind I'm supposed to be somewhere."

"I could get you a pager," Eric offers, still grinning, still with that teasing expression all over his face. "Page you to remind you when you need to be someplace different. I'm almost frighteningly organized. To the point where some people want to strangle me."

"First date and you're offering to buy me a pager," Harry says, grinning just slightly less than Eric. "Should I take that as a good sign?"

"Absolutely," Eric says. He could offer to skip the rest of the date now, see if Harry'd like to come home with him and yeah, he could send Harry home with a pager, but... patience. Definitely a time for patience. "Hell, we haven't even got past drinks yet. Do you want to look over the menu for a bit, figure out what you'd like to have for dinner?"

"Whatever you want to fee--" Harry catches himself before he finishes blurting out the sentence. Yes, patience. It's a virtue, he reminds himself, along with the fact that Eric had scared the hell out of him at the party. In a damned good way. "Um, standard pub fare, I'm guessing," he says, pulling one of the menus over and opening it, burying himself into weighing the options.

"Harry." Eric slides two fingers over the top of the menu, pulls it down so he can look Harry in the eyes, if Harry looks back up at him. "Don't stop midsentence when you're talking to me. Whatever you want to fee-...?"

Harry looks up, compelled by Eric simply saying his name. He shouldn't be, but he is. Then the gaze. Dark brown eyes. Too dark. "Yes?" he says before Eric gets to the words that send the shiver down Harry's spine. Don't stop midsentence when you're talking to me. A very simple order. "I'm sorry, Eric. Whatever you want to feed me will be fine. That's what I started to say."

"All right." Better and better. Eric smiles. "Then you won't be needing this." He taps his fingers against the top of the menu. "I'll order for you."

"No, Eric, I won't be needing it." Harry folds the menu and slides it back across the table. "I would rather you order for me." He smiles, lets out a breath he'd held a second too long. It'll be fine. Just right.

"Is there anything you don't eat? Anything you can't have?" Eric asks. There's confidence, and then there's making sure he takes care of his... date. Mm. "Particular requirements if I take you out for dessert later?"

"I eat most anything. Not overly fond of seafood, but I tolerate it." Harry thinks for a minute on the second question. "Not sure about dessert. Are you asking what I'd like to eat? Or if I'd like to be dessert?" He worries for a split-second as the words come out that it might be too forward, but the thought's in his brain and Eric's question wasn't clear.

"I was only wondering whether you have allergies I need to be aware of. Whether you can lick chocolate sauce off fingertips or if it needs to be butterscotch." The waiter's on his way back with Harry's pint. Eric gathers both menus and has them ready to hand back to the waiter once he's there. He orders for both of them, resisting the urge to make it a several-appetizers sort of meal, the kind that could be handfed. It's not that sort of pub, after all.

Harry waits till the waiter's left before answering. "Not allergic to anything, food or otherwise," he says, "so licking chocolate off fingertips would be as good as licking off hot caramel."

"Good," Eric murmurs. "I'm glad you agreed to dinner with me. I enjoyed meeting you. I was glad we were introduced."

"Same here. Don't recall who had the party, but I think I owe them a thank-you note." Harry picks up his pint, sips at it, then drinks it down a couple inches before pulling it back from his lips. "Nice ale. Thanks for that, too."

"I like the way you say that," Eric says. "Like the way you say thanks. Very polite of you. Would you have thanked me just as much if the ale hadn't suited?"

"Probably would've said it's not what I usually like and would it okay to get something else." Harry's finding it very easy to be honest with Eric. "There'd've been a thanks somewhere in there, just for the gesture."

"Ahh..." Eric sits back, smiling. He likes Harry's honesty. Likes it quite a bit. "And does that apply to things other than drinks? If I offer you something else you don't usually like, will you ask if it's okay to do something else?"

"Drinks are easy to turn down," Harry murmurs. "Other offers aren't always like that."

"Not always," Eric agrees. "Not often, depending on what we're speaking of. And then there are the offers you don't get to turn down at all."

Harry contemplates the wording. Offers you don't get to turn down. "I wouldn't know, Eric," he says, looking directly across the table, meeting Eric's eyes straight-on. "I've never had anyone make an offer I wasn't allowed to turn down."

"Really." That could be an interesting piece of trivia. Does that mean you've never been owned? Eric wonders. He doesn't bother putting the curiosity away; it shows in eyes and voice and has him considering his next words a bit less carefully than he should. "I could make you an offer like that by the end of the night if you could make it worth my while."

Harry's intrigued more than frightened, although every sane cell in his brain says he should be scared of such offers. He knows the implication, which side of the line he walks. But curiosity taps into the adrenalin rush fear triggered and Harry starts asking the questions. "What would I have to do to make it worth your while? What would please you, Eric?"

"The things I want aren't going to fly very well with the pub owners," Eric grins, just a hint of threat under the smile now. "And what would please me would be getting the hell out of here, sooner rather than later, if we can afford to cater to anticipation that quickly."

"Does that mean you want to skip dinner and jump straight to dessert?" Harry asks, drinking a good bit of his ale in case the answer's actually yes.

"It means I want to," Eric says, appreciating the way Harry's throat works as he swallows, "but no. This is how I do things. We start with the date, we see where it leads us by the end of the night, and then in the morning, we start on all the offers that brains and cocks were fighting over making."

"That works for me." He rubs absently at his right wrist, nudging the watch around, wondering just how many hours it is till morning. "Dinner. Date. Discussion."

"Dancing," Eric says, "around topics that are best got out in the open sooner rather than later." The waiter shows up with food, and Eric almost doesn't give a damn. But this is his approach. Make things as normal as they can be the first night out, and worry about how the rules are supposed to stretch, bend, and change afterwards.

Harry picks at his food, barely noticing what he's eating. If quizzed later, he doubts he'd be able to distinguish one item from another. He's watching Eric, listening to his voice, taking in the words, no matter what they are. He hasn't been on a date in ages, since blowjobs in loos and quick fucks in alleys don't come with dinner.

And he keeps going back to offers you aren't allowed to turn down. He's played the game enough years to know what that means. Being owned. Belonging to another person in every way conceivable. It's not something anyone's ever asked him about. One guy came close, but backed off of it when push came to shove.

"So, we dance a bit more?" he says, shoving a fork loaded with inconsequential fried something into his mouth.

"A bit more, yeah," Eric grins. He's enjoying watching Harry eat. Imagining what it's going to look like when Harry's eating from his hand. When. Eric's normally full of confidence; wouldn't be where he is today without it. But he's rarely been this full of certainty when meeting someone new. The dance doesn't matter. The setup doesn't matter. Dinner doesn't matter. Eric concentrates on his food long enough to get it off his plate, and then sits back, fingertips sliding back and forth over the slightly-sticky wood of the table. "Did you drive here?" he asks.

Harry doesn't really give a damn about dinner. He's eating because there's food and because Eric ordered it for him. He thinks he'd do anything for Eric. Taking another bite, he corrects that mentally. He knows he would. He's gone down for guys before, but Harry doesn't think he's ever wanted to do it quite as badly as he does right now. To just sink to the floor, let Eric feed him. Or not. It would be Eric's choice what Harry gets.

"My bike," he says, smiles and puts the fork down. "Came over on it."

"Really -- you ride?" Eric asks, surprised. And pleased. "You might've seen mine, then, outside. The red Ducati?" Not like there are going to be many of those outside the bar.

"Yeah, got an old Harley." Harry laughs. Red Ducati. It seems to suit Eric. Flashy and powerful crotch rocket. "Not as pretty as a Ducati, 'course it's not meant for showing off. Meant to be ridden hard, 'cross anything."

"I think we're done dancing," Eric grins. "And done with dinner. Come on." He waves at the waiter, gets the check and pays it without even looking at the totals. It's time to be out of here. Time to get back to his place, see what Harry's lips taste like, what they feel like under tongue and teeth. His own tongue sweeps out over his lower lip. Early dates. Nothing like them.

Harry swigs down another quick drink of beer. Done with dinner? Fine. He was full. Done dancing? Even better. He's wanting to feel Eric's hands on him. Preferably making deep bruises while he's cuffed to the bed. He pushes back his chair and follows his date out of the pub. If this were a normal date, where it was just another guy he'd picked up, he might suggest they find the nearest alley, quick and dirty. But he's not in charge, so he just hangs back, waits on Eric to tell him what to do.

Outside, Eric gets to his bike and glances at Harry. He's not going to make his first move in a car park. Too particular for that. He doesn't want to risk being interrupted by twittering voyeurs or someone threatening to call the authorities, and anyway, the ride might take some of the edge off. That or put it on all the harder. "Just follow me," he says, getting the bike kick-started.

Harry follows, easily keeping up with Eric's maneuverings in and out of city streets. The ride's not taking the edge off anything as far as he's concerned. Just ratcheting it up. His cock's hard, his brain's racing through the possibilities, and it's all he can do to bring the bike to a stop without skidding when Eric pulls up in front of a house Harry assumes belongs to him. He doesn't give a second thought to going somewhere alone with this man, the fact no one knows where he is. Trust works that way, especially when he's wanting whatever's coming.

Eric opens up the garage, brings his bike inside and cuts the engine. His helmet goes up on a shelf that's got a number of them already, room for more. There's room in the garage for Harry's bike, too, and when Harry brings it in, Eric hits the button that closes the garage door. Not quite trapped yet. But it's crossed Eric's mind to wonder what Harry would do if he were.

Harry pulls his bike in, leaves his helmet on the seat as he gets off. Not making assumptions. He looks over his shoulder as the garage door drops, takes in a deep breath. No turning back. Not that he wants to. At all.

"I get the idea I could bend you over my bike," Eric murmurs, walking over to Harry and looking him over carefully, head to foot, "chain you to my ceiling, beat you until you're bruised, and you'd wake up in the morning and thank me for all of it. How close am I?"

He swallows hard, throat suddenly dry, and his cock hardens even more, which is damned near impossible considering he feels like he's in stone already. "Not far off," he says when he remembers how to make words, "Sir," he adds quickly. "Wouldn't wake you up, though. Unless you'd told me to."

"Bet you wouldn't," Eric says. He's closing the distance between them, coming around the side of Harry's bike, getting close enough to touch. "But then what would we do for a second date?" he asks. And then it's not just close enough. He reaches out, and his hand catches Harry by the throat. Gripping lightly, just holding, not squeezing, not choking him. Just testing. Waiting for the flinch.

The flinch doesn't come. The shudder does, all along Harry's spine, but outwardly he's controlled, his body relaxing into the touch, his mind bracing for more, waiting to be pushed to the concrete, told to look down, commanded.

"Come on," Eric whispers. He gives Harry's throat a light squeeze -- a reward, maybe, or a threat, or a promise; probably all three. And then he turns around, heads for the door to the house. "We're still in first-date territory."

Harry resists the urge to rub his hand over his throat, ask for more. Reward. Threat. Promise. He's content with any of the above. For the moment. "What's first-date territory?" he asks, following Eric into the house, cursorily looking around, taking stock of who this man might be.

The house is mostly dark; Eric doesn't bother turning lights on as he leads Harry through the kitchen -- impeccable, mostly stainless steel and chromed surfaces -- and into the living room -- sunken floor, thick rugs over hardwood, fireplace with a broken-rock stair or shelf or seat in front of it. If Eric were in the mood, those broken rocks could scratch hell out of someone's palms or someone's forearms while he's being fucked or hurt. For now, he heads to the fireplace and gets a fire started. The light from the fire's the only light in the living room, and it's enough.

Eric stands up again, walks into the center of the room. "First date territory means I scare you just enough to make you wonder if I can give you what you're looking for after all. Just enough to have you underestimate me."

Harry's surveying the house with a submissive's eye. Steel kitchen counters -- hard friction against his cock while he's being fucked over the sink. Hardwood floors -- tears up the knees after hours of kneeling in place. And that rock. He licks his lips at the thought of how it'd feel shredding his arms as Eric pounds into his arse or how it'd cut his back being pushed down with Eric's cock shoved in his throat.

"Scaring me," Harry echoes in the dim light. "Sounds like a perfect first date."

"I saw that in your eyes when we met," Eric murmurs. He isn't hesitating anymore. He slides a hand behind Harry's neck and squeezes lightly. "You like being scared. And you don't feel that way nearly as often as you'd like."

Fuck, hit all the buttons at once. "Yeah, don't get it nearly enough. Haven't found anyone can do it right." Bet you can, though.

"Get down. On the floor. On your back." Eric gives the back of Harry's neck another squeeze, and then makes the squeeze a tug, pulling him toward the floor.

Harry doesn't even think about questioning the order. All he processes are the words and the tug at his flesh. He drops to his knees, Eric's hand pressing into his neck, and stretches out, turning over as Eric repositions, allows him to move.

Eric settles him on his back, stretches out next to him. He props himself up on an elbow so he can look at Harry, then draws a hand up from knee to thigh and leaves it there, kneading into muscle. "The trouble with you," he murmurs, "is you're making me wonder how far rules are meant to bend. Do you want to know what you ought to be getting from me tonight?"

No, I want to be getting it, not hearing about it. The thought doesn't make it out of Harry's mouth, but a moan does, along with strongly whispered words. "Yes, Sir, I'd like very much to know." Then he dares to add more, not knowing if he's crossing a line Eric hasn't drawn yet. "Sir might like to know there are no rules where I'm concerned."

Eric chuckles. "I meant my rules," he clarifies. He runs his thumb down the crease of Harry's thigh, between his legs where denim's bunched up against Harry's erection. "A normal night doesn't end on the rug in front of my fireplace. It ends on the couch. On a bed. Somewhere I can run my hands all over my date's body and see what he does in response. Whether certain touches make him shiver and go still. If he'd like something rougher along the way."

That touch causes a shiver, along with a deep-seated craving for more. "What's wrong with the floor, Sir? You can get to all of your date's body here," Harry offers, "and he's just as responsive to your touches. Definitely wants it rougher, and would tell you so if you asked," he breathes out as Eric's fingers press a bit harder, "but maybe you prefer your dates to be quiet."

"There's nothing wrong with the floor," Eric says, and then he's moving, getting one hand behind the back of Harry's neck and the other curling around his upper arm, pressing him up, rolling him over, and it plants the length of Harry's body between rough cold stone and Eric, trapped, pinned. "But half my first dates would end like this if I let them start here."

Harry's not sure if that's supposed to be a warning or incentive. Either way, he likes his body being trapped, knowing he's not moving unless Eric allows it. "And your first dates that start here?" he asks, face being scuffed against the stone. "Where do they end up?"

"Let's find out," Eric whispers. "Get your arms up." He eases himself back just enough to give Harry the room to do it. "Get your arms up so you can rest your head against them. So you'll have scratches in your forearms from the hearth."

Let's find out? Does that mean I'm the first? Harry slowly moves his arms, settles them against the hearth, overlaying enough that they'll be scratched all to hell when Eric's finished with him, and then places his forehead against crossed forearms. "Like this? Good enough," he says, adding at the last, "sir?"

"Good enough for now," Eric agrees, pressing closer -- like he wants to close off the air between his body and Harry's, like he wants to make it damn near impossible to find room to breathe against the stone. He curves a hand over Harry's hip, slides it between the front of Harry's jeans and the hearth. The back of his hand's going to come away with scratches. Suitable penance for breaking his own rules.

Harry stretches, hands nearly touching the andirons beyond the hearth, stone pushing up the half-rolled sleeves of his shirt, already hinting at the abrasions to come. He presses down into Eric's hand at his jeans, then up, finding there's nowhere to go. Eric has him pinned and is slowly pushing the air from between them, threatening to pull it straight from Harry's lungs.

"Think you're going somewhere?" Eric asks, teasing, pressing his lips to the back of Harry's neck. And then his voice grows harder-edged, serious and dark. "You're not going anywhere," he whispers, "until I let you up."

"Wasn't," Harry starts, a little too defensively. He backs off the voice, drops to a submissive whisper. "No, sir, not going anywhere until you say so."

The heel of Eric's hand presses down hard against Harry's cock, starts up a slow, heavy rhythm that leaves the back of Eric's hand scratched. He'll let it go all the way to blood if it has to. "I like how you're holding yourself still for me," he breathes.

It's harder to hold still when Eric's hand starts moving. Harry's cock responds, twitching, and threatens to tug his body into the game. But he does stay still, biting down on his lip, pressing his arms against the hearth, anything to please Eric.

No, everything to please him. It's a scary thought, one no one's ever created in Harry, the overwhelming desire to please without question.

Eric manages to get Harry's pants undone, slides his hand inside and wraps his fingers around Harry's cock. The back of his hand's still protecting Harry's cock from the roughness of the stone, but he wonders what Harry would do without the protection. If Eric were behind him fucking him, dragging far-too-sensitive skin against rough abrasion and not letting up for a moment.

First date territory. Even if we're playing outside the normal lines, we're not going that far.

Eric's fingers wrap Harry's cock full on, press and twist, and there's no keeping his body from reacting. Harry jerks, sliding forward and scraping his arms, upper chest over the stone.

He yelps, but holds back any more than that, pulling back into the position Eric had him, abrading the flesh more. Fuck, if this is a first date, what's living with him like. Harry's smiling on asking himself that.

"I could make you come," Eric whispers. "I could have your face scratched from licking the come from my fireplace. You could end up wearing scratches all day tomorrow, having to think of creative ways to explain why you're marked. And what would you do then, Harry?"

"I'd get creative, sir," Harry pants, his face close enough to the stone to feel how rough it would be, to imagine each scrape as it's made and how perfect it would look in the mirror in the morning. "And tomorrow night, I'd beg for new scratches."

"Never play the same game twice in a row," Eric grins. "Tomorrow you'd be blindfolded. Bent over a piece of furniture downstairs, hands locked to ankles, waiting. Wondering whether you'd get leather, fiberglass, rope, chainmail. Wondering what I chose to give you. I think you're that kind of a second-date man."

Harry's wondering how hard a human can get. He's aching just from Eric's voice, his descriptions of what he'd do. Being facedown in the man's living room with no hope of moving until Eric decides it's going to happen ... well, that's just icing on the cake. "I'd beg for all of it. For one each night. Or all the first night, and in reverse order the next," Harry says. "I just want to hurt for you. To bleed and bruise, and wear your marks, sir."

Eric scrapes his teeth against the back of Harry's neck. "I want to fuck you," he breathes, hand still working Harry's cock. Hard. God, Eric hasn't been this hard in a long time, too long. "I want to fuck you and bite the memory into your skin."

"Oh, Christ, please," Harry says, unashamedly begging. He can't think of anything he wants more. Well, except to hurt for Eric. But he suspects any fucking will do double-duty for hurting. "Please, sir, fuck me. Hard. Into the floor."

"Then we need to get your jeans down." Eric grins, licking over Harry's neck again. "Just around your thighs. Kneel up. I want you barely out of your clothes. Just enough that I can sink into you."

Harry pushes up to his knees, and unbuttons his jeans completely, tugging them down his hips to where he thinks Eric wants them, just at the thighs. He should be embarrassed, he thinks, being like this, half-naked, kneeling up, waiting to be fucked. But he's not. He's long since grown out of that, and all he wants now is the possession another can take of him, the control Eric could wield. "Yes, sir," he says quietly, moving his hands up to behind his head, lacing the fingers at the back of his neck until he's told to do something else with them.

"Good," Eric murmurs. He digs into his own pocket for a condom, slides his own jeans down and rolls the latex over his cock.

And then he fists his hand in the back of Harry's shirt and forces him back over the fireplace, one harsh, rough move that has no concern for how Harry's going to land, for the scratches he'll have on his cheek afterwards.

Without his hands to brace his fall, Harry lands face hard against the hearth, the rough stones cutting on impact, scratching as Eric pushes against his back. It'll take more than creative explanations in the morning, but he doesn't give a damn. He tightens his fingers on each other and allows the stone to caress his face with bruising scrapes.

"First date," Eric murmurs, "I ought to give you a little lube. But I don't fucking feel like it." He spreads Harry's cheeks with his thumbs and presses in the first inch; there's just enough lube on the condom to keep it from breaking. "And you can take this for me. Can't you?"

No. Harry's body screams at his mind that there's not enough lube, that it's going to hurt, that he should complain. Problem is Harry's brain is in a different place, firmly entrenched in a mindset where the pain doesn't matter and the body doesn't get a say in what happens. "Yes," he whispers, voice rough. "I can take it."

"Then take this for me." Well past first-date territory, Eric knows, and he shoves forward hard, harder, finally getting his cock all the way in, ignoring any resistance Harry's body puts up. "Take it."

Instinct's warring with desire as Harry feels his body open. He screams, not holding back anything, Eric's brutal thrust ripping through him. The blood's wet on his cheek from being shoved into the stone. And still he pushes back, locking his hands against his neck and taking everything Eric's demanding.

This isn't about trust. Or even faith. Eric's not sure what has Harry so willing to put himself in Eric's hands, but then he never is; with all the men he's had, all the people he's held under him, he's never been quite sure what makes them stay. But then every yin has a yang; every action has its reaction; and as much as Eric needs to pin men down and feel their bodies stretch and burn around his cock, he knows there are men who need to be held down that way, need to be bruised and bled and taken. And then there are men who need more, are willing to take more, and those men -- Christ -- are worth every moment it takes to find them.

Harry doesn't know why he's here. Well, he does. He wants to be hurt. He doesn't understand exactly why he gets off on that. He just does. Always has. Since the first night somebody got a little rough in the bar. And he was bleeding. And the scratches took days to fade. He'd looked in the mirror the next morning and had seen the change. He needed to be hurt, needed to yield completely to someone else, be pinned down and forced to take everything men like Eric had to give. Beg to give up everything Eric wants. And more. The please catches in Harry's throat, the need burning the roof of his mouth, the more slipping off his tongue.

Eric slams into Harry, hard, rough, the thrust carrying Harry's body into stone and pressing cock, hips, cheek against it, all at once. He leans over, wraps his body around Harry's and bites hard against the side of his neck. "What is it you want?" Eric growls. "You want to bleed for me?"

"Yes," Harry spits out, hiss and ragged breath. "Want to bleed. Need to bleed. For you." He's doing quite a nice job of it, his cheek cut and scored with the stone's edges, cock scratched and not pulling away. "Want to hurt for you. So badly I can't move."

Eric's savoring Harry's words nearly as much as the feel of his body, the purity of his submission under Eric's hands and teeth and cock. It's not about fighting, and it's not about putting Harry on his knees -- Harry's there for him already, and now it's about dragging him exactly where Eric wants to see him. "You're going to bleed," he promises softly, shoving in hard and then holding completely still, breath hot against the back of Harry's neck. "You're going to scream. You're going to beg. But it doesn't all have to be tonight." And he gets his hand around Harry's cock, jerking him off hot and fast, not stopping, just building him up further and further as the thrusts of his hips start up again.

Eric's words echo in Harry's brain, take the time to rattle and settle. Going to bleed. Going to beg. But it's the last that sets him on fire. Doesn't all have to be tonight. Simple words, but they mean Harry's not leaving. Eric's keeping him. His cock is aching, throbs contained by Eric's fingers. "Please," he sputters against the stone, "master, please, may I come?" He doesn't even know if he should ask, but the words are out before the overwhelming need can be tamped down.

"You'd fucking better come, slut," Eric growls, gritting his teeth, holding onto his own orgasm with the last shreds of his self-control. He wants Harry going over first.

"Yes, master," Harry breathes out, catching a breath, holding it against the clamping of Eric's fingers around his cock, the insistent demand for orgasm. He comes, harder than he has in months, maybe forever, unable to distinguish between blood and semen, knowing his cock is coated in both when he's screaming through the release. He's too far gone to even think of coming down as his body's spent, still on edge waiting for Eric to tear through him.

Eric's teeth sink into Harry's shoulder, cloth blunting the points of his teeth but nowhere near enough -- he comes with a soft growl, a bite so hard that it breaks skin even through cloth, and Eric pants softly, pulling back near the end of his orgasm to look at the stain on Harry's shirt. "Mine," he breathes, pulling Harry close.

Harry feels his body give up, yield to its new owner, blood seeping from a dozen wounds and scratches, marked from the inside out as Eric's. "Yours," he whispers with what little breath he can find.

Eric waits until he's caught his breath, then pulls away completely, standing up to pull himself together, strip the condom off, button his jeans. Fucking hell. He's still got the hint of Harry's blood in his mouth, and this has all been more than he expected. And it's been fucking good. He bends down, runs his fingers over the back of Harry's neck. "Lie down," he murmurs. "I'll be back."

Like I could do anything else? Even if I wanted? Harry lies down, face pressing again into the cool, jagged stone, more soothing now than scratching. He's trying not to think of tomorrow and the next day, of what words were said, implications made. And he's succeeding, for the most part, just letting himself float in the endorphins, the pain's pleasure not yet dissipating into the agony of cuts and bruises and muscles that will scream every time he moves.

Eric's only gone a minute or so, just enough time to dispose of the condom and get a glass of water and a damp washcloth out of the kitchen. He comes back, sits down next to Harry on the rug. Harry's bruised, scraped, bleeding, and Eric leans down to lick blood and stone grit from one of the scratches on his cheek. Fucking beautiful. "You did well tonight," he murmurs.

Harry rolls over enough for it to qualify as being on his back. "Thank you," he breathes out, "sir."

Eric offers him the water and glances over his body, looking for places that need cleaning up. He starts with Harry's cock, careful with the washcloth as he gets come and blood cleaned away from raw and scraped skin.

The water dribbles at first, down Harry's chin and throat, then he pushes himself up on one elbow enough to drink, taking slow sips, the water burning along the rough edges of his throat. He winces, even the cool soft cloth harsh on his over-abraded flesh, and closes his eyes, centering and focusing and just letting Eric take care of him for the moment.

After he's done with Harry's cock, Eric glances over Harry and takes care of the scrapes on his forearms, the scratches on his cheek. He's oddly gentle about it, the washcloth warm and soft in his hands, and when he's done, he rests the palm of his hand on Harry's chest. "How do you feel?" he says quietly.

"Like I laid down in front of a steamroller on a freshly graveled road," Harry says, taking another sip of water, managing a weak smile. "Insanely enough, damned good."

Eric chuckles at the description; it's a good one, a clever one, and he likes the sense of dry humor that goes along with it. He reaches forward and rubs his thumb over Harry's jawline. "I feel like the steamroller," he teases, "but I feel like a steamroller that needs to be put to bed. Let me show you where you're sleeping tonight. Unless you'd really like to be back on your bike this late after all that."

I get a choice? Harry's pleased at not just being dumped out on the street. It's happened before, and he never really liked it. "No. Don't think I could get on the bike, even if I wanted," he says, sipping between words and finishing the water, more thirsty than he realized. "In the morning, I probably could handle it."

"In the morning, then," Eric agrees, slipping a hand under Harry's shoulders and helping him up. "Can you manage a flight of stairs?"

"I think so," Harry murmurs, leaning into Eric's hold, his legs very unsure of even moving much less climbing anything. "If not, I can sleep curled up at the foot of them." Not like you haven't that before, too.

"Stop that," Eric says -- still gentle, but with backbone to it. "If I wanted you at the foot of the stairs, I'd put you there. If you can't make it up them, we'll stay in the guest room down here." And Harry's leaning on him enough that Eric thinks that's a better idea than trying to handle seventeen steep steps and then getting Harry down the hallway. "Come on. This way."

"We'll stay?" Harry asks, not keeping the disbelief from his voice. He makes the turn with Eric, grimacing at the stiffness slowly settling into well-used muscles. He's not expecting to actually sleep with Eric. He assumed he'd be put in a room. At most, allowed the floor in Eric's room. "Yes, sir," he says, trying not to think anymore.

Eric pushes Harry into the guest room, undresses him carefully before easing him into the bed. "I could tell you it's because we're still in first-date territory," he murmurs, slipping out of his own clothes as he makes his way to the other side of the bed, "or I could tell you it's so I'll have you close by if I want you in the middle of the night." He slides under the covers, too, and puts his arm over Harry's waist. "It's definitely one of the two."


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 11/20/2004 06:49:00

I Never... 5 (SB/JLM) NC-17
I Never... Never Heard Those Words
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Jonny Lee Miller
Warnings: Extremely rough, very violent, painful but definitely consensual sex. Knifeplay and a little bit of roleplay.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: We do not, in any way, shape or form, own these boys. Alas.


Another day turns into another two days, another three, and Sean's just about gotten to the point where he's ready to move his clothes out of his backseat and his trunk. Things are almost normal between them.


He wonders how many "normal" people send their lovers off to work with scratches down their chest. How many normal people are waiting by the side of the door at two in the morning, leather gloves on, knife in hand, ready to grab their lovers and propel them into the living room and slam them down over the couch, fuck them bloody and screaming in pain.

Maybe it's not normal, what they're doing. But Sean's not putting the knife down. He's been thinking about this all day long, took a nap while Jonny was at work so he'd be awake enough to do it. Now it's just a matter of getting the drop on him when he comes through the door.

The long nights are more tolerable this week than last, Jonny thinks, walking up the steps to his apartment, because there's someone waiting on the other side of the door. Sean. He's stayed longer than Jonny expected, since the bartender assumed the welder would get bored with him and leave before the week's end. He didn't, and Jonny's starting to wonder if there's something more permanent in the making.

He shakes his head and pushes open the flat's front door, not wishing or hoping for anything other than a warm body to crawl into bed next to.

As soon as Jonny's inside, Sean gets a hand fisted in his collar and shoves him forward. He kicks the door shut behind them.

"Couch," Sean growls, "now," and there's the knife, bright and sharp in Sean's other hand, sliding down the center of Jonny's chest and holding steady two inches above his navel.

Instinct is fear, and it's right on time, taking over Jonny's body, his heart racing in the seconds before rational thought clicks in and he realizes it's Sean. "Fuck," he spits out, sucking in his stomach as the blade presses down. It's real. "Yes, sir." He moves as Sean's hold allows, heading for the couch, his cock already hard and his brain racing with the endorphins.

Sean trails the blade around to Jonny's back as he bends Jonny over the couch's arm, holds the point above a kidney and uses his free hand to clamp down on Jonny's wrist. "You scream, and you'll end up bleeding. You struggle too hard and you'll end up hurt. You let me have anything I want, and you'll be just fine, and you'll make it through to sunrise. Sound fair?"

Jonny can't think. He knows, rationally, it's Sean and Sean's not going to hurt him. Well, no more than usual. But his brain's not seeing beyond the knife's point, and the instinct's too strong. He struggles instead of capitulating. "What do you want?"

"You. Spread for me. My cock sinking into you until just the thought of being fucked hurts." Sean scores a scratch across Jonny's lower back, bringing a white line up, and he licks his lips at the sight of it.

"Oh, fuck." Jonny hisses. "Not gonna just give it to you." He's betting Sean'll like the fight, so he dares to jerk forward, away from the blade, not wanting to force Sean's hand too soon.

If Sean hadn't wanted the fight, he'd have gone into a knifework scene with negotiation and tied Jonny down first. This is exactly what he wanted, and he shoves up hard against the backs of Jonny's thighs, pushing him into the couch, pinning him down with one hand while he pulls the knife away from Jonny's skin.

"Don't care if you just give it to me," he growls, "I can take it. Just like you want me to. Slut."

"Slut. Oh, yeah, that's what you want. A slut who'll put out for you." Jonny's pinned more securely than he'd expected, wedged tight against the back of the couch. He jabs back with his elbow, a cursory protest. "Take it then. C'mon."

"Slut who'll beg for more. Who can't get enough." Sean grunts with the elbow's impact, cuffs Jonny on the back of the head. "That's you, lover. Begging and crying and still can't get enough of it, can you?"

"I can take whatever you dish out, bastard," Jonny spits out. "Not gonna beg. Not tonight."

"No?" Sean grins, shoves the back of Jonny's shirt all the way up to his shoulders. "Not even if you're bleeding and aching and I still haven't let you come?"

Jonny moans, the visual alone stiffening his cock against his jeans. "Bleed me out. Maybe then, I'll ask nicely."

Sean pins Jonny down at the back of the neck, holds him still with the weight of his body. He starts at the bottom of one shoulderblade, sets the knife's edge down and presses, light, almost so light it's more a whisper than a touch. But there's a thin trail of blood left behind, just enough to gleam red against the blade, and once the cut's drawn shoulderblade to shoulderblade he sets the knife aside, leans down and presses his lips just underneath the line.

"Shit, man, that's ..." Jonny loses the thoughts, senses on overload. Sean's lips, tongue on his body, soaking up his blood. "Oh, fuck, man, don't." It's sliding into a role, something he's not familiar with. "I'll be good for you."

"You're already being good for me," Sean murmurs, flicking his tongue against the edge of the cut. "You're bleeding for me. Such a good boy. Taste wonderful."

"You're going to hurt me, aren't you? Cut me more?" Jonny's brain wars with the answer he wants to hear, part of him craving the pain, a tiny recess knowing it's insane.

"Yes," Sean breathes, flat of his tongue running all the way across the cut, shoulderblade to shoulderblade. A month ago he'd have been told he was a lunatic for wanting this, an abusive bastard for doing it. And now... now, he's not expecting to hear either, and it feels so good he's almost shaking from it.

He is insane for wanting this, wanting to be hurt to the point he can't move, can't think about anything other than the sublime pain. A month ago, before Sean, it was random, fists in alleys and rough fucks. Now it's perfect, nearly all the time, abuse layered and laced with something he won't call love, not yet, but it feels better than he has in a long time.

"Please, sir, don't do this," he mock-protests, every muscle and nerve in his body crying the opposite, wanting to be set on fire.

Sean takes the knife between his teeth and slips his hands under Jonny's stomach, unbuttons and unzips his jeans, slips a hand into his fly. "Want this instead?" he says, sounds muffled by the blade.

"Want it. Yes. That. More." Jonny wants the knife back, too. He wants it all. Has never wanted so much, so intensely. He keeps waiting to wake up, find it's all just a lucid dream. There's no way he can be getting this, being this happy.

Sean's been feeling the same way since moving in here. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, to find out Jonny's ready to see him go. Every day he's here feels like a gift, and he's trying to get as much as he can, give as much as he can, until the day he's asked to leave. Right now that means shoving Jonny's jeans down over his thighs, unzipping his own and tugging his cock out. It means scoring a cut across Jonny's lower back, deeper this time, enough that the blood wells up behind the blade.

"Fuckin' hell, that hurts." Jonny can't keep the words from seeping out, and it's not a complaint, not at all. It's closer to being a strange "thank you" and a couched plea for more. There's something not right about that, Jonny thinks when he has those random, clear-thought moments. He probably shouldn't want the pain this much, enjoy the roughness Sean uses in tugging his jeans down. But he does, and he's determined not to let this one leave, not to fuck this up.

"Supposed to hurt," Sean says, and the voice in the back of his head that used to tell him hurting others is wrong, and hurting the ones you care for is sick is almost gone these days, drowned out by Jonny's cries and the way he clutches at Sean's body when they're turned over that way. The way he clings at night, almost as hard as Sean does. Sean drags the knife up a fraction, scores another line across Jonny's back. "Fucking beautiful."

"I know." Reassurance, to himself, Sean. "Ahh. Feels good. Hurts like a two-for-one happy hour."

Sean laughs, finally puts the knife down. He wraps his hand around his cock, draws leather-cased fingers down his length and watches the contrast of black against skin. "Want to be inside you," he whispers. "Feel you squeezing me 'til I think I'll break." Head of cock lines up against puckered opening, and Sean gives a small thrust forward, just enough to get the head inside. "So good for me. So tight for me. Christ, Jonny."

"C'mon, Sean, fuck me." Jonny shoves back, hard, fast. "Force me open. Tear me apart."

"Unhh." Sean's eyes slam shut, Jonny's eagerness halfway to doing him in. "Fucking slut," he growls, and he jerks forward, pushing Jonny back into the couch's arm. "Want to hurt for me, break for me, bleed for me? Give me everything. Fucking scream the walls down."

"Christ, yes. Fuckin' slut." Jonny braces his hands, finding whatever hold he can, and returns every move of Sean's with an equal, opposite force. He's gonna be bleeding, gonna hurt. For days. And, fuck, his throat's gonna be raw from all the screaming.

"Jesus, Jonny." Sean's already panting, smearing blood behind him as he shoves a hand up Jonny's back. He plants his hand on Jonny's shoulder, leaving a red handprint there, holding tight and fucking Jonny as hard as he can, wanting him to tear, bleed, break for him, God, anything Jonny's willing to give, everything Sean can take and it's never going to be enough. Need you. Oh, fucking God, need you so much.

Jonny can't help but wonder if he'll not be enough, if Sean will want more than he can give, more than he knows how to give. There's a nagging doubt in his brain, that he's too naive, doesn't understand what he's getting into, no matter how badly he wants it, how severe the craving is, the kind that wakes him at night with a twisting yearn in his chest.

"You close?" Sean gasps, pounding into Jonny's body again, again, the feel of Jonny's arse around him so tight it's making Sean's whole body ache. "Want you to come for me. Want to hear you scream with it."

That's all he needs. Jonny comes, screaming till he can't breathe. No words. Just moans, random and nonsensical, screaming till he can't see straight, his vision bloodied and battered.

Sean's following right after him, fingers digging into Jonny's flesh, shoving his cock in so deep it almost hurts. And he's screaming, too, harsh furious groans that leave him hoarse and winded.

When the screaming's done, and Jonny's thankful for being in the apartment over the garage where no one in the house proper is going to give a damn, he collapses, letting his body go limp under Sean's weight. There's not a muscle that doesn't ache, not a joint that hasn't been stretched. And he's not complaining in the least.

It's several minutes before Sean tries to move. Longer before he tries to speak. He wraps Jonny up in his arms, holds him close and kisses his shoulder, tasting copper under his lips.

"Let me get you to bed," he murmurs. "And I should clean you up. Take care of the cuts I made."

"Yeah, bed, cuts." Jonny's drifting on the last surge of endorphins. "Take care of me, Sean. Always."

"Always," Sean murmurs. Not just as long as you'll have me but always. He tugs Jonny up, gets him undressed and moves him into bed, not easy when his lover's drifting in his arms. Once he's in bed, though, Sean heads to the bathroom and gets the antibiotic cream, gauze to try to keep the stains off the bedsheets for once.

"Falling for you," he murmurs. "Have been since we met. You figured that out yet?"

"Think I clued in about the third date." Jonny's voice is more distant than it should be, he thinks, especially for a serious conversation. And that's what this is. Isn't it? The conversation, the one about love and forever. "Not love at first sight," he muses, aloud and not meaning to, but knowing it doesn't matter. "Fell hard, though, when it started."

"I love you," Sean murmurs, finishing with Jonny's back and stretching out next to him, curling around his body. "Everything's so good with you. I don't want to lose you. Ever."

I love you. Jonny's never heard those words. They're nice. He smiles, nuzzles back against Sean's chest, ignoring the sting of the cuts as he moves. "I love you," he says, hesitant on words he's never spoken. "Stay with me. Forever."

"Yes." Sean kisses Jonny's shoulder, wraps an arm around his waist. "Always."


11/20/2004 09:01:09
God, you two, that was, just *meeps* indescribably brilliant. JLM is such a cute sub *sighs* Sean, always just .... *happy sigh*

11/22/2004 12:47:22
Thank you! :)

11/20/2004 22:44:50
That has to be one of the sweetest, most romantic things I've read in a while. That you two could make such violent sex swell the clit and enchant the heart at the same time is fucking amazing.

This story is one I'm going to come back to again and again.

Thank you.

- daltong @

11/22/2004 12:51:47
Thank you so much! :)

12/15/2004 13:43:59
This is a great series. Razzleslash over on LJ recced it and I wandered over -- glad she did, and glad I did. :) I know it's been said before, but the combination of violence and need and caring is awesome. Good going!


12/20/2004 10:44:53
Eee! Thank you for coming by, and thanks to Razzleslash for the rec! :)

Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 10/22/2004 09:43:00

I Never... 4 (SB/JLM) NC-17
I Never... Never Bring Home Strays
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Jonny Lee Miller
Warnings: Extremely rough, very violent, painful but definitely consensual sex.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: We do not, in any way, shape or form, own these boys. Alas.


Sean wakes up somewhere in the middle of the night, tangled up in sheets that feel damp in places, curled around a body that's smaller than what he's used to, not slighter exactly, just different. Who...? And he realizes, as he blinks himself awake: Jonny.

He curls up tighter, tucking his face into the back of Jonny's neck. He wonders for a faint moment if he's been overstaying his welcome; if a rough fuck or two, or three, is one thing, and staying the night -- staying the night more than once -- is something else. He's gotten into trouble before, assuming there was something worth staying for when it was mostly good sex and...

And being lonely, he thinks to himself, but he keeps his arms tight around Jonny all the same.

Jonny sleeps hard, usually out in minutes and not awake till the blasted alarm's been snoozed three times. But he usually sleeps alone and rolling over in the bed isn't a major undertaking. It certainly doesn't put him in direct contact with another body. Usually.

He moans at the slinking of arm around his waist, rolling back against the body next to him. Sean, he processes after a minute, and then he's turning over, wanting to face his new lover, hoping it's not too forward a move, too demanding. Fuck it, Miller, don't scare him off.

"Hey," Sean says softly, moving back to give Jonny enough time to roll over, "didn't mean to wake you."

"Huh?" Jonny's slow to open his eyes, and he's snuggling into the warmth Sean's radiating. "S'okay. What time is it?"

"Don't know..." Sean squints at the alarm clock, trying to get a reading. "Maybe five," he murmurs. "Been sleeping all right?" He brushes the hair off Jonny's forehead, letting his thumb rub over his temple.

"Yeah." Words are as simple as Jonny can make them, his tongue not hitting the right spots in forming syllables. "Sleep hard. All night."

Sean grins, ear-to-ear, unguarded for a moment as he leans in and kisses the top of Jonny's head. There's something about this that has him feeling protective, not he's surprised. "I have to be up in another three hours for work," he says, wishing there were an easier way to ask do you want me gone by the time you wake up?

"Then roll back onto me and sleep more." Jonny's a second-shifter and doesn't have to be up till middle of the day. Today, he doesn't have to be up at all since he's not working. "Or you can fuck me," he slurs into the pillows. He's not guaranteeing any response, though, as he's not the morning person.

Sean's got no set plan to do either -- sleep more or make a move for sex -- but rolling over on Jonny sounds good either way, so he does just that, rolls up and slides an arm around Jonny's shoulders. Asking questions like can I come back? needs to be done when both people are awake; he's not going to get into something that complicated now. This is comfortable. Easy. It feels like it's supposed to feel, and Sean's tired of overthinking.

"A little more sleep," he murmurs. "Fuck you later tonight. Promise."

"That's cool." The words are squished out of Jonny's lungs by Sean's shifting. "Later. Tonight. When you come home," Jonny murmurs, not thinking on the words, just letting them out.

It could be, Sean thinks. He gives Jonny's shoulder a lick -- right over one of his bruises -- and nuzzles in, willing to let the rest of the questions and answers -- or non-answers -- go for now.

Jonny sinks back into sleep, warm body wrapping him turning hotter as he falls deeper. The sleep's nearly of the dead, heavy and surreal dreamstate. He doesn't want to wake up, suspecting Sean won't be there when he does, and sleep delays the inevitability of reality. He's not gonna be around forever.


Sean's been lying perfectly still for nearly twenty minutes now, not wanting to get up. He's been watching Jonny sleep, justifying another five minutes in bed, and then another five after that, and another five after that. But he's only got an hour left before work now, and he nuzzles into the side of Jonny's neck, nipping softly.

The nuzzling evokes a response, Jonny curling his shoulder up against his neck. The nip gets more, a soft whimper and a half-awake slur. "You're still here. Time. Work." Jonny does not do mornings. Instead he curls more tightly against Sean, twisting and turning enough to get his leg over his lover's, twine them. "Awake," he mutters. "Barely."

"I can make coffee," Sean whispers, slipping between Jonny's legs, settling on top of him. "I should get up."

"Coffee," Jonny echoes, settling under Sean's weight, comforted by the press of flesh against his. "You have to go?"

"Don't want to," Sean admits, pressing his lips to Jonny's forehead, the tip of his nose, his chin. "But I've got work."

"Work. Hmm. Yeah." Jonny's waking slowly, the kisses a nice way to be roused from sleep. He scoots back into the pillow, blinks open his eyes, stares at Sean. "There you are. Knew you were here." He smiles. "What time you finish?"

"Five," Sean says, "more or less." He presses up on his elbows, looks down at Jonny in the dim morning light. This is not a man who looks like he wants to be rid of him. Sean's heart twists up; it's an unexpected feeling. "Want dinner when I'm through?"

"Dinner. Yeah. Want me to cook?" Jonny's thinking it saves time on what'll come after dinner.

"Can you?" Sean asks, flashing Jonny a grin. "I'm completely hopeless. You'd either starve or live on takeout if it's up to me."

Jonny laughs, fully awake now, shifting to put his arms around Sean's neck. "Yeah, I cook. Not like you're eating at Spago every night, but I manage not to kill myself."

"Mmm. That'll do fine for me." Sean bends down, licks over a bruise on Jonny's neck, sinks his teeth into it and darkens it a little more.

The laugh collapses into a moan. "Fuck, you really have to leave?" Jonny nudges Sean's body with a squirm. "Shit. How long before you risk being late?"

"Adding up shower, the drive, coffee -- twenty minutes," Sean answers, slipping a hand between them and wrapping it around both their cocks, pressing them together and giving them a nice long stroke.

"Gimme fifteen, then," Jonny mutters, licking his lips, arching up at the touch of fingers on his cock. "Get me off and promise I'll be hard when you get back. Please."

"You think I could go to work hard, thinking about you, thinking about how good it's going to feel coming--" home "--back and bending you over the counter?" Sean's strokes are starting to pick up a little more speed now, a little more intent, offer accepted and body demanding release. "Need this or I'll be out of my mind when I'm supposed to be working spreadsheets. All damned day."

"Don't want that. No. Can't have you wanting to jerk off over the spreadsheets, sir." Jonny's voice harbors a small laugh that's quickly coated with moans and incessant need. "Forget the fifteen. You got about five. Oh, fuck, you're good at that."

"I have," Sean teases, licking his way over the mapwork of marks left on Jonny's shoulders, "a lot... of practice." He bites down hard as his hand sweeps over the head of Jonny's cock, growls softly and presses his hips down hard.

"Oh, fuck, gonna come. Don't want to, but gonna." Jonny's shifting, pushing up as much as he can against Sean's mouth. Fuckin' teenager, Miller. Like he's gonna keep being impressed with this.

"C'mon, yes, get it all over my hand, let me rub your come all over my cock and stroke myself off with it--" Sean growls, teeth sink into Jonny's shoulder, break skin, draw blood, and the taste of it under his tongue is almost enough to send him over then and there.

The bite does send Jonny over and he's coming in small spurts, almost painful, white streaking Sean's fingers as Jonny's free hand clutches at his lover's body, fingers digging into whatever flesh they can find. "Fuck. Yeah."

Sean's going to feel those fingernail crescents in his arm all day long; he's going to have something from Jonny to keep him sane all day at work. "Christ, fuck," and words are merciful and fail him for the rest. His cock's jerking against Jonny's, hand's tightening around both cocks, and he lets out gasp after gasp as he comes all over his lover, streaks messy and sticky and staining both their stomachs.

Jonny doesn't say anything for a few minutes, then he's slowly breathing, relaxing into the bed. There are a million words floating in his brain, none of which sound good enough to say, most of which aren't quite right. "Shower," he finally settles on. "You first."

"Don't want to," Sean mutters, collapsing on Jonny and using his free arm to squeeze him close. "Want another half-hour sleep and want to fuck again."

"Can't," Jonny rasps as the air's knocked out of him. "You gotta go to work. You can fuck me the minute you come home."

"Not fair," Sean mumbles. "Want to have us both coming so much you're sticky all over with it. Stained. Filthy. Not enough. Can't get enough with you. Want to stay."

"Stay then. Tonight. Tomorrow night. Next week." Jonny kisses Sean's cheek, lips, sucks at them. "Want you here." Breathes out the relief that he can say the words. "But you need a job. And you're gonna be late. So, up. Now."

"Yessir," Sean smirks, finally sliding up and away from Jonny, untangling himself from the sheets. "Don't suppose there's room in your shower for two?"

Jonny points to the alarm clock, their fifteen minutes dwindling quickly. "Not and you get to work," he says, pulling himself up from the bed, stretching. "Unless you can shower without touching me."

"Not a chance," Sean says seriously, and he takes off for the shower, sticky and grinning and exhausted.


It wasn't the longest day Sean's ever spent at work. Wasn't the shortest, either, and he curses every red light on the way back to Jonny's. His thoughts have been going back and forth between we need to talk and just want to keep this, this way, don't want to fuck it up with talking for the whole drive; he's more than a little nervous. But damn, it felt good sleeping in a bed, sleeping tangled up with someone last night. It felt fucking amazing.

Jonny's spent the day, once he had Sean up and out, running errands, getting everything for dinner, which meant restocking the kitchen, making sure there's coffee for the morning, snacks for late-night munchies and beer. Good beer. He's got the steaks on the grill, one of those George Foreman deals that sits on the counter, and the potatoes are in the oven baking. He's in jeans, the ones he thinks hang too low on his hips but Chad keeps telling him to wear more often, cock damned hard, having been worked to the edge during the day's second shower, and the tails of the faded concert t-shirt barely meet the waistband.

Sean doesn't have a key, wouldn't be ready to let himself in even if he did. He knocks at Jonny's door, shoving both hands into his pockets and rocking back onto his heels, nervous. They keep reconnecting on normal levels, nowhere near where they were that first night at the bar, and what's strange about that is how much he wants it. How much he wants those normal levels.

Turning down the grill a notch, Jonny leaves the kitchen and answers the door. "You could've just come on in," he says, smiling, stepping back. "S'not locked."

"Didn't want to assume too much," Sean says, not letting Jonny step back too far. He wants the hug, the contact, the how have you been, I missed you greeting that marks the start of an evening. "Was distracted all day long because of you. How was your day?"

Jonny's stepping back only far enough to let Sean move into the room and then shut the door. Then he's on him, almost a pounce, wrapping arms around Sean's neck and kissing him soundly. "Boring. Grocery shopping. Puttering around. Glad you're home."

Home. Sean wraps arms around Jonny's waist and kisses him back. "How often do you do this?" he asks softly. "Bring home strays, I mean."

"Huh?" The question startles Jonny. "Never. Haven't ever done this." He frowns. "You were thinking I do this kind of thing all the time?"

Sean shakes his head, pulling back. "No, didn't mean that. It's only that it's been so easy so far. Wondered if you'd been thinking about that. About how smart it is opening your home up to someone you've only known a week or two, and barely out of bed for that."

"Oh, that." Jonny shrugs. "Sissy says I'm fatalistic. I suppose I am, the way I let guys beat up on me. If you're some serial psycho, then at least I got a couple weeks of fuckin' great sex out of it."

"This is as psychopathic as I get," Sean says, mouth twisting. "You don't have to worry about it getting worse. There's the advantage of meeting someone who's down as low as he's been in a while."

"Then it's probably kinda sick for me to say I like your version of psychopathic." Jonny's tugging at Sean's shirt, bunching it in his fingers. "Dinner's ready if you want, but it's nothing that can't keep cooking for a bit longer, if there's something else you want."

I want to stay here, with you. I want to keep feeling this way, like what I want's all right, like wanting it this way doesn't make me sick and twisted, like you could take anything I have to give. "Want a lot of things." Sean grins. "I'm starved. Feed me first and I promise I'll tear the shite out of you after."

"Awright," Jonny blurts out, a bit too eager, blushing as he steps back. "You sit down. I'll get everything."

Sean has a seat, relaxes and undoes the top buttons of his shirt as Jonny brings over dinner. It's good, damned good in comparison to the fast food he's been surviving off since getting kicked out of his lover's house. But he's a hell of a lot more interested in what happens after dinner.

"It's just steak, salad," Jonny says, bringing everything to the table, taking a seat opposite. "I restocked the kitchen though, and there's other stuff, munchies for late-night, other stuff if you'd rather." He's hungry, hasn't eaten all day, too nervous about whether Sean might not come back, that it might all have been an incredible dream. "More beer, too."

And it hits Sean all at once: Jonny's as nervous as he is. This isn't routine for either of them. And they're both afraid of fucking it up.

"It's good," Sean says, "it's all good, God, Jonny, it's more than I was expecting." And he doesn't just mean the food.

Jonny picks at his food, cutting the steak into bites much smaller than he needs. "Can I ask something?" he asks, not looking up.

"Yeah." Sean sets knife and fork down and forces himself not to fidget. "You can ask me anything."

"What were you expecting?" The words come out slowly. "Are expecting? This is all sort of new on this end."

Sean finds himself wishing for a cigarette; he props his chin up on his hand, elbow resting on the table, and exhales softly. "I've not been expecting anything," he says. "Didn't expect to meet you, didn't expect to see you again, never expected you to be willing to take me home."

"Expect to want it?" Jonny takes a bite of the salad, then the steak. "I know I didn't. Not like this. Wanting you to stay." His voice drops to a whisper. "It's scary."

"Christ, it's very fucking scary," Sean agrees, voice just as low. "And I -- maybe I did expect to want more. It's -- I've never been with someone who wanted everything. And then came back and wanted it again. And then again after that, and Christ, yeah, scary," because what happens when you get sick of me?

"I'm not wanting too much, am I? I mean, before, it's just been the hard fucks against whatever wall was handy." And yesterday you went shopping for sex toys. Jonny forks his food, plays with it before eating another few bites. "I want everything you can give me. Want to try it all."

"Want to see how far this goes," Sean says quietly. "Not expecting anything. Just... it's so different, knowing I'm not scaring you. That I don't have to lie to you about anything. I keep waiting for the catch."

"What catch? You're not gonna scare me." Jonny glances up, smiles. "Least, I don't think so. Or not such that I'd want you to leave."

"I don't want to leave," Sean blurts out. He shakes his head at himself, wincing. "Maybe that's more than you wanted to hear. I don't want to go. Feel as if there's a hell of a lot more to look for and I don't want to waste the chance."

Jonny lets out a breath, one he'd forgotten he was holding. "Don't want you to leave. That's the scariest part. Want you to stay, be here when I come home at night, so I can wake you up, beg to be fucked." He blushes, just at the thought of kneeling beside the bed at 2 a.m., hard and whimpering pleas against Sean's ear.

Sean slides out of his chair, comes around behind Jonny and wraps both arms around his shoulders. "Christ. Want that, too." He turns his head, bites down hard on Jonny's earlobe. "I'm distracted. And you went to all this trouble for dinner."

"Dinner'll keep. Steak's good cold." Jonny mutters the words out between moans. "Would much rather hurt for you now," he says, licking his lips. "Please, sir."

"Now," Sean breathes, "come on, boy, bed." He's only willing to let Jonny go in order to let him stand up; his trousers are already getting tight, and he wants Jonny in bed. Now.

He stands up, ignoring the random tug in the back of his brain to slide out of the chair to his knees instead. They're not there. Yet. He walks toward the bed, turning at the last moment. "How you want me? Face up? Down?" He can't believe he's asking these questions so casually. "Strip first?"

"Strip off," Sean says, "and I want you kneeling at the foot of the bed. You bought things -- do you want to be hurt with something apart from my hands tonight?"

Skimming the T-shirt off over his head, Jonny thinks on the question. Sean's hands alone are enough to drive him insane, but he's curious. He'll admit that. "Yes, sir. Whatever you think I'd like. Don't know much about pain other than from hands."

Sean runs a fingertip down the center of Jonny's chest, tucking it into his waistband and then tugging him forward hard. "Show me what you bought," he breathes. "I want to see what my options are. Think about all the ways I can make your skin red and hot and welted."

Jonny wonders just how hard a man can get before he explodes, 'cause he's sure he's well on his way to it. "In, um, top drawer," he breathes out. "Red and welted? Sounds good. Uh, got a flogger. And a crop. I know of those, at least."

"Get these off." Sean gives one last tug to Jonny's waistband and heads for the chest of drawers, opening the top drawer. Flogger. Crop. He gets the flogger out; he's used floggers, at least. Never touched a crop, but he can imagine the marks on Jonny's skin already.

The flogger's medium-heavy, black tails, suede. Sean's trying to imagine Jonny going out for this, buying it thinking about Sean using it on him, and God -- it's so much. Just so much to be offered. His chest twists up hard enough he can barely breathe, and he heads back for Jonny, sliding his hand down Jonny's back.

The jeans are off in record time, tossed to the side, toward the bathroom door, and then Jonny's kneeling at the foot of the bed. He doesn't know a thing about how he's supposed to kneel, so here's just there, sort of sitting back on his heels, hands fidgeting with his thighs. And he's watching Sean finger the leather. Oh, fuck, yeah. Then the hand's on his back and he straightens against it, instinct kicking in.

Sean drapes the tails over Jonny's shoulder and drags them up and over, down the length of his back. "Kneel up a little more," he murmurs, "with your forearms on the foot of the bed."

"Okay," Jonny mutters, moving forward on his knees, laying his arms down on the bed. He looks over his shoulder. "You want I should call you 'sir' all the time while we're doing this?"

"Only if you want to." Sean drags the tails down Jonny's back again, from shoulder to hip and over the curve of his arse. Christ but his cock's aching, and he slides a hand down the front of his trousers to adjust himself; he comes away with a smear of precome on his palm, and licks it off slowly.

There's no way not to shiver, despite the room being warm and Jonny's body on fire from within. The touch of leather's unfamiliar, but instantly arousing, and his cock's hard, jutting against the bed's edge. "That feels," he pauses, licking his too-dry lips, "good. Damned good. Sir."

"Oh, Christ, you look so good like this," Sean murmurs. "Starting you out slow, now. If anything feels wrong, tell me." And he brings the tails down nice and easy against Jonny's arse.

Jonny flinches, his body jerking slightly. It's not the sting of hand. It's a subtle sting, one that lingers. If anything feels wrong? How's it supposed to feel?

Another strike, and another, and Sean's body finds the rhythm easily. It's been so long since he's done this, but he's wanted to, stroked off to thinking about it, watched from the backs of bars and thought about what it would be like having leather in his hands again.

As the strikes continue, Jonny shifts, stretching his arms out across the bed, pressing his head down between them, finding the right position, the one that lets the leather hit harder. He's never wanted it like this, and as Sean continues, the rhythm falling against his ass, Jonny can't imagine why. It's wonderful.

Harder. Harder. Harder than that, pushing Jonny into a place where his skin's going red and Sean can see every strike he makes blending into the last. He's moving down, taking in the tops of Jonny's thighs, not thinking about whether it'll be hard for him to walk afterwards, just needing to see marks all over him, red and purple and made by him.

Harder's good. Pain's good. To a point. When the leather kisses his thighs. Jonny grimaces, the pain fresh and suddenly, momentarily, too intense. He clutches the blanket, bunching it up under his fingers, bracing against the pain, pushing back into it, trying to ride it out. It's not really any worse than he's taken from fists and fingers, but it's so different, burning and cutting through his body.

He could stop. Sean knows he could stop, knows Jonny's not going to ask him to, that even if Sean had gone through the speech about safewords he wouldn't be hearing one. And he knows what the tightening of those hands means, the look on Jonny's face, but Christ, it's not enough yet. And he keeps going, lashing out at the same spot, red mottling and going purple under leather tails.

Jonny doesn't know how to stop Sean. The word stop wouldn't come out of his mouth if he wanted. And he doesn't want it to stop. Wants to hurt so badly he has to beg Chad to cover his shift the next night. "Oh, fuck, Sean," he mutters into the blanket, nearly biting it as the burning increases, spreads. He'd swear someone'd taken a match to his flesh. "Hurts. Damned. Good."

All that and Sean hasn't even made his way up to Jonny's shoulders. He gives Jonny's arse one last hard smack with the tails and then goes up, a hard fast rhythm across Jonny's back, no warmup, no easing his way into it, just pain, rough and hard and solid.

He doesn't even try to process the new sensations, just letting them sluice into the fire already searing his flesh, cutting a clear path to his brain. Later, he'll analyze, dissect, catalogue. Now it's just about the pain and stretching onto the blanket, opening his body up to Sean's handiwork.

Sean stops before Jonny's shoulders are the same dark shade of red as his arse and thighs. It's not about thinking Jonny can't take it; he's just ready to stop then, and he's leaking precome and wanting to fuck Jonny so hard they're both screaming from it. He drops the flogger to the bed's surface and kneels down behind Jonny, scratching his nails down Jonny's shoulders, down his back, over his arse and thighs.

The first instinct is to cry out, beg for it not to stop when the lashing ceases. And Jonny opens his mouth to get that out, just as Sean's nails bite into already red, oversensitized flesh. "Aw, fuck, hell, yes," he pants out, the cutting pain overlaying everything else. His mind's floating on the adrenaline rush, endorphins leveling out everything to an intense throb.

"Yes," Sean hisses, bending forward and biting hard at Jonny's shoulder. Not enough. As if anything could be enough; he's not sure he could find enough at this point even if he were looking for it.

"Please." The word's stilted by the bite, torn off and garbled. Jonny pants out a few breaths. "Fuck. Please. Want you inside me."

Sean slaps Jonny's arse hard, feeling the sting of it against his palm. "How much do you want it?" he asks, standing up and starting to strip out of his clothes.

"Bad. Badly. Worse than that." Jonny's command of the English language, allegedly his native tongue, is somewhat lacking at the moment. "So bad I'd crawl through broken beer bottles."

Christ, and Sean doesn't see how he could ever get tired of hearing Jonny beg. He's damn near ready to rip at his clothes in haste to get them off, the last pieces of restraint forcing him to take his time, but damn, he wants to be inside his lover again.

Jonny hesitantly looks over his shoulder. "That good enough? Sir?"

"It's enough for now," Sean says, running his hand up Jonny's back, slipping it into his hair and tightening it in the strands. "Come the end of the week I might actually make you crawl on glass for me, boy, but for now it's enough." He's on his knees behind his lover, cock pressed up hard against Jonny's arse, and he ought to be thinking about lube now, not about how it'd feel to work his cock in when Jonny's dry, bare, and marked red from the flogger.

Really? Crawl on glass? Jonny's brain misfires a few synapses at the visual. Not that he wouldn't do it. But at the image in his mind of him crawling, through glass, just to get to the pain Sean's offering. He nudges back against his lover's cock, wanting to be taken like that, raw and exposed and aching already. "Please, fuck me."

Sean spits on his palm and slicks saliva down the length of his cock; it's not much, maybe not even better than nothing. But it's what he's giving Jonny. He slides his thumbs into Jonny's cleft, holding him apart, squeezing already-bruised flesh, and presses the head of his cock to Jonny's opening. "Fuck, you're so tight," Sean growls out, behind clenched teeth, and then he starts forcing himself forward, a fraction of an inch at a time.

He shouldn't push back. He knows it. His body's barely opening to Sean's forward movement. So there's no way it's not going to hurt like sin to push back. He's fighting the urge. Tries so damned hard not to push. It lasts a good two minutes, long enough for Sean to inch into Jonny's ass. Then he pushes, in spite of knowing better, ignoring his brain and body, hands pressing into the bed as he arches his back and pushes. Then he's screaming, the endorphins slamming his nervous system, breathing hard, and still pushing.

Sean wraps both hands around Jonny's hips, tugging him back with a sharp move and a forced grunt, Christ, all the way in and it's fucking fantastic. "That's it," he growls, "scream for me, lover," and he pulls back, shouting himself when the stretch burns.

Christ, it hurts. Jonny closes his eyes against the pain, the world white on black, and it doesn't help. Still hurts. But he's not stopping. He knows there's pleasure on the other side. Just have to get to it.

The next slide in's easier, though the drag's still painful for Sean as well as Jonny. And then the next, and the next, and Jonny's opening for him, the body losing its ability to resist, and Sean leans forward, shoving a forearm across Jonny's shoulders and pounding in even harder. "Just like that," he pants, "take it for me, just like that, come on..."

Jonny's taking it, his body relaxing in a sudden rush of adrenaline, opening wide enough to accommodate the thrusts, let the pain wash. He's spread out flat on the bed, Sean's arm holding him down, knees as wide as they can go against the floor. "Yes, sir, please, good."

Sean wraps a hand around Jonny's cock, stroking him off in time with the thrusts of his hips. "Yes, fuck, Christ it's good -- you're so fucking hot, God, taking all this for me, hurting for me, love fucking you -- so much, God."

"Nnngh," Jonny winces at the first touch of fingers on his cock. Sudden, abrupt change. He likes it. "More. Love it. You hurting me. Fucking me like this."

Sean's nails dig into Jonny's shoulder all over again. "Can you come this way?" he asks. "From me hurting you?"

"Think so. Haven't really thought about it." Jonny smiles. "G'head, try."

Tightening his hand on Jonny's cock, Sean sinks his nails into Jonny's shoulder and drags them down, hard and fierce, white lines coming up on his skin.

It takes a minute, two, then the pain triggers the reaction necessary and Jonny's coming, brutal pulse after pulse, over Sean's hand, against the blanket, body shaking almost violently with the need to release everything.

Another few thrusts and Sean's coming with him, leaning forward to bite down hard on Jonny's shoulder as the pleasure takes him. It's so good -- so fucking good he's almost blind with it, moaning into Jonny's skin when it's finally over and he can breathe again.

Jonny collapses onto the bed, letting Sean's weight caress him as he sinks deeper, the bite spiraling him the last steps into oblivion. "Fuckin' Mary and Joseph, that was intense," he mutters into the blanket.

Intense is wrapping his arms around his lover and thinking three words that got him into trouble in Paris. Intense is not being able to breathe, not being able to think, and holding back words only because he doesn't want to let them spill over in the wake of the best sex he's ever had. Intense is nodding against Jonny's back, leaving a light kiss that probably feels like sandpaper with Sean's stubble rubbing across reddened skin.

"Not sure I can move." He's definitely sure it doesn't matter. He doesn't think Sean's going anywhere. Hopes not. Would pray if he remembered how. Jonny doesn't want to lose this, to fuck up, to say the wrong things. "Not in any hurry."

"Maybe as far as the bed," Sean mumbles. "Don't need to go anywhere else."


Thank you
10/22/2004 11:43:53
Reading that leaves me dizzy. And coming.

I love these two. I love what you two do to them. I love what they do to each other. I love that they've fallen in love. The tenderness is so pure amongst the violence.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. More please.

- daltong
Re: Thank you
10/25/2004 06:45:13
Thank you so much for reading! We see that more often than I realized, the comments about how the tenderness adds so much to the boys' characterizations. I don't think it's something that happens on purpose, either. But it fits them well, whichever muses we're playing with.

Of course, it also makes me wonder what would happen if we had muses that weren't sweet on each other at all... ;)

10/22/2004 13:58:22
That was awesome, hotter than hot with just the right amount of tenderness....

Wow, you two are amazing...

10/25/2004 06:47:51
Thank you so much! :)

Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 10/20/2004 12:31:00

Matter of Timing (NT/SB) NC-17
Matter of Timing (
Matter of Inertia prequel)
Pairing: Nigel Terry/Sean Bean
Warnings: Heavy kink, blood and knifeplay.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: I don't own these men and I'm sure they wouldn't have dreamed of playing this unsafe with people they barely knew, even in 1986. Safe sex is for fiction, which is what this is. Fiction, not real. Fantasy! It never happened. I made it up.


Movie blood has a bitter taste that makes it a poor substitute for the real thing. It doesn't quite look right on Sean's skin, either, Nigel decides; Sean's blood would have a ruddier tone to it, more cinnamon-brown. And it wouldn't taste like this, syrupy and cloying and designed to stay shiny and slick, only turning tacky after hours and take after take under hot studio lights.

Sean's been getting looks from Nigel through the shoot, but he hasn't been sure whether to chalk them up to Caravaggio's obsession with Ranuccio or whether there's something he ought to be asking for. Nigel's older, has been in the business far longer, and Sean remembers watching The Lion In Winter on video and thinking Christ, to be any of them. He's resisted the urge to ask what it was like working with Peter O'Toole, what it was like being on screen with Katharine Hepburn. But it's mainly because he doesn't want Nigel to think of him as an idiot kid, and because if he's going to try for small talk with Nigel, he'd like it to have a more natural lead-in to and can I suck your cock, sir?

Sean's pretty sure Nigel would take to that.

"We're almost done," the makeup artist murmurs, smudging Sean's cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Almost have you ready to go again. Are you getting sick of all the blood?"

Sean only grins, showing off Ranuccio's imperfect teeth. The makeup artist laughs and takes a step back, looks Sean over. "All right, you're good. Go on."

Stepping back into his place, Sean relaxes his shoulders and tries to match himself up to the right position on his mark. It's good enough for Derek, who gets them going again, and then muscle memory takes over and the fight starts.

Cut. Thrust. Block. Then the fight ends, and Sean takes his last hard stab, Ranuccio's last hard stab at Caravaggio. Nigel grunts; Sean pulls his punches, but only barely, and even a stage knife can hurt if it hits hard enough. He pops the capsule open, leaving a bloody mess across his side, and gives Sean the stunned, incredulous look that was written down on paper.

He knows exactly what that look meant. He understood it the first time he saw Sean sweaty and dirty with a knife in his hand. It's not how could you do this to me?. It's are you feeling what I'm feeling?. It's are you as hard as I am?.

And Nigel is hard. He's been hard, on and off, every day he's filmed with Sean. This has been the worst of it. He can just imagine tearing into those lips. Biting them hard enough to draw blood of his own. He can imagine bleeding for Sean. If it were safe, if it were sane, reasonable, he'd have gotten Sean into a dark corner and fucked him already, sealed his mouth over Sean's so he could taste Sean's choked-off screams. He'd have put a knife against Sean's throat and shown him what it's like mixing blood and knives and sex the way Caravaggio and Ranuccio must have been; he'd have seen just how far Sean could take Ranuccio's love of money and power and pain. And maybe if there weren't so many people -- if it were just Nigel, Sean and Derek -- he could say fuck the stage knives. fuck the movie blood. hit me, hurt me, let's fuck the camera with it.

But he knows better. This is as close as they'll get for an audience, in circumstances where so much can go wrong.

He runs bloodstained fingers down Sean's face and watches Sean's expression melt into a smile. And when Sean kisses him, it's for real. There's nothing staged about it.


Christ. Sean needs a cigarette. He rubs his hands together, still feeling as though he has layers of movie grime stuck to his skin, and he digs through his pockets for a fag. It's no good, though; he's out.

The scent of smoke is acrid on the air anyway; someone must have a cigarette. Sean looks around, and he's not surprised to see Nigel waiting for the van already. He walks over, sliding his tongue over his lips so he can ask for that fag.

"Trade you," Nigel interrupts.

Sean stops midstride and raises an eyebrow. "Sorry?"

"I'll. Trade. You." Nigel slips the cigarette out of his lips and rolls it between his fingertips, turning it over so the filter faces Sean. "Kiss me with smoke and you can have all the cigarettes you want."

Sean's mouth drops open for a split-second. He recovers and swallows hard. That's his opening. That's all the openings he could want, rolled into one, only they don't fool him, not for even a moment, into thinking he's in charge.

And that's fine.

"Kiss you with smoke," Sean says. "How do you want that?"

"Come here."

Sean steps forward and lets Nigel lift the cigarette to his lips, breathing in and keeping his eyes on Nigel's as the cigarette glows bright red in Nigel's hand. When Sean's lungs are full, Nigel takes the cigarette away and wraps his hand around the back of Sean's neck. He presses his lips to Sean's, seal formed, and opens his mouth.

Sean slides his tongue forward, and smoke passes from one mouth to the other. Nigel feels a sharp burn when he pulls the smoke in, and that's perfect; he tightens his grip on the back of Sean's neck, keeping him there, kissing him harder. Sean's nearly melting under the assault now, and fuck what he might be getting himself into; whatever this is, whatever Nigel's seducing out of him, he's ready to give it.

Nigel pulls back first, but only because he needs air of his own. Sean's smoke is good enough to get him hard, make him want the rest of the evening. It's not enough to sustain him, not enough to replace the air his body needs. He takes one last drag off the cigarette, then hands it to Sean.

"Come home with me," Nigel says.

Sean nods.


Sean's hands curl around the slats of the bedframe, wrists locked in position, arms tense all the way to the shoulders. Nigel shakes his head, slides the flat of the blade up the center of Sean's chest. "Relax," he says.

"Easy for you to say." Sean bites his lower lip hard. "You've done this before."

"More times than you know." The tip of the blade runs from the edge of one nipple to the edge of the other in an arc, not piercing skin but leaving a faint white line behind. "You could damage yourself if you don't relax more than this. I'm starting to think you'd be better off if I just tied you."

"No." Sean shakes his head. The idea of having someone tie him to a bed while they're holding a knife -- no.

Nigel grins. "I promise not to hurt you any more than you want."


Nigel drags the flat of the blade down Sean's chest again, and Sean's eyes slam shut as he arches into it.




Hands twisted up in silk rope, Sean's not sure he's relaxed now, either. But it's better than before, better than having to think about holding his hands in position. There are faint white scratches all over his chest now, but Nigel still hasn't drawn a drop of blood. Sean's starting to think he won't. It doesn't really matter. Sean's hard enough to cut glass, starting to leak precome when Nigel's thigh slides against his cock or when Nigel runs a hand up his cock in a warm, lazy stroke. And then there was the stroke when Nigel pressed his own cock to Sean's and drew his hand up both, and Christ, Sean thought he was going to arch straight off the bed and come screaming.

He didn't. Nigel put the knife to his throat and whispered No. And Sean's eyes were anything but scared as he kept himself from coming.

Nigel finally puts the knife down and reaches to the bedside table again, and Sean's so relieved he closes his eyes. He's finally going to fuck me. Oh, thank Christ.

Only it's Sean's cock that's getting the lube, and generous amounts of it too; Nigel gives Sean's cock a squeeze, and the strokes are making Sean gasp, then writhe, and finally beg. "Please. Oh, God, please. Close. Please, I can't keep holding back."

Nigel doesn't even appear to be paying attention. He kneels up a little further and presses two fingers into his own arse, and Sean stops breathing.

Jesus Christ.

Nigel gives him an amused look before holding Sean's cock steady and straddling it. "We're just getting started."

And he starts sliding down.

Sean's hands curl into fists, and the sounds he makes are animal at best. Guttural, wrenching groans, one after another until his throat aches from making them. Nigel's clenched around him, the fit like a too-tight glove on a too-hot evening, and Sean squirms underneath him, trying to get away, then trying to push up further. Neither move takes him very far; Nigel presses a hand to Sean's hip and holds him down.

"Nigel, please."

Nigel picks the knife up and slides its flat up Sean's chest again. Sean's breathing stops, but his heart's racing, and this time when Nigel turns the edge against his skin, he can almost feel the blood begging to be let out.

"Please. Oh, God. Please."

The first cut is shallow, and it stings like hell. Sean clenches his teeth, clenches his fists, and then Nigel clenches his muscles around Sean's cock, and all the tension slams out of Sean's body in one aching groan.

"Look down, Sean. Look at yourself."

It takes a few seconds just to remember how to open his eyes; when he does, Sean sees the mark on his chest and the drop of blood sliding toward his side, and he stares up at Nigel, awestruck and silent.

"More, Sean?"

"Fuck, yes!"

The next cuts are all shallow, but they grow longer and longer as Nigel's body rocks down against Sean's cock. Sean's begging all the way through, words like more and please and oh, fuck, oh fuck, love bleeding for you. Nigel's grin is a knowing one, and when he finally puts the knife down there are more than enough cuts on Sean's chest to leave him with all the blood he wants.

Nigel's no Caravaggio, but he has his artistic moments. Blood on a lover's skin is a beautiful thing, and tracing it into smears with his fingertips never fails to leave him breathless. He presses his palm over Sean's heart, and Sean arches his neck back, trying to breathe steady. It's a losing battle. It gets worse when Nigel slides his bloodstained palm up to Sean's throat and holds, carefully, choking off Sean's air a fraction of an inch at a time. "Beautiful trusting whore," Nigel whispers. "You'd bleed out for me, wouldn't you?" He gives Sean a breath of air to answer.


Nigel slips his fingers into Sean's mouth. "Suck me," he murmurs, dropping his other hand to his cock and leaving bloodsmears as he strokes off. "Suck me. Make it good and I'll let you come."

It's an absurd thought -- how could Sean not come, at this point? -- but as Sean sucks his own blood off Nigel's fingers, he realizes he wants to hear Nigel say those words. Come for me. And the moment he realizes just how badly he wants it, he starts sucking harder, sucking like the beautiful trusting whore he is, the naive but talented whore Ranuccio was for Caravaggio.

"Yes -- oh, God, good boy," Nigel pants, Sean's eager tongue pushing him to the edge faster than he'd anticipated. Only a few more strokes, and Nigel comes, barely able to choke out the words come now, Sean as he watches his come jet over Sean's stomach, mixing with the bloodstains.

Nigel's come is hot against his skin, like all the other times Sean's done this, but it stings, stings like the blade did at first and leaves a dull, aching throb behind. And that throb has Sean jerking under Nigel, crying out, eyes shut so hard tears are forming behind them as he comes, one pulse after another until Sean's shaking so hard he thinks he'll never stop.

I could keep him here like this all night, Nigel thinks, watching Sean come back to himself. I could make him bleed for me all night and he'd thank me for it. It's tempting. Sean's beautiful, and Nigel can easily imagine having him underfoot for the rest of the shoot.

He sighs softly, grabbing a towel from the table and wiping his hands clean. Sean's a good boy. But he's too young, and he's not for him. Nigel's old enough to know the difference.

He reaches up and unties Sean's wrists, letting them drop to the pillows above Sean's head. "Did you like that?" he asks, smile curving the corners of his mouth.

"Did I...?" Sean blinks up at Nigel, licking at his lips. "Yes," he whispers.

"I thought you would."

Sean closes his eyes. "So did I," he mumbles.

Nigel chuckles. "You know yourself better than I give you credit for. Go clean up; have a shower." He swings a leg over Sean's and rolls to the side, letting Sean up. Sean doesn't hesitate or look back on the way to the bathroom. Nigel suspects they're both feeling the same way now: not eager to be done with the evening, exactly, but not feeling any compulsion to linger.

As the shower starts, Nigel looks down at the sheets; they're damp and sticky and they stink of sweat and blood and sex. They'll definitely need to be changed before he can get any sleep. He reaches for the phone and calls services, getting a cigarette from the pack on the table while he does. It takes several rings before anyone answers, and then he's put on hold. He lights his cigarette and blows smoke at the ceiling; he supposes he should have expected that.

Sean bites off several curses as hot water hits the cuts all over his chest; damn that stings. The soap's going to be worse, and for a moment he's tempted not to bother with it, but then he remembers Nigel's sweat and come all over him and he grimaces. He hisses and curses a great deal as he gets himself clean, but he avoids crying out or biting his lip through. That's accomplishment enough, he decides. He's not trying to impress anyone at this point.

He comes out and gathers up his clothes, dressing quickly while Nigel tells services he needs new sheets. Sean glances at the sheets; no, he probably wouldn't want to sleep in something that bloodsmeared, either. The cuts have mostly stopped bleeding, and his shirt's dark; he doesn't think anything left over will show.

Nigel hangs up and stands as Sean turns to go. "Wait."

Sean stops, looks over at Nigel. Nigel brings the cigarette to his lips again and inhales, then catches Sean by the back of the neck and pulls him close.

Another smoke-filled kiss, and Sean wraps both arms around Nigel's waist this time, pulling himself close and savoring the taste of it. Nigel's lips taste like smoke, sex and blood. Sean moans.

Nigel breaks away first. "I'll see you tomorrow, Sean."

"Yeah," Sean murmurs, stepping back, raising a hand to his lips. "See you, Nigel."


10/20/2004 16:30:00

oh, god

10/20/2004 17:29:39

Thank you! :D

10/20/2004 20:05:01
*shakes self*
I really did not think this would nail me quite as hard as it did. I still don't think I have the specific kink, I think it's more a matter that good writing can take me almost anywhere.

I especially love that while Sean has a pretty good idea of what he wants, that doesn't mean he can easily hold still for a stranger with a knife. That little false start was perfect.

Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 10/19/2004 07:11:00

Matter of Inertia 13 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 13: Resistance To Change
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Rough sex.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: We don't own these men, unfortunately. Only fiction.


It's inevitable. No way around it. Sean's going to finish filming, sooner or later. And it's getting sooner. Harry doesn't have to look at the production schedule in his hand to know it. He's been counting the days, hours, minutes. They're down to something like 3, 8, 23. And there's a party planned. Tonight, he thinks. On neutral ground. Orli's house.

"You will survive, you know." Phillipa's words of wisdom as she and Harry share a cup of coffee in the catering tent. "Lovers have left before, Harry."

"Not like this," he mutters, watching Sean across the way, grabbing a sandwich and chatting with hobbits. "Hurts more than I expected."

Sean hasn't been counting the hours. There's so much to do as the clock winds down. He's aware he has to go, but it's a dim awareness he's been pushing aside every time it threatens to come at him.

He's looking forward to the new films, to playing someone who isn't Boromir of Gondor. But this is home, for all the definitions that matter, and he's stiill not sure how to tell Harry that.

Catching sight of his lover, who's looking grouchy again, Sean waves the hobbits off for a moment and heads over. "Hey," he murmurs. "Anything I can do to take that look off your face?"

"Hi, lover," Harry says, his frown turning slightly smile at Sean's voice. He scoots over on the bench, slides his coffee a couple inches to the side. "Wanna sit?"

Sean takes his seat and runs a hand down Harry's back, hoping it'll help him focus. He's thinking I know; I'm going to miss the hell out of you, too. But what he says is, low and under his breath, "You know I'm coming back to you?"

"Yeah." Harry wants it to come out with authority, with a clear understanding that yes, he knows that, but there's a slight inflection on the end that lets his doubt creep in, and he immediately regrets it. "I know. I do know." He sips at his coffee, now cooling too quickly. "Just haven't cared about anyone leaving before. It's odd."

"I understand," Sean says, and he does; he's never left anyone and minded doing it before. Things come to their natural ends, and Sean doesn't fight that. But this isn't natural, and it isn't going to be an end if he has anything to say about it, and he rubs the backs of his fingers over the back of Harry's hand. "Had a thought, lover. Something that'll remind both of us where home is." He risks smudging the makeup enough to brush a kiss over Harry's temple. "Tell you about it tonight, when we're done here. How does that sound?"

The kiss in public doesn't faze Harry. Would've. Once upon a time. Before Sean. Harry has trouble remembering what life was like before Sean. Doesn't want to imagine there being any after Sean. Just that's there's Sean. "Sounds like you're planning something diabolical, most likely painful," Harry says, grinning fully now, "and I think it sounds wonderful." He shifts enough to return the kiss, a very light brush over lips. "Go back to work. I've got to spend the afternoon with mistress here," he says, motioning across the table to Phillipa. "See you at home."


It's getting hard to believe that the costume's only going back on three more times, two more... one more, now, and that's it. Boromir's done, unless there are pickups. Sean's supposed to be done with New Zealand. Dumbest fucking thing I've heard this week. He lets himself into Harry's house and glances around for his lover.

Harry's in the bedroom, just out of the shower, standing at the closet trying to decide what to wear. Or whether to wear anything at all. "Wonder if they'd mind if I just came naked." He pulls a yellow shirt from the hanger, confused as to when he'd've even bought a yellow shirt, much less want to wear it.

Sean arrives just in time to watch Harry slipping his arms into fabric. He grins, interrupting Harry's efforts to button his shirt, sliding both hands between parted fabric and running his hands up Harry's back. "Damn, you look good," he grins. "Are we going somewhere?"

"Mmmm, warm hands. Feels good." Harry leans into the touch. "Party. Remember?" Although it's a few hours away. "Thought we might get dinner." He moans as Sean's fingers absently work a stressed muscle. "Or not. You hungry?"

"Tired of parties," Sean admits, licking his way across Harry's collarbone. "All those people who aren't you. Just want to wrap up in you and never come out."

"Don't imagine you'll have much trouble convincing me." Harry doesn't care about the others and tehir good-bye gestures. "Want Chinese delivery?"

"Perfect," Sean agrees, backing Harry towards the bed. There's a phone in reach. Somewhere. Probably. He doesn't really care. "I don't want to go."

"Fine. We're not going." Harry's tugging as much as Sean's pushing and they're on the bed in a minute, one of them much more dressed than the other. "Phone's on the floor. You need to be naked."

"Naked. Right. I meant, I don't want to go." Sean catches Harry's hand, stops him long enough to look into his eyes. "I have two films and then I'm coming right the hell back here."

Harry laughs, first time in days. "Oh, I thought you meant the party." He pushes himself up enough to manage a haphazard kiss. "Minute you finish, come home. I'll be waiting."

"I had a thought," Sean says, wondering if Harry's even going to remember his murmured words to that effect from earlier today. "I want a mark for you. Something permanent. Something that'll remind me every day I'm gone that I'm yours, and I'm coming back." That I won't be complete until I'm back here.

"Mark? Permanent. Like what?" Harry isn't going to assume Sean means one thing or another. They've joked about various notions, from tatts to piercings, but nothing came of it. He's still grinning. "You mean the weekly phone calls and daily emails from me aren't going to be enough?"

"They'll take half the edge off. You know what a Prince Albert is?"

The grin's now an open mouth, and Harry's nodding. Very slowly. He knows exactly what it is, where it goes and ... "You want one?"

"Yeah." Sean grins, trying to look game, revealing a hint of nervousness. "The recovery time's just about as long as I'm going to be gone."

"Two months, or thereabouts. Right?" Harry reaches up with his free hand to Sean's face, rubs his fingers along the jawline. "For me? You'd do that."

"Yes. Want to do that for you." Sean nuzzles against Harry's fingertips. "Would you like it?"

"Fuck, yes. It'd be fascinating." Harry smoothes his thumb over Sean's lips. "One-sided, though. Any thoughts on how I'm supposed to count the weeks?"

"You could get a calendar," Sean suggests, teasing at the fingerpad with his teeth. "Or you could promise me you'll write every day. I can tell you how the healing's going. You can torment me with how many times you've stroked off that day, since I can't." He gets a wicked gleam in his eye. "Or you could agree to stroke off for me, since I can't."

"I could do that. Torment you. Jerk off for you. Yeah." Harry slides his thumb through teasing teeth, letting Sean suck on its tip. "Least I could do is get my ear pierced, finally. Been putting it off too long, and if you're willing to put metal through your prick, Sean, I can manage an ear." He grins. "More, if you want."

"Like the idea of that," Sean murmurs. "Got anything more in mind? I'd settle for the ear..." He licks his way up over Harry's neck, slides his tongue around the curve of Harry's ear. "Have a nice ring in it. Tug on it with my teeth while you're fucking me."

"I could do both, then you wouldn't have to move from one side of the bed to the other to tug," Harry quips, hand sliding around to the back of Sean's neck, fingers dancing in encouragement to lick more, harder. "Or a nipple. Or two. Anything you want, lover."

Sean slides fingers down Harry's chest, rubs and twists at his nipple. "Ring through here," he murmurs, "something I could slip a finger into and twist -- sounds very fucking good, lover. Six months' recovery time. Longer than I'll be gone by a good stretch. You'll have to pin me down to keep me from torturing you before it's time."

Harry doesn't surpress the whimper at the rough twist. It feels good. Damned good. And the thought of Sean torturing him is fuckin' exquisite. "Settled, then. One ear. One nipple. Fair trade for a cock, I think." He shifts, grinding his now obvious erection up against Sean's thigh. "Wanna call for dinner now?" He's smirking. "Or something else?"

"Something else, then dinner, then something else again," Sean suggests, tweaking Harry's nipple again and bending down to bite sharply at the side of his neck. "Mine."

"Yours. Only." Harry's hands are working Sean's shirt. "Else requires naked." He winces at the bite, lets out a sharp breath. "You didn't draw blood, luv. Try again."

"Love you," Sean breathes, and bends down to bite again, harder this time, deliberate. He's aware of the precise moment when teeth pierce flesh and blood flows over his tongue, and he drags the rough side of his tongue over the wound, licking softly at it.

"Christ, yes." Harry bites down, breathing with the pain not against it. "Fuck, Sean. So fuckin' good." There's a sluice of endorphins, just enough to slant his brain left, and he's wanting more. "Again. Want my blood inside you, insinuating your veins while you're away from me."

Sean's sure it says something about him that that's maybe the most romantic, cock-hardening thought he's ever heard. And it says something about his lover that the words crossed his lips in the first place. Sean works a hand between them, curls his hand around Harry's cock and strokes hard as he licks at Harry's neck, biting the wound

open a little further and spilling blood over his tongue.

"Better. Much." Harry hisses at the renewed biting. It should say something about Harry, his way of looking at Sean, what he finds in this relationship, that he's giving up his blood so freely. "Fuck me, lover. Bleed me nearly dry."

"Love you," Sean whispers, Harry's words making it that much harder to breathe. "Want to watch you bleed for me, come for me." It's an effort to pull away, even long enough to get his own clothes off. Time's starting to feel claustrophobic; even knowing he's coming back isn't going to be enough for long.

In the brief time Sean's pulled off him, Harry scoots back onto the bed, shrugging his shirt off and spreading out on the blankets. It's an odd farewell, to bleed for your lover, but it seems so right, so perfect for them. "Want it to hurt, Sean. Want to be feeling it for days after you get on the plane." Don't want to forget what you feel like.

Sean grabs for the lube anyway, but he's sparing with it. Just enough that he'll be able to get in, a light coat passed over his cock before he's squirming in between Harry's legs. He licks over the center of Harry's chest, moving up to the other shoulder, marks from days ago almost faded completely. Want you remembering me every minute I'm gone.

The lube's enough. More than. Harry's mind trips back to being taken against a trailer wall with little more than a promise that it would hurt like hell and he'd remember it. It did. He does. And he started falling in love. He spreads his legs, hooking his feet 'round the back of Sean's body, nudging against hips, opening himself as much as possible.

Sean runs his hands down Harry's arms, pins his forearms to the bed as he keeps biting, keeps thrusting in hard and long. He doesn't remember when he realized that this relationship -- the one that follows the boundaries of safe and sane less than any other he's ever known -- was the safest place to let his guard down, to let someone in. He doesn't remember the moment he fell in love. But he's not letting anything take him away from Harry, and he bites down harder, breaks skin and feels his lover bleed for him. Not going anywhere. Ever.

Harry breathes out hurriedly, the pain of a bite much more intense than any blade, its gnawing tear hard to forget. It's just what he wants, needs. "Love you," he mutters, the words slipping into a bitten-off scream as Sean draws blood a second, third time. "God, yes. Fuck me. Hard."

Lips smeared red, bloodstained, Sean's giving Harry everything he's got, hips thrusting hard, brutal, forceful. He has to let Harry's forearms go in order to get a stronger grip on the bedcovers, to get his leverage where he wants it. He flicks his tongue out over his lips, looks up and grins down at Harry. "Fucking love you," he growls, and the strokes are going to leave them both bruised, hard enough it feels like they're going to tear the roof off and it still won't stop them.

The bruises won't be enough. They'll fade, black into blue into yellow until it's gone. And Sean still won't be back. Harry clutches at Sean's waist, digging his nails in, working on drawing his lover's blood to mingle with Harry's, drench the sheets for all he cares. Sean is coming back, though. Harry believes that, trusts that. He has a lover he's not losing.

Sean's breath catches hard when Harry's nails bite through and break skin. He leans up, crushes his mouth to Harry's, kisses, bites, licks and gets as close as he can. As close as they are, it's not close enough -- couldn't be, he thinks dizzily -- and it's going to end all too soon, no matter how hard he tries to keep from coming.

Never going to be close enough. Harry's clawing, pulling Sean into himself, much as possible. "Need," he pants out, between kisses, "hurt you, hurt me."

Sean's going to have scratches everywhere. Hips, arse, back. They're going to be just healed when he gets on the plane, and he'll still remember how it felt drowning in his lover for the last time in months. Oh, God, don't think about that. It's not the last time. There's no last time.

It's too much, heated friction and bodies pushed together, trying to become one. Harry's too close. "Want to come, lover. Please." He knows he doesn't need to ask, but under it all there's a desire, a craving, to be told that he can, that his lover wants him to come.

"Come on," Sean growls, "come for me, lover, now." His eyes are fixed on Harry's face, and he's slamming into Harry, his whole lower body aching now, wanting to watch Harry go over before he lets himself come.

The barest of touches brings him off, not silently but with screams that echo off the bedroom walls, cries that have him thankful for nearest neighbors being a half-mile away. His cock jerks, pulse after pulse, splattering his stomach with white streaks, his hands clutching at Sean's back, gouging even deeper before raking down.

"Christ, fuck, hurts -- Harry--" And Sean wants it to hurt, wants to lick blood off Harry's nails when this is all over. The look on Harry's face, the warm feel of come between them, all that sends him over so hard he screams himself hoarse, cock pulsing hard into Harry's body, groans coming out silent until he can catch his breath.

"Yeah, Sean, c'mon, mark me." Harry knows he'll be licking blood off his lover. His. Sean's. Licking him clean if necessary, drinking in those last drops.

"Mark you," Sean whispers, pushing up on his forearms, looking over Harry's body. The part he chooses is a spot on the left side of Harry's chest, just above his lover's heart. And then it's a hard, solid bite, pressing down on skin until he feels it break under his teeth, blood filling his mouth, and he nips at the edges of the wound, wanting it open wider, further, wanting the mark to last the next week.

"Goddamn," Harry spits out, somewhere between the scream and the moan. Nothing, ever, has hurt that good. Flesh ripped apart, body broken, all for love of this man. The mark outside won't last nearly as long as the cut Sean's making to Harry's heart. Just deep enough to last till his lover comes home again.

Coming up bloodstained, Sean licks over the wound one last time before kissing his lover hard. "I've never loved anyone this way," he breathes. "I'm never losing you. Believe it, lover. I'm promising you that."


10/19/2004 18:42:37
This is a great series. I've been enjoying it. It looks like you accidentally left an edit in though...(edit: "...and running his hands up..."))

10/19/2004 18:56:28
Hell! Thank you so much for pointing that out; will fix. And thank you for the compliment; love that you're enjoying the series. :D

Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 10/08/2004 19:44:00

I Never... 3 (SB/JLM) NC-17
I Never... Never Thought I'd Track You Down At Work
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Jonny Lee Miller
Warnings: Extremely rough, very violent, painful but definitely consensual sex.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: We do not, in any way, shape or form, own these boys. Alas.


Sean turns the matchbook over in his fingers. The address is imprinted in his mind's eye, he doesn't need to look at the book, but he glances down anyway. It's comforting somehow, this scrap of cardboard.

The matches are gone now, the black cardboard crumpled slightly, but Sean's still got it. And it's a good thing he has, because Jonny's not at the other bar tonight, and Sean's not sure he can wait another night to see him. He can sit at the end of the bar; he can order drinks all night and not cause trouble. Anything, so long as it means seeing Jonny again.

He hopes he's not too rumpled. It would have been fine at the other place; nobody would have noticed. He's not sure anyone would notice here, either, only he feels out of place enough as he looks at the people headed for the door. Goth kids. Ten years younger than him and all in black and piercings. Sean's got the one piercing in his left ear, but nothing else; he's in jeans and a button-down shirt, dark forest green, top buttons undone and white t-shirt showing under it. Definitely out of place, and showering in the locker room at work has nothing on a good warm shower at home. He is rumpled.

Doesn't matter. He slips into the bar and zeroes in on the bartender, and that's all it takes. Fuck the clothes, fuck the aching back, fuck the last few days. Jonny's working tonight, and Sean's steps are lighter than they've been since he left Jonny's place last week. God, it's fucking good to see you.

Jonny's pulled nearly a double shift, starting early to cover for one of the dayside bartenders. He's tired of the girl in black -- oh, wait, they all are -- with too much makup who thinks she's Wednesday Addams coming up to ask for a Vampire's Kiss and thinking she's just uber-Goth. He grimaces, slings together the tomato juice with the alcohol and serves it up. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices someone new taking a seat at the bar's far end. The smile on his face is genuine as he looks up, sees it's Sean.

Looks good. Great. He doesn't even think of how out of place he might seem here. "I'll get this one, Chad," he says to his fellow nightshifter. The black long-sleeve shirt he's wearing tucked into black pants offset his tan, deeper from spending a day at the beach, mostly listening to his sister give him pseudogrief about the ring of bruises on his neck, grief tinged with jealousy, one dominatrix admiring the handiwork of another dom.

"Hi," he says, pushing a cocktail napkin across the bartop, "what can I get you, Sir?"

Sean's got a smile playing around the corners of his mouth as he answers. "Just whatever lager you've got on tap." Or a date with a wall whenever you're off work. "How are you?"

"Fine," Jonny grins, not even worrying about lowering his voice over the din. "Sore as hell, but great. You?" He grabs a glass and fills it from the tap, taking extra care to get the exact level of suds, and sets it down. "Week been okay?"

There'll be a better time to tell Jonny the ins and outs of the last week, Sean's sure of that. "It's better now," he says, taking the beer and giving Jonny a quick salute.

"Yeah, definitely better." Jonny pushes his sleeve up, checks his watch. Couple more hours till he's off, but he could manage a break soon. "Gotta be here till 2, but I do get a few minutes here and there out from back of here."

"I can wait," Sean offers. "Don't have anywhere to go tonight." And he's already wondering how closely Jonny's watched on his breaks.

"Cool." There's a shout from a few folks down the bar and Jonny turns with an acknowledging wave. "Let me work a few more minutes and I'll get Chad to cover for me. It's not too insane right now."

"Sounds good, yeah." Sean nods. "Don't rush for me. I'll still be here."

Jonny goes down the bar, pours a couple of merlots for the upscale wannabes and gets lost making Cosmos for the gaggle of giggling girls. At one point while pouring the martinis over ice beds, he nods down the bar toward Sean and the gaggle quietens, smiling, then they're off across the room to hit on the herd of boys coming in the door. He turns, talks with Chad a few minutes and then heads back to where Sean's sitting.

"You wanna refresh on that beer?" he asks, hoping the answer's no. He's got about 20 minutes and he'd like to make good use of them. "Or wanna join me on a my smoke break?"

"I'll take you up on the smoke," Sean says. "Especially if you'll let me bum one. Been out a couple days now and haven't managed to get more." He's realizing, a bit to his surprise, that he's enjoying the hell out of watching Jonny work. Jonny's fast and efficient and knows what to do with his hands, how to keep everything in balance. In its own way it's got the same kind of appeal as watching his lover --ex -- sling paint on canvas, so it's not surprising that Sean's felt as if the time was flying. Two a.m.'s not so far off, really.

"Sure. C'mon." Jonny's out from behind the end of the bar and tugging at Sean's sleeve. "It's quieter in the back." Would it be asking too much for you to burn it on me? he thinks but doesn't say anything. Too soon to go that far with things. He's cutting a quick path through the people milling about, dancers on the edge of the floor and swings a left at the EXIT sign. Through there's the bathrooms and a smaller sitting area that's partitioned off from the main bar area by glass blocks.

Sean manages to control himself enough to wait until they're actually in the bathroom. Out of sight, out of mind, and half the stalls have their doors ripped off and people with hands down each others' trousers anyway; Sean finds a clear space of wall and presses Jonny into it, thigh already parting his legs, hands trapping in his arms. "You going to think I'm a stalker if I say I missed you?" he murmurs.

"No more than you thinking I'm obsessive if I say I missed you," Jonny says, not caring who hears, not caring that he's being pressed against a wall where he works. He spreads his legs, pushes up, grinding his cock into Sean's thigh. "Want it. Been thinking about it for days."

"Wanted to come sooner." Sean presses in hard and then harder, growling softly at the feel of hard cock pressed up against warm muscle. "How long have you got?"

"A good 20 minutes," Jonny mutters, tugging his hands against Sean's pull. "How you want it?"

"Want to make you come quick and dirty. And screaming, but I can live without that for now." Sean digs his fingers into Jonny's forearms, already imagining what the pinpoint bruises are going to look like. "Want to fuck my mouth?"

Jonny grins, a bit lopsided, tilting his head, biting his tongue at the bruising. "Yeah," he spits out, almost in disbelief. Expected the quick and dirty, even the screaming. Hadn't anticipated the mouth offer. "Knees, now. Come 2 a.m., you fuck me."

"Perfect," Sean whispers, bending his head down and biting Jonny's shoulder through his shirt. Enough to mark, maybe, or bruise, but not enough to bleed; Jonny's still got hours of shift to get through.

And then Sean's letting go of Jonny's arms, sliding his hands down to Jonny's wrists, getting to his knees on a floor that's got god-knows-what on it, and nuzzling against Jonny's fly.

It is perfect. Too perfect, Jonny thinks for a second, Sean sinking to the floor, Jonny looking down, moaning at the brush of cheek, nose, lips against his pants. And the bite's ache lingers, will for the hours he has till he can have Sean proper. No, let Sean have him. His hands work the belt undone, leave it hanging and unzip the Dockers, his cock hard just at the thought of where they are, what they're doing, and fingers brush through Sean's hair.

"C'mon, then, do it. Rough. Please."

"Rough," Sean breathes, warm air ghosting across the head of Jonny's cock, "don't hold back. Fuck me." And he opens his mouth wide, tongue sweeping over his lips before sucking Jonny in, rough and hot and all at once, teeth scraping as Sean forces his mouth further and further, until his nose is buried in Jonny's curls and the head of Jonny's cock is hitting the back of his throat.

Jonny does just that, fingers tangling in Sean's hair, jerking his head forward and sinking deep. He pulls back, slams in again, the rhythm brutal, picking up on the technobeat being played in the club. "Fuck you," he hisses, harsh, "yes, take it for me." And he shifts his angle, going up on his toes slightly so he's pulling his cock solidly against the slide of teeth, scraping relentlessly.

It's been years since Sean let someone take him this way. And oh, fuck, it's good, so good Sean's cock hardens instantly, that he's moaning when Jonny pulls back far enough to let him. It's rough and abandoned and frantic, and Sean's hands dig into Jonny's thighs, holding on tight.

"That's it," Jonny hisses, fingers clutching, pulling at the hair tangled into them. He's never been given this much leeway with anyone. Always it's been him taking, someone else giving. This is arousing in a while different way. He slams forward, thrust harsh, wanting to choke Sean, consciously push beyond whatever limit exists in the instant before he comes.

If there are limits between them, Sean doesn't know what they could be. He's not going to try to put any on Jonny, not on what he'll give, not on what he can take. Just slamming his mouth over Jonny's cock, sucking so hard it's already making his jaw ache, letting Jonny fuck him -- demanding Jonny fuck him 'til he can't speak, 'til his throat's raw and bruised from it.

The music changes from the techno to an '80s punk, just enough of a switch in Jonny's brain to trigger him. He comes, gripping Sean's head, fingers knot-sliding through the hair to anchor at the back, splay down to Sean's neck, hold him hard and steady against the flood. "Oh, fuck, yes," he slurs out, "Christ, that's good."

It is good. It's so good Sean can't swallow yet, knows when he will it'll hurt like hell. His eyes are shut, finally, scalp stinging against the pull in his hair, cock so hard he's leaking, probably already has a stain at the front of his jeans. Fuck, it's incredible.

Jonny waits until his body stops shaking to even consider pulling back, and then it's with a sharp tug of Sean's head. "Fuck, you're good," he blurts out, staring down as Sean's mouth slips off his cock, smiling insanely.

Sean would agree, would thank Jonny for the compliment, but his throat hurts and all that comes out is a soft croak. Fuck it; he gets up off his knees and slams Jonny back into the wall, mouth crushed to Jonny's, tongue shoving in deep and sharing Jonny's come with him. Hell, yes, it was fucking good.

The kiss is good, that last drag off the cigarette before you get out of the car good, and Jonny's tasting himself in a new way, off a lover's lips. Delicious. Sinful. Back shoved into the wall, all the muscles that were aching after Sean'd fucked him days ago renew their throbs, anticipation of later. "You, man," he mutters, kiss broken in random sucks at bottom lips, "wanna get off now?"

Sean pulls back, grin spread from ear to ear and cock so hard it's drilling into Jonny's thigh. "Want to--" Christ, his voice is so roughened it's like listening to speech drawn through gravel. "Want to watch you at the bar and ache for it 'til I can get you alone," he whispers.

"Oh, fuck, that's hot." Jonny leans his head back against the wall, Sean's voice washing through him, shivering his spine. "Gonna be hard again just knowing you're watching like that."

"Good," Sean whispers, nuzzling Jonny's neck, making his way to Jonny's earlobe and biting down hard. "Want you thinking about how I'm going to hurt you when we're back at your place." He realizes afterwards that he's just invited himself home; he pulls back enough to get a look at Jonny's face. "If it's all right," he says softly. "If you don't mind bringing me home again."

"I don't mind." Hell, move the fuck in. Want this every day. Jonny clutches at Sean's waist, digging his nails in through the shirt. "Would be upset if you didn't come home with me," he drops his voice low, "beat me till I can't think of walking. Don't work tomorrow."

"Christ," Sean whispers. "Fuck, that sounds good." And if there's a voice in the back of his head wondering if this is too good to be real, he's damned well going to ignore it.

Jonny's internal clock is ticking down the minutes of his break. "Gotta get back," he sighs, hands leaving Sean's body to readjust himself, tuck in shirt, straighten belt. "Chad's a sweetheart, but his patience doesn't extend beyond 20 minutes."

"Hope it extends to letting you get a blowjob in the back." Sean grins, pushing back and sliding a hand down the front of his jeans to adjust himself. "Fuck, was that good... going to be remembering the taste of you all night."


Everything's fine for a few hours, Jonny occasionally sliding to the end of the bar, refreshing Sean's beer, snagging a minute of conversation, and then about 1 a.m. he starts getting antsy. Doesn't help, or hurt for that matter, that Sean's grin has gotten downright feral and Jonny's bordering on being knife-edge hard again just thinking about what happens in, he glances at the clock, 34 minutes. "You want anything else to drink?" he asks, leaning over the bar, the crowd having dissipated enough to allow him a few minutes' respite. "If not, I can coerce Chad into covering for me, slipping out early."

"Let me think, another beer or getting you all to myself thirty-three minutes ahead of schedule," Sean half-purrs, leaning forward in return. "See if you can get out of here early. I think I've had enough."

"Sure thing, sir," Jonny quips, resisting the urge to lean over more, kiss his new lover. He's not quite ready for that level of PDA.

Instead, he turns and sidles up behind Chad, his hands resting lightly on Chad's hips and his chin on the other bartender's shoulder. He nods back toward Sean and they're both smiling. A minute, two, then Jonny's back down the bar. "Okay, I'm yours."

The easy affection between Jonny and his friend has Sean grinning, thinking about the smile on Jonny's face, the look he got from both men. "Mine," Sean says softly, rolling the sound over his tongue --the first time he's done it deliberately -- and he nods, sliding off his bar stool. "Did you drive here or do you need a ride?"

"Need the ride tonight. Car's in the shop. Engine needed a bit o'tinkering and I suck at being a mechanic." Jonny's out from behind the bar, standing next to Sean. "Promise not to harass the driver too much."

"Promise not to be too disappointed with the lack of harassment," Sean teases back. "Come on, out this way." He nudges Jonny with his shoulder, slips both hands into his pockets so he won't be too tempted to grab, press into a wall, pin to the hood of his car. It can wait 'til they're home.

Easy walk to the car. Hands in check. Damn. And into the car, even. Jonny's being patient, trying not to squirm like a sugar-rushed junkie. "Bought a couple things yesterday," he says quietly as the car engine hums. "Not that you have to use 'em, but just in case you're interested," he continues, even-toned, "flogger and paddle and," he grins, "really wicked-looking dildo. Couple other things."

"Christ," Sean explodes, almost running the car off the road instead of easing them gently into traffic. "Christ, now there's an invitation. I haven't -- I don't--" You're not in the car with someone who's going to want to know why the hell you want to do something that hurts people. So stop. "I'm out of practice," he settles for, finally. And then, curiosity overcoming him, "Other things?"

"Sorry. That might've constituted harassment." Jonny's grinning as Sean straightens out the car, manages not to hit anyone. "And a big assumption on my part, that you'd want to play that way." He pauses, cheeks reddening slightly at thinking of what all he bought. "Uhm, plug and clamps and, it's weird, never bought stuff before. It was kinda fun, in a weird way."

"I knew a guy," a few guys, "who was into that, back home, but haven't done anything with it since I got here. I'd have gone shopping with you." He grins. "You can assume if you want."

"Next time," Jonny shrugs. "And it's not that I want you to stop what you're doing. Christ, no. Fuck, love your hands hurting me. Just, well, thought, it'd be something new. Just to try."

"How do you feel about being tied down?" Sean asks, thinking about just how good Jonny's wrists would look bound up in leather.

"Never tried it. I like being held down. Can't imagine it's a lot different."

Sean thinks they can improvise. Belts. Scarves, maybe, something. He wonders if the all-night adult bookstore he's gone to on occasion would carry cuffs, decent cuffs, if he should even be thinking about splurging on them at random. Hell. Next time. There's a lot on tap for next time. "It feels different on my end," Sean says, grinning. "Next time. Fuck, I want to get you home."

Jonny laughs at the sense of urgency in Sean's voice, the promise of next time when this time's not even over. "Then don't miss the turn, Sean. It's the next left."

"I remember," Sean says, flashing Jonny another smile. He's made the turns so far; he remembers driving there, driving home in the early morning hours. "I didn't get you into trouble last time?"

"No, no trouble," Jonny says, sitting back into the seat, "not more than a couple people curious as hell about my new friend."

Sean makes that left turn and keeps going, glad they're almost there. "Telling people anything?" he asks.

"Not much, 'cept Sissy and Chad, but they know everything 'bout me. Didn't call you my boyfriend or anything, just so's you know."

Boyfriend. Sean almost chokes, but then he's pulling into the driveway and thinking it might be better to let that one go. "I don't have to be anywhere in the morning," he says quietly, "work, but not 'til nine. I've got clothes in the back if you'll lend me your shower in the morning." He's got more than clothes; he's got pillows and blankets and nothing folded particularly neatly. But he's slept in worse, and the car's free.

"Sure. Stay the night." The week. The month. "Any night you want, it's cool." Jonny manages to wait till the car's stopped to open the door, thinking it's too soon to offer him up a key. Then he smiles, half out of the car. "Want me over the hood? Or can we make it all the way upstairs first?"

"I think we can make it upstairs this time." Sean slips out of the car too, walks around to Jonny's side. "Think if I'm going to burn you again, I want to do it closer up."

Jonny's halfway up the stairs when the sentence hits him. "Burn me?" he asks, turning around, moving up the familiar steps nearly backwards. "Don't wanna know I got a kink for that no one's touched, do ya?"

Sean's following Jonny up the stairs almost close enough to end up stepping on him. And his mouth's gone dry. "You'd let me," he says softly. Not quite a question. Things are quickly moving out of question territory, into foregone conclusion, and that's as exciting as it is scary.

There's not really an answer for something that's not quite a question. Jonny just nods as he unlocks the door, pushes it open. He'd let him. What, a week he's known him, and he's willing to give him everything. Something about innate trust. He tosses his keys on the table and runs his hand through his hair, musing that it's a bit shaggy and needs a cut.

It's familiar, being back here. It amazes Sean, how it feels to have a familiar place with a guy he's known for so little time. And it's making him flash back on how it felt meeting his lover -- ex --and that brings him to something that he thinks he needs to get out sooner rather than later. "Listen..." He catches Jonny's arm, tugs him close; it's always easier letting out rough news when he's touching someone, god knows why. "Listen, there's something I need to tell you about the last week."

"What about last week?" Jonny thinks on what they did last week, what could've gone wrong. He half-smiles, waiting on the other shoe to drop.

"The man I've been living with--" Sean sighs, lets Jonny go and shoves his hands back into his pockets. "I'm not with him anymore. He kicked me out. And I don't want you to think I'm here because I have nowhere else to go."

"Don't think that," Jonny says quickly, wanting to reach out and touch, grab the hands from those jeans pockets and put them back on his body, resisting the urge. "Told you before, you can stay here much as you want." He pauses. "Was it because of me? Breaking up."

Sean shakes his head, looking down at the floor. "It's been bad for a while now," he says quietly, "this was just the last of it. It was going to happen eventually. Wasn't only you."

"Then don't sweat it." Jonny shrugs, waits a few minutes in the silence, does finally reach out, touch Sean's arm. "Fuck me? Hurt me? For as long as you find it interesting."

"Christ, you don't know what it's like for me," Sean says, reaching out in return, sliding his hand up Jonny's arm and curling his fingers around his shoulder. "I've been told so many times that it isn't done the way we do it, that if I were a decent human being it wouldn't even occur to me to get off on hurting people, and Christ, then I meet you and it's everything I've needed for so long and--" He stops, bites his lower lip, sure he's saying too much again.

"It's okay, Sean. Really." Jonny smiles at the touch. "Dad put me in therapy when he found out I liked boys, then threatened to have me committed when I started getting myself hurt. Luckily, he just kicked me out. It's who we are, what we like. Nothing wrong with it."

Sean brings his other hand up, cups Jonny's face in both his hands. There aren't enough words for what he's feeling right now. Accepted's the best one that comes to mind, and he kisses Jonny hard, hard enough to bruise lips, tearing into him the way that feels natural, that's always felt so goddamned right, the kind of kiss that's had other men dragging back and saying hey, easy.

This is easy, at least in Jonny's mind, the bruising just on the edge of where he wants to tread. He touches Sean full-on now, hands going to his waist, tugging at the shirt still tucked into pants, clamoring for flesh to fondle.

"Please," Sean gasps, "now, can't wait anymore..." He grabs Jonny's wrists and backs his way towards the bed, dragging Jonny with him.

Jonny's pushing Sean onto the bed when they reach its edge, crawling up over him. "Want you naked," he says, shoving shirt up Sean's chest, following it with tongue, licking over stomach and abs. "Nothing between us when you start. Just flesh, skin to be marked."

"Yes," Sean breathes, almost frantic as he gets the buttons undone, tears the shirt off and throws it over the side of the bed. Undershirt, too; he can't get undressed fast enough. He digs his fingers into Jonny's hair, twisting, tugging, forcing Jonny's mouth up his chest, over a nipple. "Bite," he whispers.

"Yessir." Jonny licks first, slathers the nipple with saliva, then bites, tugging the nub up between his teeth.

"Ahh-- God, that's good," Sean gasps, tightening his grip in Jonny's hair. "Christ, you're so good, want you so much, never felt this way before, harder..."

Obliging his lover, Jonny bites harder. Again. And once more after that. Nearly drawing blood. Definitely bruising, turning the flesh around the nipple bright red that'll morph to purple, leaving teeth marks that'll be there when morning comes. No one's ever asked for this. No one's ever held his head so tightly. He tugs, not against it but with it, begging for the fingers to snare and tangle him. "More?" he licks over the abused nipple, moves his head toward its neglected companion.

"Christ, yes, more," Sean moans, digging his fingers even harder into Jonny's hair. "Bruise me. Hurt me. God, I can't wait to get my teeth on you again."

"Oh, fuck, yeah," Jonny moans, biting down hard, on the first try, twisting his head in Sean's grip, nearly slicing through the flesh under his teeth, tasting the hint of copper on his tongue. He's hard, cock pushing against trousers zipper, and he grinds down into Sean's leg. "Want you," he hisses.

"Then roll over," Sean growls, finally tugging Jonny's head away from his chest. "Roll over and let me fuck you through the mattress."

"Hell, yes." There's no need for the second roll over as Jonny's off Sean as the growl crescendoes, rolling over onto his back, hands working to squirm himself out of his trousers.

Sean's shoving out of the rest of his clothes as fast as he can, too, leaving them puddled at the side of the bed and coming up to push Jonny's knees up, bending him nearly in half. Lube. He really ought to be thinking of lube, but he doesn't want to wait and he's starting to trust that Jonny wants it as hard as he does. So it's just spit, just a thin coat of it over his cock, and he's pressing the head of his cock against Jonny's arse, shoving in that first inch before he has to stop, groaning.

"Fuckhelldamnshit," Jonny spits out the expletives as Sean pushes in. No lube. Damned hard. Blessedly painful. He pants out the breaths, willing himself to relax, push back slowly, open himself more. "Don't. Stop. S'okay."

"Christ, I love your mouth." Sean laughs, pushes in another inch. "Fuck. So tight. God, it should always be like this." He groans, keeps forcing Jonny open, tearing into him, splitting him apart. "Christ, yes. Mine."

"Like my mouth, do ya? Then I'll just keep --" Jonny's thought is abruptly interrupted when Sean pushes those hardest inches, right in the middle of the shove inward. "Oh, fuck, hard to talk when you're ripping into me. So good."

Sean lets Jonny's knees go, reaches up to pin his arms down. "Come on. Open up for me. You've had me before. You can take it." He grits his teeth, shoves in the last inch and rests there, panting, bruising his fingerprints into Jonny's wrists.

Jonny does open, stretching his legs out, wrapping them around Sean's waist, heels banging at his back. "Yeah. Had it. Take it. Harder, Sean. Push more."

"More," Sean growls. Always more with you. And there's more to give. More until he's aching. More until he's burned up with it, 'til they both are, 'til Jonny's bleeding and screaming and fighting him. Just more, Christ, pounding into him as hard as he can.

More may be too much, Jonny thinks for a half-second, his body feeling like it's split in two. He pant-breathes, ragged and hard, hands tugging against Sean's grip, legs clenching his lover's body. "There. Yeah. Right. There."

"Want. Need. Fuck," Sean rasps out, leaning down to bite at Jonny's lips. "So good. So fucking good. Want this. Just like this. Yes."

"You. Want. Need." Jonny breathes out, kisses Sean's lips. "Let me. Please."

Kissing back hard, Sean shifts his grip on Jonny's arms 'til he's holding Jonny's wrists in one hand. His other hand slides between them, wraps around Jonny's cock and starts jerking him off hard. "Come for me," he growls.

With a keening moan, Jonny comes into Sean's hand, too fast, like a teenager, eager and ready before he's even had the fun. But he's having fun, aching and bruising everywhere, and wanting more by the minute.

And Sean's following him right over, panting and gasping and coming with a last solid thrust, so fucking glad to be here that the only thing he can do as he catches his breath is grin.


10/08/2004 20:44:15
Pretty much amazing! Yeah. Thanks for that. --MissMolly

10/09/2004 04:50:01
I don't think I've mentioned this before but this series is fucking amazing.
The minute I start reading I cannot take my eyes off the screen for a second. The intensity is hypnotising and the balance between raw need and something approaching affection is completely divine.
Fan fucking tastic, I'm going to have to rec this now.

(Lj Razzleslash)

10/13/2004 07:49:01
Eee! Thank you so much. I love these boys and I'm so glad their intensity is carrying over to readers. :)

10/09/2004 05:42:44
Intense, amazing, hot.... whoa.
I hope to read more.

10/13/2004 07:48:26
Thank you so much! We're working on more. ;)
Holy shit.
10/16/2004 21:26:39
I've never read anything like this. And I've read Pat Califia's _Macho Sluts_.

I've been thrown completely off-balance after reading this.

Are NC-17 comments okay? Because I want to tell you more.

- daltong@the other journal
Re: Holy shit.
10/16/2004 23:10:57
*grin* *bounce* NC-17 comments are welcome. And thank you so much! We're both having a blast with these boys, and there's more coming.
Re: Holy shit.
02/26/2005 02:08:29
I just saw the movie "Shiner", which you should totally see, and I had to come re-read this story just to deal with the pent-up energy.

- dalton

Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 10/06/2004 09:49:00

A Simple Arrangement 3 (SB/PB) NC-17
A Simple Arrangement 3
Author: [info]helens78
Pairing: Sean Bean/Pierce Brosnan
Warnings: Should I warn for Pierce not being kinky in this universe?
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't know 'em or own 'em. Absolutely fiction. Made it all up.


Every Thursday night for months Pierce has been coming home to a quiet house. Sean's usually asleep by the time he gets in, and Pierce tends to settle in to bed next to him, warming his skin up against his sleeping lover.

Tonight the lights are on when Pierce slips in the door, and Sean greets him with a cup of tea. "Welcome home. How was your night?"

"Not as good as yours," Pierce grins, foregoing the tea and wrapping his arms around Sean's neck. "Damn, you look good." He does. He's in loose pajama bottoms and a grey t-shirt, showered and looking more relaxed than he's been in a long time. Pierce leans in for a kiss, and Sean gives it to him, deep and slow and hungry.

"That good?" Pierce whispers against Sean's lips. Sean smells of soap and, very faintly, of sex. Pierce is getting hard.

"It was wonderful," Sean grins. "Thank you for tonight."

"We talked about this," Pierce says mock-sternly, bringing a hand up and rubbing his fingertips over Sean's face. "I want you to be happy. I want you to have him." I want this one to work, he thinks, remembering too many boys who haven't. "What's he like?"

"Young. Charming. Fucking adorable and incredibly eager to please." Sean presses his hips against Pierce's, snaking a hand around to the small of his back. "Made him come over and over 'til it was too much to take." 'Til it was agony, Sean thinks, but holds that back. Pierce has his limits.

"Does that mean you're all worn out?" Pierce teases, letting his hips rub-slide against Sean's.

"Mm-hm." Sean grins and kisses Pierce again, even slower, even deeper, hot and flavored very slightly of Pierce's favorite tea. "All worn out," he whispers, "means you'll have to fuck me."

Pierce groans against Sean's lips. "Don't tease," he says. He steps back, runs a fingertip down Sean's chest. "You'll get my hopes up for nothing. To say nothing of my cock's hopes..."

Sean reaches down and squeezes the body part in question. "I mean it," he says. "Come to bed."

Pierce slips his hand into Sean's and lets Sean lead him back to the bedroom. The condoms are on Sean's side of the bed, and he tosses one to Pierce before pulling the covers back. Pierce grins; Sean rarely rolls over for him, and God, the man looks good while he's doing it.

Pierce slips out of his clothes, watching Sean tug his pajama bottoms off and toss his t-shirt aside. Sean burrows under the covers, pulling them up to his chest and shooting Pierce a mischievous look. "Come and get me."

"Don't think I won't." Pierce gets the lube out of his nightstand and climbs right on top of Sean, covers and all. "You should have told me I was getting this when I came home. I'd have got home sooner."

"You'd have spent the whole night hard and distracted." Sean grins and slides both hands into Pierce's hair. "And you wouldn't have gotten any work done. You'd have ended up calling me and threatening to beat off over the phone."

"Would you have liked that?" Pierce asks, starting to shove the covers down and getting them around Sean's waist. "I don't think I would've actually done it. Not at the office."

Sean squirms, reluctantly letting go of Pierce's hair so Pierce can get the covers down around their ankles and slip between Sean's thighs. "Wouldn't have called and told me you were turned on? Or wouldn't have offered to beat off?"

"Maybe I'd have called," Pierce whispers, lowering his head and leaving small kisses across Sean's chest.

Sean cards his fingers through Pierce's hair again, sighing softly and sinking into the feel of having Pierce's lips and tongue gliding along his skin. It's gentle, easy, nothing like what he had with Jonny earlier this evening. It's always easy with Pierce. And always good. He squirms up against Pierce, cock rubbing against his stomach. He's not likely to get hard again tonight, not completely, but he can certainly enjoy all of it.

"Love you," Pierce whispers. He gets the lube out and slicks up his fingers, pressing them between Sean's legs. Sean's so tight -- fuck, it's been months -- and Pierce wonders if he'll last more than a few minutes once he's actually inside Sean's body. "You feel so good."

"You, too," Sean agrees, spreading his thighs, slipping his hands under his knees and pulling them up a little more. "It's enough -- just fuck me, want you, don't want to wait any longer."

"Won't make you wait," Pierce promises, tearing open the condom packet and getting it rolled over his cock. He hooks his arms under Sean's legs and glances down at Sean's body one more time -- fucking gorgeous -- before starting his slow press in.

"Fuck, yes," Sean grunts, "more, harder, come on..." He arches up against Pierce, threading his arms between them so he can get his hands on Pierce's arse. "Come on."

Harder. Always harder. It's always like this when Pierce is topping; more and harder and come on, with both of them struggling for more until they're sweating and panting and exhausted from it.

It's never been like this with any of Pierce's other lovers. It's never been even close to this. And he's used to sex that comes along with words like slow down and okay, easy, not so rough, since it's what he's gotten all these years. But the rare times it's him on top, it's always this way: give it to me, make me feel it, I can take it harder than that, come on, come on, fucking come on...

It's fire up Pierce's spine; it's heat all the way through his body, every time, and he's never even tried to figure out why. He just gives it to Sean, every bit as hard and rough as Sean wants it, and he grits his teeth to keep his own orgasm at bay for as long as possible.

Sean's nails dig into his hips, and Pierce gasps, throwing his head back. "Christ, too much--"

"Not enough," Sean growls under him. "Come on, lover, hurt me--"

"Oh, God." Pierce gasps, gives another few rough thrusts, letting go enough to give Sean what he's asking for, what he's demanding. More. Not enough. Hurt me. The thoughts cascade over Pierce one after another, and they're hot enough, but the reality of doing it, of watching Sean's face tighten as Pierce pounds into him -- it burns, a line straight down his spine, and he bites at Sean's shoulder as he comes.

"Fuck!" Sean rocks back against Pierce, legs slipping down, and wraps his arms around Pierce's shoulders. "Fuck... fuck, that was good," he groans. "Am I marked?"

Marked. Pierce shoves back, looking down at Sean's shoulder. He blinks a little; he's made a few accidental toothmarks that lasted a few hours, but this is different. It's a nice-sized bite that looks like it's going to be there a day or two. "A little," Pierce murmurs. "Is that all right?"

"It's perfect," Sean says. He squirms under Pierce, wincing just a little. "Love you. Want to snuggle and go to sleep."

"OK." Pierce slips out of Sean's arms and legs and heads for the bathroom to clean up; by the time he comes back, Sean's curled up on his side.

Pierce grins and slips into bed behind him. Sean purrs and tugs Pierce's arm over his chest.

"Is next Thursday going to be anything like this?" Pierce whispers.

"Hope so," Sean whispers back. "God, I hope so."


10/06/2004 10:08:07
Pierce isn't as Vanilla as I thought he would be, or maybe he was, but is starting to descovered the flavoured side of life ;) It was good to read about the other part of the equation in this relationship, and very hot too.

10/06/2004 10:13:49
Thank you! And what I realized as I was writing this... Pierce isn't as vanilla as he thinks, or as Sean's been given to think. But kinkwise, he's a natural top, and so is Sean -- and so he's never had any opportunity to develop his kinky side.

SA!Pierce: But I'd like to...

10/06/2004 11:42:22
I wondered what would happened then, if Pierce came home in the middle of scene with Johny. Would he be squicked, or turned on, or thoroughly confused between one feeling and the other? Would Sean let him play?

Ehh... didn't I want vanilla!Pierce when this started? Some habits are hard to break, I guess. I'm sure that whatever the two of you come up with will be great. I just love to speculate about possible outcomes, even if I'm completely off the mark.

10/06/2004 10:23:37
It's fire up Pierce's spine; it's heat all the way through his body, every time, and he's never even tried to figure out why.

Nope, most definitely not as Vanilla as we thought or they think. Someone needs to unleash his inner top more. ;)


10/06/2004 10:24:34
*grin* *bounce* Glad you liked!

SA!Pierce: *blushes*

10/06/2004 17:05:30
A Pierce that blushes, that's new and very endearing. ;)

I was wondering, how long have they been a couple? It seems like quite a long time; Pierce suppressing (most likely subconsciously) his toppy side for that long by virtue of being with another top, Pierce hoping this boy worked out for Sean when all the other didn't, Sean referring to Pierce as his spouse. And yet they still use condoms which I found very interesting.

10/06/2004 17:29:56
I'm thinking about ten years. Definitely a long time (although it sure doesn't seem like long when you're in it) and Pierce has always loved bottoming, so he's never minded not getting to explore the toppy side of things.

But the condoms thing! That's new, actually. They ditched the condoms for a number of years and went back to using them when they agreed to open their relationship back up to other people (specifically, Sean's boys). Both of them have grumbled about that a lot. But it was worth it.

Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 10/01/2004 17:45:00

I Never... 2 (SB/JLM) NC-17
I Never... Never Expected To See You Again
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Jonny Lee Miller
Warnings: Extremely rough, very violent, painful but definitely consensual sex.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: We do not, in any way, shape or form, own these boys. Alas.

Notes: We've written several other versions of these boys together, and this AU has nothing to do with any of them. It's a major departure from RL in that neither of these boys are actors and their ages are not consistent with reality (Sean is early 30s, Jonny is early 20s).


A week goes by before Sean pulls into the gravel lot at the bar on the rough end of town. He's made it an entire week of crashing paint cans and boring, mindless work on spreadsheets. Part of him's kicking himself for giving in and going this early, and part of him knows he's got good reason for it. "Just go. I know you want to go. Just get the fuck out already."

He lights a cigarette on the doorstep to the bar and then heads inside, nodding to the bartender as he takes a table; he'll have someone send over a beer as soon as he can.

Jonny looks up as the door opens. Has been for days. Wondering if he'd come back, or it'd just been a one-off thing. He smiles and nods to Mike, the bartender, that he'll take care of the guy. He pulls a beer and heads over to the table Sean's picked, one pretty close to where they'd sat the first night.

"First one's on me tonight," he says, setting the glass down. "Still owe you for the ride."

"You don't owe me anything," Sean says, mouth on autopilot to cover for the fact that this, this face, is what he's doing at the bar tonight. "Sit down?"

"Sure," Jonny says, trying to leave it flat, not show how excited he is that Sean walked into the bar or asked him to sit down. He pulls out a chair and settles into it, sprawling a good bit, working his neck around. The jeans are just as worn, the shirt long-sleeve this week, covering a multitude of barely fading bruises and one stitched shoulder. "How's things?"

Sean gives him a rueful look. "Wouldn't be here if they were going well," he admits softly. "It's been a rougher go these last few days, weeks, months. How about you?"

"Went through crap with the old man this week, but other than that it's okay." Jonny shrugs. "You needing to get it out again? Hurt someone?"

"You want it again?" Sean asks. His cock's already getting hard. How much could you take?

"Wouldn't say no to it." Jonny bites at his lip. "Never had it quite as good as you gave. Powerful combo you got."

"Never had anyone take it that way before," Sean says. "Sure as hell never had anyone ask for more. But not the wall this time."

"Not the wall. Sure." Jonny laughs. He's rather glad Sean doesn't want the wall again. He's not quite ready to explain to the doc-in-a-box twice in one week why his shoulder has a gash and he's bruised from head to waist. "Uh, we could, um, you could follow me to my place if you want."

Surprise flashes over Sean's face for half a second before he thinks it over. What more could you do to him than you've already done? What's he got left to be afraid of? "Yeah," he says softly. In a bed for once. That's going to be a change of pace. "Think I can give you what you're looking for if we don't have gravel to play with?" he asks, smiling just a little.

"I got a wall and a floor, even a bed if you want," Jonny says, running a hand through his uncombed hair, "and I think you'll give me whatever you got."

"Yeah." Sean's tongue comes out over his lips, and he nods. "Your place. Sounds good."

"Wanna finish your beer? I don't have it on tap at the apartment."

Sean laughs. "Yeah." He digs through pockets for a cigarette and lighter, and relaxes just a fraction as he lights up his cigarette. There's an impulse to move for small talk, to at least try to say something other than so why do you need it as hard as I need to give it? or how badly banged around were you after the last time, and why do you want it all over again?, but Sean's tongue feels awkward in his mouth, and he stays quiet.

"Should I avoid the small talk? Or do we not go beyond first names?" Jonny's fidgeting, neither beer nor cigarette to occupy his hands. He doesn't know what he'd say if they're supposed to talk about anything else. Explain why he's bartending instead of studying for exams, living in a studio apartment instead of his parents' house in Malibu. Or do they get into why he wants to be banged around till he can't walk.

"I don't know -- I've never talked to someone I met this way before," Sean admits, leaning forward on his elbows. "I don't know what the protocol is, what the rules are. Fuck, breaking enough rules just by being here, I probably shouldn't worry..." Another drag, just to give him something to do other than talk.

"Breaking rules by being here?" That makes Jonny nervous. "I'm not gonna get you in trouble, am I?" Fuck, don't need that. Still haven't gotten over the shit with Angie. "I mean, I can go back to the bar, leave you be."

"Please don't go." Sean could kick himself. "You're not getting me in trouble." This is why I never know whether to talk about anything other than how hard and is that enough... "I can't -- I have to get out here or I crack. Can't take it out on the guy I live with, so I come here and try to work it out of my system--" and I go home and things are worse, and... "--and it makes it all seem all right, for a while." Christ, he's never said that to anyone.

"Okay. Not going." Jonny sucks in a breath, takes in the words. "I understand. Needing to let it out. Nowhere else to do it. No one who'll take it." He smiles, half-cocked twitch of lips. "Or give it to you. Things that bad?"

"For a while now," Sean says, rubbing at his upper arms, suddenly feeling cold. "What about you?" he asks. "Is there someone at home waiting for you?" What am I walking into if I let you take me home?

Jonny laughs. "No." Not since she kicked me out for fucking her brother. "Place is barely big enough for me. And I didn't exactly ace my last relationship, so flying solo at the moment."

"How are your wings?" Sean asks, bit of humor reaching his eyes. He points with his beer bottle at Jonny's shoulder, the one he had to press back into place after the last time. "Did you come out all right after the last time...?"

"It's okay." Jonny looks down, away from Sean's eyes. "Needed a couple stitches just to make sure it closed, but nothing broken."

The soft grunt Sean lets out is as involuntary as the way his cock hardens in his jeans. Stitches? And he's after you again. Christ. He takes a long drink of his beer, trying to figure out if there's a good way to say any of the things he's thinking.

"Don't know about leaving you to need stitches this time," he says, finally, "but I want to hurt you again. Want it badly." The hand tangled up in his cigarette slides between his legs, ash cindering down onto his thigh as he squeezes his cock to relieve part of the ache he's feeling. Stitches.

"Want it, too, badly," Jonny echoes, "and if I need more stitches, that's," he pauses, blushes just a little, "it's alright. Doc-in-the-box guy's got a thing for me. Doesn't mind stitching me up." He watches Sean's movements, tracks his hand, finds himself wondering what it'd be like to have those ashes falling over his skin. Fuck, Miller, that's almost too intense. He shifts. "You 'bout finished?" he asks, way too eagerly.

"I'm done," Sean confirms, uncurling himself from the chair. "Show me where we're going. No, wait--" He doesn't want to walk out of this bar without touching Jonny at least once. He gets a hand on the back of Jonny's neck, pulls him up and close. "Fucking want you," he murmurs.

"Fuck," Jonny spits out, Sean's move sudden and marginally unexpected. "You can have me. Right here if you want." He's breathing hard, neck clenched against Sean's fingers. "Although not sure Mike would appreciate a middle-of-the-bar fuck this early in the evening."

"Maybe not," Sean agrees, sliding forward anyway, pressing the backs of Jonny's thighs into their table. "I could have you that way. Hands braced on the bar. Legs spread wide. One foot between your legs and up on the rail, while I'm slamming into you and you're asking for more."

"Hell, yeah, you could have me that way." And we can do it, too, here or you come to the bar I work after hours. Jonny's not squirming as much as just letting himself be moved, positioned, and he really wouldn't stop Sean from taking him right now, right here 'cause the visual he's painting as the young man harder than the table's edge he's backed into.

"But I want you stretched out on a bed," Sean whispers, squeezing the back of Jonny's neck, leaning forward just a little more to lick at his lips. And then bite them. Hard. Teeth sinking into lower lip and holding. "Want you somewhere you can scream all day and not draw a second's notice," he breathes, when he finally lets up.

Pain. There it is again. The bite. Centering him, shuddering through him. What this man can do to him. "All day," Jonny echoes. "Scream. Yeah. Neighborhood can handle it." He's a bit dazed as he steps back, Sean letting up. "Car's outside. You wanna follow? Or I can just leave it here." Sure, get to work somehow. Sometime tomorrow.

"Up to you," Sean says softly. The ironic thing about this place is that for all the rough traffic it sees, it's a safe place to leave car or bags or whatever you have in hand when you go out to get fucked. The only thing the clientele cares about is what's under a man's trousers, not what sort of car he drives or what he might have in overnight duffel bags. "Probably won't be able to keep my hands off you if you're in my car, though."

"Then I'll drive your car, we'll leave mine here," Jonny says, grinning, at the prospect of being mauled on the way home.

"And you promise us both you won't let me run you off the road." Sean grins back. He digs keys out of his pocket and hands them over. "Out back. Blue Civic that's seen better days."

Jonny snags the keys and heads toward the door. The Civic's parked two cars away from Jonny's hard-top Mustang, and he makes a quick detour to snag his backpack out of the trunk before sliding into the driver's side of Sean's car. "Not sure about promising to not run off the road," he says, turning over the engine, "but I'll make sure we total the car so you can get a new one if you like."

"Why not? It'll keep me stuck here another five years while I'm trying to pay off this one." Sean adjusts the seat up a little, not being inclined to sprawl as much as his lover does. "Maybe I'll get something more fuel-efficient to make the lover happy."

"You want, we could drive to your place and run over the lover," Jonny quips, almost regretting saying it as the words come out. "Sorry," he pulls out of the bar parking lot, melds into traffic, light this time of night. "Shouldn't've said that. Lover and all, he is."

"Lover and all, he is," Sean murmurs, running his hand up Jonny's thigh. "Maybe it's better not to bring it up, yeah? Came into the bar in a bad mood and it's been getting better so far."

Jonny moves his thigh under Sean's fingers, spreading his legs wider, saying the silent thank God for automatic transmission prayer, and keeps his eyes on the road. "Don't know. I kinda like your bad moods. They leave me covered in brick dust."

"I like whatever it is that makes you like my bad moods," Sean responds, fingers moving higher, pressing down hard over Jonny's cock and squeezing. "Bad moods of your own?"

His foot presses a bit harder on the gas, which is fine considering there's no one in front of them, and it takes a second for Jonny to adjust, pull back. "Yeah. Bad moods. Got a shitty life, trying to make it work."

"Sounds like all of us," Sean says, snapping off his seatbelt and leaning in. He bites hard at the side of Jonny's neck, squeezes his cock again. "Get me back to your place. Don't want to wait much longer."

"Fuckin' hell. You didn't say it was gonna be all-out assault," Jonny nearly shouts, hands clutching the wheel. He thinks. "Okay." Swerves into the turn lane and takes the left, cutting through a couple back streets. Much as he joked about totalling the car, he's really not wanting to wreck. "Five minutes. Give me that, and I'll have you at the door."

Sean chuckles against Jonny's skin. "You've got five minutes. You want me to stop?" Hand moves up from cock to chest, thumb rubs over a nipple and Sean threatens a pinch, not quite doing it. "Want me to sit down and keep us out of trouble?"

"No, don't stop." Christ, don't stop. Jonny makes another turn, thinking for a second it's the wrong one, Sean's hand distracting him beyond imagination. No, this is right. Yeah. "Don't think you stopping's gonna keep us out of trouble anyhow."

The words flash and burn, and Sean bites harder, squeezing thumb and forefinger together and giving a rough pinch through Jonny's shirt. "Little late for that," he agrees, growling softly.

Fuckin' late. Bite centers, but the pinch throws him off, and Jonny's concentrating as much as he can on the road. There's a turn he has to make. One more. But his cock's aching and his legs can't spread any wider, not in the confines of the damned seat, and oh, fuck, he manages to turn right again without killing them. He smiles. Then it's a quick left into the driveway and he's breathing out as he slides the Civic into the asphalt pad at the back of the house.

As soon as the engine's cut, Sean slides fingers into Jonny's hair and forces him to half-turn, moving him so Sean can get his lips on Jonny's and cut into that lower lip with his teeth. Fucking want you. And he doesn't really give a damn whether they make it out of the car at this point; they're here, semi-secluded, and he's growling in the back of his throat.

Jonny fumbles, hand grasping for the seat controls, just to get it far enough back not to hit the horn. Fuck, don't need to wake 'em up. Not now. She'll shoot me. He manages, the seat moving back, and hands find new adventures on Sean's chest, tugging at the shirt. "Want," he slurs into the kiss-bite. "Here? Out?"

"Anywhere. Over the fucking hood." Sean's half-pulled himself on top of Jonny, one hand still in his hair, the other working its way down his chest again, sliding between his legs. "Everything."

Hood. Jonny thinks. It's still hot. Burns. His smile widens. "Fuck, yeah," he says, one hand push-pulling at Sean and the other blindly grabbing the door handle, opening, nearly falling back with the tug of the door opening. "Over the hood. Do it."

Sean pulls away and shoves Jonny toward the door. "Go. Get your pants around your thighs. Spread yourself for me." He's moving for the trunk, yanking the keys out of the ignition so he can get it open.

The shove's enough to tumble Jonny out of the car and he fall-slides to the asphalt, scrambling to right himself. Everything's rushed. Hurried. Happening so fast. He pulls himself up to standing and unbuttons his jeans as he moves to the front of the car. Down over hips, tugging briefs with the denim, jerked to mid-thigh, enough to put his legs apart, stretch out over the hood. Fuck. Hot. Jonny hisses out a breath, letting the heat soak through his shirt as he lays himself down. Hands go back and he's spreading himself, fingers clutching at the cleft, pulling the flesh apart, exposing puckered hole. He's standing back, cock hanging hard outside the denim, brushing against the car's grill as he spreads his legs wider, waiting.

Sean comes back, looking at what Jonny's giving him, cock so hard it's jerking in his jeans and hurting like hell, ready to take, fuck, open Jonny up and hurt him.

He's got a length of chain wrapped around his fist, and he catches the trailing end of it with his other hand, looping it around his fingers. "Want you holding still," he murmurs, resting one hand on the hood next to Jonny's shoulder as he presses against Jonny's thighs, against his arse, denim scratching and rubbing.

Jonny catches sight of the chain in his peripheral vision, taking Sean at his word, not moving, not even flinching. He's ready to be laid open, fucked hard, beaten to hell and back. "Yessir," he murmurs, face already feeling the engine's lingering burn.

And it's just that easy, letting go of every fucking inhibition he's ever had, wrapping that chain around Jonny's neck and holding -- loose for now, but holding both ends in one hand. The other hand's digging into a pocket for a condom, which he holds between his teeth before jerking open his fly and taking his cock out, sliding it along Jonny's cleft.

That's a new sensation. Metal on his throat. Loose, but heavy. Jonny shakes his head, slowly, fighting the body's instinct to move his hands, clutch at the links. And then, suddenly, the fear's gone. Five seconds is all it got. It's replaced by need, desire, the nudge of Sean's cock at his ass. He concentrates on that, rocking back in a nuance of shifting, just to say yeah, go ahead, do it without the words.

Keeping the loose pressure on Jonny's throat while tearing into the condom's not easy, but Sean's got this far; he gets the condom slicked down his shaft and presses up against Jonny's arse all over again, arching his hips, wrapping his hand around his cock and pressing in. It's just as rough and difficult as it was the first time, and the memory of that -- of tearing his way into Jonny's body --makes his eyes close, makes his hand tighten on the chain around Jonny's throat. "Fuck," he breathes. "Christ, you're so fucking tight."

Jonny could explain that he hasn't been fucked since Sean, not that it'd matter. Moot point. He's tight and it's hurting like a dream that Sean's cock is burrowing into him. Just the way he wants it to hurt. He moans, the chain tightening. Fuck, that's intense. Like it. Okay, maybe. And he makes the breath count.

Half of Sean wants to hear Jonny screaming; the other half of him just wants to cut off his air, feel the struggle under his body, fuck him with everything he's got and not stop 'til he thinks he's near to passing out. "Mine," he breathes, and then again, louder, giving Jonny a breath, "mine."

Gasping into the breath, Jonny finds it gone all too quickly, and then the struggle's back, hands clutching his body, holding himself. Yours? Yours. And the scream's gurgling in his throat, confined by chain links, begging in whimpers and undulations to be released just as his body's begging, rocking back, yearning to be abused.

"Christ. Come on." Sean reaches under Jonny, gets his hand between Jonny's stomach and the car's hood and works his way down. He wraps a hand around Jonny's cock, hissing as the back of his hand heats against metal, and leans in further to bite at Jonny's shoulder. His grip on the chain tightens that much more. "Mine."

"Yours," Jonny gasps, vision darkening, brain fogging. There's no focus, other than the pressure of metal, the bruising hug of flesh, the warmth from inside his body threatening to zero out the hood's heat. He wants to come, wants to beg to come, just wants, but there's no coherent thought pattern, nothing but the sensation of floating, of falling, of not caring how much he hurts in another 10 minutes.

Want. So much. Everything. Sean wraps the chain around his hand one more time, pulls back hard on it. "So close," he whispers, "come with me, want to feel you come with me--" And he can't hold back; he needs too much, can feel the need through his entire body as he comes, knowing damn well that this isn't going to be enough, nowhere near enough.

That does the trick. Words, cock wedged into him, chain jerking back. Jonny comes. Or he imagines he does. He's almost too far gone to know, vision blinding white on the blackness, and his cock's jerking, pulsing, white streams over Sean's fingers, the Civic's blue finish. Pain-laced blackness engulfing his senses. So fuckin' good.

Sean lets the chain go, listens to it rattle against the hood as he slides his fingers over Jonny's neck. He can almost feel the imprints he's made, almost see the bruises on his skin. He pulls out, grabs Jonny and shoves at him. "Turn over." Urgent, rough and half-desperate to see those bruises. "Over."

Over. Over? That's somewhere opposite from here. Jonny moves more slowly than Sean's voice demands, but he can't think straight enough to figure out which way to move. But he does turn over, sprawling on the car's hood, arms splayed now, back taking up the remaining heat. The smile's faint, head tilted back, eyes fixed on Sean's face.

And God, that smile. Sean stretches out over Jonny's body, pins his wrists to the hood as he leans in and licks his way across Jonny's throat.

Jonny's whole body reacts, one long, languid shiver. That touch. Hypersensitizing him. Making him crave more.

"You're marked all over again," Sean murmurs. "Is it going to get you into trouble?"

Oxygen's coming back to his brain. Slowly. Seeping in. "No," he whispers, as much voice as he has, "high collars at the club. Nobody else cares."

Sean's lips slant over Jonny's all over again, biting, long slow bites between slower, rougher kisses. Don't want to go. Don't want to leave here.

"Upstairs," Jonny gets out, another few breaths taken in. "Wanna drink?"

"Yeah," Sean breathes. A drink, a bed, the rest of the night.

"Okay. A minute. I can move." Jonny's breathing is still raspy but coming back. "Need my backpack outta the car."

"You can move? I'm not doing it right this time," Sean jokes. He lifts himself off Jonny and steps back, cleaning himself up as best he can. Definitely not thinking further ahead than the next five minutes.

Jonny's nearly the next five minutes peeling himself from the hood, adjusting clothes. He knows the skin under his shirt is fire. He can feel it, soaking through the cotton. A little aloe, he thinks, yeah, that'll do the trick. He sucks in a deep breath and moves to car door, still open, reaching in and snagging his backpack from the floor. A quick dig inside the outer pocket and he has keys in hand and is heading for the stairs.

Sean follows after, watching the way Jonny's moving -- hurt enough to feel after, he realizes, and he's wondering all over again what it is that has this boy needing it as badly as he does. Maybe I'll ask. Maybe once we're inside he'll want to tell me.

Key's in, door's open and Jonny's stepping inside, clicking on the overhead light. It's an over-the-garage setup, a studio apartment if you believe the ads. Mostly it's cheap 'cause his sister owns it, lives in the big house out front, let him move in when Angie kicked him out and lets him live here just for utilities. And when you don't have cable TV, don't turn on the lights that often and use a mobile phone, utilities-living can be damned cheap.

"It's not much," he says, dropping his backpack. The layout's simple. One huge room, partitioned off by freestanding walls and screens and hanging stained glass, kitchen on this end, makeshift living room and bedroom on the far end, bathroom off to the right of it. The decor is Salvation Army chic, somewhere between retro and dorm room. "Just make yourself at home. I'll grab us a couple beers."

Sean glances around. It looks like the place he lived in before he moved cross-continent, the kind of place he might have looked for if he'd been moving to the States on his own terms instead of moving across the ocean for a lover. It's not bad. He takes his jacket off, first time he's done that all evening, and eases himself down on the bed, hoping the offer for all this was sincere. At least for a few minutes, at least long enough for a drink. "It's good," he calls out, "it's a good place."

"Thanks," Jonny calls back, having retrieved two beers from the fridge. He walks from kitchen area to living room, but doesn't find Sean and keeps moving past the screen and large armoire partitioning off the bedroom. He's all smiles when he sees Sean stretched out on the bed. "It's nice," he says, handing over one of the beers. "Better than where I got kicked out of actually, and long as I keep a low profile, I get to stay just for the cost of utilities."

Sean whistles. "Good deal," he says. His curiosity's piqued, and he's been keeping his mouth shut all evening; it can't hurt to ask. The worst he'll get is a none of your business. "Kicked out of where?"

"Huh?" Jonny shrugs, sits down on the bed's edge. He knows what the question was. Hell, he's fucked you twice. Ought to get some private info. "Most recently out of my girlfriend's place. She got all in a wad 'cause I was fucking her brother. Before that, daddy was kind enough to boot me out of Malibu for thinking about fucking the pool boy."

Sean can't decide whether to grin, laugh, or shake his head; he does some of all three while popping the top off the beer, pausing just long enough to take a sip. "Any of that have anything to do with why you need it the way we've been doing it?" he asks. "Or are you just wired that way?"

"Just wired that way." Jonny sips at his beer. "Dad says my wiring's fucked up. Definitely not into the alternative lifestyle. Been kinked since I was 15. Don't think I'm growing out of it, no matter how much he thinks his tough love's gonna straighten out the heir."

"Yeah," Sean says softly, reaching out to run a hand up Jonny's arm. "I was supposed to settle down, too. Outgrow some things." He shrugs. "Looks like it isn't happening."

"Well, I've got a few years. Not officially disowned yet. Not till I'm 25." Jonny almost jumps at the soft touch, and then he's looking at Sean through veiled eyes, dark eyes. "Don't want to outgrow it. I like what you do to me. I've had lots of guys hurt me. Not one had me wanting to come back crawling like I've been all week."

Sean lets his fingers move across Jonny's chest, and they twist into his shirt, tugging him closer. "Wanted you again," he breathes. "Not just anyone else. You. I like what you give me. It was worth the fight when I got home last time. Got me through the week."

"You got into a fight because of me? And you still want me?"

"All the things I had stored up," Sean says, leaning up, pressing his lips against Jonny's neck, "all the hurt and the frustration, all the things I didn't know how to handle. They were gone with you." He licks over the bruises on Jonny's neck again, shivering hard. "I'd sleep in the fucking car every night for a month for that."

"Don't have to sleep in the car tonight," Jonny offers quickly, without thinking. And then he's wondering if he shouldn't've, if it's too much, but he lets it stand, doesn't back off.

Sean closes his eyes. Can it get much worse, he thinks, going home in the morning instead of going home now?

His teeth sink into the side of Jonny's neck, half-gentle, half-threat. "You'd let me stay?"

I'd beg you not to go, Jonny thinks, the bite distracting him, making him almost hard again when it shouldn't be able to. "To keep you from sleeping in the car, yeah. You can stay."

Sean puts his bottle down on the floor; tugs Jonny's out of his hand and does the same for it. He gets an arm around Jonny and pulls him back flat on the bed, rolling over on him. "I'd like that," he whispers.

"There's a price," Jonny says, almost hesitantly, shifting against the bed under Sean's weight. "Hurt me more. Take out the rest of whatever anger you've got built up this week before you fall asleep."

Sean's blood ices over at the words there's a price, and then cinders with the words hurt me more. He buries his face in Jonny's shoulder for a moment, struggling to keep himself together. He's lived with prices on things for the last year and a half, but they've never felt like this.

His breath is warm and soft as he turns his head, nods against Jonny's skin. "All right," he whispers. And his cock's agreeing with him on it; he's starting to get hard again. He reaches down for Jonny's hands and pins them up above his head. "You want it, it's all yours," he says, easing himself up so he can look into Jonny's eyes.

"Thank you," he says, almost too softly, his cock pressing up against the loosened constraint of half-buttoned jeans. He tugs his wrists, smiles when he realizes just how hard a grip Sean has on them. Not going anywhere, Miller. Not till he lets you. Once, for maybe a week, he'd wished he wasn't wired this way, that the pain didn't get him hard, the bruising get him off. Then he realized it didn't matter, let it all go and relaxed into who he is, what he is. Queer boy who looks good black and blue. "Unleash it, Sean."

And Sean does: thigh levered down to the point of pain against Jonny's cock, fingers digging into wrists and bruising, lips brushing over chain-link marks on Jonny's neck as Sean licks at the marks he left before. His own cock's pressing against his jeans, aching to be buried in Jonny all over again. It's like slipping between the hours, into a place where time doesn't matter and he can give this to someone, this way, ignore the fact that violence and sex aren't supposed to go together -- not if you're healthy, sane and stable. It's so easy. So easy. "Christ, want you so much," Sean breathes, biting into the side of Jonny's neck.

Jonny arches up, wanting more contact, more pressure, more pain. Just more of Sean. He's caught in a vortex, spiraling down like never before. He jerks his wrists, causing Sean to counter, pin him more forcibly, and then he tilts back his head, letting Sean's lips, teeth graze over the chain's indentures. He wonders how permanent they'll be. Not that the Mythos crowd will care. Weird goth bunch anyway. "Take me, then," he urges. "C'mon, wanna be naked. Wanna feel you against me, skin to skin. Now."

"Fuck, yes," Sean pants, pushing up, stripping out of his shirt in one fast movement. He stands up to kick out of his shoes, to shove his jeans down to the floor and step out of them. He wonders if Jonny's going to notice the long, jagged scar on his inner thigh or the tattoo on his left arm, and if he'll care enough to wonder about either.

Hands released, Jonny skims out of his shirt as he sits up, wincing when the cotton rubs over a red patch of skin on his stomach. The he tugs off the jeans, tossing them over the bed's end along with the sneakers he's toeing out of as he strips, going up on his knees at the last. He rubs his hand over Sean's left arm, tracing the tattoo. "Nice. What's it mean?"

"Oh..." Sean grins down at him, liking the feel of Jonny's hand on his skin. "It's for the football club I used to follow. Haven't seen a match since I moved here. Don't have a television at home."

"Football?" Jonny thinks a minute. "What we call soccer. Right?" He palms the words, pulls his hand down Sean's arm to his wrist, then fingers, lacing them and pulling Sean's hand up to his chest. "I've got a couple, on my back, nothing too important."

Sean squeezes Jonny's fingers tight, rubbing his thumb over Jonny's chest. "Show me," he breathes. He's glancing at Jonny's chest, the marks left by last time, the place where stitches held together broken skin after Sean fucked Jonny into the wall. It's fascinating thinking about where he might be marked other than what Sean's given him, and Sean's willing to wait on the sex to get to know Jonny's body that much better.

He turns slowly, letting Sean's hand trace over his shoulder until his fingers are on Jonny's back. "The cuffs were for my 21st birthday. Angie's brother did 'em," he says about the unlocked handcuffs on his right shoulder. "The rat on the left was the first one I got, trade-out for sex."

Pressing Jonny forward a little, until there's room for both of them on the bed, Sean curls himself around Jonny's body, licking over the cuffs first, tracing the curve of them. He's not sure he trusts himself to speak; he lets his teeth scrape over the cuffs as his hands move up Jonny's sides to his arms.

Jonny moans at the scraping. No one's ever -- not like that -- and it's, oh fuck, so good. "More. Mark me." He splays himself, stretching under Sean's body, arms outstretched and legs opening. "Want you inside me again. Hard, like before. Hurting."

If there was any part of Sean that wondered if what he and Jonny have been doing is all right -- if what he's been doing to Jonny is all right -- it disappears like so much smoke under words like those. "How hard?" he breathes, moving his hips, getting the head of his cock snugged up against Jonny's opening. "This hard?"

"Yeah," he says, quietly. "That hard." He swallows, knowing what he's offering. "There's condoms in a mesh basket under the bed's edge," almost under his voice, "if you want."

Sean freezes with one hand moving up to pin Jonny's upper arm to the bed and the other still between them, wrapped around his cock. Fuck. Not thinking. "Do you want me to stop?" he whispers.

"Don't have to. I'm clean, if you're concerned 'bout that," Jonny says, trying not to push back too much. Fuck, I want it. Just like this. "Depends on how safe you wanna play. Drawing blood as it is."

"Don't really want to stop now," Sean says, tightening his grip on Jonny's arm and shoving in to just past the head of his cock. "Christ, you're so fucking hot..."

"Then goddamnit, don't," Jonny spits out, pushing back. It's not safe. It's not sane. And it sure as hell ain't stable. But, fuck it, it's pretty damned consensual. "Want. It. Now."

"All yours," Sean growls, teeth clenched together as he forces his way in. Jonny's still stretched a little from before, there's maybe a hint of lube, but not enough, nowhere near enough. And all Sean wants is to be buried deep inside Jonny's skin. The rest of the world can go to hell.

It's not a dry fuck, nowhere near it, but it hurts like one, Sean's cock pushing, inching in, demanding Jonny's body open. He does, or tries, shoving his legs farther apart, shoving hips up, angling down against his shoulders, any little shift that can help. "Fuck, that's, hurts, good."

"Come on. Let me in. Need. Need it. Fuck." Sean's sweating lightly by the time his cock is buried balls-deep in Jonny's arse, and he closes his eyes, shaking, taking a moment to recover.

Jonny's panting for breath, refocusing, centering, finding the place where he can channel the pressure-pain of Sean's cock so deep, so thick and hard and filling him. "Got it. Oh, yeah. Fuck me, Sean. C'mon."

Sean's name sounds better on Jonny's lips than it has any right to. And he braces himself on the bed, uses his knee to press Jonny's legs apart even further, one rough thrust following another until Sean's head is arching back and he's crying out with every thrust. It's so good it hurts, and he doesn't want it to stop.

Push. More. Back. Jonny's moving as much as he can, working Sean deeper, harder on every thrust. His breath is ragged, sometimes not coming at all, and he's not holding back the screams, just praying that in the dead of the night in LA, it all sounds normal to the neighbors.

Sean wraps an arm around Jonny's chest, fingers splayed out over the center of it, drawing him back against his body. He can feel Jonny's heartbeat under his palm, fast as hell and in time with his own, and oh, God, the room could fucking catch fire and he wouldn't stop.

Heartbeat's fast, and the room's spinning. Jonny's not touching ground at all, spiraling in the sensations. Sean's hands on him, cock in him, nothing between them. His body aches, every muscle and joint crying out for a moment's respite, and his cock's hard again. Shouldn't be. Don't want it to be. Hurts too much to think about coming.

Another thrust, and another, working to get the angle just right, wanting more screams out of the man he's come home with, Sean digs his fingernails into Jonny's chest and drags them down, white lines tearing a path down Jonny's stomach as Sean bites into his shoulder. Mine. Fucking mine.

White lines turn pink, then red, and Jonny doesn't have to look down to know he's bleeding. The trickle's obvious, oozing down his chest. He screams, the pain perfect when it's overlaid with Sean's teeth. And there's more blood. From his shoulder. Skin broken, rivulets down his back. Doesn't care. Can't care. Jonny's getting what he wants, what he craves. "So close," he sputters. "Please. Can I come?" The words startle. He's never really asked permission before, not in the exact words, not with anyone else.

Sean smears his hand through the -- sweat? blood? -- on Jonny's chest and stomach, then wraps his hand around Jonny's cock. He's imagining bright red streaks up the length of it as he strokes, and he moans, licks up the blood he's drawn from Jonny's shoulder. "Come for me," he growls, picking up the pace that much more, wanting to make the shudders of Jonny's orgasm send him over.

The orgasm's harder this time, too soon after the last, and more intense, pained pulses out over Sean's hand, slicking fingers with white streaks. His whole body shakes, convulses with the shivering of a sudden chill racing over him. "Fuck, hurts, love it," he screams, slamming his head back on Sean's shoulder. "Damnfuckingdamn."

"Fuck--" Sean screams, fingers coated with Jonny's come and sliding down his cock, his own cock pulsing in response, body shuddering, feeling as if his whole body's coming, fire working its way down from the base of his neck all the way to his heels.

Stuck to Jonny with their sweat, taste of Jonny's blood still in his mouth, his come marking Jonny from the inside as thoroughly as Jonny's come's marking his hand -- it's dizzying, and terrifying, and addictive as all hell. Oh, fuck... Sean breathes out slowly, starting to come down. "Worth everything," he moans, wrapping an arm around Jonny's waist and holding him tight. "Anything."


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 13:40:00

I Never... 1 (SB/JLM) NC-17
I Never... Never Seen You Here Before
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Jonny Lee Miller
Warnings: Extremely rough, very violent, painful but definitely consensual sex.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: We do not, in any way, shape or form, own these boys. Alas.

Notes: We've written several other versions of these boys together, and this AU has nothing to do with any of them. It's a major departure from RL in that neither of these boys are actors and their ages are not consistent with reality (Sean is early 30s, Jonny is early 20s).


Another few nights like this and Sean's going to make some very messy explosions all over his house, or his office, or something. He's needed to blow off steam for a while, needed to get out and just find someone, anyone, a body to fuck, hips to bruise, lips to feel splitting open and bleeding under his, but he's been holding himself back from it, thinking all this was going to get better. That the need would die off. That the hurt would die down.

Only it hasn't. It's been day after day and night after night for almost a week, and the censors on his behavior are worn through. He's got a bar he goes to for nights like this. He pulls into the gravel parking lot, steps out of his Jag, slams the door shut, and heads in the back door, skipping the bar altogether and wandering into the pool room. He looks perfectly ordinary. No excess of leather. A brown jacket. Jeans. Heavy boots, but they're mostly obscured by the cuffs of his jeans. Grey t-shirt. And a look on his face that says I need something. A look that doesn't leave anyone questioning whether he needs to give it or take it. Tonight he's here to give. As hard as he can. As much as he can. And soon, if he can find someone willing to take him.

Jonny's shooting pool, unwinding after another long night behind the bar at an upscale, trendy club uptown. He likes this place better. It's friendly, ordinary, and no one gives a damn that he likes being taken out back, pounded into the gravel near the dumpster. He's leaning over the table, lining up the shot, white t-shirt riding up his back as he stretches, threadbare denim barely covering his ass, not that he minds giving anyone the view, and his feet never leave the floor, red hi-tops snugged under the jeans' frayed cuffs.

Sean's eyes take in body after body, one after another, but they keep going back to the man on the table in the corner. There's something about the way that one's moving that he likes -- something about his movements that make Sean think he'd look amazing on hands and knees out back.

He heads to the table, leans forward against the wood as the other man lines up his next shot. "Hey," he murmurs. And then the obvious opening: "Buy you a pint?"

"Not very original," Jonny quips, chalking his stick as he glances up for the face that came with the voice. It's a nice face, and he thinks it probably looks even better from the ground. "But I suppose it'll work. Let me finish the game? Got a hundred ridin' on it."

Sean gives a look -- a fast look -- to the man his mark for the evening's been playing with, and nods, fading into the shadows. "Didn't mean to interrupt," he says. Be honest, Bean. You didn't give a damn.

Jonny bites back the laugh. He knows it's as much of a lie as the stranger does. He shakes his head and lines up his shot, calls it and easily drops the last striped ball. Moving around the table, he glances over at the shadows, his mind more on the twitch in his jeans than calling the 8-ball. C'mon, Miller, you can get laid later. He stretches out, takes the shot and pockets it.

"Awright, that does it," Jonny says, holding out his hand to his fellow player. "C'mon, Luke, pay up."

Sean wonders a few things idly while the man with the cue gets matters settled. He wonders if there's something more to him and "Luke" than the game. Wonders if he's seen this man around and he's simply never noticed him before. Wonders if he should have come along a little earlier, whether he should have let himself come back here a few weeks ago when the need was a small dull ache in the pit of his stomach instead of something jagged and explosive and ugly. But none of that has to matter right now. Right now he's got other things on his mind, and he owes a stranger a pint.

"Okay, you said something about a beer," Jonny says, turning from Luke -- friend, little more except when it's absolutely necessary --stuffing the money into his front pocket, snagging his beat-up leather jacket from the chair at table's end. "Wanna grab a table? Or spot at the bar?"

Don't want either. I'd rather be outside. "Table," Sean says, nodding out through the door to the other room. "Tell me what you want, and I'll get it and meet you wherever you're sitting."

"Whatever's on tap's fine. Not picky." Jonny slips the jacket on, shrugging into the distressed leather and heads through the door, choosing a table at the far corner. Fewer people to notice the groping. He settles onto a chair and watches Sean make for the bar, admiring the curve of ass into thighs as he leans over, grabs the bartender's attention. Might actually get what you want tonight. Looks like he could rip you apart.

It doesn't take long to get the beer and head back to the table. Sean sits down across from Jonny and slides his glass across the table. "Good game," he says. "I'm Sean. Been enjoying watching you."

"Jonny," he says, taking the beer in hand and sipping off a good inch of it. "Thanks. Luke's a shitty player. Always loses to me. Should know by now, but some guys just don't learn."

"Some don't want to," Sean points out quietly. "Do you only come here for the pool, then, or are there other offers I can make?"

"I come for the pool, to hustle a bit of spending money," Jonny says, eyes looking down at the table for a moment, then up at Sean's face, "sometimes to see if there's anyone willing to hurt me. What are you offering?"

"I come here when the moods are dark enough to scare me," Sean says, laying his cards out flat on the table. "I come here looking for someone who wants to be torn into as much as I'm looking to tear someone apart. Sometimes I find it, sometimes not."

Jonny keeps drinking while Sean's talking, downing half the pint before he's done. "You're in luck, then, 'cause I'd love to be torn apart. Take everything you got into that dark mood you wanna throw at me."

Sean's barely touched his pint. It's mainly there because that's what's expected. You don't just walk in, order someone a drink, wait for them to finish while tapping your fingers and thinking with your cock. Maybe you do. Sean breathes out, nods. "You want to go somewhere for it, or will the lot outside do?"

Pick me up off the floor in a few minutes. Jonny can't believe his luck. Just came in to shoot some pool and now he's getting propositioned for exactly what he wants most. "Out back's great." Seen more than my share of that gravel lot. "You want to walk out together or should I hold back a few minutes?"

"Give me a moment or two before you come out." Long enough to light a cigarette and try to calm his nerves down. Just a fraction. He takes another last drink of his beer and pushes up from the table. Jonny. He wonders why they bothered exchanging names; he has a feeling he's going to be growling boy into the back of this one's neck in a few minutes.

"Sure thing." Jonny settles back into his chair, works on finishing off his beer. He wonders what the fuck he's getting into. This one isn't some kid who'll do what he wants. Definitely no having a say, he thinks, standing after a minute and heading toward the back of the bar, making a quick stop to piss. No, you're gonna get fuck. Hard and fast and it's gonna hurt like hell. His reflection's smirking at him as he washes his hands. Oh, yeah. Let's go.

Sean's got his cigarette glowing in the dark, one hand tucked into a pocket where his fingertips can graze over the condom he'll be using in a few minutes. He's got lube, too, but he's not expecting to need it. Wonders if Jonny's been around long enough to come to these places prepped, or if he'd rather just get hurt and hurt badly.

He's only about a third of the way through his cigarette when Jonny walks out the back door, and he tucks it into his lips as he grabs Jonny by the arm and yanks him the few steps needed to be around the corner, pressed up against the side of the building. "Took you long enough," he murmurs. "How much d'you want to fight for it?"

"Took a piss. That alright?" Jonny doesn't care about the answer. He's too focused on the hand on his arm, the one already bruising with just the first grip, the fight to come. He jerks his arm, pulling free, and he's sure that's by Sean's choice since his new playmate has the solid weight advantage. "Not like you could start without me." He hopes that, and the move he makes sideways, answers the question about putting up a fight. He wants to get hurt, but he's not just giving in.

"No," Sean admits, taking a longer drag off his cigarette and then pulling it away from his lips. He gets both arms braced against the wall, trapping Jonny between them, and leans in, pressing his lips hard against Jonny's and passing him a breath of smoke.

Jonny opens his mouth, as much because he has to as wants. Sean's kiss is more than forceful; it threatens to push Jonny into the wall, meld him with it. And the smoke, well they say second-hand smoke's bad for folks, but Jonny's figuring a whole lot worse can happen tonight. He slips his hands up between their bodies, pushing on Sean's chest. Vain attempt to move the braced body. Half-hearted, perhaps, but he shoves, wanting to break the kiss long enough to get air.

Sean lets him have it, pulls back and drops his cigarette, sliding both hands up Jonny's shoulders, to his neck, cupping his face, almost like he's memorizing features with touch. Maybe he is. "Mine tonight," Sean whispers. He rubs a thumb over Jonny's lips, grinds forward all over again, cock pressing against cock, a slow rough grind that pins Jonny to the wall. "Open your mouth for me."

There's no denying the order. Clearly given. Jonny slowly opens his mouth, eyes meeting Sean's, back pressed into the wall, hands trapped between them, fingers rubbing and not meaning to, cock throbbing through too many layers of denim and spiraling him out. He opens a bit wider, his tongue brushing out against Sean's thumb.

Thumb first; Sean slides it between Jonny's lips, letting himself feel tongue and lips and teeth and warmth on his skin.

Jonny slides his tongue under the thumb, curls it up around from the sides, then pulls back and works it over top and around, taking his time. He slowly closes his mouth, sucking a bit harder, then biting, sharp and quickly before opening his mouth again.

"Think we both know that's not where I really want your mouth," Sean murmurs. "Like the teeth, though. Making me think about how it'll feel when I'm choking off your breath and feeling your throat wrapped around my cock." He slips a hand between them, presses the heel of it hard between Jonny's legs. "Christ, you're hot for it." There's a rush that runs up his spine from the thought of that. Wasn't joking. Doesn't think he's in over his head yet. Christ, this could be good.

Pushing up hard into the touch, Jonny grins. "Hot for it? Yeah. Want it." Smile slips to smirk. "Not bad enough to beg. Yet. And if you want my mouth on your cock, you're gonna be knocking me to the ground first. I don't go that willingly, no matter how hot I think it is." It's a game to Jonny. Give. Take. Give. Get slammed down. All for the getting hurt.

"Your choice," Sean growls, and takes a step back, giving Jonny's cock a rough squeeze before hauling off and backhanding him, hard, across the face.

The backhanded blow catches Jonny offguard, for a second, taking him off his feet against the building, balance disrupted long enough to stumble, nearly drop to the ground. But he pops his hand against the wall and braces his fall, shards of brick and mortar cutting into his palm. "Fuck," he says, pulling his hand up and licking clean the ooze and dust. "Yeah, my choice. I'm thinking you want to slam me down for it anyway."

Fuck. The sight of Jonny's tongue licking at his scratches has Sean's cock aching to be buried in him, and he grabs Jonny's wrist, yanks it forward, drags his tongue across the heel of his hand and tasting blood and grit.

"Oh, shit," we're playing for real, Jonny watches Sean lick at the blood. "You want, I can bleed better than that." He's smirking, knowing exactly what kind of trouble it's going to get him in, quickly making a mental note, yeah, got the hospital insurance card with me, and visualizing just how badly he might be fucked up come morning.

"Bet you can," Sean says, wrenching Jonny's wrist down, out of the way, spinning him around and shoving him hard against bricks. He presses up behind him, length of his body all the way from thighs to shoulders, pinning him in with both hands.

Face hits the brick this time, cheek scratched on impact, and then the rest of Jonny's body, slammed tightly, cock wedged in a damned uncomfortable position, denim a bare covering. He breathes out, lets himself refocus, struggle for a moment till he releases Sean's hands have him pinned better than before, tight and he's not moving unless he's allowed.

"You can keep struggling if you want," Sean says, breath hot against Jonny's ear. "Don't mind the way it makes your arse rub up against me. Don't mind it at all." He grinds forward, well aware of how it's pressing the front of Jonny's body into the bricks, how it's going to be crushing his cock between brick and body. It's not enough, not even close, but it's a start.

Jonny bucks back at the words, giving Sean what he says he wants. Fight. And his cock gets harder, buttons shoved inward, and his body finds a niche, corner of broken brick, just enough, almost, to rub instead of crush. But the grinding's too steady, Sean's hold too tight. Hands are free, though, and he clutches backward, randomly grasping for whatever strike he can get in.

Getting hit doesn't matter, getting hurt doesn't matter. Sean even gives Jonny a little more space, because he's got to get his hands between Jonny and the wall. Needs to get the jeans unbuttoned and tugged down over hips, first off.

Fingers deft work buttons as Jonny lurches back from the wall, not going anywhere, and there's a quick rush of cooling night air over his cock as the denim's pulled aside. "Fuck," he lets out a breath, sucks it back in, allowing it all feels too damned good. Too quick. It's dawning on Jonny he's never had anyone like this before, not someone who'll match him move for move, take him down no how much he fights. Oh, it's gonna be a good night.

As soon as Jonny's jeans are down, Sean reaches into his own for a condom, using his teeth to tear the packet open and then unbuttoning his own fly one-handed, dragging his cock out. He shoves Jonny back into the wall, kicking his legs as far apart as they'll go, and bites at the back of his neck. Mine for the night.

"Christfuckinghell," Jonny blurts, cock slammed against chipping brick. That's gonna hurt. Something good. His legs are apart and he's off-balance, for a second, quickly regaining, hands sprawling on the wall to counterbalance, sensations coming in waves. Cock hard, crushed. Body vulnerable. And then there's the bite. "Ohfuck." It cuts in, even though Sean has to nudge aside the collar-shag blond-tipped hair.

"That an offer?" Sean asks. "A request?" He pulls back just enough to roll the condom on, and then his cock's sliding down into Jonny's cleft, head pressing against the tight pucker there. He gets his arms up again, covers Jonny's wrists with his hands, pins him. It wouldn't matter if the lights were high and someone were watching, taking pictures, taking notes. I'm having this boy. Here, now. Like this.

"Both." Jonny's breathing gets more ragged as Sean pushes against him and he feels his body wanting to clench and open all at once. "You can fuckin' call it begging if you want."

"Lad, that's not begging," Sean grins, sliding his hands down to Jonny's forearms, getting him pinned just a little more securely. "We'll both know begging when we get there." And then -- then it's a rough move forward, all at once, hips forcing his cock in deep. It only gets him in a couple of inches before he has to stop. "Fuck, you're tight."

Yeah, we will, Jonny thinks, knowing that he knows damned well what begging is, how it swirls off the tongue, straight up from the cock bypassing all rational thought. And this ain't it. Not yet. Sean's right. He's tight. Painfully so. "Too many nights of not getting fucked and just taking the beating," he murmurs into brick.

"Bloody waste of talent," Sean breathes, barely aware of what he's saying. He's busy moving his hips back, shoving forward again. There's nowhere for Jonny to go; he's already pressed hard to brick. Doesn't matter. Sean's giving him as much as he can, as hard as he can, and another few inches feels like a victory here.

Jonny's taking it, along with the compliment, both reeling his body and brain, and he's pressing into the brick, soaking up the scratches, yielding his body almost unconsciously.

Hands down to hips now, dragging them back for a better angle as Sean grits his teeth and forces his way all the way in. "Fuck yes," he pants, "open up, come on, fucking open for me."

Letting his body be moved, angled, Jonny stretches his back, head against the wall, hands not moving from where Sean left them. "Yessir, godyes, fuck," he murmurs, louder with each word, not giving a damn if everyone in the club's come out to watch. He just wants the abuse, the use. He spreads his legs, then suddenly hits on a notion.

Face wedged into chipping mortar, right shoulder taking most of his weight, Jonny slides his hands down the wall, to his back, struggling with the odd angle, fingers clutching at his ass, grasping at the flesh, pulling his cheeks apart wider. "Open," he gasps for air. "Yes, sir."

"Christ, fuck," Sean pants, openmouthed, cock jerking so hard he's amazed he's not coming just then and there. "Never -- oh, fuck--" And he plants a hand between Jonny's shoulderblades, losing himself to the feeling, just moving in harder and harder 'til he thinks he's going to break one or both of them, and he doesn't care which.

Jonny's breaking, or at least getting dented a good bit, his shoulder pushing in on brick that's cutting through the fabric stretched too tight. Blood's trickling down his chest. Doesn't matter. Not to him. He pulls himself open wider, as wide as possible, pushing back as much as the angle will allow, hurting himself as much as Sean's hurting him. "Christ, yes, that's it." His voice is ragged, his breathing barely there, pants and gasps, and his cock's sliding against mortar, body on the edge of coming hard.

Forehead resting against the back of his hand, body arching and twisting as he forces his cock deeper into Jonny (God -- this deep -- never -- fuck), Sean's whole body feels focused on his cock, all the stress, frustration, anger of the last days, weeks, maybe months coming out in this fuck. Everything he's needed to get out of his system and never found a home for, and now he's just breathing it in, the relief so harsh it hurts. He doesn't want to stop. Never wants to stop.

"Goddamnfuckhell." Jonny's screaming against the brick as Sean pushes deeper. Swears he can feel it in his spine, shivering up, splitting him. Never. Not like this. Hurts so damned good.

"Like this," Sean pants, "you better be able to come like this," and he draws out almost all the way, feels Jonny's arse trying to close past the head of his cock before driving in, slamming his hips so hard against Jonny's that he'll have bruises on his hipbones from the impact. Bruises he can dig his thumbs into and remember.

Bruises he'll see and hate you for--

The orgasm tears out of Sean so hard he sees stars, and he's screaming, getting his teeth on Jonny's shoulder to blunt the sounds, biting down hard.

Fuck, yes, he can come just like this. He shifts, throwing his weight a bit more solidly into his shoulder, ignoring the searing pain, cock slammed into brick, and he screams to match Sean's cries, coming hard, cock jerking and pulsing with an orgasm stronger than any he's ever known. He can feel the bruises, shoves back into them, demanding they be deeper, so black he can see them without a mirror, know they're there with every step he takes.

Sean doesn't come back to himself right away. He doesn't want to come back to himself at all. He's exhausted, shaking, bruised, covered in sweat, probably stained with blood, and he doesn't want to come down from it. He bites into Jonny's shoulder again, slow and deep, wishing he were hard enough to just keep going. Oh, to be twenty again.

Jonny lets his hands fall slack, drop to his side, body go limp under the weight pressing against him. The bite counterbalances the brick chip and both sides of Jonny's shoulder are throbbing, blood dripping down his chest, matting his shirt. There's blood on his face; he can feel the sandy grit mixing with it. And it's elsewhere, too, he knows, not having to see it, his body ragged from the intense use. It flashes through his brain that he doesn't want Sean to move, to step away. In part because he's not sure he can stand up on his own. And, then there's the not wanting it to end.

Sean holds onto Jonny's hips, squeezing tight. It takes him a while to decide whether to say it or not, and finally he does -- "needed that," he whispers, "thank you."

"Any time," Jonny murmurs, wincing at the laying down of fresh bruises over ones only minutes old. "Here most nights."

The offer gets in under Sean's chest and twists, somehow. He takes a breath, wondering how serious an offer it is. How soon he'll need to be back here.

"I come here when I have to," he says, "but it's been more often lately."

Finding his breath, slowly in and out, Jonny finds a bit more voice. "Come here to shoot pool, unwind," he says, "get away from real life."

And what's real life that it leaves you wanting this? Sean wonders, licking his way across the back of Jonny's neck, fingers tangling in hair as he pushes it aside. But then, he could ask the same of me, couldn't he... He pulls back, wincing at the blood on the condom before stripping it off and leaving it on the gravel. "I know what you mean," he says instead.

Jonny shivers, the tender touch of a lick almost too much for his nerves to take. He wants to ask Will I get this again? From you? Only here? but nothing comes out that makes sense. Just a whimper followed by a hissing as he shifts his weight and reality sinks in. Fuck, don't tell me I dislocated it.

"You need something?" Sean asks, feeling awkward about the question. He's never asked it before.

"Pop my shoulder back in?" Jonny says matter-of-factly, like it happens all the time. Doesn't. Well, not all the time. This one's a bit more out, it seems.

"Um." Sean bites at his lower lip as he gets his clothes put back together. "Fuck, I didn't mean to..." It's not like he hasn't seen this before, hell, hasn't had it happen to him, needed to put joints back where they belong after a particularly rough game of footie, but he's never done it this way before. He gets his hands on Jonny's arm and rocks it back, wincing; fuck, that has to hurt.

"Fuck," Jonny screams and then bites back the rest of it. It hurts. Damn, it hurts. And it's gonna be hell working tomorrow, but right now he's not thinking beyond Sean's hands on his shoulder and not passing out. "Thanks," he winces, breathes out.

Tough little bastard. Sean grins, slides his tongue out over his lips. "Yeah," he says softly. Christ -- fuck. What time is it? The thought gets in before Sean can wave it off, and he glances at his watch. Almost one. "Fuck."

"What?" Jonny's rolling to his side, grimacing with each move. Forget driving home. Shit. He manages a smile. "S'not that bad. Think I can avoid the ER tonight."

"It's not that," Sean winces. "It's the hour." It's the hour and not wanting to go home. Looking for any excuse not to. "I..." He doesn't even know the protocol for this. Ask him if he wants another drink? If he wants a ride home? "You want anything?" he asks.

"Uh, ride home would be nice. Shoulder's not gonna handle steering for a couple hours." Jonny's not sure if he should ask. "But if you gotta get home, that's cool. I can grab Luke and get him to take me."

"I can take you," Sean says immediately. "You need to rest a while first? Finish that beer?" Make it more obvious, Bean, that you don't want what's waiting for you at home. Christ.

Jonny lets out a long breath, makes a move to stand away from the wall. "Yeah, beer would be good. Smoke would be nice. Hell, morphine would be fuckin' fantastic." He grins. "And, thanks, for the offer."


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 10:57:00

Matter of Inertia 12 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 12: Net Force
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Hard kink with roleplay.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: We don't own these men, unfortunately. Only fiction.


It's warm, unseasonably so, and everyone's miserable, from Jacko down. Harry's on set again, putting out one fire after another to keep Fran from killing Barrie and the hobbits from inciting a riot. After the last irate elf is satisfied, he finds a spot in the corner of the soundstage where they're doing bluescreen work. It's a nice vantage point to watch his lover, who's hacking and slashing at some imaginary creature.

Harry chuckles to himself when he notices Sean's having to stand so close to Viggo. "Don't slip the sword, luv," he mutters under his breath, "as much as we both think it'd be an improvement."

If Sean has to kill one more nonexistent orc, he might scream. Actually, he might scream anyway; it would probably look and sound better on screen. The frustration of one too many late nights has been wearing on him, and he can't think of anything that sounds better than going back to Harry's tonight, curling up in sheets and blankets and snoring into the back of his lover's neck. There's never enough time. And Sean's got two more projects lined up, neither of which he wants to go off and film. Berlin, for God's sake, and New York. He'd rather stay here. Watch his lover staring off into space as he sifts through thoughts and ideas and plans and scribbles down bits and pieces of script.

A five-minute break's called, and Sean couldn't be more grateful. He heads over for a chair at the edge of the soundstage, ready to collapse.

"Don't talk. Turn around. Sit down." Harry scoots his chair behind the one Sean's headed for. "You're tensed, and you're gonna pull a muscle brandishing that sword so insistently."

"Going to pull more than that," Sean grumps, sitting down heavily. "How many reshoots do you think we're in for today?"

"You don't wanna know." Harry's hands are on Sean's neck almost before he leans back, thumbs working the ridge at the center, pushing up into Sean's hair, fingers stretching under the first layer of heavy fabric to work out toward the collar bone. "Five, maybe. They've been arguing about it all day. I finally left after I'd heard one too many elves crying."

Sean would make a noise of protest, but everything dissolves along with his tension as Harry starts massaging him. "Christ. They're not paying you enough, lover." He sighs and slides a hand up, brushes his fingertips against the back of Harry's wrist. "Thank you."

"I work for the perks, not the pay," Harry murmurs, leaning in and kissing Sean's fingers. It's casual enough not to be overt. Their relationship isn't a secret, not to close friends among the cast, and neither's denying when asked, but public displays of affection are a tricky endeavor.

"Going to have me thinking of perks all afternoon and then my costume won't fit quite right," Sean teases. "And I'll have no one but you to blame for it."

Harry laughs, swishing his tongue over Sean's knuckles. "S'okay, luv, you can take it out on me later. Want me to cook tonight? Or just pick up something?" It's easy to switch from innuendo to innocuous, the banter becoming so easy these few months. Every now and then Harry has to step back, take a deep breath and wonder how he got here. But that leaves him thinking of where they're going, and involves Sean leaving and so he just stops thinking, switches gears, like between neck rubs and sliding his hands down to Sean's shoulder blades. "Thought we could do a movie later," he glances around, goes for the dare and licks the edge of Sean's ear, "or I could reopen that. Haven't gotten 'round to it."

"So much for my costume fitting," Sean says, finally leaning back and turning so he can catch Harry's eyes. "Let's do that," he murmurs. "Don't think I could ever have enough of your marks on me."

"Tit for tat. You can do me one. I'll stop on the way home and pick up everything." Harry's smiling, head tilted. "Still haven't told me what you want for dinner," he says, dropping his voice then. "And you're not getting a real kiss till you do."

"Am I allowed to cheat and say you?" Sean asks. "Just something simple. Pasta with marinara and mushrooms. Salad, maybe." He grins. "Do I get the kiss now?"

"You get me for dessert, after I've had you for appetizer." Harry runs his hand over Sean's neck and gives him the promised kiss. Deep, tongue parting lips, insinuating and claiming and not giving a damn who's watching. All mine. Doesn't matter.

There's no more reason for Sean to play this safe, not after the trip back to London -- divorce is final, he thinks -- and not here, where everyone already knows what they are to each other. He kisses back, bites at Harry's lips. Love you. Christ. So much.

Harry's fingers against Sean's neck pull him into the kiss. Fuckin' want more of this. "Love you," he whispers as he breaks, internal clock clicking off the minutes till the break's over. "Later. I'll wait 'round to take you home."

"Thanks," Sean says, squeezing Harry's hand hard. He turns back around only to get a baleful glare from one of the makeup artists and a quick touch-up of his face. "Sorry," he mutters sheepishly.

There's no stifling the laugh as Sean walks away and the makeup artist plops down next to Harry. "Quit smudging my work, Sinclair," she says, smiling. They're old friends, part of that incestuous Zid film community.

"Yes, m'am," he snaps out, settling back and watching the rest of the reshoot. He stays through all of them, wincing as Sean's growing visibly more irritated with his compatriot's need for uber-perfection.

There are times Sean wonders if Viggo has endless amounts of patience through take after take simply because he knows that kind of patience is going to irritate Sean. And then there are times when the takes are perfect for everyone but Peter, and times when Sean's ready to keep going until everyone else is exhausted. It's nothing. It's a job. And if it weren't for the looks he gets from Viggo every so often, he wouldn't even be thinking about motivation, about how long it's going to be before he can go the hell home. But then there's look after look, and God, one of these days Sean's going to end up going after Viggo with a sword. The end of the day can't come soon enough.

And mercifully, there it is, the end called, everyone heading back to trailers to get out of costumes and wigs. Sean exhales softly, finally relaxing, and despite the fact that it takes nearly an hour to get back into his own skin again, he's in a much better mood as soon as he steps out of the trailer.

Harry's waiting, right outside the trailer, leaning with arms crossed against its too-warm metal. He's trying not to think about the looks Viggo was giving Sean. Bastard's out of it, Sin. No hold on him. He's thinking instead of home, getting there and getting a lover naked and -- he closes his eyes to enjoy the thoughts alone, tongue poking out between lips as the last one, involving shirt torn and binding, washes over him.

"Oh, that looks good," Sean murmurs, pivoting and pressing himself against Harry. "What's got that look on you?"

"Just my lover," Harry says without opening his eyes. "Thoughts of torn t-shirts gagging and blindfolding him, the final tatters wrapped around his wrists, his hands jerked tightly behind his back." He smiles. "Nothing much."

"And wouldn't you know it," Sean whispers, "I'm in a soft shirt you could pull apart without even breaking a sweat." He takes Harry's hand, draws it up to the center of his chest. "When we're home."


Harry's proud of himself. He makes the drive home without so much as a random touch. He's thinking ahead five minutes, six steps, to getting Sean inside the house, against a wall, over the kitchen table. He swings the car into the garage, cuts off the engine and opens the door.

"Inside. Now," he growls, already three steps to the house, half-turning and smiling at Sean, who's moving equally as fast. "Unless you want it over the car, up against the storage shelves and on the concrete."

"We've already done that twice this week," Sean quips, "I think the shelves in the pantry are getting envious. Come on. Inside, lover." He teases Harry with a short sweep of tongue before making it to the door.

Inside is the laundry room and Harry's pushing Sean back against the washer before the door's shut behind them. "So we'll fuck in the pantry tonight," he says, just as playfully, wrapping his fingers in the hem of Sean's t-shirt, nudging it up his chest with fingers pushing against flesh.

"But the laundry room first," Sean grins, helping Harry get shirt overhead and flung into one of the hampers. "We ought to turn the washing machine on. See if we can time our orgasms to the spin cycle. Or the agitate cycle, I can never remember which."

"Agitate," Harry mutters, hands moving to Sean's jeans, unbuttoning and jerking down. "Turn around, you bastard."

"Is that any way to ask your lover to let you fuck him?" Sean teases, already turning and bracing himself against too-cold metal. "...all right, actually, it's a perfectly good way to tell your lover to be fucked..."

"I don't recall saying I was going to ask you, lover," Harry quips, unbuttoning his own jeans and pushing them open enough to free his cock, give it a quick tugging stroke and press it against Sean's arse. "I remember talking about blindfolds," he pushes forward, nudging the first inch of his cock inside his lover, "and gags."

Sean makes a half-growling half-purring sound as he arches back against Harry, gasping. Christ, a trace of lube might've been good. But this is better. "Then tie me," Sean murmurs, "gag me so the neighbors won't hear me scream while you're tearing me open."

Harry glances around quickly, taking stock of what's there. He reaches over Sean's shoulder to the shelves above the appliances, rummages until his fingers grab what he's seeking, the electrical drop cord absently tossed there one day when cleaning. He then grabs Sean's wrists, pulling hands behind his back, between their tightly pressed bodies, and loops the cord in and around, jerking and knotting until his lover is bound.

"Be careful what you ask for, Sean," Harry growls against the shoulder against his mouth. "Now, the only question is do you get clean or dirty socks shoved in that mouth of yours."

"You bastard," Sean laughs, half turning so he can try to nip at Harry's ear. He's not close enough for it, but he makes an effort anyway. "Don't even fucking think about it."

"Oh, shut the fuck up," Harry says, words dragging out in loving sarcasm. He snags a sock, one of the lone tube ones, and stretches it out over Sean's mouth, working quickly to lock it in place before his lovers does shut up, pulling tightly and tying it off behind his head. "You're gonna just take it now. Whatever I want to give you."

Harry laughs, more sinister than sweet, and adds a solid one-two punch to the mix, shoving his cock solidly forward, pushing against the damned friction -- Okay, maybe a touch of lube would've been easier, but, Christ, this is so much better. -- and locking his hand on the back of Sean's neck, slamming him down against the washer's top.

It's rough and violent and Christ but Sean couldn't want it any more if he tried. He growls out something threatening from behind his tube sock gag, but belies the threat with a tilt of his hips, trying to get the angle right so he can just stand there and take every rough punishing stroke.

"That's a good boy. I like agreeable sluts." Harry thrusts forward, pushing those final inches, moaning at how much it pulls against his cock, until he's deep in, all the way. His fingers are clutching at Sean's neck, digging in just as much. He pulls back, nearly all the way out, and slams forward again, the drag slightly less this time but still it's a forcing and a struggle to tear into Sean's body. "Fuck, you're tight. So good like this."

So good like this. Sean couldn't agree more. He's panting behind the gag, sweating already, hands and wrists straining at the cord, but every pained, tearing inch is enough to make him want to beg for more. It's a claiming; it's Harry doing what he's done since the night they met. He's getting inside Sean, every inch, past body and blood and into all the parts Sean's had locked down. And he moves back against Harry, even when it makes him scream. Yours.

Harry doesn't have to hear the words to know what Sean's screaming. "Mine," he growls, possessive and claiming, brutally, with harsh strokes that pound into the body trapped beneath him. He reaches down, snakes his hand between the washer's cold metal and Sean's hot body, wraps fingers around the cock hanging heavy between his lover's legs, pulls sharply down. "Think I'll keep you from coming. Hours. Days. How long could you last? I wonder."

Sean's head drops down, forehead resting against the washer. He groans, shoves his hips back hard, nearly hard enough to take Harry back a step. Want to come, you bastard... But there's nothing he can do about it. And if Harry wants to keep him from coming, he will.

"No," Harry hisses, "don't like that notion." He quickens his pace, fucking harder and faster, cock tearing back with ragged tugs. "Can't beg for it. Can't stop me from doing exactly what I want." The last isn't totally true. Harry would stop, in half a heartbeat, if he sensed Sean wasn't getting off on this, wasn't taking as much from it as Harry was giving. "I'm gonna come now, Sean," he says, punctuating words with thrusts, "and you're not."

Then he does just that, the clenching of Sean's body around his cock too much and dragging him over the edge, his cock jerking inside his lover as his fingers clutch at flesh, leaving cratered bruises patterning Sean's neck and cock.

Fuck. Oh, fuck, Harry feels too good. And Sean's body jerks under him, cock pulsing in Harry's hand--

--no, fuck, oh God, hurts--

--and Sean doesn't come, the pulses held back by Harry's hand as Sean slams his cheek against metal, screaming into the gag. Fuck.

Sated and spent, Harry steps back, pulling his cock out of Sean's arse. "Such a good slut," he says, tightening his grip on Sean's neck and jerking him upright, back against his chest, the bound hands trapped between them. He's slid his hand around to the front of Sean's neck, fingers dancing over throat before tugging on the gag.

"Want to hear you beg now," he whispers harshly into Sean's ear, one hand pulling the sock loose from Sean's mouth, letting it drape around his throat, while the other tugs at the stiff cock still pressing into Harry's warm hand. "Tell me, slut, want to come?"

"Fucking hell," Sean breathes, trying to grind back against Harry. The move's awkward, and he ends up barely rubbing up against his lover. "Yes, I want to come. Christ, Harry, I want to come for you."

"Not now." Harry lets go of Sean's cock and tugs Sean's jeans up over his hips, carefully tucking the too-sensitive flesh in under the denim, buttoning enough to keep them from falling. "Maybe after dinner. You can keep me company while I cook." Gripping Sean by the shoulders, Harry turns him and points him in the kitchen's direction, counting down the seconds till the explosion.

"You fucking absolute bastard," Sean snarls, heading inside --not that Harry's giving him much choice. He tilts his head to look over his shoulder. "And you're expecting what, lover, me on my knees eating out of a dish on the floor?"

Hitching up his own jeans, Harry follows, a step behind, an idea taking form in his brain. "Hadn't planned on it," he says, hands back on Sean's shoulders, running down the bound arms till fingers tangle in cord, grab and pull back and up sharply. "Want to play, lover?" He leans in, drags his tongue over the edge of Sean's ear. "Which scenario? Captive, slave, puppy. What's running through your head, Sean?"

"Christ," Sean whispers. And if he thought he was hard and ready to come before, the offer on the table has him so close he could come with a word. "Captive. Slave. Either," Sean breathes. "Do you want me fighting? Broken? Fuck, I love you."

"Broken, but a touch defiant," Harry murmurs. "Not going to give over that last trace of dignity to your captor." He walks around the other end of the kitchen island and grabs a knife from the wooden block displaying them on the counter, then continues circling till he's in front of Sean. He presses the knife's point to Sean's thigh, twisting it at a thin, worn spot on the denim. "Love you, too, enough to give you this."

"Already given in. You don't need to put me down. But there's something I've been holding back..." Sean squirms back a step, arse and wrists digging into the counter. "I can do that," he murmurs.

And roleplay headspace descends, easy and quick, Sean's eyes darkening. "You don't need to hurt me anymore. I'll give you whatever you want."

"I don't doubt that," Harry says, pushing the blade through, its tip nicking flesh as he cuts back, ripping the denim apart. "You've already given up so much. Now I'll just that final piece and you'll get what you want." He cuts down, shredding the jeans leg till it's little better than tatters covering Sean's flesh.

"Please," Sean breathes. The knife point is a tickle against sensitive skin, nowhere near hard enough to scratch or cut, and Sean moans, trying to hold still. "Please, I'm not going to fight anymore."

"No, you're not. You're going to take exactly what I give you." Harry's voice is harsher by the word, and he turns the knife in his hand, stabs into the other leg, hitting flesh, puncturing and pulling back, slicing through the denim, cutting it off efficiently. In a minute's work, Sean's left with threadbare denim barely covering his arse and cock.

Harry pulls the flat of the knife over the flesh poking out from the newly cut short's frayed edges. "You're going to get on your knees and beg for it, like the fuckin' whore we all know you are."

There's a trickle of blood running down Sean's thigh now, and he shivers. Not hard enough to risk cutting himself further on Harry's blade, but enough. Christ, he can't remember the last time his cock was this hard, and it feels terrifying and perfect all at once. Like so many things with Harry.

He slips to his knees and puts his forehead on the floor. "Just tell me what to beg for, and I'll do it," he says. "Do you want to fuck me? Hurt me? Just... please. Christ. I can be good for you. You know I can be good for you. Please..."

Perfect lover, down on his knees. Harry kicks Sean's shoulder, hard enough to bruise. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, whore? My cock up your arse. Think that's a privilege you get." He looks around, mind searching for just the right thing. Beer bottle. Empty. Left from last night. Harry picks it up, flips it over in his hand and hunkers down in front of Sean's.

"Not gonna get my cock, slut," he says, jerking Sean's head up, fingers deep in the hair, tugging and twisting. "Might let you have this, though." He runs the bottle's edge over his lover's cheek. "Open up and beg pretty for it."

Sean growls softly, low in the back of his throat. "You haven't given me enough here?" he murmurs. But he turns his head just a little, eyes locked to Harry's, and licks the rim of the bottle all the same. "Let me suck it for you. Please," he says, the last word sounding vaguely like a sneer.

"I haven't begun to give you enough," Harry snarls back, tightening his fingers viciously in Sean's hair. "G'head, suck it, whore. See how wet you can get it. Might not wipe it off then before I fuck you with it."

Christ. Sean winces at the grip in his hair but opens his mouth wide all the same, taking in the neck of the bottle, sucking hard, letting his tongue slide out to flick at it like it's a cock in his mouth. And he is getting it wet, though he's not at all sure he's going to have it wet enough once Harry starts working it into him. And he's not bluffing. Jesus.

Harry's hand grips hard against the base of the bottle, working it into Sean's mouth, forcing his lover to open wider with nasty tugs to his hair, unrelenting shoves forward of glass. Fuck, if your hair were a little longer, Sean. Bizarre random thought while dropping into headspace to brutalize your lover. A minute he lets Sean suck. Two minutes. Doesn't matter. It's not going to be enough.

But for now, it is. "Enough, whore. I'm bored with your half-arsed attempts." Harry jerks the bottle from Sean's mouth and shoves him face-down to the floor, moving quickly behind him, free hand ripping at the shreds of denim over Sean's arse enough to show flesh. "Spread 'em out a bit, slut," he hisses, knee nudging Sean's legs apart as he presses the bottle's lip to hole. Harry places his hand in the center of Sean's back, pressing hard. "Unless you just want it to hurt more."

Fuck. He should've know this still wouldn't be enough. And even as Sean spreads his legs wider, he's wondering how far Harry's going to take this. He can feel the lip of the bottle just barely pressing inside, can feel how cool the glass is, barely having time to warm up from his mouth. And his cock's throbbing so hard he can't stand it.

Harry's going as far as he thinks he can get. They really haven't reached any limits yet. Harry's not sure where they are, or if they exist. How far will you let me get, Sean? He twists the bottle a quarter turn and nudges it, his come from earlier barely slickening the passage. "Christ, you're tight, whore, and just fucked. This is gonna hurt so good." Harry twists the bottle another quarter turn, slowly and methodically.

"Agh -- fuck --" And something goes crystal in Sean's eyes; he slides his tongue out over his lips and parts them further, tries to open up for Harry. He lets out a soft, keening sound, and ends it with a whispered word: "More."

Permission to take it to the limit, wherever the fuck that may be. "Fuckin' slut," Harry slurs out, twisting the glass a full turn and palming its base, pushing it in harder, the tapered end disappearing and the bottle's full width pressing against Sean's hole. Harry works it back a fraction of an inch and shoves forward again, his hand rubbing down on Sean's back. "C'mon, whore, take it for me. Beg for it."

"Oh, God, fuck, anything, please fuck me harder, more, please." Sean shoves back hard, gasping when the motion sinks the bottle just a fraction of an inch deeper; it's not enough, Harry wants him to take more, and his chest is tight with wanting to give it. "Please, please, I can take it for you, please, more, please."

Can take it for you. Words sing in Harry's brain. "I know you can, whore." He works the bottle down, finger sliding in between glass and flesh, trying to ease the passage just a bit, not that Harry thinks it'll help. Being fucked basically dry, glass not yielding. Sean's going to be torn, split, and Harry'll take care of that later, soothe and gentle and attend to the wounds. Later.

Harry pulls the bottle back and then twists it full turn after full turn, working it deeper than before, full width breaching the tight hole. "My bitch can take everything I want to give him, and he'll beg for more." Out of headspace, he'd add Christ, I love you, Sean but it doesn't fit now. Later.

"God. Fuck. Yes. More." Sean's trying like hell to open up wider and it's barely doing any good at all. He's sure he's going to break, going to tear apart, but none of that matters. He's Harry's. Harry's bitch. Harry's whore. And Christ, it feels so fucking good being split apart this way. Split apart because Harry wants him to be. "Oh dear fuckin' Christ," Sean whispers out. "Anything you give me -- anything -- all yours -- Sir, God, please, fuck, yes."

Harry drops even lower, mind focused on one thing, hurting the body under him. Sean's body. His lover. Willing to give over everything. He twists and turns and pulls and pushes, demanding that flesh yield to glass until the bottle's firmly seated, enough showing for Harry to wrap his hand around and tug back. If he were of a mind to do so. But he's not. He twists it instead. "Anything, slut? Opens it rather wide, doesn't it. Could just leave you like this." He wiggles the bottle, twisting again. "Let you stay here on your knees, face against the floor, arse in the air like the whore you are, stuffed full of glass. Watch you squirm while I sit back, have a drink."

Sean moans, forehead dropping back down to the floor. "Hurts so much," he pants. And he's not sure if he means the stretch of arse around bottle or the way his cock's so hard he's dripping. "Hurts for you. So good. You want me to beg? I'm begging." That part's in headspace, role feeling jagged but perfect, comfortable, no fear of losing track of where he is or what they both mean to each other. "Beg from the floor while you watch me. Please. God. Slut for you. Whore for you. Yours."

"Good." Single word. Slapped out into the air with a palm's pop against the bottle. Harry stands up, play altered into some surreal blend of role and reality, headspace firmly intact, vicious and unrelenting. He nudges Sean's chin with his foot. "You get comfortable, bitch. Let me know if it hurts too much." He snags a full beer from the counter and pops it open, tossing the key on the counter, and puts it to his lips, taking a long sip.

Sean's trying to get comfortable. Failing miserably, given that his arse feels split apart and his cock's leaking across his thigh. He turns his head to the side, resting his cheek against kitchen tile. Christ. It's been a while since they went this far, took each other this deep. And he fucking loves it. Meanwhile, there's a voice in his head, role wrapped around thoughts, that's screaming at him that he's not supposed to want this so much. That he should be struggling, fighting, trying like hell to get free. And he's not doing a damn thing about it.

"Fucking slut," he whispers out against the floor, "fucking whore, you want this. Pathetic. Want to be hurt, cut, beaten, fucked. Christ." He taps his forehead against the floor, tries to settle down more easily. "Fuck."

Harry goes quiet, listens to Sean's whispers, makes out a word here, there. He knows the gist of it without hearing them, the verbal reassurance that it's okay to want this, to need this, to go this far. And farther, if they choose. He grabs a soup bowl from the cabinet and sits it down on the floor in front of Sean, pours beer from the bottle he's drinking, letting it slosh and splash on the floor, Sean's face as it fills the bowl.

"You look good that way," he says, snarl edging his voice as he turns, looks around the kitchen, thinking on the dinner to be made. "Might just keep you, whore, after I get all the information out of ya I need. No one's gonna want you back anyways."

Sean tilts his head up, winces in Harry's direction. Keep me. God, his cock's throbbing at the thought. Fucking pathetic whore. But none of that matters. He's looking to impress the man, and that doesn't matter either. He slides over, licks a sip of beer out of the bowl. And another. And he glances up at Harry before he takes the next. Is this what you want?

It's easy to ignore Sean, to slide into role and feign disinterest in the man prone on the kitchen floor, for the moment, and Harry does that, searching in the pantry for pasta, putting water to boil in the stock pot, pulling mushrooms from the refrigerator and a knife from the butcher's block. "Not that you'd be much good here, either," he says absently, "once fucked you kinda lose your appeal. Guess I could loan you out, let the other guys have at you." He pops a mushroom cap into his mouth, turns and catches Sean staring at him, beer dripping down his chin. Fuckin' gorgeous. "Course, you'd like that. One thick prick shoved up your arse," he licks his thumb, "right after another. A dozen of 'em, and you're begging for every one of 'em. Just something to fill that hole of yours."

"How low do you want me?" Sean asks, voice coming out lower than a growl. "Do you want to watch me spread myself open for them? Your whore. To give away as you like. Is that what you want out of me?" He licks his lips, wipes his chin on his shoulder, tries to come up off the floor just a little -- but the angle of the bottle keeps him on the floor with a sharp cry of pain. "Your slut. Your whore. And all the fight you want until you've fucked it out of me."

"I want you so low you're struggling to see up, and when you do find it, all you see is me, my boot putting you back down, my fingers jerking your head up." Harry's tight in the space, drifting in the power of the scene. "You can't spread wide enough to please me, whore. And all the fight you think you have," Harry laughs, "it's a facade, an illusion covering up the slut you are. You don't wanna fight. You just wanna sink, drop until you barely hear my voice." He nudges Sean's shoulder with the toe of his shoe, digging into a bruise he knows he left the day before. "You'd take everything I give, as much pain as I want to lay on you. We both know it." The smile's thin, bent. We both know the same's true for me. Every ounce of this that you want to give back, I'd take, and beg for more. Fuckin' love you.

Sean lets his forehead drop to the floor again, humiliation burning his skin. "Fuck you," he whispers, quiet, solid, steady. His mind's reeling from all the images. You just wanna sink, drop until you barely hear my voice. And yeah, he wants that. Wants it bad enough to taste, wants it enough he's shaking, hard and hurting. And he knows there's going to be a time in the not-too-distant future when it's the other way around, when he's holding Harry by the hair at the crown of his head, dragging his mouth forward, choking him with his cock and holding him there 'til his body jerks and it's all up to Sean, whether he gives him the breath or watches him pass out with his mouth full of saliva and come. Love you so much.

Harry drops to the floor, on his knees beside Sean, planting one hand firmly on the bottle's base. "No," he says, twisting and pushing it in hard, "I believe it's fuck you"

Jerking under Harry's hand, oh Christ that hurts, Sean nods into the floor, half-desperate. "Fuck -- sorry -- yes, sir, you're right, fuck me, please, oh God -- anything you want. Fucking anything, please."

"Anything. Hmmm, tempting offer." Harry jerks the bottle out of Sean's arse with a sharp twist-tug, drops it to the floor next to the cabinet's edge, and before his lover can anguish over the emptiness, he roughly shoves in four fingers, curled around one another, rakes over the abused prostate, scraping at the tender muscles. "How about you start with coming. Just from that." He leans down, stretches out over Sean's back. "Or you want the whole fist, slut?"

"Christfuck--" Sean gasps, struggles against his bonds again, uselessly. "Fuck, fuck, hell, fuck," and it's so much, so full, so hot and rough compared to the glass of the bottle, and barely -- just barely -- enough to come from. Sean's cock jerks hard, come streaking thighs and floor and dragging another scream out of him. And then another. And he's screaming, tears falling to the floor, twisting against Harry's fingers and thinking he hasn't felt anything this perfect, this gorgeous, in years.

It could go on, for hours, Harry dragging out the torture, subjecting Sean's body to more abuse, but that wasn't the plan. It was a lark, a momentary scene to break up the afternoon. And he's content to let it remain that. Pulling his fingers out, he wipes them on his jeans and then wraps Sean's body with his arms, tugging his lover up off the floor, back to kneeling upright. "End scene," he whispers into Sean's ear, kissing the side of his neck. "Let yourself start coming back, Sean." Words are accompanied with gentle touches, fingers ghosting over Sean's chest., nothing too alarming, and Harry'll undo the bindings soon as he knows he has his lover's attention again.

"Harry, God--" Sean's trying to rub his face against Harry's chest, trying to squirm in closer, every inch of contact wanted, needed, like he can't get close enough. "Love you, so much, always..."

"Hold up a second, need to get the cord undone." Harry slides one hand between their bodies and works free the knots of the electrical cord. It takes a minute. "Damn, you really tightened this up." But then it's free and dropped to the floor, Sean's hands unbound. Harry sits back against the cabinet, pulling Sean with him. "Love you, too, more every friggin' day we're together."

Arms free, Sean wraps them both around Harry's neck and hugs him hard, still panting from the scene. He's aching, crying, but everything feels so bloody perfect that he's sure tucking his face into Harry's neck and letting it go for a while isn't going to throw his lover off. The words he gets out almost seem random -- "you, Christ, love, so much" -- but it doesn't matter. He can think about stringing them into order later.

Sean doesn't need to be articulate. Harry understands. In another week, two, or maybe tomorrow, he'll be in the same place, incoherent and in love, trying to make sense of syllables and words that don't even need to find voice to back them up. He runs his hands through Sean's hair, smoothing down the sweat-drenched matting. "Need to get you into a bath, hot, one with the oatmeal-aloe so it'll soothe," he whispers. "You feel alright? Nothing too out of whack?"

Questions. Ones that need answers. Sean pulls himself up a little more, nods into Harry's shoulder. "I'm all right," he whispers. "Bath sounds good. You joining?"

"I can, if you want." There's a light kiss to Sean's temple. "Or I can finish up dinner and have it ready to serve you in bed when you're done. Your choice, luv."

"Mmm. Good choices." Sean shifts a little, stretches and winces at aching muscles and pains he'll be feeling even worse in the morning. "Not going to catch me turning down dinner in bed. Help me up?"

Harry laughs. He'd've bet Sean would opt for the full-on pampering. He pulls himself out from under his lover, stands up and reaches back down, arms wrapping in support. "C'mon, you, work it out now or you'll be so stiff in the morning I'll be on the phone making excuses and getting reamed."

"If I'm stiff in the morning, you can bet your arse you're getting reamed," Sean jokes, coming up on his feet, sliding a hand down to the arse in question. "Love you."

"Oh that's a good one," Harry quips, reaching around and grabbing Sean's hand, pulling it up around his waist, "and I'll hold you to that." He moves them slowly out of the kitchen and down the hallway toward the master suite. "Love you for taking it, for being the best thing to ever happen to me."

Sean chuckles, leaning on Harry more heavily than he probably needs to. "I were thinking," he murmurs, "about telling you I don't know what I did before you. And wondered if you'd swat me for being sentimental. Home's you now, Sinclair." He lets out a rough, shaking breath after saying it. "Wherever else I go, I'll always come back to you."


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 10:54:00

Matter of Inertia 11 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 11: Free Fall
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Schmoop. Schmoop in the rain ...
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not real. Fiction. Made it all up.

Notes: Boys in the rain, and a bit of our boys' foolish sides...

Sunday morning finds Harry waking up alone, a condition he doesn't like. Especially since it's obviously raining, thundering even, and there's no good reason to be out of bed at -- he looks over at the clock -- 7 bloody a.m.

"Christ, who gets up before dawn when he's not filming?" He rolls out of bed, makes it to the bathroom without hitting too many obstacles, and stands at the toilet, pissing half-awake. "Your lover, Sinclair. Fuckin' early-riser." Finished, Harry turns to the sink, washes his hands and throws a bit of water on his face, running it up through his hair.

And then it's off to find said lover, with a quick stop by the end of the bed to grab last night's discarded jeans and tug them on haphazardly.

Sean's actually outside in the rain, squinting up into it, even, occasionally spitting a bit of water back at the sky. It's cold, wet, and he shouldn't be nearly this cheerful about that, but Christ it just feels so good being here, grounded, home, that he does the occasional foolish thing. Has the freedom to do the occasional foolish thing, and it's all Harry's fault. He grins.

Harry wanders through the house, too quiet, vaguely aiming for the kitchen. Coffee's on, and the aroma of freshly ground beans is still heavy in the room. He snags a mug from the shelf, one of the thin ceramic ones that'll push the heat out into his palms, fills it halfway up and heads on to the back of the house, drawn by the too-intense sound of rain, like a window's open.

Where'd you go, Sean? He wonders, thinking he should check and see if the car's gone, then quickly dismissing the thought. He's not going to leave in the night, Sin. Harry doesn't think Sean'll ever leave, and that warms him, makes him laugh when he sees the French door open and leans against its doorjamb, staring out at a drenched lover making faces at the sky.

"Should I come frolic with you? Or can I entice you inside, lover?"

Sean turns around, hair whipping against his forehead as he gives the door a startled look. "Oh!" he blurts out, giving Harry a chagrined look. "Sorry--" He trots back to the porch, slicking water off his face, out of his hair when he gets under the overhang. "You're going to think your lover's mad now," he says.

"No," Harry says with a laugh, "I thought my lover mad when he spent the first night here." He sips at the coffee, then shifts it to one hand, reaching the other to Sean's forehead, pushing back the soaked strands. "But I like mad, so it's a nice fit, you and me. Up long?"

"A while. I still can't tell what time it is yet." Sean brushes his nose against Harry's and leaves a soft, lingering kiss over his lips. "It is a good fit. And I'm not losing it to anything."

"Hmm, I can tell you what time it is," Harry says, kissing Sean back, sucking the flavor of warm rain off his lips. "Time to come inside, back to bed and stay there till it stops raining." He sits his near-empty mug on the porch's railing and wraps his arms around Sean's waist. "Unless you want," he says, mind turning, stepping Sean backward, out from under the eaves, "to shag out here." His eyes are sparkling, green-brown mischief that says he's more than half serious about the offer.

"When's the last time you made love in a rainstorm?" Sean asks, pulling Harry right along with him and watching rain come down over his face. "Daring the gods to strike you with lightning?"

Harry smiles wider. "Never," he says, not believing the words himself, even though they're true. Never had a lover who asked. Never had one I wanted to ask. Harry pulls his lover close, the one he wants to dance in the rain with, challenge the world alongside. "Make love to me in the rain, Sean. Drench me and scream for the gods to rain fire from the sky."

"Wordsmith," Sean teases, biting gently at the side of his neck. Harry always makes his words seem so plain in comparison, but it doesn't matter. What matters is being here, being together, and Sean pulls Harry down the few steps off the porch, turns him around so Harry can grip the porch railings. Perfect.

Gripping the railing, Harry wonders if he's too smart for his own good some days. He doesn't mean to twist Sean's words, rephrase them. It's an occupational hazard, writer and director. And there's just enough not said between them to make the silences perfectly spaced, rarely awkward, just being together and knowing what the other wants. Harry tilts his head back, lets the rain pelt his face, streak his hair till it's matted against the scalp.

Sean curls his body around Harry's, presses his cheek to the space between Harry's shoulder blades. Someday he'll stop being astonished at how well they fit together, but it's probably no time soon. He runs his hands down Harry's sides, brings one around to unsnap his fly. "Love you," he breathes.

"Ditto," Harry says, abandoning any wordsmith abilities as he gurgles the rain for a moment then drops his head back to his chest, pushing into Sean's curl. He marvels at how they fit together, spoons from the same silversmith too long separated in the cutlery drawer. "Glad you're home."

"Give over," Sean breathes, tugging Harry's jeans down around his thighs. "Let me have you. Take me in and know I'm yours." Home. With a few months to go before he has to leave again. Next time I'm taking you with me.

Giving in is simple. Harry braces his hands, shifts his body to open more. "I'm yours. You have me, Sean." He doesn't want to think beyond the moment, beyond having Sean here, with him. Now. That's what matters. The future they'll make later, when the rain stops.

Rainwater's no more a decent lube than spit, but they've made do with the latter on a number of occasions; Sean lets the water pool up on Harry's body and then guides wet fingers into the cleft of Harry's arse, pressing in almost gently. It'd be gentle if it weren't for the inescapable friction of it. "Too much?" Sean breathes.

Harry drops his head lower, bites at his lip on the invasion. "Not nearly enough," he whispers, meaning the friction not the lubrication. He's not concerned about rainwater over spit over real lube. "Want your cock. Now."

"God." Sean's got his cock in hand, raindrops nowhere near enough to cool him off. And sliding the first inch in is easier than he expected. Easy enough to make him set his stance and shove in hard, halfway there already, friction burn making him gasp.

His breath hitches, catches in a gasp, whispers around a hissed "yes." The rub of Sean's cock inside Harry's body burns and abrades. Slow doesn't make it easy, and Harry wants Sean all the way in, so he clutches at the railing for leverage and pushes back, grimacing against the searing friction, waiting for the fullness, that feeling of completion.

Almost. Sean curls a hand around Harry's hip, pulls him back, drawing him into the curve of his body. And then he's arching his neck back, gasping, rain hitting him and running down his cheeks, the back of his neck, and oh God it's so good, cool drops melting against him and the warmth of his lover's body surrounding him, and Sean could lose himself this way, to the sensation of being wrapped up and needed and home.

The storm's coming in quickly, morning sky turning black, and the rain's falling faster, cold on Harry's shoulders but heating as it runs down his back and is trapped between their bodies. It's a warmth the permeates, seeps into his spine and spreads out. Lightning flashes over the trees and the horizon's bright again and Harry's grinning. They are insane, his lover and he, and he can't think of any better way to be.

Harry lets go of the railing, reaches back and clutches at Sean's waist, pulling him closer. "I think Mother Nature' enjoying the show, lover," he says, rain sputtering his words.

Sean's covering Harry now, back stretching to cover as much of him as he can, and there's a certain protective urge coming up in this hard, brutal, celebratory fuck. He'd keep the rain off Harry's back if he could. He'd keep the elements away, wild animals, time and space and anything that might run the risk of hurting his lover. "I love you," Sean breathes, nuzzling forward at Harry's neck. "So fucking much, Sinclair. Mine." And that last word's punctuated with a rough thrust of hips, sending Sean slamming against Harry and jarring them both forward against the railing.

"Love you more than --" Harry manages to get out that much before Sean's ramming them into the railing, shoving Harry's cock against the rain-soaked wood. "Christ, want you. Need you. Yours forever, Sean." He doesn't teeter over, clutches harder at Sean's body, his hands making bruises that'll be there the next time they fuck and the one after that and maybe even longer. Harry wants to be able to trace every time they've been together in the lines he's scratched on Sean's chest, the bites left on his shoulder.

"With everything I have," Sean breathes out, one arm wrapped around Harry's waist and holding. "Everything, forever, oh God--" Sean's eyes squeeze shut, and he's too close to hold back, flying past the edge before he even realizes he's going. It feels so good, Harry's body holding him together through the hard, gasping pulses of his orgasm, and he wonders, briefly, if his vision's going to clear or if he'll be left with stars burned into his eyes forever.

Nothing between them. Just flesh on flesh and Sean buried in his body. Rain pelting their faces, rivulets down their arms and soaking clear through to the bone. Harry's never been this close to another lover, never wanted to be so consumed. "Sean, please, touch," Harry murmurs, his whisper soft enough to drown out the rain. He could come from just this much, but he wants Sean's hand on him, craves that touch.

Sean's got his hand around Harry's cock before the word dissipates in the air. He strokes hard, gets his other arm around Harry's chest and holds him, wondering if he'll ever feel close enough. Still in him and it's not close enough. "I love you..."

"I love you, too," Harry pants out, coming as the you curls off his lips, white streaks fighting rainwater to slick Sean's hand, smear his wrist. He closes his eyes and still sees the lightning flash, not sure if it's real or imagined, the intensity behind his orgasm slamming his brain with a kaleidoscopic display.

For long moments, Sean simply stands there, still, arms curled around his lover. The rain's cool against his back, but it doesn't matter. At least it doesn't matter until he starts shivering, and then he wonders if he could move now, if he could stand even if Harry asked it of him.

The wind picks up, the storm coming in full force now and the rain's turning cold. "Wanna take this inside?" Harry breathes out. "Warm shower, crawl back into bed?"

"Christ," Sean breathes. "Yeah. Warm shower's good. Come on..." He eases himself back, wincing, and wraps an arm around Harry's waist. "Inside, yeah."

Shaking his hair, Harry steps out of the rain, Sean's arm still wrapped around him. "That's a first, you know," he says just inside the door, "being fucked in the rain. Never done that."

"Never would've wanted to do that before," Sean grins, but once they get inside he starts shivering. "Jesus. Didn't realize how bloody cold it was out there."

Harry darts to the laundry room off the kitchen and tosses back a couple oversized bath towels to Sean. "Wrap up, get yourself to the bathroom, love." He's wrapping one around his waist and slinging another over his shoulder as he moves back to Sean's side. "Shower or bath? Your call. And it doesn't have to be together, if you want to lounge a bit."

"Hot shower. Warm blankets. Bad movies on telly." Sean grins at the idea of all three. "Love you."

"Check. Check. And yours or mine?" Harry quips, walking on down the hallway. "And, yeah, love you, too. Lots."


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 10:54:00

Matter of Inertia 10 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 10: Forces Collide
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Schmoop. Intense, kinky schmoop with chastity ...
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not real. Fiction. Made it all up.

Notes: Sean comes home ...

Harry arrives at the airport an hour before Sean's flight is scheduled to land. Okay, he's anxious. He'll admit it. His lover's coming home. He's also hard, damned hard, and the contraption his cock's restrained by hasn't done a thing to make that any better.

He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. Again. Third time. Yep, key's there. That's all you need, Sinclair, is to get Sean here and not be able to get out of the blasted thing. He's just damned glad he doesn't have to go through airport security. Would set off every alarm.

So he's standing by the exit from customs and he's checking the arrivals board again. Sixth time. Flight from Heathrow's landed. Twenty minutes ago. Shouldn't be too much longer to clear through. And then he'll have Sean in his arms again. Under him. Inside him. Harry squirms, smiles at the woman who looks at him like he's on drugs, and goes back to waiting.

Customs is Sean's least favorite part of any trip. He likes it even less than turbulence. Turbulence is there and done, and while it scares the hell out of him every blasted time, at least it's not something dragged out to torment him while home, or his lover, or his job, waits for him on the other side of the barriers. It's all he can do not to growl. At least he isn't squirming much; he's had too much experience with plugs to embarrass himself here.

When the bags are checked and Sean's answered the standard set of questions, they let him go through, wishing him well, and it doesn't take him more than an eyeblink to spot Harry once he's out. The features that had been set into a frown relax, easy all of a sudden, and Christ but Harry looks good. Too long. You really are lost over this one, Sean realizes, admitting it to himself with a flick of tongue over dry lips.

It's all Harry can do not to pounce on his lover the minute he clears the gate. He's an actor. He can feign disinterest for a few more minutes, and there's really no sense in stirring up bad PR. So instead of shoving Sean against the nearest wall, Harry reaches out and takes the bag from Sean's hand, clutching the fingers for a moment.

"How was the flight?" he asks, leaning in close, brushing lips over Sean's throat as he embraces in what would appear to others a boisterous hug between friends. "Missed you, lover."

"Flight was over a day on a fucking plane. Arse hurts like you wouldn't believe." Except the last is said with a grin that shows teeth, and Sean doesn't think Harry would have trouble believing it at all.

"Oh, I can believe it. Got a cock that's aching damned near as much." Harry leaves his arm wrapped around Sean's shoulder and points him in the exit's direction. "Car's parked in the underground. Minute I get you there, you're getting welcomed proper."

"Ahhhh," Sean breathes. "Christ. Wouldn't be dignified to run, would it?"

"Dignified, nah? Probably not safe either, considering we'd most likely trip, fall and end up in the ambulance trying to explain why you have a plug up your arse and there's a padlock on my cock." Harry motions left. "Underground, that way. Five more minutes."

Padlock? Oh, fucking hell. Sean follows Harry around, resisting all the urges for little touches. Hand on shoulder. The small of Harry's back. Groping at his arse. Adjusting himself -- no, that at least is normal enough he can do it, though he doesn't let his hand linger on his cock. "Not fast enough," Sean murmurs. "Can't wait to have your cock in me."

"And you think I can? Move it, lover." Harry's a hand's push away from grabbing Sean right there, shoving him into the wall and saying fuck with who sees and Jacko can spin it out how ever he wants. Instead he settles his hand at the back of Sean's neck and gently pushes him along into the carpark area and down the third aisle over. There's a reason Harry picked premium parking, under cover and a touch more secluded.

He drops Sean's bag by the car, glances around to make sure there's no one immediately beside them, and still holding Sean's neck, pulls his lover in for a kiss. "Waiting's over," he rushes out, biting his lover's lip.

"Mine," Sean growls, both hands coming up to grab Harry's hips and jerk him forward. Maybe not the most romantic expression he could come up with on a reunion, but God he's missed his lover. "Finally, Christ -- come on, get the door open or I'll be having you here over the hood of it."

"And there's a problem with that?" Harry asks, hands fumbling from Sean's body to his pocket, scrambling for keys. "Hood sounds fine to me." He retrieves the remote control, clicks once and door's unlocked. And he hasn't stopped kissing Sean, brushing lips between words, darting out his tongue to reacquaint himself with the flavor. He manages in all of that to actually put fingers on door handle and open it.

Sean jerks himself through the door, pushes the front seat open and hauls himself into the back. He groans as his arse hits the leather seat, shoving the plug in further, and then leans forward to grab at Harry. "Get in," he growls.

Harry crawls in, just like a teenage boy too eager to wait. His cock's feeling raw from rubbing against the metal cage, even though he knows it isn't that bad. Most of that feeling's just from sheer desire, of not having Sean for too many days. "I'm in," he snarls, pulling the door shut behind him, settling on the seat in front of Sean.

"Front pocket, there's a key. You want me? Gotta get it."

"Bastard," Sean growls. He pushes between the seats, rests his chin on Harry's shoulder while he digs his hand into Harry's pocket. "Making me wait for it. I should fucking turn around, fuck myself on this goddamned plug and make you watch."

"Oh, fuck, you don't realize how hot that sounds." Harry licks his lips. And it does, the idea of watching Sean get off while he can't a thing about it. There's just something -- "oh, Christ, you wanna make me wait longer, lover? Do it. Dare you."

Dare you. Sean growls, pulls himself back from the front seat and jerks at his pants, tugging them down over his hips and then shoving himself around, one arm braced against the backseat and the other back behind him, hand already on the plug, shoving it in further and then starting, ever so slowly, to rock it out. "See this, Harry?" he grins, glancing over his shoulder. "This is what it's been like for thirty fucking hours. Waiting for you."

"Fuckin' beautiful, Sean." Harry reaches up, places his hand over Sean's, rocking the plug back in. "All for me. Mine." He doesn't want to prolong his own agony, but it's too enticing, playing with control this way. How much can they take? Giving to each other until they implode.

"Ah-- fuck," Sean pants, head going back, throat arching as he lets Harry set the pace. It's not like being fucked, nowhere near what he needs right now, but it's Harry's hand moving his plug, fucking him with it, and Christ, even just that's enough to get him moaning, shaking his head and biting his teeth down as he holds himself back.

"Not what I need," Harry mutters, "or what I want. Want you. Home. Naked and sprawled on our bed." He pushes the plug in as deep as it will go, then slowly slides it out, almost completely out. "Do you want to do this here? Or do it proper?"

"Fucking bastard," Sean moans, arse clenching at the plug, feeling oh-so-empty without it, after thirty hours. "On a bed," he murmurs. Our bed. "Want it done right. And you know it."

With a wicked laugh, Harry pushes the plug back in, just as deep as Sean had it before, and leans over his lover's back, kissing his neck. "Then let me drive us home," he purrs into Sean's ear. "You can torture me all the way, if you like."

"Not from back here I can't." Sean grins and gets his clothes back in order. "Let me out and I'll come up front. You remember the first time you drove me home?"

Making all the necessary maneuverings, Harry finally settles into the driver's seat, luggage stowed. "Yeah, I remember. Best ride home I ever gave anyone." He starts the engine, makes to back out of the parking space.

This time Sean's not shy about sliding his hand up Harry's thigh. "You nearly made me come out of my skin," he murmurs as Harry takes off. "Christ, I spent the next week jerking off 'til I was sore, thinking of that night."

"Should've come over. We're could've jerked off together." Harry shifts his legs as he eases out on the highway, giving Sean as much access as he wants. "Thought about you in the shower, in bed, when I walked into the fuckin' kitchen." He pushes on the gas, intent on making it the quickest journey possible.

"Your voice growling out Hope you don't have much of a gag," Sean groans, sliding his hand up between Harry's legs, pressing down hard, "the way it felt when you said Slut doesn't need to breathe, does he?" and that's all the teasing Sean can stand; he's struggling with Harry's fly, trying to work it open, padlock or no.

Harry remembers his words, and how he felt saying them, how right they sounded even then. "Felt good saying those words, feeling you respond to my touch, my voice." He grips the steering wheel, fingers wrapping the leather and gouging in when Sean's fingers brush his groin, start working at the fly. "Never once regretted any of them. Love what they've brought me."

"Jesus," Sean moans. He slides a hand into Harry's pocket, goes looking for the key. "I want my mouth on your cock. Now. Want you to choke my air off all the way home, Harry."

Sean's search tightens the denim over Harry's cock and arches fuck up off the seat. "Not a problem," he moans out, regaining control of his senses and not running off the road. Harry stretches out his leg, smoothing out the stretch of fabric. "Key pocket, Sean, little one right as you go in," he offers in way of advice, not that he minds too terribly much his lover just rummaging till he finds the key.

"Got it," Sean says, finally, finally, and he gets the key fumbled into the lock and finally twists the thing. He gets the goddamned cage off and wraps a hand around Harry's cock. "Bloody masochist."

Harry cuts Sean a glare, wicked and sinful. "And your point?" He's glad to be free of the cage, although it served its purpose admirably. Kept him thinking about Sean and imagining Sean's hand wrapping his cock. Like now. "Just fumbled around in the toy closet till I found the thing that most reminded me of your hand clutching me, keeping me from coming."

"See if you can hold off while I'm sucking you down my throat," Sean smirks back, leaning down and parting his lips, mouth gliding down over Harry's cock until he's threatening to cut off his air for it. Christ, I've missed this.

"See if I can't --" Harry's cut off when his cock hits the back of Sean's throat. "Oh, fuck, Christ, missed that." He grips the steering wheel, digging his fingers into the back of it as he fights to do just that. "Okay, 20 minutes. 30 max." Harry glances down at Sean, blond hair falling into his face as his head bobs up and down. "Fuck, I can make this in 15. Damn getting caught."

Sean pulls off, bites sharply at the head of Harry's cock. "Don't just fucking drive," he growls. "Fucking choke me." And he's going down again, opening his mouth as wide as he can and taking in every inch he can reach.

Harry steps solidly on the gas pedal, stretching his leg and subsequently pulling his hip off the seat. "There, bastard," he says, feeling his cock push past Sean's gag reflex, choke him just like he wants. "Fuck." He damn near misses the highway exit, but gets over at the last minute, breaking and then speeding, shoving his cock again deeper into his lover's throat.

This is every kind of risk Sean never lets himself take. His heart's beating so hard in his chest he can feel it, and the air's gone from his lungs, given over to his lover. He can feel the way they're speeding, the way they're taking turns too fast, and it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except being here, being home.

Well, it'll matter if you run off the road this way, Sean thinks, and he pulls back, tries to get a gasp of air. They'll be home soon enough. He could pull away, make Harry wait for it. Maybe.

They're down to 15 minutes away from home and Harry's hand comes off the steering wheel, grips the back of Sean's neck. "Don't move a muscle, lover. I plan on coming the minute after I hit the garage." Well, not hit the garage literally. Although the way Harry's driving, he wonders at why they haven't run off the road. "We're getting out of this car and I'm bending you over the bonnet and fucking you hard and fast."

Oh, Christ. Oh, fuck. Sean gets a hand on Harry's thigh and squeezes, hard, all five fingers digging into flesh. He can't breathe, can't think, and that touch on the back of his neck's just undoing him completely. He'd talk if he had the air and the space for it. He'd beg. Everything you said. Everything you'll give me. Come on, lover. Everything. But he can't say it in words. He's just got his tongue, his lips, the scrape of his teeth and as much room to move as Harry's willing to give him.

Harry manages not to wreck and to actually get the car into the garage without taking out the wall on either side. He stops the car, tugging at Sean's neck. "Home. Up. You. Out. Now." His words are terse and he's flinging open the car door before they're even half out. He can't think anymore, not beyond being inside his lover, of coming hard in that fuckable body. And then of having the tables turned on him, of giving everything over to Sean, letting him take control.

Sean coughs as Harry jerks him out of the car, grinning. He gets his pants open, shoves them down to his thighs, bends over. "Plugged. Prepped. Yours. Don't make me wait any longer. Just fucking take me."

And his lover does just that. Harry barely gets his jeans down over his cock before he lines up and shoves it into Sean's body, one hand in the small of Sean's back pushing him facedown over the still hot metal, the other working its way along Sean's arm, stretching him. "Spread out. Want you open as possible."

It's an easy push, Sean so open from the hours of being plugged and lubed, and Harry's deep inside him before he can think straight. "God, you're so ready for me. Just the hint of being tight." He pulls back and thrusts again, harder, knowing he's not going to last, wanting to make it as brutal a reclaiming as he can. "Mine," he growls, shoving Sean against the car's edge.

Sean can't even get words out. It's everything he wanted. Everything he needed. He slams both palms down against the car, shoves back into Harry's thrusts and doesn't bother looking for words, the only things left in his throat loud harsh growls broken up by moaning, pleading gasps.

One thrust. Three. A half dozen and Harry's there. Too fast. Too painful. And so fuckin' good. "Christ, Sean, can't wait." His lover's body tightens around him and Harry fills Sean with everything he can give, coming in a single, convulsive thrust. His nails gouge at Sean's flesh, siphoning blood to the surface, spreading it as his fingers stretch and find new holds.

Sean arches his neck back and lets out one sharp, short shout, entire body clenching hard to keep from coming. His arse tightens around Harry's cock, and he's breathing too fast, but fucking God, the way that man makes him feel...

It takes a few seconds to come back to himself, and the first thing he feels is the sharp sting of Harry's nails. Sean shivers, braces himself better against the car. "Bleeding for you?" he pants, needing to know. Wanting to offer.

Sean's words cut into Harry's brain. Bleeding? Yes. He pulls his left hand up, stares at the blood trickling down his fingers. "Yes, lover, bleeding for me. Mine," he says, brushing his index finger over his lips, sucking in Sean's blood. Crimson copper, not dull at all. Sean's blood speaks in sharp tangs and twists on Harry's tongue, flavored of stout ale and leather. "Hmmm, love your taste, your body, everything about you."

"Good," Sean murmurs. He pushes himself back from the car, hisses as skin stretches and he presses himself harder against Harry. "Haven't gotten mine yet, you know," he says. "Want you inside for it. On our bed. So I can go at you as much as you can take."

"Then get the fuck inside," Harry slurs out, still licking his fingers. "Um, by the way, replaced the cuffs on the bed while you were gone. And the new spreader bar set came." It's casual enough to be banter, and Harry wraps his right hand around Sean's waist, leans in and kisses his lover's shoulder. "Rest of my shopping spree should get here tomorrow, just as we're recovering."

"Just for me? You really didn't have to," Sean grins. He turns around in Harry's arms and nuzzles into his neck, then bites down --hard, sucking at the skin and drawing up a bruise. "Mine," he whispers. "Come on."

"Yeah, just for you." Harry nudges Sean toward the door, hitting the garage door switch as he passes. They'll worry about the bags later.

It's almost a wrestling match to see who's pushing and who's pulling, who's dragging whom into the house. What matters to Sean, though, is just getting inside. And it's a hell of a thing, managing to resist the counters and the sofa and getting all the way to the bedroom, but after thirty hours in a plane he wants the comfort of a bed, a mattress, Harry's body stretched out underneath his.

Once they're inside, in the hall, Harry's stripping. Jacket on the floor. Shirt on the table. And he nearly trips trying to get out of the jeans, tumbling onto the bed at the last moment. He yanks his shoes off and tosses them in the general direction of the closet and is shimmying out of denim as he crawls backward on the bed. "C'mon, Sean. Your turn. Take me."

Sean doesn't even bother looking for lube. Doesn't give a damn. He sucks two fingers into his mouth, kicks Harry's legs apart with one of his knee and there's no foreplay, no delaying, just Sean's fingers working their way hard into Harry's ass and making way for his cock. Stretching him open. Sean's eyes are so dark they're almost black now, and his teeth are showing under his grin.

Harry could care less whether Sean preps him for hours or just plows into him. Either way, it's going to be his lover back in his body. But there's a secret delight in being roughed up, and Harry watches as Sean's eyes darken, as his lover's desire consumes him. He opens his legs wider, pushing himself down onto Sean's fingers, trying desperately to take it all in.

"/There/, Christ, you're so fucking beautiful," Sean breathes. It's been a long time since a homecoming felt this desperate, since Sean's felt a need to reclaim someone this fiercely. And now he's back, and he doesn't want to wait anymore. "You ready for me, lover?"

"Been ready, Sean," Harry growls. He's wanting, so badly. "Claim what's yours, lover."

Sean pulls his hand back, licks his palm and fists his cock with it, rough, nowhere near enough to make the glide easy. "Mine," he growls out. He pins Harry down, one hand over his throat, the other jerking his hips forward, getting him in just the right position to let Sean start shoving into him, so hard and so fast Sean has to grit his teeth and let his eyes slam shut against the burn.

"Fuckgoddamnshitehell," Harry screams, not caring if he disturbs the whole friggin' neighborhood with his rambling of expletives. The burn is holocaustic in how it sears through every nerve ending, setting Harry's body afire. "Yes," he hisses out, pushing back to meet Sean's thrusts, moving as much as his lover will allow.

And Sean's willing to let him have as much movement as he needs. But he tightens his hand on Harry's throat, a grip that lets him breathe unless Harry arches up against Sean's palm and cuts his own air off. And then Sean's just fucking him. Raw, bare, blind and aching desperation, and oh God, he's missed this so much, so fucking much.

It's impossible for Harry to say which he's missed more, Sean's cock in his arse or Sean's fingers tightening 'round his throat. It's a unique claim this lover has on his mind, his heart. Harry's never wanted anyone so badly, never needed anyone so intensely. He arches, the air in his throat catching and abandoning him, and he's never felt so complete, being held in such control by a lover.

"I love you," Sean whispers. And oh, God, he's been close for far too long now. The stretch and burn of Harry's arse around his cock is making him grit his teeth to keep from coming, then bite down hard on his lower lip and growl. Love you. Want you. Need you. "Fuck," he gasps out, "close, lover..."

Harry leans into Sean's body, pressing himself closer, melding them as much as he can. "Want you," he whispers when Sean's fingers allow enough air into his throat. "Please, Sean. Mark me."

Sean's tongue flicks across his lips, and he nods, grinning, tightening his hand hard enough to leave bruises on Harry's throat while he speeds up the last of his strokes, friction burning, body tensing, and then he's there -- groaning and gasping and shoving forward hard, coming with a solid cry that he's been waiting to let out for all those weeks they've been parted. It says I'm home.

The cry's echoed in Harry's mind, rasped out in his constricted throat as Sean comes, buried deep inside him, filling him, possessing and claiming from within. It hurts, a raw wound being cauterized, and he's never wanted so much pain so badly. There's nothing to say as blackness edges his vision, numbness invades his mind, and Harry lets his body go limp in Sean's violent caress, trusting his lover to bring them both through it.

Sean finally lets Harry's throat go, lowers himself down on top of Harry's body. He offers soft licks across Harry's neck, tiny nips and bites across the skin there, and then he rests his head on Harry's chest, listening to the too-fast pace of his heartbeat and breathing deep to slow his own pulse down.

A long, slow minute later, Harry finds the energy to move, to slip his hand along Sean's arm and over his shoulder, stopping when fingers tangle into blond strands, pushing the hair back from Sean's face. His breathing's deep, his heart barely beating as he comes back from the edge.

"Home, lover," he murmurs, stroking through Sean's hair. "Not letting you get that far away again. Ever."


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 10:53:00

Matter of Inertia 9 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 9: Increasing Friction
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Schmoop. Intense, kinky schmoop...
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not real. Fiction. Made it all up.

Notes: One last phonecall...


Naked and kneeling by the side of his bed, waiting for the harsh electronic tones of the phone's ringer, Sean's got his legs parted, cock hard, cock ring on. The minutes are ticking by, but not fast enough.

Harry's supposed to call as soon as he's home. Two days of work out of town, with no access to telephones. Right at the tail end of Sean's trip home. Sean's supposed to get on a plane tomorrow. Tomorrow. God, it can't come soon enough.

Sean's entire body aches with the need to come. Harry's instructions had been clear as glass: every time you think of me, jerk off 'til you're close. Don't come. Not until I tell you. And he told Sean exactly how he wanted Sean to answer the phone, so here Sean is, waiting, almost sweating with need. His hand's been on his cock four times in the last hour alone, skin nearly raw from the touches.

Harry's ready to kill a few things. No, correct that. A few people. Namely one elf king and his partner-in-crime, the prissy marchwarden, who insisted on making Harry's two days subbing as second unit director a living hell. He'd calculated revenge all the way back and would start putting it into effect. Soon as he made a call.

He'd promised Sean. Will call the minute I walk back in the door. One more day and his lover would be on a plane back to New Zealand. Harry was down to counting the minutes, the calendar taped to his refrigerator marred in red ink, the Xs getting bigger as the days passed. He picks up the phone, almost before he drops his duffel, kicking the door closed so hard it rattles the front porch, and dials.

It's only as the phone rings a third time that Harry's brain clicks on what he'd told Sean, the orders he'd given. Naked. Kneeling. Waiting. His cock hardens against the buttons of his jeans just at the thought.

Sean's cock jerks hard as soon as the phone rings, and he has to take a second to move his hand off his cock, stop stroking, calm down. If it's another wrong number he'll be screaming the walls down and jerking the goddamned line out of the wall.

"Hello?" he asks, polite as always. No reason for whoever's on the other end to know what state Sean's in. Not yet.

"It's exactly 16 hours, 24 minutes and 12 seconds till your plane leaves Heathrow, provided it's on schedule," Harry says, his voice calm enough to qualify as acting, maybe even earn him an Oscar. "Twenty-eight hours and 45 minutes later, you touch down in Wellington. In less than 48 hours, I have my hands on you again, Sean. Do you want to know what I'm going to do?"

"I know I'm going to fucking come from the sound of your--" The growl's almost out of Sean's throat before he even registers what's happening. Harry. His voice. His words. The thought of his hands and his body and-- "oh, fuck, it's good to hear from you," Sean moans, hand back on his cock in an instant, pumping hard even though he knows it's more likely to be torment than release.

"Hello, lover," Harry says, voice sliding into a light laugh. "Miss you. Counting the minutes." He listens, hears the moan, the tell-tale hand slipping over cock noticeable even through the phone line. "It's hard being away from you, Sean. Coming home, hmmm, can't wait."

"Bastard," Sean chuckles. "Do you know how much I've thought of you since the last time I heard your voice?" The drag of skin could get painful if Sean kept doing this for long; he doesn't want to stop yet, though, can't stop yet. Harry's voice. Harry's breath, on the other end of the line. I've been missing this so much.

"Enough that your palm is sore as hell, I bet." Harry kicks the duffel aside and sprawls into the oversized chair. "As much as I've missed you." Only I'm not tossing off. Not yet. "Want to hear you come, Sean, hard and fast and imagining I'm right behind ya, giving it to ya up the arse while you jerk off for me."

He licks his lips. "In the mirror. Yeah, so you watch how beautiful you are when you come."

"Going to have to move for that," Sean warns Harry. "Suppose I can put the phone in my teeth and crawl to the mirror..."

"Save it till you get home. Not nearly as much fun if I can't watch your face." Harry unzips his jacket, pushes it apart. "You stick your tongue out when you come, and it's fuckin' precious, mate." He chuckles at how silly the words sound coming out of his mouth, like such a giddy lover. "Want to come now, Sean? Or draw it out a bit?"

"Depends," Sean says, taking to his feet and moving in front of the mirror. His cock's dark and full, hanging heavy between his legs, and he's amazed he can even bear to touch it. "How long's a bit, lover?"

"I suppose 48 hours is a bit too long," Harry says, stretching his legs and getting more comfortable. "Could let you come now, get your hard again, tell you to put in a plug and fly home that way. Would my lover like that idea?"

Thirty hours on a plane, plugged. Christ. Sean hisses, stares at himself in the mirror, draws his fingers over the ghost-lines of the tree Harry drew on his skin. "You know how hard I'd be when I landed at the airport?"

"All I'd have to do is put my hand in the small of your back and whisper against your ear, come for me, Sean," Harry whispers into the phone. "Then I'd bring you home, fuck you in our bed and get you hard again so you could take me."

The noise that rips itself out of Sean's throat is harsh and almost frantic. He can feel it. Light touch of fingers through clothes, material scratching just the faintest bit against his skin. Four words from Harry. And Sean would come. Just like that. No matter who was watching, no matter where they were. The rest of the fantasy's spilled into his mind like paint over canvas, haphazardly and all in colliding colors. "Take you," he pants. "Fuck, I want to be inside you again so badly. Please."

"Want that, too. Bad. Godfuckbad. Went through hell the last two days, thinking of you, Marton and Craig insistent on reminding me of what I was missing." Harry closes his eyes, imagines Sean standing in front of him, between his spread legs, stripping down. Henley over his head, jeans already half unbuttoned. He skirts his tongue over his teeth, bites lightly. "Stroke off for me, Sean. Let me hear you. And then I dream on that for the next two days."

"I suppose it's too much to hope for that I get to take the cock ring off before I come," Sean sighs, wincing as he puts hand to cock and starts stroking all over again. And his tongue does come out over his lips as he gets started; he sees the pink flash of it in the mirror and grins wider, imagining seeing himself through Harry's eyes.

"What do you think?" Harry's mind's-eye Sean is dropping to his knees now, just he imagines the real Sean is, a million miles away. "And, honestly, Sean, will it even come off before?"

"Bastard," Sean murmurs. It might be the first time that word's been laced with so much affection. "I'm going to come screaming. And tomorrow I'm going to be hurting all the way to Wellington for you." For you. Sean shudders, shivers, twists his hand on the next stroke up.

"Promise I'll make it up to you, lover." Harry slides his hand into his jeans, wraps his fingers around his cock, starts stroking slowly. "And I'll be just as hard, waiting for you." He works his thumb down over the head, rubbing around the ridge of flesh. "C'mon, Sean, let me hear you scream. Come for me."

"Oh God -- fuck--" Sean breathes out hard, closes his eyes and sets his jaw as he works his cock harder, faster, each stroke rubbing at already-aching skin and making him grunt into the telephone. "So close -- Harry, so fucking close, please--" His cock jerks hard, and Sean's mouth comes open as he screams, but no, not enough, not close enough, not hard enough to come through the ring. Goddamnit. More, then. More twisting strokes, more hard, rough pleasure, the idea of hurting for Harry, of putting a plug in and crossing oceans and continents being driven out of his mind for Harry, his lover, at home, listening to the sounds he's making--"christfuckfuckohGod," Sean pants out, all in one breath, eyes slamming closed, "nofuck, hurts so much, God, can't, fuck, can't--" But he can. Does. Body screaming in protest, throat arching as his hand works his cock and the pulse forces its way past constricted muscle, orgasm tearing through him and leaving him burned in the aftermath.

Harry loses all concentration, his mental image shattering as Sean's voice cuts through his brain. "Oh fuck, Sean, that's it. Come for me. I know it hurts. But the pain's for me." He works his cock, bringing himself closer to the edge, knowing he's going to stop when he gets there. "Beautiful, lover. Your cries. Your screams. Knowing they belong to me."

"Christ," Sean pants, afterwards, hurting, aching, but so fucking proud of himself he can hardly stand it. "Just for you." He purrs a bit, licks at the web between thumb and index finger. "Your turn, lover. Want to hear you."

"So damned hard now, just thinking of you, listening to that. I could keep it this way, till you get home," Harry says, not even thinking twice about the pained promise he's making. "You want that from me, Sean? Just ask."

Sean's voice comes out in a low, soft growl. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Want you so hard for me you can't wait to get the plug out of me when I'm there. So hard you take me to the car and have me in the back seat like a fucking teenager before we can even think of driving anywhere. Do that for me, lover."

"You've got it, lover. Soon as I hang up, I'll go find a ring. Or maybe one of the gates." Harry's squirming at the thought of such self-torture, all for Sean. "Then I'll put in your old movies and torture myself a bit more." He's chuckling a bit at the end. "Forty-seven hours. It'll pass like, oh, 72."

"And I thought I was looking forward to being home before," Sean says, chuckling. The laugh catches when he realizes what he's said --home? -- and he shakes his head. "Looking forward to being back to you."

"Want you back," Harry says, still laughing a bit. "Want you home where you belong." He knows the conversation's moving into the "who hangs up first territory," neither of them wanting to say good-night. "Love you," he says instead. "Waiting."

"Love you," Sean murmurs in exchange. "Try to get some sleep before I get there." His tongue's planted firmly in cheek. "You'll need the rest."

"Yes, sir," Harry snaps out, toggling the button to end the call. Okay, Sinclair, give yourself a minute before you go searching for those gates. He smirks. Just to get harder.


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 10:51:00

Matter of Inertia 8 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 8: Motion of Projectiles
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Schmoop.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not real. Fiction. Made it all up.

Notes: And how long does it take before the boys start missing each other enough to growl?


A week into being alone and Harry's not doing any better with it than he had the first night. Sleep's disrupted. Karl's been over to complain about Viggo. No, that's not right. More like bitch and moan and share his twisted plans for bringing the king to his knees. All in all, it left Harry hard and even more alone, seeing as he refused Karl's offer to make him feel better.

Fuck it, Sinclair. Admit it. You're counting the minutes till he's back.

He's too tired to do the mental math, figure out that near midnight here is most likely some ungodly hour in London and he's going to be disrupting something, but he calls anyway, subconsciously waiting on the ring to go to voicemail so he can just tell Sean how much he misses him without having to hear the damned Yorkshire accent worm its way through his brain.

It's not even noon yet, but at least Sean's awake. He's just coming out of the shower when he hears the phone ring, and he's toweling off his hair when he actually gets to the handset. "Hello?"

"Hi, sexy," Harry says, smiling at actually hearing Sean's voice. "You busy?" He settles onto the couch, shoes off and feet up, getting comfortable. "Didn't catch you in the middle of something, did I?"

"Only in the middle of showering. And more at the end than the middle of that." Sean grins. "God, it's fucking good to hear from you. How are you?"

"Showering?" Harry's breath hitches, then he laughs. "Thanks for the visual, mate. Something to wank off to tonight." He shifts, the tightness in his jeans that much more of a nuisance. Later, Sinclair. You can wait. "I'm okay. Missing my lover a lot, but other than that keeping busy. How's it going there?"

"Better than that first couple nights," Sean says. "Got a bunch of business contracts out of the way now -- finalized the divorce," he sighs. "And I know what my next two projects are going to be after Rings now."

Harry isn't sure he should say anything about the divorce. Touchy subject, and they hadn't talked much about it when Sean was here. "Next two projects. Hmmm, planning ahead." Wonder if there's an us in those plans? "Where they taking you?"

"All right. That's the bad news." Sean sighs. "First one's a three-week shoot in Berlin. November. Then I get two months off and I'm to New York and Toronto for two months."

"What's bad? Berlin's nice. Was there back in the late '80s." What's bad, Sinclair, is that you don't get to see him for all that time, more than likely. Harry tries to keep the sigh out of his voice, works on being positive. "I'm headed to Toronto in September. I'll scope out some good restaurants for you." Why don't you invite him, Sinclair? All he can do is say no. "When you coming home ... uh, headed back to Wellington?"

"End of next week," Sean says. Still too fucking long. "Only bad thing is I didn't want to be away from you that long. And that's stupid of me, isn't it -- it's what we do, the acting, the travel." He sighs. "But I've got the two months off betweentimes..."

"No, it's not stupid. Want you back here. Don't want you to leave again, not unless I go with you." Harry rattles off the words without stopping. "I've got edits on Price for the next couple months, then it's opening Toronto, but after that, there's nothing specific." He pauses, runs his hand through his hair. "Don't have to stay here. Home is gonna be where you are, Sean, not Wellington per se."

"Jesus, Harry, I miss you so fucking much," Sean groans. "I didn't know it was going to feel this way. I keep going out to pubs looking, and coming home aching and grumpy because nobody there is you."

"You're going to pubs and looking?" Harry finds himself suddenly on edge, possessive when he knows he shouldn't be, especially not long-distance. "Don't want anyone else touching you, Sean. Understand. You're mine."

Sean grunts at the phone and feels his lip curling up, not in the pleased grin of a lover who's had restrictions put on him but the frustrated look of a man who was already working under those restrictions, whether he knew it or not. "I don't want anyone else, Sinclair. It's what I'm trying to tell you. That there's no fucking point in going out because I won't find what I need until I'm back in Wellington."

"And what I want is in London at the moment, despite the pout and generous offer Karl was making earlier." Harry's keeping the growl out of his voice, but he's given up on not touching himself, his palm rubbing the denim stretched over his erection. "Fuck, Sean, I don't want anyone else except you. Can't stop thinking about you. Can't sleep for you not being here."

"Please," Sean murmurs. "Fuck, you don't know what the sound of your voice is doing to me right now. Need you. Miss you." And he's hard, throbbing, cock reminding him that he hasn't gotten off in almost a week and he couldn't be aching more if he tried.

"Still naked, Sean?"

Sean looks down the length of his body, tosses the towel away as he sits down at the foot of his bed. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Still naked, Harry."

"Good. Know what I'd do if I were there?" Harry grins. Haven't had phone sex in ages. "I'd touch you, Sean. Put my hands on your thighs and press down, rub upward until my thumbs teased at the base of your cock." He slowly unbuttons his jeans, slips his hand in and slides his thumb over the head of his own cock. "Then I'd lean over and blow lightly over the head, warm air rushing out, just the hint of tongue sliding over the tip."

"Ah, God..." Sean moans, scoots back on his bed 'til he's supported by the pillows and his legs are parted. "I can feel it," he murmurs. "I'd cup the back of your head in my hand and feel your hair against my palm. I'd try not to bite down on my lip. Wouldn't want to stifle the noises."

"I like to hear your moans, the way you try to stop the one that hitches your breath. You don't push," he says, the words not a question, "and it's at my pace that it goes. I work my thumbs around the base, pulling them up your cock, pressing in, working along the underside. You're not getting my mouth. Not yet. Still just blowing short breaths over the head, down the sides, letting your cock brush my cheek." Harry's actions don't his words, his hand working slowly over his shaft, tugging lightly.

"It's enough," Sean murmurs. "It's enough and I'll be patient for you. Lie here for you while your breath takes what it wants, while your hands map out the smallest details of my body. You could have me begging if you wanted. It wouldn't be difficult at all. I could lose myself with you, lose myself to your breath and your hands. Slip under and feel safe there."

"I've already lost myself in you," Harry mutters. "So far gone even the maps don't show the route. I'm only so patient, though, and after a few minutes, I take your cock in my mouth and suck it back slowly. I know you like that, how it slides up along the roof of my mouth, down my throat." He pauses, sucks in a breath. "Are you touching yourself, Sean? Imagining I'm there? Just like I'm doing here. Want your hands on my cock, your teeth on my throat."

"Oh fuck," Sean groans, "oh, fuck, Jesus, Harry..." He's half afraid putting a hand on his cock now is going to send him over, just from the sound of Harry's voice and the words he's spilling out. But he puts his hand on his cock anyway, squeezes tight, imagining the feel of Harry's mouth on him, the squeeze at the head of his cock from Harry's throat. "Got your mouth on me. Swallowing me down. My hand on my cock for you. Christ." It takes a few more breaths before he can make any coherent sentiments come out. "Want to feel your body on mine. Want you, between my legs, your cock sliding into me, my nails scratching at your back. Want to dig in and feel skin go white and red for me."

"Oh, god. Christ, fuck, Sean." Harry swears he'll come just from the words and that blasted accent. How the boy can mangle a language so deliciously. He starts fisting his cock, rough and hard. "I feel it. You're tight, so damned tight every time like the first. Not using any lube. Just me, pushing in hard, fucking you."

"Yes -- Jesus, please," Sean begs, "fucking please, Harry, hurt me, Christ, burns the way you're taking me, the way you're fucking me, can't get enough, my nails are dug into your arse and they're going to leave bruises but it's not hard enough, can't be hard enough, God." He turns on his side, drawing one leg up, thrusts his cock through the channel of his fist and grunts softly, one thrust following the next as if he's fucking and being fucked all at once.

"Never hard enough. Never enough. I'm hurting you, Sean, just like you want, pounding into your arse, hand wrapped tightly around your cock. You're not coming till I say so." Harry jerks his cock, harder and faster, bringing himself quicky to the edge. "Not coming till you're begging for it, body and soul. Tell me what you want, Sean."

"You," Sean moans, "fuck me, you, always, Sinclair," voice drawn out and begging. "Want you here. London. Under me. Back in my bed. Back in my home. Please, fuck, Harry, want to come. Love you. God."

Want you here. London. Oh, god. Harry's ready to make the first flight out. "Come, Sean. Please. For me. Hard." Harry starts fisting again, pulling himself over the edge, painting his fingers with cum, making his wrist white and sticky, not giving damn about the jeans that'll need scrubbing before washing.

"Yes -- yes, yes," Sean groans, hips jerking, cock jerking, white streaks falling over his fingers, spasms taking him one after another and making his vision go dim.

"That's good, Sean. Give me all of it." Harry soothes with words, knowing exactly how Sean's moving, how his hips twist right and he tilts his head back and his eyes go closed. "Love you. Want to be there. Fuck, I'll take the next flight out of Wellington if you like. Work be damned."

Sean's quiet for a few seconds, recovering, considering. "You shouldn't," he says, finally. "You've got work to do and I know how much it means to you. I can live without you 'til I'm back in Wellington again."

"S'long as you stop thinking about going out to pubs and call me every night." Harry wonders if it's too much to say, too much to ask. "And the minute you get off the plane, your arse is mine."

"Yes, sir," Sean smirks. "I'll do that if you'll do the same. And if you'll fuck me hard the minute I'm off the plane, sore arse or no."

"You've got a deal. I'll call when it's night here and wake you up. And then I'll fuck you in the airport. Think I should talk to PR first?"

"Maybe I'll get a flight that doesn't come in 'til well past midnight," Sean teases, voice going low and soft. "And you can pull me into the first dark corner or loo we come to."

"I like that idea." Sean's voice cuts into Harry's brain, swirling and embedding. "You start with fantasies like that and we won't get off the phone, mate. And much as I love you, it's one helluva long-distance bill."

"Christ." Sean chuckles, rolls himself back over. "All right, love. So we'll talk again the next time one of us is needing a bit of help with his cock." Or if we start missing each other enough our mates are making fun of us. "And I won't be gone much longer."

"Har har har," Harry mock laughs. If that's the case, I'll be calling twice an hour till your plane lands. "I know. I'm marking days off the calendar. Karl thinks I'm crazy, but he bought me a new pen, red one, just to do it with."

"Lucky you," Sean says. "Should start doing that meself. But then I'd have to buy a calendar..."

"And we wouldn't want you to do that, would we?" Harry's starting to yawn, finally winding down from the long day, feeling like he might actually sleep tonight. "Hmm, Sean, I want to go to bed, to fall asleep knowing your voice was the last thing I heard. So tell me good-night and I'll hang up."

"Good afternoon," Sean teases softly. "Good night. And I love you."


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 10:49:00

Matter of Inertia 7 (SB/HS) PG-13
Matter of Inertia 7: Deceleration
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Schmoop.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not real. Fiction. Made it all up.

Notes: Sean had to leave NZ for London in the middle of shooting. Only for a few weeks, but a few weeks is long enough.


The flight from New Zealand to London is miserable. Any flight's miserable to Sean, but this one more than most. He never expected a flight back home to make him feel so distant from everything he's coming to care for, but there he's got it: he's left his lover behind.

Damn it.

Sean barely notices the cab ride home. He stumbles out of the cab and shoves into his house, and it's just as cold and empty as he expected it to be, having had no one in it for the last several months.

He stops downstairs long enough to grab the phone off the wall in the kitchen, and then he heads upstairs. Shower first or phonecall. Shower or phonecall. Christ. Hard choice. He elects the shower, shivering until he gets under the hot spray, and by the time he gets out of the shower he's almost feeling human again.

He turns the heat up and climbs into bed, nestling himself under the covers, growling a bit at the feel of being in bed alone after all this time. Fucking time off, fucking business meetings, fucking divorce papers, fucking... But dialing Harry's number's something, at least, and Sean listens to the phone ring, with no idea what time it is here or there, only that he's on the wrong fucking side of the planet.

It's middle of the night in Wellington. 7:13 a.m. to be exact. Harry knows because he's looked at the clock and calculated the time in London. 8:13 p.m. Yesterday. Could just as easily be a million days ago and a billion hours. That's what it feels like since Harry put Sean on the plane, watched it take off.

Pathetic, Sinclair. He's not even been gone a full 24 hours and you're moping.

He's walking zombie through the house, up way too early. Couldn't sleep. No one in bed with him. So it's coffee. Much stronger than usual. He picks up the phone, hoping against sane odds that his lover will call home, and pads out to the deck, settles in to watch the fog lift off the bay. Nowhere to be today. No place he wants to be. Except on the other side of the world.

Harry's halfway through the coffee when the phone rings. He sets the mug down, toggles the phone on.

"Sinclair here."

"What the fuck bloody time is it?" Sean asks. "You actually sound awake."

"Sevenfuckina.bloodym." Harry says slowly. "And, no, I'm not awake. Trying to go back to sleep, in fact. Curled up with coffee on the deck." And just hearing Sean's voice, Harry's lonely all over again. And hard. And missing him. "You? Flight okay?"

"Flight was a nightmare. Too many hours and I couldn't sleep. Think I nodded off once just to have the goddamned thing shake me back awake." Sean sighs. "I thought I was going to need a few weeks off, back when I got the schedule. Thought I'd want to come home and relax a while." He laughs.

"Next time you fly home, I'll change my plans so I can go with you. Having a hand to hold might help." Harry picks up the coffee mug, takes another sip, puts it down and wraps his arms over his chest. Chill in the air. And he realizes it's Sean's jumper he'd pulled on, the navy one. Silly and in love. Christ, Sinclair. "You can get a bit of rest, I'm sure." He's trying to be positive, optimistic, realistic that they can spend days apart without falling apart.

"So tired I could have fallen asleep already if it weren't for one problem," Sean says, snuggling deeper into the covers. "You're not here."

"Ditto, mate. Didn't sleep at all last night." Harry laughs just a little. "You in bed? Want me to tell you a bedtime story, lover?"

"Yeah, I'm in bed," Sean says, barely managing to stifle a yawn. "And I'd like that. Long as you don't mind running the risk of me falling asleep before you're through." He'd like that, too, though. Falling asleep to the sound of Harry's voice. Fuck the long distance charges.

"S'alright, luv. You fall asleep." Harry likes the idea of that, too, knowing he's there even though he isn't. "Once upon a time," he starts, his voice light and melodic, "there was a storyteller, a bard who walked the land spinning fantasies for others, giving them lives beyond their everyday existence. But for himself he kept nothing. He fell asleep alone every night, counting the stars and wondering where his fantasy was." He's telling his own story, one that didn't have a happy ending. Until now.

Sean settles down further into the bed, phone tucked into his shoulder. His eyes close, and he realizes he's hungry and he aches all over. There's no way he can move. He'll get himself out of bed for breakfast in the morning. And he'll be alone.

"Where's his fantasy?" Sean mumbles, another yawn coming out of his chest.

"One night while he's counting the heavens, a warrior appears by the magical lake. They always sleep by magical lakes, you know, bards and knights." Harry waits for Sean's now audible yawn to dissipate over the phone line. "The knight's armor is tarnished, beaten, and he settles in next to the bard, asking for nothing. 'You don't want a fantasy,' the storyweaver asks. 'No, my life can't handle what isn't there' was the knight's reply. But the bard was not deterred, and he began to sing, of places to call home and questing and in his song, he finally heard his own fantasy, of taking what was right in front of him, of loving when it wasn't sought."

Harry stops talking for a long minute. "Is my knight nearly asleep yet?"

"Nearly," Sean says, so soft the phone lines almost don't catch it. "Harry?"

"Yeah, Sean," Harry says quietly. "What?"

"I want to come home," Sean murmurs. "Love you."

"Love you, too," Harry breathes out, the words not hitching at all in his throat. "Finish what you've got to do there, then come home. I'll be waiting."


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 10:48:00

Matter of Inertia 6 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 6: Equal and Opposite Reaction
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Kink, mostly bondage, and a lot of growling. Par for the course here. There might even be some schmoop.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not real. Fiction. Made it all up.

Notes: Follows Matter of Semantics. Harry's late getting home, because he's got a king to kill.

Harry's late.

Goddamnit. Sean shouldn't be this irritated just because Harry's late. It's not as though the man has a curfew. He knows Sean's shooting schedule and he's been damn indulgent about being around when Sean is and taking care of all the things he needs to do while Sean's working. And it's not as though they had plans in particular tonight. But Sean skipped the bar, the chance to see the hobbits and Karl and Viggo and just came straight home--

--straight to Harry's place, anyway. And now he's here and Harry isn't. And it's fucking frustrating.

Harry knows he's running late. And he's cursing himself for it. Sean'll worry. Whether or not he wants him to. Funny thing, he thinks as he corners the bike around the last curve to the house, is Harry likes Sean worrying about him. In a good way. He likes that Sean cares. Maybe that's why his knuckles are bloody and Viggo's face is bruised and he's spent the last half hour arguing with Jacko about it.

You don't bloody beat up my star, Sin. Fucking arse bloody well deserved the black eye, Harry'd countered. Deserved a broken arm or two maybe.

He skids the bike into the garage, noticing Sean's car too late, making way more noise than he means to as he barely manages to avoid slamming into the back wall. "Fuck it."

The bike does make an unholy amount of noise, and Sean slams out to the garage as soon as he hears it. "Where the hell have you been?" he asks, which is not the most tactful way of putting things, but fuck it; he's been waiting.

"On set," Harry snaps back, hauling himself off the bike, removing his helmet and slamming it down on the seat. "Got held up." That's skirting the truth, Sinclair. Good one. He works to calm his voice down, tries for a smile. "Sorry. Been waiting long?"

Sean's jaw works for a few seconds while he tries to decide whether it's worth a fight. "Nah," he says, finally, "not too long. What's crawled up your arse tonight?" The motions of Harry's hands as he got his helmet off didn't escape him completely; he's seen Harry take off clothes as though he's angry with them, but that's generally followed with putting Sean on the ground, not snapping at him and then offering an apology.

"Want the truth? Or a nicely concocted story that has less chance of detouring the night's plans?" Harry moves slowly toward Sean, shoving his hands in his back pockets, ignoring the pain of scraped knuckles scratching against denim. "Either way, same characters in the tale. Just one's a bit less nasty."

"Don't fuck around with me," Sean says. "Don't care if it's nasty. Just tell me."

Harry smiles, leans in and steals a very quick kiss. "I beat the shite out of your ex-boyfriend," he says hurriedly, "gave him a black eye, had to explain it to Jacko."

"What -- you what?" Sean asks, flabbergasted. "What the hell -- Jesus, are you all right?" He's looking Harry over a little more seriously now, making sure there aren't any obvious bruises. But Harry's mostly dressed, and Sean can't tell. "Get the fuck inside, you arsehole, and tell me what the fuck you were thinking."

"Yessir," Harry quips, voice lighter than his mood, as he walks past Sean, pulls out his uninjured hand and pushes the door open. "I'm fine, Sean, just a little bruised," he says, heading through the kitchen, discarding jacket and settling onto the couch. "I was thinking he insulted my lover, if you want to know the truth, and I was fed up with his smart-arse smugness that you're still his." He starts rubbing his sore knuckles, more absently than anything. The fingers are going to be sore, most likely stiff come morning, but it's nothing he can't deal with.

Sean sits down on the coffee table in front of Harry and takes Harry's wrist in his hand. "Christ, Harry." He glances down at Harry's knuckles, shakes his head. "I were never his. Just never cared enough to correct him on the notion." He's not sure he wants to know, not at all sure he should ask, but he asks anyway. "What did he say?"

Harry turns his hand over, twines his fingers in Sean's. "Called you," he hesitates for a second, "my fuck toy. Said he'd seen us together and that he knew it was nothing more than me playing around with you." He looks down, then up, meeting Sean's eyes, trying not to get lost in the reflection. "That I'd throw you away when I got tired of you. So I hit him for all the lies."

Sean tilts his head to one side, narrowing his eyes a little at Harry. "Did you think I wouldn't know?" he asks softly. "That I need you to hurt him in order to prove I mean something to you?"

"No," he says quickly, defensively. "I didn't hurt him to prove it to you. He just pissed me off and he wouldn't back down about it." There's a wry, wicked grin on Harry's face. "Bastard doesn't like to be told he can't have everything he wants, wouldn't back down and I wanted to make a point."

"Could have told him that myself if I gave enough of a damn about it," Sean points out. "I don't want you making points on my behalf." He runs one hand up the inside of Harry's thigh. "And I don't need you getting yourself in trouble trying to protect me."

"Point was for me much as you," Harry leans forward, letting Sean's hand move at will, whispering almost against his lover's lips. "Didn't want that arrogant prick thinking I'm using you. I'm not." He suspects Sean already knows that, but the words aren't hard to say and it's worth it to have them out in the air, where they can wrap the ears and filter into the brain, worm down into the heart.

"Never thought you were," Sean murmurs. "It were always different with you. You know that?" He slides forward, meeting Harry halfway, coming off the coffee table and crawling up onto Harry's lap, straddling him. "With Viggo we were using each other. With you it was always better than that. More than that."

Harry knows that. He leans back into the couch, allows Sean to shift forward, get comfortable. "Yeah, different with you, too." He places his hands on Sean's thighs, pushes in and upward. "Never this serious about anyone, this concerned about coming home late or putting the right words together."

"Never worried when someone was home late before," Sean confesses, catching Harry's wrists and digging his fingers in tight. "Got angry. Never caught myself pacing and wondering what the hell I'd do if my lover'd chosen someone else's bed over mine before."

"Oh, fuck, Sean, not doing that. Ever." Harry thinks Sean will gouge himself bloody before he lets up the pressure on Harry's wrists. And he doesn't care, about the blood or the pain as Sean's fingers wrap and threaten to snap his wrists. "Our bed's the only one I want to be in."

"Our bed's the only one I've ever even thought of as ours, mine and someone else's," Sean says. He grinds down hard against Harry's cock, pins Harry's wrists back to the couch cushions. "Don't want to lose this," he murmurs. "Don't want to go anywhere."

"Not even to that bed?" Harry asks, not resisting Sean's rougher advances. "You're not losing me, Sean." His voice is a whisper, even though there's no one around who could hear other than them. "Tell me what you do want."

"Want to pin you down. Fuck myself on you." Tease you until the suffering's too much to stand./ "Give you something to remember when you think you need to go out and protect our virtue from the madness of the chronically insane."

Harry's amused by Sean's description of Viggo and aroused by the rather large lover straddling his thighs. "Pinning down sounds delicious. And the fucking part is perfect." He shifts, raises up as much as Sean's body will allow. "I especially like the notion of having something to remember. There's another year of filming, and I don't want to be beating up the insane every few weeks."

"Much better if you don't," Sean agrees, "especially after--" The words catch in his throat for a minute, and he hisses out a breath, trying to get them out anyway. "After I go," he murmurs.

Go. It's not something Harry wants to think about, but something he has, at random moments in the shower and on the bike and when he was slamming his fist into Viggo's face. "You don't have to go," he says, voice low. "Or I could go with you." It's said, words Harry's been formulating for weeks, uncertain if he should be thinking them much less building up the strength to say them.

"I do have to go," Sean says gently, easing his grip on Harry's wrists just a fraction. "I have other films lined up. Work." I could go with you. Sean takes a deep breath. "And you coming with me is a hell of a big offer. Have you slept on that one?"

"Yeah, a bit. Tossed and turned on it." Harry smiles, cocks his head, slips his tongue out over his teeth and ends up biting his lip when it's all done. "It's too much to think about now. Most likely. Months away. Just came to my brain again pummeling Vig." He almost wants to take the words back. Not enough to actually do it, to apologize for saying it. "We don't have to decide right now," he adds, too softly, leaving off the if you want to talk about it at all.

"Not fair, you know. You've had more time to think about it." Sean lets out a breath, squirms a bit to get more comfortable on Harry's lap. "Give me some time." He leans up, kisses Harry's forehead. "Don't want to lose this to distance. I can tell you that much."

Serious conversation can wait, at least till the makeup sex for coming home late is finished. "Fair enough. Not losing anything to distance." Harry's grinning, cat wanting the canary's tailfeather. "Now, what was that about fucking yourself on me. Something about being sore later maybe."

Sean leans in, growling, nipping at Harry's neck. "Think I should chain you down for it," he purrs. "Pin you to the bed and fuck myself on you until you're watching my face go red from the ache of it."

"And you think you'll get a complaint on that suggestion?" Harry quips, licking the side of Sean's face before he can pull back from Harry's throat. "Not in this lifetime."

"You remember our first date?" Sean whispers, rubbing his cheek against Harry's. "We could play that way sometime. Please, let me fuck you 'til you scream, Sir. Please..."

"That where you want to go tonight," Harry asks, quietly adding "boy" and drawing it out. He pulls his hands free of Sean's loosening grip and reverses the grasp, tightening his fingers around Sean's wrists. "S'alright by me."

There's something else Sean's never taken from anyone. And he wouldn't be thinking about taking it for anyone but Harry. "Not tonight. But soon." He tugs at Harry's grip this time, moaning just a little as the restraint goes straight to his cock. "Bedroom, lover. Come on."

"Off me then, lover," Harry counters, nudging Sean back until he's on his feet and Harry's pulling himself up against Sean's body. "Soon. Holding you to it." He leads the way to the bedroom, one hand still wrapping Sean's wrist. "Tonight's yours, though," he says, stopping at bed's end. "Do with me what you want."

Sean smirks at the offer. Oh, hell yes, he thinks, and turns around to look Harry over. "You're still dressed," he murmurs. "Let me get you out of it." He slides his fingers into the waistband of Harry's pants, bunching fabric up in his hands and tugging Harry's shirt up an inch at a time, until the tails are free from trousers.

"Should I help?" Harry stretches out his arms. "Or do I just play the helpless lover and let you strip me?"

Sean tucks both hands into the material at either side of the buttons down Harry's chest. "You're thinking in much more gentle terms than I am, mate," he says. "I'm not thinking about stripping you." Hope you don't like that shirt too much. "Thinking about ripping the clothes right off you." And he does; yanks Harry's shirt apart, hears buttons flying off and clattering to the ground.

"Fuckin' bastard," Harry laughs. "Forget that me mum gave me this shirt. Hope you know how to sew buttons back on." Gentle's nice, Harry thinks, and it definitely has its place in the realm of kinky sex, but this is so much more fun.

"Fuck the buttons," Sean growls, jerking the shirt off completely, popping the buttons off the sleeves as they come off over Harry's hands. "Want you naked. And on the bed. Now." He drops both hands to Harry's belt, unbuckles it and yanks it out of Harry's belt loops; yanks open Harry's fly and slides a hand inside. "Yeah," he breathes, curling a hand around Harry's cock. "Want this inside me. Get your fucking clothes off and get on the bed."

The growl shoots straight to Harry's cock. Oh, fuck. "Do you have any idea how damned sexy you are when you growl?" Harry roughly shoves his jeans down his legs, stumble-stepping out of them and kicking them into a corner. He brushes Sean's lips with a quick lick-kiss before throwing himself on the bed, pushing pillows together and settling in against them. He sprawls and crooks his finger at Sean. "C'mere, lover. Fuck yourself till you scream."

Sean's breath ghosts out of him, arousal curling up his spine, and he digs into the dresser drawers for cuffs. "Not quite yet," he grins. "Want this to happen the way I want it. Going to tie you down and make you beg for it." He laughs. "Have us both begging for it by the time I'm done."

"Oh, think you can make me beg, do you?" Harry's cocky, but he knows full well Sean can have him saying please and more in a heartbeat with the right combination of words. He flexes his hands and shifts them up over his head, wrapping fingers around the bed rails as Sean returns to the bed with cuffs. "Love the way your brain thinks. Wicked and bent and just the way I want it."

"Love the way..." Sean tosses the cuffs on the bed and strips out of his own clothes, shaking his head. "You do need to watch out, mate. You're going to have me skipping the qualifiers, 'love the way this, that', and just fucking giving you the words."

Harry smiles. Maybe he shouldn't think it. Only a couple months of knowing each other. Too fast. "Like in love you," he murmurs, half-question and half-statement. He watches Sean strip down, admiring the scratches and lines left on Sean's chest from his blade work. "Safer with the qualifiers, I guess."

"And when did we pride ourselves on being safe?" Sean asks, taking Harry's wrist in hand, clipping one wrist to the railings, then the other. "When did you ever try to play safe with me?"

"Never. Useless, when you think about it." Harry tugs at the restraints. Nice and tight. He scoots down, nestles his head into the pillow pile. No reason not to be comfortable while begging. "Wanna play with the safety off? Then damn the qualifiers, Sean. Love you. Want you. Need you."

Sean hisses in a breath. "Jesus," he whispers, stops digging through the nightstand drawer mid-reach to look at Harry and stare. Green eyes focusing hard on his lover's, and Sean climbs up on the bed, straddles Harry's thighs and plants both hands on his chest. "Say that again."

Harry thinks for a minute, wondering if he's gone too far, crossed a line he didn't know existed, then he opts against being playful and coy. "Need you." He pauses. "Want you." His tongue glides over his teeth and he lets out the last words on a slow breath. "Love you."

"Bastard," Sean whispers. "Wasn't going to say it this soon. I love you, too."

"Who says it's too soon?" Harry's voice is barely a whisper. "You've some timetable on falling in love? Never seen one."

"Maybe there isn't one," Sean says, sliding his hands down over Harry's chest, "but I don't like to decide feeling on impulse. On instinct."

Harry feels awkward having this conversation cuffed to the bed, but maybe that's just the right place for it. "I didn't decide on impulse. It's been, what, two months of doing this, taking each other places we never expected. I didn't fall for you first night. Took a bit of time." He draws in a breath, makes his chest rise and fall under Sean's fingers. "Impulse was hitting Viggo for calling you names. Saying I love you has been coming for several days. Since I did that," he nods, indicating Sean's chest. "Not taking the words back, Sean, but if you need time, I'll understand."

Sean might not be able to have this conversation any other way. He feels safe like this. Like he's got some control over something, even if he doesn't have a shred of control over his feelings or Harry's. At least he can guide the pace of the conversation. And Harry's words get through the raised defenses, settle him, make him nod with understanding. "I don't want them taken back," he says softly. "From either of us." He reaches for lube, then, tucks two fingers inside himself, just getting himself slick enough for Harry to glide into him without tearing. "It's never been like this with anyone else," he murmurs. "I feel safe with you."

There shouldn't be anything sensual about watching your lover prep himself. It's just a bodily function. But it coils into Harry's brain, watching Sean, knowing he's going to be inside his lover, nothing between them. "Want things with you I've never wanted before. Thinking ahead, months, years. Used to always live in the moment, just day by day, never making plans." Being restrained makes the talk easier. Harry can't use his hands, can't get them on Sean's face, hold him steady while he kisses the words into his mouth.

"Used to make plans," Sean says, kneeling up again and taking Harry's cock in his hand. "Stopped believing in them. But the part of me that's wondering if it's smart to make plans with you doesn't give a shit." He starts lowering himself on Harry's cock, steady, jagged motions as he has to press down, pull up and start all over. "Want you. Come with me. Home won't be home without you."

"Huh? What?" Harry misfires on a whole range of synapses when Sean starts fucking himself, losing complete track of the conversation. "Come home. You mean when you leave?" And why the fuck are we talking? Trying to make sense when you're doing that to me?

Sean's grin is ear-to-ear, more smirk than smile. "We'll talk about it later," he promises. "Right now..." He sinks down another inch, groans at the feel of it. "Fuck, you feel good..."

Harry pushes up off the bed, pulling his wrists against the cuffs. The metal rubs and cuts immediately, but that's because Harry tugs too hard. Intentionally. Sean's tight, unbelievably so. "Oh, god, yes," he mutters. "Love that feeling. So tight. Work for it, Sean. C'mon, show me how much you want it."

"Fuck, yeah," Sean agrees, placing both hands on his thighs, keeping his fingers splayed, so Harry can see he's not touching himself. Not anywhere close to that yet. "Oh God..." Harry's stretching him wide open, making him realize just how fucking big his lover's cock is and how good it feels inside him. And Sean's fingernails dig in, just the slightest bit. "Christ, yeah. Gonna fuck myself on you 'til I'm screaming, Harry."

"Beautiful like that. Fucking yourself on my cock." Harry doesn't take his eyes from Sean's, staring until they both need to blink and then starting over. "Want your throat raw before you think about touching yourself, Sean." He grins. "Before I even consider coming, and letting you stop taking it."

"Yeah," Sean breathes, eyes gone so dark they're just fathomless pools of forest green staring into Harry's. He rocks down, squirms as his body accomodates Harry's cock, rocks back up and settles back down again. "Oh, fuck, yes, lover, need you so fucking much. Won't touch myself until you say." Harry can't stop Sean from doing what Sean wants, but what Sean wants is to please Harry. To run by Harry's rules. To balance his needs on Harry's whims. Sean's not chained. He doesn't have to be. He's choosing to give Harry everything. And oh God, he fucking loves it.

It's a rush having power when you're the one restrained, the one whose hands are cuffed and, Harry doesn't have to look to know, starting to bleed just a little, oozing where the steel's biting too tightly. It's intoxicating that Sean's willingly giving Harry everything, not holding back. No one's ever done that, given over so much, wanted to please just Harry.

"Do it then," Harry whispers, "for me. Make yourself so hard you can't think of anything else. Then stop."

"Christ," Sean growls. "You always know how to ask." Harry wouldn't even need to ask. He could force Sean into whatever he wanted and have Sean follow, willingness not a consideration. He starts rocking himself up and down, hard and then harder, fast and then faster, breath catching in his throat and body starting to burn.

"That's it, Sean. Fuck, yes." Harry's drawing close, the orgasm churning in his groin. "C'mon. Harder. Almost there." He jerks against the cuffs, feels the bruise form almost instantly on his wrist, and pushes his body off the body to meet Sean's motion. "So fuckin' close, lover."

"Give it to me," Sean growls back. His fingernails are leaving crescents in his skin, and maybe that's a cheat, because the pain feels so damned good it's almost a substitute for touching himself. "Need to see you come. Want to watch your eyes slitting shut for me. Come on, Harry. Come for me." Sean exhales harshly, rocking down hard enough to make his eyes slam shut from the pain of it. "Please."

"Open your eyes, Sean," Harry pants out as he gives in to his lover's demands, stretching up and inside Sean's arse, body jerking as he comes hard. He slams his head back into the pillow and shuts his eyes for a long minute, letting the orgasm rush his body. Then he's biting his lip and opening his eyes, watching for Sean to start begging. "Christfuckyes. God, that hurts. So. Fucking. Good."

Hurts -- fuck, Sean's arousal's hurting and coiling through him and making him think he won't last another ten seconds. But not before Harry tells him to go over.

Getting his eyes open isn't easy; it means parting his lips, forcing his breath out through his teeth. "Need it," Sean whispers. "Christ, I can feel your come inside me. Marked. Want to go over for you, Harry. Please."

"Come," Harry says, breathing out the single syllable in a pant. "Do it for me. Now."

Now. Sean didn't realize now was possible. Knew he could come without a hand on his cock, but didn't realize he could do it under these circumstances, watching Harry like this, having fucked himself desperate. But Harry's voice, breathless and demanding, and his lover's body pliant under him but still every inch in control, and Sean can't hold it back. He comes moaning, every moan torn out of him with a wince as his cock jerks, come falling over Harry's lower belly and staining him, leaving a mark of his own.

Harry's impressed, and that's euphemistic. He's never had anyone come on command like that. "Perfect. Beautiful. Mine." He's muttering out the words, breath hitching with moans as Sean's body clenches around his cock another time, right as he spills out everything. He's bemused at what a mess he must be, blood and come and sweat mingling and meshing. And he doesn't really care. Doesn't even want to be uncuffed, except to get his hands on his lover, run his fingers through those blond strands. "Every bit of it. Mine."

Sean moans, lowering himself to Harry's chest, careless of the way his come smears over his chest and stomach. "Jesus, Harry," he breathes. "Fuck. When I can think again I'll get you out of those cuffs."

"Don't rush. I'm fine." Don't even worry about how sticky we are. "Just stretch out, lie here with me."

Moaning a little, Sean nods, not sure he could do anything else just now. He curls his arms around Harry's body, hands wrapped up and around his shoulders, and nuzzles into his neck. "Jesus," he whispers, punctuating the word with a slow lick over Harry's skin. "Love you."

"Love you, too, for as long as you'll let me. That's a promise." It's not one made in haste, or under the haze of cuffs and a deliciously sore body. Harry means every word of it. He kisses Sean's temple, then his forehead, scooting down into the pillows. "All the way to the grave if you let."

"You make me want to be good at promises," Sean whispers. He reaches for the keys in the nightstand. Can't wait any longer, can't let Harry stay cuffed down. "I haven't been," he says, distracting himself from the words by sliding the key into the cuffs and getting them unlocked, "but I'd try for you."

"Then it'd be both of us trying." Harry shakes out his wrists, slowly drops his hands to the pillows. "Never made a promise to anyone before." Never wanted to. "I think we could keep it. Together."

Sean runs his thumb over Harry's wrist, warming the skin there, doing what he can to soothe. He notices Harry's bruised knuckles, and raises his hand to his lips, kissing the rough spots, soothing there, too. "Next time don't let him bother you," he murmurs. "You're the one I'm making promises to."

"No next time. Promise that." Sean's touches relax Harry even more. He's dangerously close to just slipping away, letting sleep take him and worrying about everything much later.

Sean curls himself around Harry, drawing a blanket over them. "Why don't we get some rest for now," he murmurs. "You wake up hungry, I'll make you breakfast. Or whatever meal comes at two in the morning."

"Hmm, sounds good," Harry purrs under the blanket. "Two in the morning. Think I'll want you."


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 10:37:00

Matter of Inertia 5.5: Matter of Semantics (HS/VM) PG-13
Matter of Inertia 5.5: Matter of Semantics
Author: [info]lunasv
Pairing: Harry Sinclair/Viggo Mortensen
Warnings: This is a universe in which Viggo isn't nice and Harry doesn't like him. Also, there's no sex.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Fictional.


Mid-morning on a Thursday finds Harry Sinclair troubleshooting edits and running interference between WETA and the rest of the universe. He stops by the food tent long enough for coffee and a few minutes of solitude.

The first is weak, not nearly as good as the fresh brew he'd had before hustling Sean out of the house to an early makeup call.

The latter is all too short-lived.

"You're fucking him," a sharply melodic tone hisses in his ear.

Harry looks up at the words, shakes his head. "Hello, Mortensen."

"I saw the two of you."

Harry thinks, recalls the shadowed man at the pub. "Ah, yes, that was you. I wondered." He finishes off his coffee, sets the empty Styrofoam cup down. "Enjoy the show?"

"He won't stay," Viggo says in that pseudophilosophical manner he has. "Has a short attention span."

"I think I can keep him busy."

"Just your fuck toy, that's all he is," Viggo continues. "But he's good for that."

The words seem odd to Harry's ear coming out of Viggo's mouth. He wonders what the others see in him. Brash. Rude. Arrogant. Oh, yes, wait. The perfect king. Only problem with that is Harry liked Stuart, and Harry doesn't like Viggo.

Harry pulls himself up from the canteen chair and turns, stepping solidly into Viggo's personal space. "Not that it's any of your business, Mortensen," he says, voice low and under control. "Go play with Karl."

"That how you do it, Sinclair? Discard 'em when they've outlived your whims." Viggo's not backing up. "You toss me Karl when you got tired of fucking his ass."

Harry glances around. The food tent's sparsely populated at the moment, between main meals. It's mostly a collection of extras and the Kiwi contingent, both of which Harry can shrug off. He nods at Lawrence Makoare, a silent watch my back exchange between old friends, before turning back to Viggo.

"Listen to me, Mortensen," he says, moving forward, forcing Viggo to take a backward step to avoid being run over. "Karl, if you get him to tell you the truth between sucking you off and bending over, would explain we have no claim on each other." Harry pauses. "Well not other than being a director and actor who decided to fuck around." And damned good friends.

"Oh, moving up now." Viggo's smirking, or at least Harry suspects the expression is what passes for a smirk from the spoiled brat. "You think you're special 'cause you got one of the Fellowship."

"And you think you're the saviour come out of the East to rescue this film." Harry puts his hand on Viggo's shoulder, gently nudging him out of the tent, pushing with each phrase. "Get over yourself, Mortensen. You aren't getting nearly the perks Stuart did." He gives him a final shove, a bit harder, and their Aragorn nearly lands on his arse. "Trust me. You're not coming close."

Viggo catches himself at the last minute, spinning out of the fall, crouching down. "Don't fuck with me, Sinclair. I get nasty when I'm pissed."

Harry laughs, a deep lung rattle of a laugh. "You don't know nasty, LA boy." He takes the step forward, looming over the nearly prone actor. "Do me a favor." He pauses. "No, make that a mandatory. Stay the fuck away from Sean." He casually swipes his foot to the right, kicking at the back of Viggo's leg, pulling him off-balance. "You so much as look at him the wrong way and I'll rain havoc on you that'll make Helm's Deep look like a bloody picnic."

"I don't do threats well, Sinclair." Viggo slowly regains his footing, then lunges at Harry, tackling him and trying to knock him backward.

Harry stands his ground though, landing a solid punch as Viggo slides by him. "I'm betting that's gonna hurt," he says, shaking out his fist. "Give, Mortensen, or you're gonna be a bitch for makeup." The last statement's a bit too late, Harry notes, as Viggo pushes himself off the ground and turns around. Black eye. Gonna take a bit of explaining on that one.


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 10:32:00

Matter of Inertia 5 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 5: Terminal Velocity
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Kink aftermath of knife and bloodplay.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: Fictional.

Sean's fingertips trace the lines of the tree of Gondor on his chest, eyes fixed on it in the mirror. It's beautiful. It's artwork, and it's been cut into his skin. Jesus.

Harry's still asleep in bed; Sean was reluctant to wake him up just so he could take his morning piss and think about showering. And then he caught sight of himself in the mirror, and he's been unable to move since.

Harry's stirring, coming out of an almost too-long sleep. He can feel the twinge of migraine biting at that spot under his left eye. He rolls over, expecting to curl into Sean's back, and reaches out into empty space. The reaction's quick and searing, slamming into the headache, the volatile emotion shoving it to one side -- he doesn't like waking up alone, not this morning. Yesterday would've been fine. Had been fine then. But not today.

He pulls himself out of the bed, roughly shoving the pillow back into the headboard, and heads to the bathroom. Sean's standing there, eyes fixed and almost glazed over. Harry smiles, steps in behind his lover. Lover. He smiles again and wraps his arms around Sean's waist.

"Morning," he says quietly. "You weren't there when I woke up." He doesn't add the don't like that but lets the sentence trail off as he ghosts fingers over the edges of the marks he'd left, watches Sean's face in the mirror. "You okay?"

"Don't know," Sean murmurs, sliding both his hands to the counter's edge as he looks into Harry's eyes. After a few seconds, though, he nods. "Yeah. I'm all right, it's just marks and piercings and promises and addiction -- didn't expect that. Want it. But wasn't expecting it."

"Looks good on you," Harry says, voice intentionally soft and low. "We can slow down." His smile in the mirror contradicts his words. He wants it all, everything Sean will give him, take from him. "I could ignore the addiction I have to your flesh, how it moves under me. Withdrawal'll be nasty, but --" He leaves the sentence unfinished, moves his hand up Sean's chest, tracing more of the tree's branches.

"I'm not after stopping," Sean says, sliding his hand up and covering Harry's fingers with his own. "Just want to know where we're taking each other. Where the rest of it falls. Are we making a go of it, then? Forsaking all others, bringing clothes over to the other's house? What happens when I have to leave?"

When you have to leave. Harry's not thinking that far ahead. "Yeah, bringing clothes over sounds good." He continues to move his hand slowly, twining his fingers with Sean's. "Forsaking all others," he says, leaning his chin against Sean's shoulder, "has a certain ring to it. Nice sound." He consciously leaves off the other.

"Mm. You've got boys clinging to your heels. Think you can convince them to let go?" Sean asks.

"My boys aren't that clingy. Craig's off to Marton's feet the minute he shows back up and Karl," he pauses, "Karl's found that would-be king of yours is more fun."

Sean's eyes flicker. "Is that who he's been--" Cuts himself off sharply. It doesn't matter one way or another; Sean's been too busy to give Viggo what he's after lately anyway. "Doesn't sound like there's much in the way, then, does it?"

"Sure there's nothing there? No one clinging to you?" Harry kisses Sean's neck, then slides his free hand around Sean's hip and over his cock. "I wanted to wake up and do this. You kinda spoiled my plans, Sean." He squeezes lightly. "You need to make it up to me."

Sean's glad for the distraction. It gives him a reason not to answer the question. It's never been clinging exactly. More of pressure building up and having nowhere to go, and things are different now. The pressure's got a home. Sean slides both arms up and behind Harry's neck, lacing them at the base of Harry's neck and stretching out, showing off the tree and its beautiful red lines. "How do you want me to do that?" he asks softly.

Harry decides to let the unanswered question slide into silence. "You can just stand there. Watch." He works his fingers around Sean's cock, wrapping and then unwrapping, settling them and then starting to stroke. Long pulls. Down. "Fuckin' gorgeous, you are." Twisting his wrist as he reaches the head. Rubbing his thumb under the foreskin. "Especially with my marks on your body. Everything else erased." He never takes his eyes off the mirror, watching Sean's reflection, how the green glints as Sean becomes more aroused.

God. Sean can't even speak. It's images in his head, not words, the image of Harry's marks all over him, Harry's hand twisting as he strokes his way down Sean's cock. Sean slides his tongue out over his lips, arches his back and presses his cock further into Harry's grip. His hands tighten behind the back of Harry's neck. It's all so fucking good. So very fucking good.

Harry's taking his time, savouring the feel of fingers on flesh, how his hand fits perfectly around Sean's cock, watching. He loves how Sean's tongue slides out, how he bites it gently when Harry makes that twist. "Mine," he whispers, kissing Sean's throat. It's perfect, the way they fit together. "I think," he draws his hand up over the tree's trunk, tracing the heaviest red line, "I'll fuck you slowly this afternoon, maybe in the tub after a long, hot bath. Want to see these turn red again in the warm water while I'm burying myself in your body."

"I think you're going to send me over before we even get to the tub if you go on like that," Sean whispers. "Do you want to watch that?"

"Yeah, want you to paint my hand, the counter, the damned mirror," Harry says, his voice a bit above a whisper. He tugs on Sean's cock, particularly violent in his twist. "C'mon, give me that. Then I'll wash you off."

"Shit," Sean yelps, orgasm taking him rough and hard, and there's no thinking about stopping it. It's happening as soon as Harry says give me that, one pulse after another and hell yeah, it's all over the counter, one streak after another coating Harry's hand and Sean's cock, until Sean's twisting and jerking in Harry's arms, almost trying to pull away.

"S'okay, Sean," Harry soothes, wrapping his arm tightly around Sean's chest, holding him steady as the orgasm jerks his body. "Let it go. You're fine. I've got you. Not letting go." And he doesn't, not even after Sean's come as much as he possibly can, after Harry's hand and wrist and arm are covered. Slowly, he unwraps his fingers from Sean's cock, but he still holds onto the body. "Beautiful."

Sean's shaking when he's through, fingernails sunk into the back of Harry's neck, and he nearly collapses against Harry's chest at the end of it. "Jesus," he breathes. "Fuck, you make me ache all over... in all the best ways..." He manages to rub his cheek against Harry's shoulder, sighs again. "Do I get my bath now?" he purrs.

"Yeah, you've earned it." Harry doesn't want to let go long enough to move to the tub, though. He stands a few more minutes, watching Sean come down, studying how the light on the mirror mutes the green of his eyes now where before he'd've sworn it made them brighter. Director's eye warping reality. "Hold yourself here. I'll get it started."

Harry makes sure Sean is leaning forward against the counter before he turns around, takes care of getting the water running, the whirlpool jets aligned, thankful he bothered to put in a tub large enough for two when he remodeled a few years earlier. Hasn't gotten that much use, though. Craig never slept over, and Karl never slowed down enough to soak. He thinks Sean'll be different.

Sean turns around, watches Harry getting the bath going. There's such a dichotomy here -- rough and violent one night, tender and easy the next morning. And both sides of it feel so goddamned good.

Water filling the tub quickly, Harry looks over his shoulder, catches Sean staring. Stop it, Sinclair. You're smitten but good. "See something you like?" he says, turning around, holding out a hand. "Or just thinking? C'mon, in with ya now."

"Both," Sean answers easily, coming forward and taking Harry's hand, then stepping into the tub. "Christ, this is going to sting like hell."

"Sit up. Don't lie back yet." Harry cuts the water's flow to a trickle, but doesn't turn it off, then he steps into the tub behind Sean, settles down and spreads his legs out on either side of his lover's "Won't make the pain any less, but we'll take it slow," he says, pulling Sean's shoulders back, easing him down onto his chest.

When Sean's nestled down so the water's lapping at his stomach, Harry starts gently pulling handfuls of water over the tree's raw marks. "S'weird. Always love this part, the coming down, the taking care." He kisses Sean's head. "Doing okay, lover? Pain tolerable?"

"Yeah," Sean hisses, squirming against Harry's chest; it stings every bit as much as he expected to, but the sting doesn't matter. It's making his cock jerk, though. Making him wish he could get hard again. "Never had this part. The coming down, taking care. Never thought I wanted it."

"Haven't had many lovers who weren't fuck and walk," Harry murmurs, fingers dabbling water over the largest of the cut lines. "Think you haven't had a lot of what I can give, Sean. Know I want more of what you offer." Maybe it's too much to admit right now. And maybe Harry should ignore his erection pushing against Sean's arse. Much as he wants the sex, at this precise moment he's wanting the closeness.

"Want more, too," Sean breathes. He slides his hands down the fronts of Harry's legs, brings his fingertips back up and tickles over his knees. Harry's been good at the violence, the brutality, but it's moments like this that are making Sean hungry to feel more of it. More of everything.

"Plan on giving it to you, soon as you feel like you can take it." Harry's voice is low, soothing, such a counterpoint to the harsh brutality he can muster when he's dominating Sean, intentionally taking him down. "For as long as you want." He takes the soap in his hands and lathers them up before putting it back on the tub's side, then he runs his hands over Sean's stomach, pushes fingers down over cock and balls and along the thighs, rinsing off with lapped water even as he soaps up the skin, kneads the muscles.

"God," Sean breathes, parting his legs as far as the tub allows, thrusting up into Harry's touch. "D'you know what you've been doing to me?" he asks softly. It's a question that should be said with eyes meeting eyes, but Sean can't quite make himself offer that, can't get himself turned around that far.

"Tell me, Sean." Harry doesn't need to see Sean's eyes to know what's there. Desire. Need. Uncertainty. All the same things Harry's eyes would show if Sean could turn around. "What is it we're doing to each other?" He makes his touches gently harsh, knowing Sean can't get hard again this soon, or shouldn't, and ghosts his fingers over Sean's cock before sweeping them back up his lover's chest.

"Past wanting," Sean says quietly, bringing one hand up to cover Harry's. "Past just taking when we want something. Don't know. But it's nothing small, is it?" He turns his head a bit, then, brings Harry's fingertips to his cheek and brushes his face against them. "Nothing simple."

"Everything complicated, turned in on itself." Harry sinks lower into the water, wrapping himself more around Sean's body. "If we move forward from here, there's no way out," he says, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Sean's cheek. "Don't want it simple anymore. Want it like this."

"It is like this," Sean murmurs, turning into the touch and enjoying it far too much. "We move forward every breath. And I don't want a way out. Don't need it simple. You give the parts of me that need an outlet and never found one room to breathe. You make me realize there's a lot I've been doing without."

"Gonna end up staying in here all day." Harry's chuckling before he kisses Sean's cheek, now more easily in reach. "You've made me realize I want to have things I never thought I could. Give me a reason to breathe more easily, take the long, deep breaths instead of just always gasping for air." His voice is lighter now, the Kiwi accent strong and heavy. "Might even fall for you, Sean, if this keeps up."

"Now there's a threat," Sean grins. "Got a worse one for you. Might fall back."

Harry splashes water up on Sean's chest. "Yeah, you do that, mate," he says with a wide grin. "I'll catch ya and we'll just freefall till we hit ground."


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 10:06:00

Matter of Inertia 4 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 4: Traveling Along A Straight Line
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Heavy heavy kink including knife and bloodplay.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: Fictional.


The pub's full of the regular crowd, mostly locals working as extras. Some days Harry thinks all of New Zealand must be on Jacko's payroll. He looks around, nods at a few old friends and heads to the bar, where he picks up a pint before making his way 'cross the room toward the back corner, where tradition has his little group of 'Rings' castmates hold up.

Karl's in the booth, back to the wall, and he snags Harry's attention with a smile and a motioning hand, patting the chair just on the outside of the booth's seat. Sean's on the outside, next to the vacant chair, and Marton and Craig are on the far side, sitting so close Harry suspects they're practically melded at this point.

"Boys, got good news from the front," Harry says, reaching the table. "Next round's on me, in fact." He pulls out the chair and settles in, a little closer than might seem friendly to the casual observer but Harry and Sean aren't a secret with this crowd.

"What's the news?" Sean asks, shifting and stretching so he can get his hand on Harry's thigh. It takes him a little further away from Karl, but Karl's not going to complain about it. Things with Karl are always nice and uncomplicated. Thank Christ for small favors.

The move doesn't go unnoticed and Harry smiles, sprawls a bit in the chair as he takes a long sip of the beer. "Four days off. Straight, promise of no interruptions." He sets the glass down on the table. "Transitioning sets and Richard's in a piss about something, so Jacko just called the whole thing and gave the WETA guys three days to get their shite together and then they'll have to move everything, so all you stars," he smirks, "have got a mini-vacation."

There are a few catcalls around the table, but Sean's quiet. He's looking over Harry's expression and thinking about that afternoon in the trailer -- the one Harry still hasn't paid him back for. Christ, what are we getting into now? he wonders, and he shifts a bit more, hoping the fact that his jeans are getting tight isn't too obvious.

Harry leans toward Sean, putting his hand at his lover's back, rubbing gently. He knows Karl can see exactly what he's doing, but he knows Karl will turn away or just watch quietly. "Awfully quiet, Sean," Harry whispers, tongue sliding out just to wet the tip of Sean's ear. "I have plans for you that'll take four days to recover from." He very lightly, almost too faintly, scratches his nails across Sean's skin. "They involve you being bound. Do you want details?"

Sean turns, cheek brushing over Harry's, lowering his voice. Lover's secrets, but how many people at the table would think lover's secrets meant being taken apart in a way it would take four days to heal from? Sean's just trying not to shiver. "Yeah, I want details. Want to hear about it. But if you tell me here we're going to end up in the bogs, and if you tell me at home you'd better tie me up first so I don't come after you before you're through talking."

"Oh, you'll be tied up. I placated Richard into giving me some of that elven twine they were working on." Harry moves Sean's hand back to his own thigh, covers it with tight fingers and pushes their joined hands over Sean's erection, now painfully obvious under the straining denim. "Then I'm going to get creative, turn you into a fuckable work of art." He sucks on the edge of Sean's earlobe. "Drink up, now, Sean, be nice and mingle for a few minutes. Don't want the boys thinking we don't like their company."

Sean growls and rocks his hips up, just a little, not enough to be noticed under the table. The order rubs him just the wrong way, but he's far too interested in Harry's offer to make much out of it before they get home. Still, he drinks, talks to Karl, talks to Marton, exchanges a look with Viggo that on any other day might have meant a fast trip to the loo and one or the other of them rubbing blood off a split lip. And then he's back at Harry's side, leaning into him and murmuring, "How much do you need to see me beg before we leave?"

"Personally? I'd like to see you on your knees, begging for me to take you home and tie you to the bed and fuck you all night," Harry says, turning away from his conversation with Karl. "Think I could get that? Or would I be pushing my luck?" He nods across the way to where Viggo's standing. "Could show him you're mine, right here, now."

"Why not just put a tag on my ear and get yourself a radio control unit?" Sean says, shaking his head. "You're not the only one who'd like to claim someone in front of an audience. Come on. Get the testosterone under control and let's go home."

"Oh, you would. Hmmm." Harry tucks that bit of knowledge away in his brain, for somewhere around date 10 or so. For the moment, he's content to make quick good-byes and hustle his lover out of the pub. "You realize all this testosterone is gonna get unleashed on you when we get home," he says casually as they cross the parking lot toward the car. "And, anyhow, you wouldn't look good with an ear tag. An earring, maybe, nice emerald stud."

"Haven't worn an earring in years," Sean says. "You'd have to repierce it." He slides into the car next to Harry and looks over at him. "Tagging, piercings, unleashing. Which implies leashes to begin with. You trying to tell me something?"

Harry starts the car and is out of the lot before answering. "That we've been at this a month or so now, and you'd look good in an earring, if I had a mind to buy one." He makes the left turn to his house instead of the right to where Sean's staying. "Leashing's optional, but I'm feeling a bit possessive. That a problem?"

Sean thinks about it. There's a difference, he realizes, between being treated like someone's de facto possession and being asked about it. "It's not a problem," he murmurs, decidedly not thinking about what it might be like being on a leash. Or putting Harry on one. "And if you want me in an earring, I want the needle in your hand."

"Sure," he says easily. Then he thinks. Needle in my hand. Damned trusting. Harry finds it amusing that Sean bypasses the leash comment. They can come back to it later, maybe while they're shopping for matching collars. "Wouldn't mind getting one myself. You do original piercings?"

"Never have done," Sean says. He grins over at Harry, slides a hand up his thigh. "Where do you want it?" he asks, fingers reaching between Harry's legs.

Harry laughs, shakes his head and forces himself to pay attention to the road 'cause he knows he'll miss the damned turn-off if Sean gets started. "I was thinking my ear, lover," he says, voice overlaid with smirk. "But I'm all for matched piercings. Where'd you have in mind?"

"I don't think it's my mind that's doing the thinking just now," Sean murmurs, almost purrs. "What is it you've been planning for the night?"

"Lashing you to the bed and taking the fine point of a blade to your flesh." Harry puts the words out into the air on a hot breath as he makes the last turn before his house. "I think we've quashed any qualms about bloodplay." Hell, after the last date, Harry suspects they've eradicated nearly every qualm two people should have about sex between them.

"Christ." Sean cups his hand around Harry's cock and balls and squeezes hard. "I've never..." He's already picturing it, though. The intent look on Harry's face while he's drawing blood from Sean's skin. "Christ," Sean murmurs again, a little weakly.

"Fuck," Harry shouts at the sudden sharp squeeze. Sean's definitely got his attention and he taps the brakes a bit too hard pulling up to the house. "Never. Huh." He turns off the engine and slowly moves Sean's fingers off his cock, pulling them up and to his lips, kissing the tips. "Then tonight'll be that much more special, won't it?"

"C'mere," Sean growls, leaning in, twisting his fingers in Harry's grasp so he can brush them over Harry's cheek, cup his face in the palm of his hand when he leans in to kiss him. Growling, rough, hungry kiss, but it's got an element of tenderness, too. Sean wonders if Harry can taste that.

It's not just the taste Harry takes in, the gentle essense underlaying the harsh kiss. He wraps his hand around the back of Sean's neck and drops the kiss from mouth to throat, soaking up the the worn leather scent wrapping itself around too many cigarettes and that cologne that Harry hasn't put a name to yet but would know in his sleep. "Want you inside," he murmurs, "naked and vulnerable and desperate for my touch."

Sean wonders if he ought to make Harry fight for that. If he ought to make Harry put him there, work for that level of desperation. But then he's picturing being cut all over again -- cut by his lover, blood trailing over his skin because Harry's put it there -- and all he can do is gasp softly and nod, curling his own fingers into the short hair at the nape of Harry's neck. "Please," he whispers.

"Out of the car, into the house." Harry reaches back and grabs Sean's hand at his neck. "I want to hear more of your pleas. Want them suffocating me before I'm finished." He gently pushes Sean back and opens his own car door. There are no second thoughts about what he's going to do, how he'll lay Sean out on the bed and work his hands over his lover's body before ever picking up the knife. And the thoughts have him aching. Harry's out of the car and nearly to the front door before Sean catches up with him. "Plan on making this last, lover, taking my time."

"Got all night," Sean breathes, leaning into Harry's back and letting his breath warm the back of Harry's neck. "Got four days to heal. I want your marks all over me. Want what no one else has ever--" wanted me enough to do, but he doesn't say that. "Get us inside," he whispers.

Harry unlocks the door and pushes Sean inside. "What no one else has ever what, Sean?" he asks, dropping keys on the table, stalking toward Sean and pushing him into the wall. "No one's ever cut you before?" He works his hands under Sean's shirt, roughly shoving the fabric up, not taking care to keep his nails from scratching and raking over Sean's warm flesh. "Let you bleed for him?"

"Yeah," Sean says, words coming out over a growl. He presses his shoulders back into the wall, gets his hands at Harry's waist and tugs up the material of his shirt, every bit as hungry to get Harry's skin under his hands and nails as Harry is for him.

Sean's shirt is up and over his head before he can get hands on Harry, and then Harry's fingers are working the button and zipper of Sean's pants, jerking them down as he pins Sean into the wall with his shoulder. "Do you know hard that makes me, Sean? Knowing I'd be the first to give you that, to take that from you." He slips his hand between fabric and flesh and roughly grabs Sean's cock, twisting as he pulls up on it.

"Ah fuck," Sean pants out, hips thrusting forward as much as they're able, "fuck, yeah, gets me to the same place. That you want to give it to me. Come on. Don't fucking play with me, Sinclair." He twists his wrists in the fabric of his shirt, getting his shirt tangled around his hands and pinning them above his head on his own, without being asked. Giving that much.

"Eager. I like that." Harry presses in with a twist of his shoulder. It'll leave a bruise, a nice indent on Sean's shoulder. He stretches, grabbing Sean's bound wrists in his hand and jerking them down, turning Sean around so the tangle of flesh and fabric ends up at the back Sean's neck.

He pushes Sean down the hall to the bedroom and shoves him against the iron bed's footboard, bending him over it, tightening his grip on the makeshift bonds. "Oughta fuck you first, bent over the bed like this. Just me. Nothing else." He jerks at Sean's pants, pulling them down over his hips, making sure his fingers slide over Sean's arse. "Take what's mine."

Sean shoves himself forward, thrusting his cock against the edge of the bed, nowhere near enough pressure, not enough friction, but it's still so fucking good. "How much do you want me to bleed for you?" Sean asks, hands jerking against the twisted fabric of his shirt. "How much do you want to tear me apart?"

Harry presses his palm into Sean's back between the shoulder blades, pushing him forward even more, pinning him over the railing. "I want to shred your soul, Sean, shard it into pieces only I can put back together." Harry slides his fingers inside Sean's body. First two, working them in quickly and roughly, as far as their dryness will allow. Jerking them back just as abruptly. Then three, slammed in deep and harsh and Harry knows Sean will feel it reverberate up his spine.

"Fuck," Sean spits out, but he's already shoved himself as far forward as he can go; there's nowhere to turn and no way of getting away from Harry. "You want that? Only you, Harry? Want to leave me marked inside and bound to you?" Words are spilling out faster than Sean's even thinking about them, and he ends up closing his eyes hard as soon as he realizes the offer he's making.

"Exactly. What. I. Want." Harry's words are punctuated with brutal twists of fingers, taking Sean as harshly as Sean had done to him in the trailer. It's not payback, not in Harry's mind, but an evening out of the partnership of equals. "Don't move," he hisses and he pulls his hand from Sean's back, snakes it between the bedrail and flesh and grabs Sean's cock. Violence with a macabre overlay of deep emotion. Harry won't call it love. Not yet. "Wanna come, Sean? Like this, knowing it's me bringing you off. Knowing it's me who's gonna be carving your flesh as soon as you've let go."

The thrusts hurt, burn, leave an impression that Sean's going to have with him the rest of the night. And he's only sorry the impression's not being left with Harry's cock. "Yeah," he breathes out, "want to come for you. But I'd rather do it while you're making my skin run red."

Harry laughs and releases his hold on Sean, jerks his fingers out and steps back. "Unknot yourself and finish undressing." He licks his lips at the sight, lover bent over, self-bound. If he weren't going to cut him, Harry would leave Sean just like that and take him. "There's manacles attached to the bedrail," he says, acknowledging the need to have him restrained for this. "I'll get what I need."

Sean lets out a breath and nods, unwinding his hands from his shirt, and he tosses the stretched fabric to the ground. He glances up to the bed, to the manacles on the bedframe, and climbs into it, wondering if he'd be able to get himself into them or if he'll need Harry to do it for him. Fuck it. He's already getting nervous about the idea of being cut; he needs the sensation of Harry locking him down for it. Eliminating his choice in the matter.

Harry knows Sean's nervous without looking at him, without asking. "I'll lock you in, Sean," he says, reaching the closet, sending the unasked question. "Just wrap your hands around the chains, center yourself." He consciously drops his voice lower, the natural lilt giving way to something more melodic, Wagner overlaid with Tchaikovsky. He pulls out what he needs, blades and antiseptic and towel, and wraps it all up before turning.

Sean nods without speaking, then slides out of the rest of his clothes. His cock's still hard, nervousness maybe making it moreso rather than less, and he crawls onto the bed, leaning down against the pillows. He stretches out one hand first, curling his fingers around the chain and sliding them down so the manacle's hanging against his wrist, and then the other one over the other chain. He wonders if he could hold himself still this way, if he'd need the manacles while Harry's cutting him. This time yes, he decides, but the next time... he shivers. It hasn't even happened yet and already he wants a next time.

Harry sets the cloth on the bed and sits down, running his hand over Sean's chest, up along the curve and shoulder and out over the arm. "Do you trust me?" he asks as he locks one manacle in place, then stretches over to repeat the process on the second one. "If you want to stop, how you let me know?" Simple questions, ones that should've been asked before, perhaps, or maybe don't need asking at all at this point. But Harry wants to hear the words, wants to know Sean's consenting to what's coming. "This is random fucking against a wall, Sean. You understand what's going to happen?"

"I understand," Sean murmurs, twisting his wrists a fraction in the manacles. "I used to have a safeword, when it comes to asking you to stop. And I haven't said it in years..." Because I didn't trust anyone to pay attention. "With or without it, yeah, Harry, I trust you. Maybe not to stop when I say stop..." and the grin is wry, as it's Sean who was on the other end of the consensuality line the last time, "but not to damage me in uncontrolled ways. Do you want my safeword?"

"Uncontrolled ways," Harry echoes. He's never been out of control, not when scening, not when another's body was in his hands. "Give me your safeword, Sean. You won't need it." He's stroking Sean's body as he talks, fingers tracing the outline of ribs, testing the tautness of abs worked over with running and swordplay, teasing the hard cock. "You are nearly perfect. Just missing a few marks."

"Jesus, Harry," Sean whispers, hands tensing against the chains. "It's inertia." He swallows, mouth feeling too dry, cock too hard, starting to leak clear fluid, smearing a drop across his lower belly when his cock jerks. "Perfect me," he breathes.

Harry stands up and quietly slips out of his clothes, then settles back on the bed, straddling Sean's legs, his equally hard cock settling in against Sean's. "Inertia," he says slowly, his tongue sliding over the edge of his teeth. "Resistance to change. Intriguing choice."

He folds back the edges of the cloth and picks up a dagger. Straight blade, simple wooden hilt. He places it flat against Sean's upper chest, point right at the hollow of the throat, and spins it up on end, dragging it back down, bearing down as he reaches heart level and continuing until he reaches the navel. The blood wells, drawn to follow the blade's silver as it cuts into the flesh.

"This is how perfection starts," he says, wicked glint in his eye, voice deeply commanding. "With a single cut."

Sean's arms go tense, and he looks up at Harry, eyes wide. "Oh, God, Harry..." The breath leaves him at the end of it. The blade feels so cold, and then so sharp, and the sting and burn of it just makes Sean lick his lips, wanting more.

Harry continues cutting, sweeping curves out from the central line, rude branches of a tree, freeform and artistic. "Do you feel the blood, Sean?"

He puts down the first dagger and picks up a second, the krissed blade, jagged edge, and with it fills in his work, skimming it and wiggling it over the cuts, creating scratches the draw more blood to the surface.

"Harry," Sean moans, trying hard not to move, gasping at the pain of the cuts and the scratches. "I can feel it," he pants, "want you so bad -- oh God -- want you this way, please, please."

A minute. Ten. Fifteen. Harry pulls the blade from Sean's chest and slides it over his lips, tongue swiping it clean. "Perfect shards." He drops the dagger to the cloth and leans down, licking a path through the blood. Unsafe. Insane. But completely consensual. "This is mine," he growls, shifting to get Sean's legs on either side of him, pushing Sean's knees up. "Want to feel you come now, Sean, with me deep inside you."

Sean wraps both hands around the chains, trying to bend his legs up as Harry pushes them forward. "Yours," he breathes, not sure if he means the blood or his body or just fucking everything about him. But it's all Harry's, all his for now, and Sean tugs hard at the chains, wishing he could touch Harry. Touch his lover.

"No, no, no," Harry says, almost too sweetly for the moment. "You're not going anywhere, Sean." He shifts a touch to the left, lines up his cock and shoves hard into Sean's body, not stopping or slowly till he's firmly rooted. "Not until you're properly fucked and I finish my work."

He's not finished? Jesus. Sean nods, breathing out hard as Harry's cock stretches him, fills him, and he tilts his head back, all too aware that the move offers Harry his throat. Offers the man who's been slicing through his skin his throat. "Please," Sean gets out. "Fuck me."

Harry obliges, eagerly, pressing in with hard, deep thrusts, each pulling back to leave just the tip of his cock inside Sean, pushing Sean's body up the bed. His lover's position isn't lost on him, and Harry reaches up, traces a blood-smeared finger of his right hand down Sean's throat.

"So vulnerable," he says, purring the way a tiger mews over its prey. He retrieves the discarded dagger and presses the flat of its blade against where his finger's touching the pulse point. "You're going to come when I say so, not a second sooner or later."

He thinks he could come with the right word. The right breath. With Harry giving him just the slightest nod. Sean swallows, but can barely manage to nod. "Let me give you that," he whispers.

Satisfied that Sean can't get any harder, ache any more for release or want for his touch, Harry turns the blade on edge and slices just into the skin's surface.
"Now, lover."

And somehow it's just that easy. Sean comes under Harry's blade, pressing himself back into the bed rather than giving in to the convulsive shudder that normally heralds orgasm. Something about stifling the movement makes it seem more prolonged, Sean's body tightening around Harry's cock in long, almost-aching contractions. God.

Harry cuts a thin trail over to the collarbone, amazed at Sean's control. "Christ perfect." He drops the blade to the bed beside Sean's shoulder and grips his fingers into Sean's hips, jerking him up off the bed, straining wrists against the manacles, forcing that shudder to take over Sean's body. "That's it." He thrusts brutally, quickly, several times, and then Harry's coming, spilling himself into his lover's body.

As sooon as the blade's away from Sean's skin, he stops holding back, arching up against Harry as much as the manacles allow, gasping and panting, throwing his head back and groaning. "Fuck yes..." He's got Harry's marks all over him, Harry's cock still pulsing into his arse, Harry's come inside him -- Jesus. Sean ends up moaning, barely able to breathe. If there's a way they could be closer, he can't imagine it. If there's a way they could be closer, he'd want it.

There's a way to be closer, and it'll come. Soon enough. Harry pulls slowly out, the last streaks of orgasm shaking his body, and stretches himself out over Sean, licking at the blood first before pressing his chest against the scratches and cuts. "Hmmm," he says, purring again as he reaches Sean's throat, lapping over the final slice he'd made, "it's tempting to leave you chained up, all night, tomorrow, and I can come and go out of the room, take you when I feel like it. Watch you squirm while I jerk off over you." It's a temptation he's not likely to give into, since he wants to wrap his arms around Sean, let Sean wrap around him, and sleep till noon. But it's worth giving voice to.

"Do I get a say in that?" Sean teases softly. "Because if I do, my say's that we do it later. When I'm not aching so hard to curl up with you. I'd..." He pauses, considers the offer, where it's coming from, makes sure it's his thoughts and not just his cock making it. "I'd let you cut me again," he whispers. "Let you cut me and chain me down. Jerk off over the lines you make and watch me try to tilt my head down far enough to lick your come and my blood off the top of my chest."

"I don't know, Sean," Harry says, exaggerating his lover's name back to its original spelling with that h and sinful au he can wrap his tongue around. "Next time I cut you, I won't restrain you." He smiles and reaches up, pressing the quick release and unlocking the manacles. "You'll lie down for me and hold yourself still." He rubs at Sean's wrist and then brings it to his lips, kissing the abrasions. "Need to clean you up a bit, after you do that curling up for a few minutes."

"You trust me to do that?" Sean asks softly. "To hold still under your knife?" He twists his hand in Harry's grip, rubs his thumb over Harry's lips. "You should," he murmurs. "I want to see what you've drawn on me when we have a chance. See what it looks like in the morning."

Harry kisses Sean's thumb, then the flat of his palm. "The matter of trust goes both ways, Sean." He half-turns, reaches behind his back and grabs the antiseptic and towels. "As in trust me, this is going to hurt." Twisting the cap off with one thumb and finger, he pops it off and pours the astringent liquid over Sean's neck and shoulder, letting it run down into the towel's edge, all the time gripping Sean's fingers in his. "Come morning, it'll be beautiful. White streaks carved out in the family emblem."

Sean damn near twists Harry's fingers off his hand, gripping hard as his face twists up in pain. There's the sting from the blade, and he's had men bite him 'til he bled and then lick over the wound with alcohol on their tongues, but God he's never felt anything like this. It burns, stings, twists him inside out all at once. "Jesus," he breathes, "fucking hell, Harry." Yours, he wants to say, but he's run out of breath for it.

"Sorry, lover, can't help this pain." Harry pours more of the liquid down across Sean's chest, watching it bubble and sluice away the blood. "Would much rather keep giving you the other kind." Harry's smiling now, his face lighter, as he sets the bottle aside and starts wiping the towel over the wound, clearing them completely. "If you'll let go of my hand long enough, I'll get us something to drink."

Sean can't even feel his own hand, let alone Harry's. He realizes his arm's tense all the way to the shoulder, though, and looks down it, then manages to exhale and loosen his grip. "Fuck," he murmurs. "Bloody sadist and a half, you are."

"And you're complaining about this?" Harry leans in, brush-kisses Sean's lips, sucking lightly on the lower one. "The man who wouldn't hear my no calls me a sadist. Hmmm. Guess that means we're meant for each other." He pulls his hand free of Sean's loosening grip and slides off the bed, picking up the daggers and antiseptic, depositing them on the table beside the bed as he makes his way to the kitchen. "Five minutes, tops, and I'll be back." He knows Sean wouldn't think he's not coming back, but he likes giving the reassurance. "Want anything special?"

Sean barely hears the last question. He's stuck on meant for each other and the fact that he can't disagree. "No," he says softly, shaking his head. "Just get back here soon as you can."

Harry's thinking as fills the pitcher with cold water. Meant for each other. You actually said it, Sinclair. No backing down. He doesn't want to take it back. Would much rather move forward on what it means. He grabs a bag of snacks and heads back to the bedroom. Under five minutes. "Here, thought you might be a bit hungry, too," he says, tossing the chips and crackers onto the bed. He pours a glass of water and passes it to Sean. "Need to rebuild your strength, anyway. I plan on fucking you again tonight." He settles onto the bed beside Sean, pushing the pillows against the headboard and leaning back.

"Big plans," Sean taunts, enough strength for that at least. He glances down at his chest, just barely able to make out some of Harry's lines on his skin. "You're not afraid you're going to open these up again? Or is that part of the appeal?" He slides his hand over to Harry's thigh, fingertips tickling at his skin.

"Open 'em up, lick up the blood and fuck you. All are appealing." Harry touches Sean's fingers even as he reacts to the tickling sensation, his leg jerking a bit. "Along with you fucking me somewhere around the middle of your third day off."

"Oh, you think I won't have the energy until then? Or is that when you're finally going to consent to being flipped again?" Sean grins. True, the last time he fucked Harry might not've invited a repeat performance from the average man, but then -- meant for each other. Harry's not average, not in any sense of the word, and there's something bloody fantastic about a lover one can fuck into a cold trailer wall while he's screaming no and who'll tell you just when and how you're going to get a chance to fuck him again.

The average man would've screamed rape and abuse and six other bloody protests, and most likely never spoken to Sean after being fucked so viciously. But then, as they both know very well, Harry isn't average. He thrives on the out-of-bounds, the borderline sane. And Harry understands Sean. He plays that way, too, and wouldn't be really happy doing it the way most people think normal.

"Both." Harry moves Sean's hand off his thigh and onto his cock. "How much sleep you want before I start?"

"As much as you'll give me," Sean whispers, squeezing Harry's cock and licking at his lips. "You're getting to be an addiction, mate. Better than coffee. Better than fags. How unhealthy are you going to be for me in the end?"

Harry moans. "You have the perfect touch, Sean. I could lie here for hours and just let you stroke my cock." He sighs, settles back against the pillows. It's easy to get comfortable with Sean around. Too easy. Harry's never been with anyone he's gotten this familiar with this quickly. Not even Peter; that took a good year just to start to swap spit. And then, even in a decade, they haven't begun to approach where Sean and Harry after a month.

Is it even a month? He turns on his side, running his fingers over the cuts he's made. "I can be as unhealthy as you allow, Sean. For as long as you let me."

Sean hasn't been one to think ahead in a long time. It's been all too easy just letting time pass as it will, letting people come and go and not thinking too hard on it when they're gone. It says something that he's tempted into thoughts of the future. That the first thing he wants to say isn't Let's take it one day at a time.

Instead it's "Could be a while, mate." And he takes Harry's hand and presses it into the lines on his chest. "Could be a very long while."

Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 10:02:00

Matter of Inertia 3 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 3: Force = Mass x Acceleration
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Definite noncon.
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: Not in any way reflective of reality.

And then it's Sean's turn to let off some steam...


The pins from the wig are all out of Sean's hair, and he runs both hands -- still in gloves -- through the crew cut, sighing at the feel of it. He's going to miss having more hair than this -- felt fucking good being tugged at -- but it's just as well; he'll do better for now with hair this short.

Getting out of the costume is a three-person process, and right now Sean's the only one in the trailer. He drops into a chair and tilts his head back. As long as he's got somewhere to sit, he can be patient. The costume's heavy, but he's dealt with worse.

Harry's going through script changes with an extra when he notices Sean duck into the trailer. He glances at his watch, knowing the schedule way too intimately, and realizes they're finished for the day, so he shoos the annoyingly suck-up Gondorian ranger off with a patented look and heads over. He's surprised to not hear more noise as he opens the door, the trailer eerily silent for decostuming. And he's more surprised to see Sean slumped into a chair, head tilted back, oblivious to the world.

"Is this how the Steward's son watches over my legacy?" he says as he steps in, straddles Sean's outstretched legs and braces his hands on the chair's arms. "Long day?"

"Aren't they all," Sean says. He opens his eyes, and the smirk's as natural as breathing. It comes with a bit of pink tongue swiping over his lips, too. He reaches up and cups a hand behind Harry's neck, leather against skin, and then he's dragging Harry down for a kiss. He doesn't give a damn if that puts them both off balance or if it knocks the chair over; he wants his mouth on Harry's. Wants the warmth and the gliding hot roughness of Harry's tongue rubbing up against his own. Among other things.

Amazingly enough, it doesn't knock the chair over, or else half a dozen people would come running to check on their stars. Harry keeps bracing, lets Sean take control for a moment, guide his mouth down, his tongue through those wind-chapped lips, finding the familiar taste of lingering tea from the morning's rushed breakfast filtered over last night's Guinness.

Familiarity's something Sean didn't expect to find in this kiss. Yeah, he's been out with Harry before, and he's had these lips crushed against his, hard enough to bruise them both, but fuck -- remembering the last morning he spent at Harry's house has Sean changing the hazy half-fantasized plans he'd come up with before Harry walked in. He cups his hands around Harry's neck and pushes him back a fraction, thumb against Harry's windpipe. "Damn," he breathes. "Think I could get away with putting you up against a wall and jerking you off?" He gives Harry's neck a light squeeze. "In the gloves?"

"I think a certain wardrobe mistress will have your balls if those gloves get messed up." Harry's turned on the idea, but he knows what havoc it'll unleash explaining come stains on the leather. He steps back, shrugs and smiles. "C'mon, let's get you changed, take you home and do it proper."

But Sean's coming up out of the chair, and his eyes are already going dark. "Don't think I feel like waiting that long," he says casually, flexing his hands to feel out the leather's limitations. He takes a step forward, and another one, and drops his hand to grab Harry's cock through his jeans. "And you can lick the come clean when I'm done with you. Won't be any evidence left to have anyone telling the difference."

It's been a long day, after a long night, and Harry's not in the mood. "Great idea, Sean. Another day. Not now." He puts a hand over Sean's, pulls it off. "Start unlacing. Sooner we get you out of that, the sooner you can get somewhere and have me."

"We're already somewhere," Sean points out. "And I can have you again after. Later. Somewhere more private." He backs Harry up a step, a quiet step that's pushing him closer and closer to the wall.

Harry backs up, one step, then another, and he's against the wall. "What part of this is not going through that dense skull of yours, Bean? I said let's go home." He puts his hands on Sean's shoulders, pushes him back and starts to move.

"And you could beg me to stop and it'd make no difference." Sean knocks one of Harry's hands aside, then shoves him hard against the wall. It makes a definite thud, but no attention-getting rattle, and Sean slides his hand from shoulder to throat. Sean's feet are braced for this, and he squeezes his hand just a touch, just enough to give Harry that uncomfortable feeling in his throat, like he needs to swallow and there's no way he's doing it without Sean's permission.

The move takes Harry by surprise. They haven't exactly been playing nice with each other the few times they've played, but that shove pushes pretty damned close to a line, one Harry skirted at the pub and Sean seems intent on crossing.

"I'm not fuckin' beggin' you to do anything," Harry gets out before Sean's fingers are at his throat, and the feeling should be triggering a flight instinct, self-preservation. It doesn't. It shoots to Harry's cock. But he's fucking not in the mood and Sean has to understand that, so he lashes out, hands going up to Sean's wrists, pulling at them.

"Fucking hold still," Sean snarls, actually lashing out with one hand and managing to hit Harry hard across the cheek. And then that hand's back on Harry's throat, pressing harder this time, fingers clamping down tight.

Sean's playing damned hard, and it catches Harry offguard for the briefest of moments. He can feel the sting of Sean's hand long after those fingers are back on his throat. Damned good feeling. Harry holds still, more from wanting to see what Sean'll do next than from being compliant. "Fuck you," he hisses out on short breaths.

"When we're home," Sean agrees immediately, free hand already tugging at Harry's fly and shoving in past the buttons.

Harry's brain runs through the scenario, trying to suss out what part of 'not right now' Sean doesn't care to grasp. "Get the fuck off me." The words are harsh and biting, clipped from the lack of oxygen to push them out properly. Rather than try to stop Sean's assault directly, Harry takes advantage of his hands being free and Sean's occupied, punching out in the short distance between and slamming his fist into the center of Sean's chest.

Sean coughs immediately, backing up a step. His hand's caught in Harry's fly, though, and he comes right back, sliding his hand down and getting Harry by the balls. The squeeze he gives is harder than a warning. Sean's done playing. "Fucking bastard," Sean mutters, "you know fucking well what you're into with me, so stop acting like such a cunt."

"Arrogant prick," Harry spits out, his throat free. "Damn well know what you're playing at." He grabs Sean's hand and curls the fingers under his, squeezing just as hard. "I'm not in a bloody mood to give it to you." He could easily break Sean's hand if he wants. "And don't ever call me a cunt."

"I'm not asking you to give me anything," Sean points out, and it's a standoff now, his hand on Harry's balls, Harry's hand twisting his fingers uncomfortably. "I'm telling you what you're going to take." He jerks his hand back, skin slipping against leather, and it uncurls his fingers enough for a shred of relief.

"Oh, you are?" Harry asks, voice calm but stern. He places his hands on Sean's upper chest and pushes hard, taking him off-balance enough for Harry to move forward, shove Sean back into the chair. "Think you can make me?" He shrugs, runs his hand through his hair and turns to leave. "Grow up, boy."

"Jesus Christ," Sean mutters under his breath. He tugs off his gloves, one after the other, both of them hitting the floor, and yeah, he'll catch hell for it later, but that doesn't matter. Not right now. He gets one bare hand clenched into the material between Harry's shoulders, and he jerks Harry back, bringing a hand up around his throat again.

This time he's not fooling around with teasing. He simply presses down on Harry's windpipe, on the arteries beside it, and holds tight. No more banter, and no more foreplay.

Sean doesn't cross the line. He obliterates it from existence, and Harry's gasping for air, instinct winning out over any kinked desires as his hands scramble for Sean's wrists. He's beyond words, past the point of trying to reason, but he's not going down that easily. If Sean wants it, he can take it, but it's gonna be without Harry's help.

Harry's vision blurs from focusing too hard, and his cheeks start to numb. He can count the seconds till he'd stop trying to fight, not want to breathe, and wonders if Sean's going to let up his hold. But what's the use. Either way, it's out of his control.

Sean's hands are going to be bruised and scratched, and his arms are holding so tight they're shaking. He's still holding on, and he'll keep holding until Harry's fighting for breath and not because he wants to push Sean away. "Bastard," Sean breathes. He presses his hips forward, grinding his cock against Harry's arse. "Fucking give over."

"No," less of a word than a noise, grated out through crushing windpipe. He scratches his nails down Sean's forearm, gouging enough so there'll be questions in makeup tomorrow morning.

"No, then," Sean says, jerking his hand off Harry's throat and shoving him the two steps it'll take to crush him face-first into the wall. He gets one of Harry's wrists in his hand, jerks it up between Harry's shoulder blades. And then jerks it up further, past where he'd play with a rough lover and into territory where the pain can't possibly be pleasant anymore.

Harry gasps for air, taking in the breaths too quickly, not certain when they'll be cut off again. It's fast turning from rough play to out-of-control. The first pain's good, shifts Harry's mind from throat to arm. But then it's like being pulled of its socket and Harry screams, an honest excruciating cry. "Fuck it, Sean. Stop. Tired of playing."

"Not playing," Sean says. His voice has gone quiet, deliberate, and he kicks Harry's legs apart, jerking his pants down around his thighs. "You could make it easy. Just agree to put your palms flat on the wall and have the smirk fucked out of you." He presses two dry fingers between Harry's buttocks, hard against the pucker there and just barely getting his fingertips inside. "But you won't, will you?"

"Sean, you don't," Harry starts, jerking away from the invasion, but there's nowhere to go, his body pinned nicely between Sean and the wall. He thinks, but his brain's not working, and his body's just reacting, which explains why he suddenly pushes back instead of forward. "C'mon, you're gonna take it whether I give it up or not. Admit you want the fight."

Sean goes silent for a few seconds, working his fingers in further, twisting them when Harry's body doesn't give fast enough for his tastes. He leans forward, then, tightening his grip on Harry's arm all over again. "All right," Sean whispers. "I want you struggling while I fuck you, and yeah, I fucking like the idea that you're taking it knowing you've got nowhere to go."

Harry bites back the expletive-laced scream as Sean's fingers scrape and claw inside him. Sean wants struggle. He can damned well have it. Harry shoves his free arm back into Sean's ribs. "Goddamned bastard. You're gonna pay for every minute of it," he slurs out, face plastered against the wall.

"Good," Sean snarls, impact from Harry's blow only making him want this more. He lets Harry's arm go, finally, giving it one last hard wrench as he does, and it's only so he can pin Harry to the wall with a hand to the back of his neck, grind his face against thin steel and keep him there.

Letting go doesn't do a damned thing to make it feel better, and Harry's arm tingles in intense pain as circulation returns. Tit-for-tat response, fingers on the back of the neck instead of his throat this time, and it's damned arousing. Harry's cock hardens immediately, constrained against cool metal. "Wouldn't do a damned thing to say stop, would it?" The question's fairly rhetorical.

"Get me harder," Sean says, pulling his fingers out of Harry's arse and pushing through layer after layer to unlace his trousers. "Might get you fucked harder."

"Huh?" Harry's a thought behind Sean, almost ready to complain at the sudden emptiness. "You're fucked, Bean. Slam me up the wall and now you want me to help. Christ."

"I was answering your question, Sinclair," Sean smirks, tugging his cock free of too goddamned many layers of velvet and stroking himself hard. "What would it do if you said stop? It'd get me harder. Not that I need the help." His hand squeezes the back of Harry's neck, nearly an affectionate move.

Oh, that makes more sense. Harry shakes his head clear. "No, don't imagine you do." The touch unnerves, like not knowing which way a scene's going, but it's still rough and Harry's not moving, except to breathe, and that's damned iffy.

Sean moves his free hand to his mouth and spits into it. He slicks his palm over his cock, and then presses the head of his cock between Harry's buttocks, taking everything slow. Not easy, no, but slow and deliberate, with Sean's breath coming out warm against Harry's cheek. "You can beg if you want," Sean murmurs.

Harry hears the spit and laughs. Ain't gonna be easy. "Beg for what? Ain't begging for what I don't want." Harry's body tenses as Sean's cock presses into his ass, the rub of flesh on flesh. Flesh. Skin. Whoa. Something's wrong. Harry flashes on that Sean's not wearing a condom. "Forget something, mate?" he says, squirming under Sean's hold, at best a half-hearted protest. "You wouldn't be thinking," his voice trails off in a moan as Sean leans in, pushes him more solidly into the metal.

"I am thinking," Sean breathes, pressing in a little harder. Harry's body isn't making it easy, isn't taking him with the least bit of grace, and that means Sean has to shove forward hard, skin dragging against skin as his cock begins the first warm thrust inside. He's only in past the head of his cock before he has to stop. "Thinking how sweet your arse is going to feel taking me in. And you already convinced me you don't want it nice, so--" and he shoves in another half-inch, growling-- "no lube, no rubber, and you can fucking bite the wall and take it."

"Godfriggindamned, no!" Harry screams, punching back at Sean with his elbow, burying his head in the wall's grooves rather than biting it, knowing if he bangs too loudly, it'll just echo outside, probably bring onlookers they don't need. "You bastard." It's just the way he wants it, hard and rough and anything but safe.

The elbow catches Sean in the ribs, and then he's got his hand on Harry's arm, dragging it to the wall and pinning it there. He comes up on his toes to shove in again, harder -- fuck, yes -- and there's another inch, and now it's just a matter of growling and grunting and getting all the way in. He leans in to bite at Harry's earlobe. "Fucking sweet, mate," he growls.

"Fuckin' sweet, my arse," Harry mutters, near silent against the wall. It's pain, pure and simple and agonizing. Harry's moaning, his body tightening instead of opening, making Sean's push in even more difficult. He jerks his head away from the bite, snarling. "Stop it, Sean. Too much."

"I thought we already covered this," Sean pants, dropping both hands to Harry's hips and pulling him back hard, as he's shoving in the last few inches. "Stop doesn't mean a goddamned thing."

It's a relief for Sean to be all the way in. Harry's body eases down from where he'd unconsciously gone up on his toes. No, stop doesn't mean a damned thing. And he's not about to safeword, either. He doubts Sean would even hear that. "Then, move, damnit. Get it over with."

"Christ, you're fucking greedy," Sean says, "but I knew that," and the slide out is rough but easier, the slide back in easier still. The feel of his cock stretching and opening Harry is too good to measure, and he's biting down hard on Harry's shoulder to keep from growling out how goddamned good it feels in tones that everyone'll hear.

Harry throws his head back when Sean sinks back in, then jerks his own wrist up, biting on it as Sean starts pushing in and out, worrying and tearing the skin, the pain not denting what Sean's causing. "No more so than you, mate," Harry pants out at the first hint of copper, his blood swirling on his tongue. "Don't want this. So badly. Fuck."

"You keep saying that," Sean pants, "like you think I care -- like it's going to make a difference..." The thrusts are shallower now, Sean's skin burning as he pushes in hard, drags himself back. It never gets easy, taking someone dry, and the friction's always too good to last.

"Just finish it. You don't give a damn about what I want." Harry's resigned to being torn apart, of hurting into next week, of not getting on that damned horse. "Shite." Middle of being fucked to the point of breaking, and Harry flashes on that he's committed to go riding with Viggo and Karl tomorrow. He shoves his head into the wall, slides his arm up it, blood trickling down, and pushes back, urging Sean to just make the bad worse.

"You keep begging me to finish and it's just going to make me want to fuck you 'til you bleed." Sean's bluffing; he's not going to last more than another half-dozen hard thrusts. He grips Harry's hips and tugs him back, knowing just how bad he's hurting Harry with it, and maybe there's a part of him that wants to send Harry out tomorrow so sore people know he was Sean's tonight.

"Wanna know something, mate?" Harry slurs out. "You're damned near there."

"Fuck," Sean bites out, and just the thought of that sends him over, one hoarse cry tearing loose from him before he can remember to bite down on Harry's shoulder. He goes up on tiptoe when he comes, slamming in hard and fast and shallow, every bite and every growl a rough demand for anything and everything Harry can give him.

"Christ, that's ..." Harry can't get the thought out, Sean pounding into him, spilling out, filling him. It's been so fucking long since he was taken like that. Hell, he's not sure he's ever been taken quite like that. He's on the edge, wanting to come, needing it, shoving his cock against the grooved metal, desperately seeking the friction, then he starts to slide his hand down the wall to give himself that release.

"Ah, no, you're not getting it like that," Sean says, pulling away from Harry fast -- too fast -- and shoving at his shoulders, dropping him to his knees. He kneels down with Harry, and puts his hand on Harry's neck again, caressing more than cutting off his air this time. "You want to come, you do it from your knees."

There's nowhere to go but down. "Do I get to use my hands, mate?" Harry smarts off. "Or you gonna do it for me?"

"I remember you coming just from being fucked into a counter's edge," Sean says, grinning. The hand on Harry's neck tightens, releases, teases with the promise of cutting off Harry's air, and his other hand moves around, finds its way under Harry's shirt so fingernails can scratch over his nipple.

"Yeah, and I was in a fuckin' better mood then," Harry snaps, wrapping his hand around his cock, stroking hard, willing the pain to balance itself out from wrenched shoulder into the nipple Sean's scratching as he makes long pulls down his cock.

"Oh, you seem in a fine enough mood," Sean counters, fingers pinching down on Harry's nipple. He licks his way up the side of Harry's neck. "You get fucked into a wall screaming no the whole way and now you want to get off? How much should I listen to you when you say no, Harry?"

No answer for that one, Harry just shakes his head and works his cock faster. "Wanna get off 'cause you got me damned worked up, fuckin' bastard." He doesn't want to, but finds himself leaning back into Sean's touches, licks. "Christ, yes." Another minute and he's coming, coating his hand, cock pulsing hard as he jerks himself through the orgasm.

Sean moves his hand from Harry's throat to his hair, and drags his head back, leaning in to bite at his neck, his throat. "Fucking hot, you are that, you know it?" Sean pants out. "If I hadn't just fucked you into the goddamned wall I'd be wanting you again."

Harry allows the bite, for as long as it takes him to come, then he yanks free of Sean's hold, then turns on his knees and mushes his hand into Sean's face, rubbing the white strands all over. "How's that for fuckin' hot?" He shoves hard, pushing Sean backward. "Want more, Sean?"

"Son of a--" Sean growls and struggles for Harry's hand. "You want to give more? Is that what you're after now?"

"Me? Nah. You're gonna give next." Harry leans over Sean and rubs his fingers over Sean's lips, pushing inside, all the while smiling like a Cheshire cat. "You're gonna get changed, we're going home and then we're gonna discuss the meaning of no."

Sean bites down on Harry's fingers, not hard enough to draw blood, just enough to keep them there while he licks Harry's come from them. His eyes are more amused then irritated now, and he grins when Harry pulls his hand back. "Then you'd better let me get out of my costume, hadn't you?"

"Yeah." Harry sits back against the wall. "G'head, mate. I'll just watch."

"Ah, fuck you. Not going to help at all?" Sean struggles to get to his feet, and looks around for a handkerchief, something to wipe his face clean with. "It's why I was sitting here in the first place. Can't get the damn thing off on my own."

The laugh hurts his ribs. "Let's see. If I say no, would you understand?"

"I'd say you're a fucking bastard," Sean says, shaking his head, grinning, "but if you're going to say no now, maybe I'll take that for an answer."

Harry sits a few more minutes, watches Sean struggle with the bindings and trappings of the Boromir costume, then he slowly pulls himself to his knees, straighten out all clothes and in another minute or so manages to get to his feet. "You're gonna rip that," he says, moving Sean's hands away. He sighs, shakes his head. "Only reason I'm helping is to get you home quicker for the payback. Understood?"

Sean flashes all his teeth in his grin, and his eyes are narrowed. "Understood, mate." With both of them working on it, it doesn't take long for Sean to get out of all his layers, and the open air feels fucking fantastic on bare skin.

"Not saying you should'n't've listened," Harry says, tossing Sean jeans and shirt. "Not even saying you're not gonna pay for it." He picks up the discarded leather gloves and slips them onto his hands. "But that was fuckin' incredible, mate." He eases his gloved hand up Sean's back onto his neck. "Bet I could talk my way out of a few pieces of our costumes disappearing."

"Bet you could," Sean says, climbing into his jeans and elbowing Harry away so he can tug the shirt over his head. "But who's saying you'd get to do anything with them?"

"You just start saying no and I'll go right on with what I've got planned." Harry nudges Sean back, more playful than spiteful at this point, and pulls the gloves off, tucking them into his back jeans pocket. "You finished there?"

"Yeah," Sean says, still rubbing at his face a bit. His skin's going to itch until he has the opportunity to clean up a little better, but God, it was worth it. "Or should I say no and get us started early?"

That earns Sean the head punch he's been working on since Harry walked into the trailer. It's more a cuff, though, a hard swat Harry delivers backhanded with the arm that's not throbbing. "I'm outta here. You ridin' with me?"

"Yeah," Sean says. He gets a hand on Harry's arm -- the one that is still throbbing -- and digs his fingers into Harry's forearm. "Hey. Did I tell you it's fucking good to see more of you? Despite the way it might've looked."

Harry winces. He'll decide after a long, scalding shower whether or not Sean needs to pop that back into place. "You got a damned rough way of saying missed you," he smirks. "But, yeah, same here. Who knows, we might survive as far as the fifth date."


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 10:01:00

Matter of Inertia 2 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 2: Resisting Acceleration
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Kink and semi-con
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not in any way reflective of reality.

It's been a rough day; Sean meets Harry at a pub and finds out what it takes to make his new lover relax.


Sean winds his way through the crowd, nodding at familiar face after familiar face -- God, there are a lot of people here tonight. The pub's usually full, but not like this.

It's too warm to think, so Sean takes his beer and heads to the outside terrace, where a great many blokes with cigarettes are making small cinder glows in the dark and the sound of laughter is barely audible.

He picks out a table at the edge of the terrace and sits down, propping one foot up on the empty chair beside him, and he reaches into his jacket for cigarettes and lighter. It's been an exhausting day, but a decent one, and he's ready to relax.

Harry's official role isn't that large, basically a bit part as far as screen time, but his unofficial duties have him running interference between unit directors and listening to Peter complain about actors with too many questions.

One of those actors is his on-again/off-again, Parker, who's on the director's shit list at the moment. And Harry's, too. So he ditched everyone and headed to the pub, grabbing a corner table on the deck and telling the girl to just keep the Guinness coming till he's either under the table or pays his tab. He's nursing a new one, sprawled back and just watching the natives try not to be restless.

When Harry's third Guinness meets the table, Sean decides he's curious enough to ask. He hasn't seen much of Harry since that night, the night as far as Sean's concerned lately, and there's no reason not to say hello.

He drops into the chair across from Harry and sets his beer down in front of him. "Rough mood?"

He won't bother to reprimand Sean for not asking to sit down. "Too much troubleshooting," Harry says. He's been wondering when Sean would bother to say more than two words again or propose they pick up where they left off that night. "Problem with being the director's whipping boy," Harry says with a laugh, knowing who's who and what's what. "You boys misbehave and I get yelled at."

"Got anyone to take it out on?" Sean asks quietly.

"Not that I want to see," Harry says, sipping at his beer. "You offering?"

No reason to play coy. "Yeah," Sean says. "Still haven't gotten around to date two yet." He raises an eyebrow.

"No. Not yet." Harry glances around. Pub crowd's about right. "Date two. Think we could start it right here."

"You get more and more interesting every time I see you," Sean murmurs. "All right. Here. What did you have in mind?"

"Well, I've had a shite day. Could use a nice blow with this brew." Harry's smirk gets drowned in his Guinness.

"Try again," Sean says. He'll do a lot, but just dropping to his knees on the deck's past even Sean's ability to get pushed. Probably.

"No, don't think so." Harry stands up, moves behind Sean and places his hand on the back of Sean's neck, gripping tightly. "I know what I want."

Shite. Bluff's been called. Sean's teeth click together, and he forces himself to swallow. He's hard, and half wanting to do it just to do it -- fuck what people watching think -- while the other half of him wants what he'll draw out of Harry in return for this.

"You want it?" Sean asks, still quiet. No reason to attract more attention than they're about to. "Take it."

That's all he needs, and Harry pushes Sean forward, increasing his hold, digging fingers into flesh. "On your knees," he whispers harshly against Sean's ear. "Now. Or I will make a scene." Harry's not too concerned about the fuss they'll cause. He knows the pub, the kind of things he and other locals have done here, on the deck, over the tables in the back.

Sean slips out of his chair and onto his knees. The boards are cold under him, and he can feel the dampness soaking through denim as he settles down. He looks up at Harry, trying to decide how far to takes this, and slides his hands behind his back, getting his legs parted for balance.

Harry could come just from watching Sean go to his knees, but that would negate the fun. He slides his hand up into Sean's hair, tugs hard, pulling Sean's face up. "Perfect." He steps back, leans into the deck railing. "You good enough to do this without your hands?"

"You've had it before," Sean points out, just this side of smug. "You going to give me any help?" He shuffles forward a step and half-kneels up, leaning in to press his face into Harry's crotch. He's not going to think about how much he's blushing.

"Oh, I'm gonna give you lots of help." Harry doesn't release Sean's hair, but works his jeans free with his other hand and wastes no time freeing his cock, which he roughly pushes over Sean's lips. "Yeah. Had it. But I'm betting it could be better." He tangles his fingers in Sean's blond mass, yanking him forward.

Sean's mouth opens, and he barely has time to wet his lips before Harry's cock is sliding between them. Doesn't even have time to think before he's choking, and he struggles under Harry's grip, trying to get Harry's cock down at the right angle.

A little more and he'd be able to deepthroat, shove himself forward inch by inch and let his throat close around the head of Harry's cock. Forget breathing. Forget the crowd. Forget anything but the way Harry tastes, Sean thinks, and his eyes close as he sucks harder and presses forward.

Harry thrusts harder, taking great delight in seeing just how much Sean can take before he chokes, and then he might go a bit farther. Sean's mouth is perfect for sucking. "That's a good boy, Sean," he hisses, holding him steady against brutal thrusts.

Sean's cock jerks in his pants, and he goes pliant under Harry's hand, under the pressure and force of his cock. Once in a while he gets to draw a breath, and the air tastes good; the rest of the time it's letting Harry take him, and forgetting everything else. And that tastes better.

Sliding his hand to the back of Sean's neck, it's easy to calculate when to push, take Sean to the edge of not breathing at all. Harry's getting harder, and much as he wants to come down Sean's throat, pull out and wash his face in white strands of it, he's wanting something else more. He's nearly there when he tugs sharply on Sean's neck.

"Off," he snaps out. "On your feet."

Sean blinks and then pulls back, glancing up at Harry's expression. He can't make a damn thing out. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand as he comes to his feet.

Harry releases Sean's neck and moves his hand to a wrist, turning Sean around, pulling him back a step into his body, his fingers holding tightly and pulling Sean's arm between them. "I'm going to fuck you," he whispers harshly, sliding his free hand down to the waistband of Sean's pants, "with all these nice people not watching."

Sean blinks and shakes his head slightly; yeah, it's dark, and no, there aren't many people out here, but they're in fucking public. This is pushing limits. "No," he murmurs. Fuck, he wishes his cock were backing him up on this; he's harder than he's been since... well. Since the last time he was with Harry.

"That wasn't a question." Harry's words are biting and he twists Sean's arm up in the tight space between his chest and Sean's back, fingers digging into the wrist. "It was statement of fact." He hurriedly undoes Sean's pants, roughly loosens them.

"Christ," Sean breathes. "More twisted than I gave you credit for." He wonders if Harry's counting on the fact that Sean won't make more of a scene here than he already has. He keeps looking out at the faces in the crowd, trying to figure out who's watching and who's not.

"Which is more twisted, Sean? That I'm going to fuck you in public?" Harry pulls his hand back, digs in his pocket for a condom. "Or that you're not gonna fight it?" He's too familiar with having to do this one-handed, he thinks, or maybe just too practiced, but he manages to rip open the packet and push Sean forward enough to roll the condom on.

Sean doesn't have an answer for that. He gets his legs spread apart, shoulder-width, and tilts his head up, searching out stars. Harry's right; he's not fighting it, for all that he said no before.

Harry's a bit surprised. He expected a bit more fight than that. Not that he's complaining, and he's definitely smiling. "You're such a slut," he says, pushing the fabric out of his way and shoving two fingers into Sean. "Want it, don't you. In all the wrong ways."

"Fuck," Sean growls under his breath. "Fucking want it, yeah. Not right here. Not like this. But I want you fucking me."

"But this," he says, punctuating words with a twisting probe, his fingers flexing and scratching back over Sean's prostate, "is how you're gonna take it."

Sean jerks away, but he doesn't get far with Harry's grip on his arm. "Fucking bastard," he grits out. "You know what you're getting in return for this?"

A couple more thrusts, another growl and Harry's pulling out, wiping his hand on Sean's jeans. "Let me guess," he says, lining up his cock and pushing in, a single hard thrust that pulls Sean up on his toes and doesn't stop until he's seated deep. He lets go of Sean's wrist, grabs at the waist and pulls his new playmate back. "Something painful. Something rough. Something that'll leave me black and blue."

"That's not the fucking half of it," Sean gets out through rough breaths, groaning and trying not to let himself tighten up too sharply. Jesus, Harry's filling him so hard Sean can almost feel it in the back of his throat, and Sean's neck arches, head settling back onto Harry's shoulder. "You're not fucking afraid of anything, are you?"

"No." Simple answer. Truthful. There's not really anything that frightens Harry. "I like living on the edge. Closer to the precipice, the better." He worries at Sean's neck with his teeth, half-biting, just enough to make him want more. "Fuck, you're tight. Such a good slut for me." He pushes forward, holding Sean steady against the brutal thrusts, using the rail against his arse for leverage. "What scares you?"

"Not getting enough," Sean blurts out, then curses under his breath; more than he wanted to let out this early in the game. He shoves back against Harry, looking to distract him. "Wanted it so bad? Take it. Just fucking take it."

"Oh, no need to worry 'bout that. We'll make sure you get enough." Harry's positive Sean didn't mean to let that out, but it's there, no taking it back. He's just gonna have to take it all now. He moves his hands, left one first, slipping it down and clutching at Sean's cock. Not a grip. Or grasp. Just random clutchy groping, not even in rhythm to his slow, pounding fucks.

"Son of a--" Sean gasps and drops a hand over Harry's, squeezing hard. "Give," he growls, and finally he doesn't give a damn who's watching. "Harder."

"Want me to get them to pay attention?" Harry hisses the words against Sean's ear as he slides his right hand up and onto Sean's throat, fingers dancing at making indents. "I could start a line." He lets Sean manipulate their joined hands on Sean's cock as he fucks the body. "Right here. Let every last one of them fuck you." His fingers press a little harder, thumb finding its niche on the artery at the right side of Sean's neck. "Would you like that, slut?"

"Nnn." Sean presses his body back against Harry's, trying to breathe. "Please," he whispers, no inflection to give away whether he means please, yes or please, no.

Harry doesn't really care what the please is for. He tightens his grip on cock and throat and pounds particularly hard into Sean's arse. "Never had anyone as eager as you," he rasps out, fingers seeking out those points where the wind can be trapped on its passage from the lungs, "desperate to take so much."

Sean would answer if he could draw the air for it. Except he doesn't know what he'd say. Maybe he is that eager, or maybe there's something about Harry that draws hunger out of him. And it doesn't matter anyway. He feels his vision going red, and he arches his neck under Harry's hand, grip on Harry's hand going hard. He's close enough he's shuddering now, and that tight grip is all that's keeping him from going over.

There's a wonderful moment, just before it's too late to pull back, when the breath's nearly gone and the brain's screaming for the body to shut down. Harry feels it creep over Sean, slither to his cock and pulse under Harry's hand. It pulls Harry in, forces him to release, coming strong and viciously with a slamming thrust. And it forces him to constrict his control of Sean's body, fingers digging into flesh, not yielding until the second before that last moment.

Sean's mouth opens wide, and he struggles to suck air in. Harry's cock pulsing in his arse is enough to send him over, but goddamnit that grip on his cock -- fuck, it's going to hurt coming through that -- and Sean can only set his teeth and take it, because hurting or not, he has to come. Has to let himself rest against Harry's body and come for him, cock jerking under their hands, come streaking out across their fingers.

"Oh, that's good, slut," Harry says, finally moving his hand, stroking Sean's cock, soaking it in come. He gives Sean's throat a last squeeze, hears the near-silent gasp and releases his fingers, leaning in his chin onto Sean's shoulder, pulling him tight against his chest. "I feel so much better."

Sean grits his teeth together, squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck, that hurts. His hands go back to Harry's thighs and squeeze hard, but he's not asking Harry to stop.

"Know what. I'm greedy. I don't wanna share you." Harry bites into Sean's shoulder, the hint of copper tanging his teeth. "Rest of 'em can find their own sluts to fuck." He licks over the wound. "Wanna take you home, do this right, with you bent over the bed's end."

Sean jerks under Harry's teeth, breathes out through his own. "All right," he whispers. "You can have me any way you want tonight." His fingers dig into Harry's thighs even harder. "And the next night's mine."

"Right," Harry says, licking his lips into a smirk. "Something about payback for this." He drops his voice to more of a whisper. "And then, on date seven, I wanna do this again. In the light." He lets his fingers unwrap from Sean's cock. "Maybe on set, even, with everyone watching as you twist in my hands."

"I'd tell you not to hold your breath," Sean warns, "but you'd probably like holding your breath either way." He comes forward, pulling away from Harry's cock and groaning as he slides his jeans back over his hips. He turns around and presses Harry back against the deck railing. "Give me that mouth of yours," he murmurs, leaning in and flicking his tongue across Harry's bottom lip.

"You'll have to find out for yourself, Sean." Shifting with the turn, Harry slips his hands around Sean's waist, opening his mouth, flicking his tongue out in welcoming response, wanting to savor the tastes of a newfound lover.

Sean's hands come up to cup Harry's face, and he presses his tongue in, a slow, dancing kiss that tastes before exploring, explores before pushing for more, deepening the kiss until he's nearly fucking Harry's mouth with his tongue.

Harry wonders if the guy in the corner, the one whose face is obscured by shadows, the one who has been watching, is still staring. He can't see, his eyes closed now as fucking turns to something more intimate. Sean's taste is different, earthier, more rarefied than what he's been having. He pushes back, taking the kiss to almost bruising.

Sean pulls back, finally, rubbing a thumb over Harry's cheek. "You'd take everything," he murmurs, "keep taking until the well runs dry, wouldn't you?"

That draws a smile, wry but genuine. "Then we just have to prime it again, don't we, when that happens?" Harry looks past Sean, doesn't see the man anymore, shakes off the nagging feeling of wanting to know who it was. "Wanna stay 'round for another beer? Or pick some up on the way home?"

Another sweep of his thumb down Harry's cheek, and Sean nods. "Pick something up," he murmurs, and then, almost as an afterthought, "whose home?"

Harry shivers at the ghosting thumb. "Mine. Don't think you've seen it."

"Not yet," Sean says. He steps back, slides one hand down Harry's chest to his cock and squeezes hard. "All right. Yours. Let's go."

"Message received. Loud and clear." Harry deftly grabs Sean's wrist and pulls his hand away, then hitches up his jeans, not bothering to tuck the shirt in. "When we get home, mate. It's only the second date."


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 10:00:00

Matter of Inertia 1 (SB/HS) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 1: Put Into Motion
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Harry Sinclair
Warnings: Kink and semi-con.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not in any way reflective of reality.

Harry's been watching Sean from across the room. Normally Sean doesn't move this fast, but Harry's got a look in his eyes that says it might be worth it...


It's a few months into filming and these impromptu gatherings at Peter Jackson's house are quickly becoming a habit. Harry's shown up, mostly because he's at a lull in writing and bored and then there was the note from the man himself, a terse You will show up tonight. scrawled in Philippa's English Ideas "Burberry" lipstick on the bathroom mirror.

So, Harry's nursing a Foster's and randomly chatting up a Hobbit. Monaghan, he thinks, as he's always confusing this one with "bright eyes" (sometimes known as Lij), since they're always attached at the hip.

Then he notices the blond. Tall enough. Stocky, but slender where it counts. Harry knows he should know the bloke's name, but he's drawing a blank.

"So, Jacko, who's the blond?" he asks, pointing his pint.

Peter Jackson looks up from the chair, where he's ensconced himself, holding court barefoot and in shorts, and damned content to be both. "Oh, that's our Boromir, mate. I know you met him."

"I did?" Harry's still not placing him. Knows he hasn't met him. He's still staring, not caring about being noticed, either by the blond or that nearly insipid Bloom creature he's talking to.

"Sean Bean. British," Jackson continues. "You interested, Harry?"

"Who wouldn't be? Not as if I don't have the time."

"What? Parker not enough for you."

Harry laughs. Craig Parker, his on-off boyfriend/slave/whatever it's called, is currently off, more interested in toying with other elves than humans. "You know Craig. Flightier than a Cessna." He catches the blond's eye, nods.

"What 'bout Karl? That nothing?"

"It's fun, but that boy's got so many irons in his fire I don't try to keep up with 'em." Karl Urban's more on, than off, but Harry doesn't consider it serious enough to not play elsewhere.

"Well, go introduce yourself," Jackson says. "I'll tell Fran and Philippa not to count on that fourth this weekend."

Sean's used to being watched across rooms. Even used to being looked at like it's dinner and he's on the menu. He pokes at Orlando and nods across the room. "You know him?" he asks; Orlando knows everyone.

"Which? The one's been watching you all night?" Orlando shakes his head. "Nah, mate, haven't met him. You want to get yourself an introduction? Just go say something."

Sean shakes his head. "Maybe later." He's still sore from the last go-round with Viggo and he's not really in the mood to have someone eat him for lunch, dinner, breakfast and second breakfast. He gets another club soda from the counter and sips at it thoughtfully, trying to place the face and running through a list of possible names, until he's spent long enough over in the corner to make an exit without anyone noticing he's leaving the party early.

Harry notices Sean slipping out, but only because he's been tracking the blond Brit's movements, curious as hell about which people he talks to, who he avoids. He spends most of the time talking to Bloom, which Harry doesn't count as good or bad, even though his opinion of the young man isn't the greatest. Harry notes he's playful with the hobbit actors. Harry isn't sure which one it is that gets the arm around the neck and hair tousle. And, most interestingly, Harry notes a coolness when their new Aragorn walks by. Somebody else doesn't think Mortensen walks on water.

As Sean makes the front door, Harry gets up and grabs a beer to go, heading out the same door onto the porch, casually pulling out a pack of cigs and fishing for his light in his pants pockets. He figures he'll amble a bit, and if he catches up with the bloke, all the better. If not, there's tomorrow.

Out of the crush of people, Sean lets out a long, quiet breath, reaching into a pocket for cigarettes. He stops midpace to light one, then exhales up into the darkness. The stars all look so damned different here; it's another reminder of how far he is from home.

The slight noise of the door opening and closing again gets his attention, though, and he turns to look over his shoulder. There he is again. Sean still doesn't have a name to put to that face. He lifts an eyebrow.

He stops fishing. "Mind if I get a light?" It's not the most original opening line, but it's damned honest. Harry steps closer, skirting the edge of acceptable personal space limit.

Sean tugs his lighter out of his pocket and cups his hand around Harry's cigarette, shielding it from any stray air currents as he gets the cigarette lit. "I'm Sean," he murmurs, pulling back and snapping the lighter closed. "And you've been watching me."

"Name's Harry. Sinclair." Harry takes a long pull off the cigarette, lets the smoke work its way into his body before continuing. "Yeah, I've been watching you. Something to occupy the evening rather than talk about elves."

Sean chuckles. "I can see where you'd get bored of that," he says. "Which elves do you normally talk about?" They keep moving from chat-up line to outright statements of interest and back again; it has Sean off-balance, but he doesn't mind the feel of that. The pavement's only so hard, and if he's rocked off his feet completely, he knows how to take a fall.

"Well, there's the one I fuck on occasion." Harry's never had much use for the term 'shagging' since it doesn't sound nearly as painful, which is what sex is supposed to be. And they're back to blatant statements. "And there's the one you were chatting up, that half the cast is fucking or wants to. Which camp do you fall into?" Harry figures that'll either knock Sean onto the pavement or he'll volley back and the game'll be on for real.

"I'm not for either," Sean says. "More partial to men than elves. For fucking, anyway," he clarifies. "And not for half the cast." He doesn't want to explain that -- that he's singleminded and picky and he doesn't just fuck everyone who asks him, even if it's an interesting not-quite-made-yet offer over a cigarette on a quiet night. It's too much to let go for a typically quiet man, so Sean lifts his own cigarette to his lips and exhales a thin line of smoke through pursed lips.

"Haven't tried the men," he starts, pausing 'cause that's not really true if he's counting Karl, but Karl predates "Rings" so it doesn't really count. "And I haven't worked my way through the cast. Not even trying." He's a bit more selective than that. "Just the one elf and that Rohan warrior, but I've had them for a while." He's not making an offer, not exactly, and not that quickly. It's more about the game, the give and take and seeing where it'll go. He takes a few quick puffs, then lifts the beer bottle to his lips, taking a long swig before holding it out to Sean. "Want?"

"No," Sean says, shaking it off. He's had enough beer for one night, and he doesn't really need the thought of wrapping his lips around glass that just had Harry's on it. "Thanks. I was heading away... heading home for the night." He pauses. "Are you done with the party?"

Harry shrugs, pulls back the bottle, resists making the snarky joke about germs and such. "Yeah, done with it," he says, taking a few quick puffs off the cigarette. "Walk or drive?"

"Walked over," Sean says. "It was warmer when I got here."

"Want a ride home?" It's not an offer. Well, not an official offer, not for anything more than a ride. "Don't know where you're living, but it can't be that far off my path."

Sean thinks about that. Wonders what he's promising by saying yes. "Thanks," he murmurs. "Yeah, I'd like that. Can't remember my address worth a damn, but I can point you the way by the landmarks."

Harry laughs. "You're a Kiwi already. We don't do addresses, mate. Just point this way." He motions left with the beer bottle. "Or that." Then right with the cig. "And we head out." He moves off the porch, down the steps. "C'mon, car's over here."

Sean slides into the car and fumbles for the seatbelt, getting himself buckled in. Safety conscious. Sean sighs at himself. He's going to be the one member of the cast who doesn't go bungee jumping. "Just start by going straight a while," he says. "So what are you doing for Rings?"

The car's nothing fancy, but it'll do, and Harry heads off down the road from Peter's house, not too fast. He doesn't want to scare his passenger right off. "Officially, I'll get a credit as Isildur," he says. "Unofficially, I'm moral support and someone for Jacko to scream at when he gets right pissed at you boys." He's down the drive and needs a direction. He knows Sean's walk would've been as the crow flies, and a lot shorter than the drive's going to be. "Which way you think?"

"Left," Sean says, sounding sure of himself, and looks down the road to double-check. Yeah, definitely left. "And then a right the next time you can. I'm playing Boromir. First time in a while I haven't been the bad guy, and the scripts I'm looking at other than this one I'm the bad guy again. Must be the menacing look in my eyes," he grins, and the grin does somehow look menacing.

"Ah, but Boromir is one of the bad guys." Harry takes the left, tries to place where they are and remembers the right he needs will be a couple miles. "Now, not as nasty Isildur. He's not betraying a whole people. But he does try to take the ring, and that puts him on the bad boys' list." He pauses, glances over at Sean. "I imagine you're on that list in real life, too. You a bad boy, Sean?" He says it with enough of a smirking lilt that Sean can take it in several ways.

"That depends," Sean says, reaching for the ashtray and stubbing out his cigarette. "What does bad get me in this car?"

"Depends." Still 'bout a half mile to the turnoff. "How bad can you be and not fuck up my driving? Not in any mood to end up in the hospital tonight," he says, pausing, "well, not for an auto accident."

Sean thinks about the path back to his house. "After the right," he says, "there's a short drive past about a half-dozen houses, and a bridge, and there's a curve left. I'm four houses down, little white thing with a hell of a garden out front. Can you remember that?"

"Six. Bridge. Curve. Four. Garden." Harry shorthands it. "Yeah, I can remember that. Not rocket science." He slows up, gets ready to make the turn.

Safety-conscious Sean stops worrying about safety so much, then, and slips out of his seatbelt, running a hand up Harry's thigh and reaching for the fly of his jeans.

The turn's simple enough, spinning the wheel to the right, and Harry manages it easily, smiling at Sean's hand moving along the jeans' buttons. It's a good start to being bad. Six houses, he thinks to himself, and starts counting.

Harry's jeans are too fucking tight, Sean thinks, mentally growling about it, but Sean's fingers are nimble, and he has the buttons undone before they get to the bridge. That accomplished, he slides his hand inside, squeezing, working Harry's cock out of its constraints and sliding his hand up its length once it's out in the open.

Harry thinks about stopping Sean's hand, for all about six seconds between the third and fourth houses on the right, but by then the fingers are working through the buttons and Harry's not any reason to stall it. Especially not after Sean's stroking so nicely as they cross the bridge and take the left turn.

"Lift your arm up," Sean murmurs, taking his hand off Harry's cock long enough to tug slightly at his sleeve.

With a knowing smile, Harry obliges, sliding his hand up the wheel, raising his arm. "Four houses down," he says absently. "There's one."

Sean leans down and gets his head under Harry's arm, using his hand to guide Harry's cock right where he wants it. "Mm-hm," he murmurs, almost absently, before drawing Harry's cock into his mouth.

Harry lets his hand slide back down the wheel and off the leather cover as Sean works his cock, slipping his fingers over Sean's hair. So fine, he notes, almost silken. Nice. No, definitely not stopping him now. Harry hardens quickly under the attention, but he was already halfway there with just staring at Sean from across the room and listening to Peter talk about Fran and Philippa's latest kink venture. "Good," he stops himself from saying boy, lets it slide. "Um, there's the second house."

Sean gives a sharp scrape of teeth that could mean so stop already or shut up and stop interrupting. His tongue glides over Harry's skin, lips and tongue working together to suck Harry down his throat, and he's only sorry that there's never enough room in front seats to get his own jeans half-down so he can stroke off while he's giving head.

The third house passes so quickly Harry doesn't even call it out, and before he can moan properly at whatever it is Sean's doing with his tongue, and he reminds himself he'll have to ask what that move's called, they're at the fourth house. The white one. With the grand garden. Harry slows the car, comes to a complete stop and cuts the engine, but doesn't do a thing to stop Sean. If anything, his fingers carding Sean's hair would be seen as encouragement.

Sean could do with more encouragement still, but he likes the play of Harry's fingers through his hair. He gives Harry's cock another rough scrape of teeth before nuzzling down lower, trying to slide his mouth open wide and take in as much cock as he can, swallowing around it.

"That's good, Sean," Harry says, low and sultry and all too encouraging. His fingers tighten slightly at the rough scrapes. "We're to the house with a garden. Got a bit of a choice to make." He pulls his hips up off the seat, pushing his cock deeper into Sean's throat. "You can keep sucking, and I'll keep pushing. Or you can pull off and I'll yank you out of this car and fuck you raw."

Oh, and how the hell is Sean supposed to decide when both choices are as good as that? But he's here already, and there's something about that offer -- yank you out of the car and fuck you raw -- that makes Sean go hot all over, even as he's aware he's not ready to get pushed quite that hard. He sucks a little harder on Harry's cock, pushing down lower. Deeper. That's answer enough, he hopes.

It's an answer. One of two Harry's willing to accept. In response, he flattens his hand against Sean's head, pushing down as he pulls himself up. "Hope you don't have much of a gag," he hisses as he feels the tip of his cock stretch into the back of Sean's throat, setting up a nice brutal rhythm.

He doesn't. And it wouldn't matter if he did. That's the point. It's more than good enough. It's what he's been after here, whether it's from Viggo or Karl, whether it's giving or taking. Sean lets his throat relax around Harry's cock and doesn't worry about the interrupted rhythm of his breath.

Harry's impressed at how well Sean's taking him. Karl does nearly that good. Craig can't focus enough to suck well. He's quickly thinking he might be keeping this one's phone number. "That's it," he says, surging up with a harsh thrust, almost slamming his knee into the steering column. "Slut doesn't need to breathe, does he?"

Sean's got no air and no room to answer, just the motions of his throat around the head of Harry's cock. He slides his hand between his legs and digs the heel of his hand into his own crotch, pressing down hard on his cock. Harry's right; breathing's optional.

"Fuck, not gonna last much longer." Sean's damned good, bringing Harry off faster than he expects. His body's tightening. "Gonna be a good boy and swallow." It's not really question, since he's not giving Sean much of a chance to do anything else, hand sliding down the back of his head to grip at Sean's neck, pinning him in a perfect spot.

Sean's hand comes away from his cock and reaches up to Harry's thigh, fingers curling in hard. One hard press, and then he's just holding, steady, letting Harry pin him and wanting to feel those jets hitting the back of his throat.

Harry thrusts up hard, brutal, once, twice, then he's coming, his fingers digging into Sean's neck, the other hand gripping the steering wheel against the shuddering of his body, and he empties himself down Sean's throat. "Fuck, Christ, that's," he bites down, "damn."

Choking just a little near the end of it, Sean lets a drop of Harry's come slide out over his lips -- can't help it -- and then pulls back, licking it up as he goes. "Damn," Sean agrees, voice hoarse. He twists his head a little, trying to sit back up.

After a moment, Harry realizes Sean's trying to move and slips his hand off, letting him maneuver into sitting. Harry runs his hand through his own hair, lets out a long sigh. "If that's bad, mate, I'm betting your naughty is downright disturbing."

Sean chuckles, running his fingers over his lips to catch any last stray drops of come, licking them up once he's found them. "Don't usually move that fast," he says, not really caring whether Harry believes him or not. "You in a mood to get fucked tonight, after that?"

Doesn't matter if Harry believes or not, 'cause Harry doesn't care about speed, just results. "Always in a mood to get fucked," he says, internally laughing off the notion that a blowjob would deter him from that desire. "Tonight's good for me. Then I can fuck you for breakfast."

"And here I'm partial to pancakes with strawberry jam for breakfast," Sean teases, sliding out of the car. "Come inside. Let me introduce you to my favorite counter."

Harry's closing his door behind him almost before Sean finishes the sentence. "Well, if there's no lube handy, I don't mind using jam," he quips. He hadn't really planned on staying away from home tonight, and does a quick calculation as he walks to the front of the car. No, no one waiting.

"If there's no lube handy, who says you get anything at all?" Sean asks, shaking his head. He lets himself in the front door and flicks on the hallway light, then holds the door open for Harry.

The words bite, sharply, and do a damned fine magic on Harry's cock, despite having just come. "Oh, such promises," he says, walking into the house. Definitely no reason to worry about going home.

Sean shuts the door behind Harry and tucks a finger into the back of his collar. "Come on," he murmurs, and puts his other hand on Harry's lower back. Now he's steering, pushing Harry toward the kitchen, not thinking at all about how fast he's going and what he's doing inviting someone home this way.

"What? No tour?" Harry laughs, not even fighting being manhandled. He's all for fast and furious and getting to the kitchen the most efficient way.

"Later," Sean smirks, "if you give a damn." He pushes Harry into the counter just off to the right of the sink and slides his hands down Harry's arms, putting his hands on the counter's edge.

"Fair enough." Harry assumes his hands are meant to stay on the counter. It's how the game's played. So he flexes his fingers and gets comfortable, spreading his legs apart, most likely not enough, and stares at the laminate burn his eye catches, wondering just how it happened.

Sean wraps an arm around Harry's waist and tugs his hips back some, leaning in so his mouth's against the back of Harry's neck and his hips are digging hard into Harry's. His cock's pressed up against Harry's arse, and he lets out a soft breath, letting it warm Harry's skin. "Slut didn't need to breathe," Sean murmurs, "and you don't need it easy. Do you?"

"No," Harry says, biting back the sir that threatens to slip out. "Don't want it easy." He pushes back, demanding. Doesn't add that he doesn't need to breathe either. Figures Sean can suss out on his own. Tonight. Tomorrow. Next week.

"Do you beg?" Sean asks, almost idly, letting his tongue curve down the back of Harry's neck in a lazy, up and down, gliding move.

"If I've got a good enough reason," Harry answers honestly, shivering as the tongue almost ghosts the flesh.

"Do you scream?" Sean asks, in that same patient tone of voice, his hand going down the front of Harry's jeans to cup his cock and squeeze it hard.

That elicits a hitched breath and a rasped moan, but no scream. "Not for that," he says. "You have to give me more to work with."

"Impatient," Sean scoffs, squeezing again before popping the buttons open one at a time. His other hand digs into Harry's hip, fingertips pressing in, and he tilts his head a little, teeth digging into the cord of muscle going down the side of Harry's neck.

"Moving in the right direction, Sean," Harry quips at the bites, sharp pricks that pull an 'uh-uh' whimper from his throat. "Does everyone scream for you on the first date?"

"Everyone who gets a second date," Sean says, shoving Harry's pants down to his thighs and biting down harder, teeth half over the material of Harry's shirt now, blunting the sharp edges just enough that Sean's not worried about drawing blood. He's got no qualms about making someone bleed for him, but not this early on. That's going to be his mantra if he's not careful. Not this early on.

No qualms on Harry's side either, and he shrugs his shoulders up, pushing flesh into Sean's mouth, daring him to bite harder, draw the blood. Hell, Harry doesn't care if Sean picks up the paring knife on the counter and slices it up his arm. It's all about the sensation. And having his arse exposed, knowing what's coming, is the best sensation of all. For the moment.

Both hands go to Harry's hips, fingers tightening, getting to know the feel of skin over bone where the muscle's the thinnest. Sean loves that feeling, loves the knowledge that he can dig his fingers in and leave perfectly matched bruises that'll last for days, and he grinds his hips forward again, letting the denim covering his cock brush against the cleft of Harry's arse. "You offered to fuck me raw outside," he murmurs. "You take it that way? Or do I need to go scramble for a rubber? Least you'd get some lube that way. Not much," Sean adds, laughing, sliding his tongue up along Harry's neck again, making little patterns against skin, "but some."

Honestly, Harry doesn't care either way. He's not always been one for playing it smart or safe, but he knows he's clean and in some bizarre twist of logic he trusts Sean to be. However, there's a nagging in his brain that first dates who say it's okay to bareback don't get second dates, and he's already planning ahead. "Not that I need the lube, mate," he says, hissing at the touch of fingers, "but first date and all, might wanna pretend to be safe and sane."

Sean laughs. "There's a third you're leaving out there. Is that because it's a given or because you'd play that way if the option presented itself?" Outside the bounds of consensuality. Sean opens a drawer and tugs out a condom, then takes a step back from Harry and unzips his jeans, letting Harry hear the teeth unlocking one at a time.

"Why don't we leave that discussion till the second date, Sean," Harry says, glancing over his shoulder, smiling. "We'll need something to talk about."

Mistake. Sean puts a hand on Harry's shoulder and shoves him forward, leaning in to snap at the lobe of Harry's ear. "When I put you somewhere," he growls, "you fucking stay there until I let you up. You got it?"

Harry laughs as he's roughly put back into place. "Yessir," he snaps out with a touch of snarl, clamping his hands firmly against the counter's edge. "What was that about that third item?"

Sean tears the condom open and slides it over his cock, then rubs the head of it against Harry's cleft, thumb parting his buttocks so he can line himself up. "Third item," he murmurs, rocking forward sharply, the drag of the condom stopping him after just the head of his cock's inside, "second date," he finishes, rocking forward again, gaining another inch and groaning.

Okay, so Harry doesn't stay put, but that's because Sean's push inside him lunges him forward, his cock grinding against the counter's lower edge. He goes up on the balls of his feet and rocks back down, meeting Sean's movement and groan with a muttered "ah, fuck, yeah."

Another stolen, grunting inch, Sean's hands tight on Harry's hips, digging in and tugging him back. He pulls back a little, then rocks forward again, picking up those first two inches and pressing in hard for more, panting as he keeps going in. Never easy getting rooted the first time when it's this dry. And Sean's willing to take his time with it.

Easy is best used to describe taking tests and parallel parking. It has no place in sex. Harry doesn't want it easy, and the dryness ratchets up the discomfort just the number of notches. He rocks back, just a little, meeting Sean's push but not hurrying it. The pain's better dragged out anyway, and he flexes his fingers, tapping against the counter as Sean presses in past a point previously reached, the pressure suddenly more intense.

"There we go," Sean breathes, leaning forward and getting his teeth against the back of Harry's neck, "there we are," and now it's just one last fuck-hard shove, and he's all the way in, gasping and scraping his teeth along Harry's nape. "How's that feel?"

"Fuck," Harry sucks in the word. "Damned good, mate." He could be referring to the teeth or the cock. They both feel pretty damned spectacular. But Harry can't resist the jab. "Still not screaming."

Verbal jab meets physical, and Sean pulls halfway out so he can slam forward, shoving Harry hard into the counter, pinning him there with his body weight once his cock's deep inside the other man again. "It's early yet," he whispers. Another rough thrust, and a warm growl against Harry's neck. "We have time."

"Christ, yes." Harry's cock is shooting with pain from the too-sharp edge it slams against with Sean's lunge. He's pinned, but he doesn't stay still, insinuating his body back into Sean's. "Fuck, yeah, lots of time."

Now it's a fast, punishing rhythm, one that takes Sean about halfway out before he's shoving back in, and he puts a hand on the back of Harry's neck, squeezing hard and pressing his forehead to the cabinet in front of him, locking him in place. "Greedy slut, aren't you," he murmurs. "Want it that much?"

"Yeah, want it that much. And more." Harry's not above topping from the bottom, being damned demanding. "Think you can give to it, boy?" Or just plain in the mood to get the shite knocked out of him.

"Do you want a boy or do you want to fucking thank me for what you're getting?" Sean snarls, slamming Harry's head into the cabinet again, shoving forward with his hips at the same time. It's worded like a rhetorical question, but it doesn't sound like one. Sean's openly curious.

"You know," Harry gets out before his head's slammed forward, "fuck," and he's definitely going to have a headache later, "having a boy and saying thank you aren't mutually exclusive." He grunts at the shove inside him. "Just fuck me. Then I'll think about thanking you."

"Fucking pushy bottoms," Sean grunts, thrusting in more sharply, nearly bringing Harry up on his toes. "You want to hear please, Sir, this boy begs to hear you scream while I'm fucking you rough enough to bleed?" And now he's even more curious, because he's never done that before --hell, never called anyone Sir before and didn't expect to start now.

"Don't think I've tried that." Harry pants out the words, the thrusts pulling him up enough to rock down hard, nearly slam himself on Sean's cock. "You feel the urge to call me 'Sir'?"

"Don't know," Sean says, not stopping his pace for a moment, "got other urges--" Another series of short, shallow thrusts-- "to work with first," and he curves the hand holding Harry's nape around to the front of his throat, not cutting off his air, just holding for now.

The hand's more inviting than the cock, for an instant. "Nice urge, Sean." Harry pulls his body up, tilting his head and arching into the Sean's hand. His cock's hard already, but the threat of not breathing stiffens and lengthens the flesh against the unyielding counter.

Christ. Sean does tighten his hand, then, slowing his strokes so Harry can feel every inch of his cock moving in and out as he cuts off Harry's air.

Harry consciously slows his breathing so he won't be gasping for air when it stops coming. He's been there before, on both sides, likes 'em just about equally. Sean's thrusts are slow enough Harry can feel the pressure building as he slides, dissipate on the withdrawal. The combination with decreasing breath creates a hypnotic effect.

Sean keeps his hand tight on Harry's throat for a few seconds, then lets up, speeding up his thrusts, rocking Harry forward hard and letting the need build up until he nearly can't stand it anymore. And then he tightens his grip again, slowing down, pulling himself away from the edge and brushing his cheek against Harry's.

In the brief respite, Harry slurs out a "fuckin' good," barely audible, and then his voice and air are cut off again. The numbness spreads up his face and Harry shivers at a sudden burst of coldness shooting down his spine at the brush of Sean's cheek.

"It is, yeah," Sean breathes against Harry's ear. "It's very fucking good. But it doesn't have you screaming." And so he lets Harry's throat go, shoving him forward, putting both hands on Harry's wrists and fucking him hard this time, no rest between thrusts, teeth gliding down the side of Harry's neck and biting sharply into the place where neck meets shoulder.

The scream comes, the instant teeth sink into flesh. It's not piercing or overly loud, but it's sharp and intense and fucked out of Harry's lungs with brutal thrusts. "Goddamned fuck." Harry balls his hands into fists, pushing up against Sean's hold, not trying to get loose, just moving against the pain.

"Christ, I like the sound of that," Sean growls. "You got a chance in hell of coming again, or are you just here so I can fucking use you?" And then there's another bite, just as hard, over the same bruised spot, and Sean feels skin break under his teeth.

"Shite, as hard as you been pounding my cock against this counter edge? Hell, yeah." He lets out a long, shuddering moan at the bite, that sudden release of pressure that tells him the skin broke. "Could damn near come from just that."

"So do it," Sean growls, tasting copper as he flicks his tongue out over the sharp edges of his teeth. He gets his hands down to Harry's hips again and digs his fingertips in hard -- Christ, he can't wait to see the kind of marks he's leaving -- and then starts up the last set of brutal, almost angry thrusts.

Fuck. Harry slams himself mentally for having said it. Sure, he can come from the bites and thrusts. Helluva lot easier using his hands, though. He shoves himself into the bite, forcing Sean's teeth to sink deeper, giving him the edge he needs to uncoil the orgasm, let it ride out on the damned fucking hard thrusts. It takes a minute, groans melding into grasps and a wordless scream, and then Harry's coming, harder than from the blowjob, damned painfully. And fuckingly good.

The way Harry's body jerks, the sounds he's making, all of that taken together is plenty to send Sean screaming over the edge himself, sounds barely blunted by his teeth's grip on Harry's shoulder. "Fucking hell," he gasps out, hand coming up to squeeze Harry's shoulder, thumb digging into the bite, "now there's a reason to leave a party early. Jesus."

"What party?" Harry rasps as he slumps against the counter, Sean and the Formica holding him up. "Fuck, Sean, but you bite well." The thumb just tears the bite into little shards of pain. So much for safe and sane.

Sean chuckles. "The one where I wondered who the hell that was, watching me." He puts a hand to the base of his cock, holding the condom on while he pulls out, steady, slow enough not to hurt more than it has to. "You've got my thanks for the compliment." After disposing of the condom, Sean fastens his pants back up and settles himself against the counter, using both hands to slick his hair out of his face, exhaling softly.

Slowly straightening himself, stretching and working out the kinks, Harry hitches up his jeans, loosely buttoning them, letting them hang on his hips. He runs his fingers over the bite, suck the stain of blood from their tips. "Well, yeah, had you at a bit of a disadvantage there. I had the director's ear, so I could find out who you were before I walked out on the porch." He takes the half-step to the sink, turns on the water and splashes a handful on his face, pushing through his collar-length hair. "Good party, but I'm glad I left."

"Talking of leaving..." Sean reaches out, runs the backs of his first two fingers down Harry's forearm, over his wrist and the back of his hand. "You want to? Or you want to stay and fuck me over pancakes in the morning?"

"That's too good an offer, mate, 'specially since I don't feel like sitting long enough to drive." Harry touches Sean's fingers, stills them with his hand, stroking casually with his thumb. "Would like a shower, then a bed, before we have those pancakes."

"Easy enough," Sean grins. He trails his fingertips across Harry's palm and then can't resist catching Harry's wrist in his hand, holding a little too tight for a moment. He eases the hold as he nods toward the back of the house; they don't need to get into any more power struggles tonight. "Shower's this way. Think you can move all right?"

"Moving's fine," he says, promptly wincing as he turns, decides to lean back against the counter and pull in a long breath first. "Might need a hand standing up in the shower, though." It's not totally a come-on; just the better party of one. Harry's liking the small touches, even the gripping ones. Hesitates, though, and doesn't tell Sean it's okay to hold that tightly.

"You're welcome to a hand. Hell, after all that? You deserve an arm to lean on, if you want it." Sean slips the arm in question around Harry's waist and helps him come off the counter. "Always wonder if I should apologize for coming over that way to someone when it's a first time."

"Apologize, mate, and I will drive myself home. If I didn't want, I would've said so." It's not that he hurts that much. It's more disorientation, not having had it quite that good in awhile. Harry takes the help, not at all too proud, but gently stands more on his own as they make their way down the hall.

"Fair enough," Sean agrees. It's been a while for him, too, the pleasure of giving it to someone that way without any conflict under his skin, wondering whether it was a good idea, whether he'd be regretting it come morning. He pushes the bathroom door open and starts the shower running, then turns to Harry again. "Want help out of your clothes?"

Leaning against the bathroom wall, cool tile seeping through his clothes, Harry just stares at Sean move. Like he'd done at the party. He doesn't believe in love at first sight. Hell, he's not sure he even believes in love. But he trusts his instincts, and something tells him this is right, that it's a better place than the empty house he'd've gone home to, wondering whether Craig or Karl would bother to show up, only half caring if either did. "Nah," Harry starts, then stops, quirked smile corralling his mouth. "You got a kink for stripping guys down?"

"Only if it involves tearing fabric on the way to something else," Sean smirks. "Something to save for date three, maybe. After we work out the things we were saving for date two." Now there's something Sean doesn't do often: plan ahead. But damn if he's not going to try for a date two, and a date three, and after that, maybe he'll have something better to do than throw Viggo into countertops in their trailer on nights when he's too frustrated to think straight.

"Date three," Harry echoes. He pulls himself off the wall, unbuttons and shrugs off his shirt. "Let's see. Consensual for date two. Tearing clothes for three." He pushes the jeans over his hips and down his legs, stepping out of them with a hand bracing himself against the wall. There's minimal wincing, just from being so thoroughly fucked. "Date four, whips and chains?"

Sean grins. "Best I can do is leather cuffs and heavy floggers. You want whips, you're going to have to provide them." He slips out of his own clothes, drops them in the hamper in the corner. The room's starting to fog up with steam. "How hot d'you like your showers?"

"Steam looks 'bout right. Accents the view rather well." It's the first full glimpse of what's been inside him for the better part of an hour. Harry takes in a breath, walks toward the shower. "You got a preference on whips? Style. Weight." He sticks his hand in. "Perfect temp."

"Been flogged, given floggings. Given and taken beatings from a cat. Other than that I've got no preference because I've got no experience going that far. But I'd think it over." Sean tugs the shower curtain aside and steps into the tub, offers a hand to help steady Harry as he climbs in as well.

Harry steps in, with the help, and immerses himself in the hot stream of water. "I got a few, cats and longer. Taken and given both." The next words are nearly muffled by the water flooding his mouth when he tilts his head back. "Nicer collection of blades, though, if you're inclined."

"For show or for bite?" Sean asks, reaching around Harry and running his hands up his body, under the warmth of the spray. "Use them to scare people or cut people?" he clarifies.

He does think before answering, for the 7.3 seconds it takes to decide Sean either takes the answer given or doesn't. "Both," Harry says firmly. "Depends on what the person wants. And what mood I'm in."

Sean chuckles, and he reaches for the soap. He rubs wet, gliding, soapy hands over Harry's hips, thumbs rubbing over the bruises left by his fingers earlier. "All right," he says. Not an agreement to anything, just an acknowledgement that he's listening and he's not scared off yet.

Harry hears a lot more in that all right than Sean probably intends. Most likely means he doesn't play that way. Or hasn't. Yet. He hisses when Sean rubs the largest bruise, the one that's gonna be there a good week or more, and hurt like a wish. Well, he thinks, that discussion can continue later. Date five, maybe.


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 09:58:00

Matter of Inertia 0: Matter of Perspective (SB/VM) NC-17
Matter of Inertia 0: Matter of Perspective
Author: [info]helens78
Pairing: Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen
Warnings: Semi-con.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not in any way reflective of reality.


They're supposed to have a sense of camaraderie to them, which is easy enough to pull off when you consider they're both actors. And they do spend time together, on set and off, and it's not rare to see them leaving a pub together or coming onto the set in the same car.

There's something about them no one can quite figure, though. It's not a rivalry exactly; it's not that they don't get along professionally. There's no sense that one of them made an offer the other couldn't pass up. There's no real feeling of bitterness to them, and no real feeling of addiction. But maybe that's part of the act; maybe underneath the act there's both.

Late at night in Sean's bedroom, it's Viggo on top this time. It was a wrestle to see who was getting fucked tonight; neither one was really in the mood to bottom. Not that either of them gave a damn about how the other felt about it; that's part of the rules with Sean and Viggo. It's not about giving a damn. It's something they both need, sex that skirts the edges of violence, and it's something they both want, an urge to take it as well as give it.

Viggo mutters quiet Elvish phrases while he's fucking Sean, forearm draped across his shoulders to pin him to the bed, and Sean snarls into the bedcovers, cock thrusting against tangled sheets while he twists and shoves back against Viggo's grip, against his cock, one hand covering Viggo's on his hip.

When Viggo's close, his strokes go faster, harder, as if he doesn't know or care how much it hurts Sean to have Viggo angling in that deep and pounding in, one stroke after another until Sean's screaming and cursing and the only thing that keeps him from bucking Viggo off is that Viggo's willing to snake an arm around Sean's throat and threaten to choke off Sean's air. Sean goes still under him, and Viggo finishes, rough hard pounding strokes taking him in all the way and making him throw his head back and growl when he comes.

Several panted breaths and a few more whispered words of Elvish, and Viggo rolls off to the side, getting air into his lungs as fast as he can.

Sean stays on his stomach, breathing heavily as well. It wasn't quite enough this time; his cock's still heavy and aching between his legs, even though his ass is sore enough he'll be feeling it all day tomorrow. He doesn't quite have the strength to push himself up on one arm and jerk himself off. Not yet. He's still recovering.

When Viggo gets his breath back, he turns on his side and strokes a hand down Sean's back. Fuck, Sean looks good this way, hurting, barely breathing steady, his hip marked with Viggo's fingerprints, his back covered with the mingled sweat from both of them.

"You want something?" Viggo asks.

"Fuck off."

"Just did," Viggo points out. He crawls partway down the bed and climbs between Sean's legs again, this time licking a path from the base of Sean's neck to the base of his spine. There's a bit of sweat pooled in the small of Sean's back, and Viggo takes it up in soft, slow licks.

Sean groans. "Fuck you," he murmurs.

"Not tonight." Viggo's tongue goes lower, sliding into Sean's cleft, tasting lube -- though not much of it -- and traces of his own semen. It's not a bad taste. It's not as though he's never done this before.

Sean, though, doesn't react with grace. He arches half-off the bed and jerks his head around, looking over his shoulder at Viggo. "Fucking lunatic," he mumbles. "Just get your hand under me and jerk me off."

"Uh-uh." Viggo teases his tongue around Sean's opening, probing just a little with the tip. He puts his hand on Sean's hip and shoves it down to the bed. Message sent. You're getting it this way.

Message received. Sean gets his forearms under him and lets his head drop. Both hands curl into fists, and he groans, spreading his legs a little wider despite not wanting it this way. "Bastard," he whispers. "Fucking bastard."

"Mmm." Viggo's tongue presses in hard, then, and Sean's still open enough from the rough fuck that it glides in a decent way. Viggo has a long tongue, strong as hell, and he can wiggle it a good amount once it's in Sean's ass. Sean shivers all over and lets out a moan Viggo's never heard before.

"Not like that," Sean breathes. "Stop."

Viggo doesn't do a damn thing to stop. He pulls his tongue back, yeah, and he licks at his fingers, and then he pushes three of them into Sean, corkscrewing them and licking around Sean's entrance where his body closes around Viggo's fingers.

"Fuck," Sean spits out. "Don't want you like that. Fucking stop it." But his hips are pushing up all the same, and his cock is pulsing under him.

"Beg me," Viggo whispers. He twists his fingers hard, avoiding Sean's prostate like the tease he is. "Beg me to rim you and get you off from it." Another twist. Fuck, those fingers are merciless. "Beg me."

"Nn," Sean whispers. "No."

"Beg," Viggo says easily, and twists his fingers again, licking at Sean's opening. "I can keep this up all night."

And he means it. It's not an idle threat. Sean's sure the tension in his shoulders will keep him from needing to come so much, keep him from needing to beg, so he makes it a standoff. His own rough breaths and desire not to come all over the sheets versus Viggo's determination and Christ that fucking wicked tongue of his. Sean's shoulders end up shaking from exhaustion; Viggo's arm grows tired, and after a while he switches hands, leaning up to the nightstand to get more lube. Sean doesn't stop him.

All night, Viggo said, and now Sean's thinking about making him prove it. See how far Viggo will take this, how long Sean can last. He doesn't check the time, doesn't want to know how long Viggo's been licking him and fucking him with his fingers and making him crazy. Fucking lunatic. The stretch of Viggo's fingers still burns when he twists them; the motions of his tongue still make Sean jerk and squirm and growl.

And then Sean's close, close enough to go over. Three more strokes, maybe. Two.

Viggo stops.

"Shite," Sean mumbles out.



Viggo holds his fingers still and licks around Sean's opening, and it goes just like that. Viggo knows by now -- he knows all the sounds Sean makes when he's close, and he knows how to pull back and stop whatever it is that's drawing those sounds out of him.

The edge is a good place to be. Sean is happy to stay there as long as Viggo cares to let him. Or it's easy to tell himself that; in reality, under his skin, Sean wants to beg.

Christ. That's why he hates Viggo the most, he thinks; Viggo makes him want to beg for it.


That's it. Viggo knows that sound. He knows what it means. His fingers rake a little cruelly across Sean's prostate. Come on. Give it up.


Not good enough. Viggo's fingers twist, then curl.


"You sure about that?" Viggo asks, repeating the motion. "That wasn't a slip of the tongue there?" He bends his head down, slipping his tongue around his fingers as an illustration.

"Fucking bastard, please." Sean groans. "Begging you for it. Let me come. Please."

"Pretty," Viggo murmurs. "More."

Fuck. "Please," Sean murmurs, "want it," another gasp as Viggo's fingers draw nearly all the way out, "fuck, please, please," as Viggo slides his fingers away completely and his tongue glides in, fucking in and out of Sean until Sean's lost all his words and is only gasping and moaning and writhing under Viggo's mouth.

Viggo slides a hand between Sean's legs, under his body. Sean tilts his hips up, letting Viggo get a hand around his cock, and all it takes is one hard squeeze and Sean's coming, groaning so loud he buries his face in the pillows to stifle it. Viggo keeps squeezing Sean's cock until the last of the jets have gone, and then keeps squeezing, not letting up even when Sean tries to get a hand under his body to tug Viggo's fingers away.

"Hurts -- fucker -- stop now," Sean gasps.

And Viggo tilts his head up. "Why?"

Winded, whole body loose from the orgasm, Sean doesn't have the sort of strength he'd need to push Viggo away. He ends up half-screaming into the pillows as Viggo's hand works him, and when Viggo turns him over, Sean throws an arm over his face while Viggo keeps jerking his cock, unending motions that make Sean half-curl in on himself, biting his lip hard to keep from screaming.

"You could make all this stop," Viggo points out. "Just one word, Sean. You know how to stop me."

And either Sean knows and doesn't care, or knows and doesn't want it to stop, because please is the one word that doesn't cross his lips. He curses, twists, clenches his fingers in the bedcovers, but he doesn't say please. He's not going to say please like tihs. Not that desperate. His cock goes hard under Viggo's touch, finally, and he still won't say it. Not like this.

"C'mon. Don't be such a tough guy," Viggo taunts. He gets more lube, slicks it all over Sean's cock, keeps jerking him off. "One word and I'll stop. Or do you want it to stop now? Too busy enjoying how it makes your cock ache?"

"Enough, Viggo," Sean mutters. "Not going to come again, so stop now. You're wearing out your welcome."

"Bullshit." Viggo crawls forward a few steps, holds Sean's cock in his hand while he straddles Sean's hips. "Tell me you don't want this inside me. Don't want me riding you until you come again, even though it'll feel like you're burning up from the inside."

Sean says nothing while Viggo sinks down on his cock, and he says nothing while Viggo starts up a slow, undulating rhythm. Viggo drops his hand to his own cock -- hard now, too -- and tilts his head back, tongue flicking out over his lips as he jerks himself off.

He's fucking beautiful.

Sean puts both hands on Viggo's hips. "Stop," he murmurs. And then he gives Viggo the word that's supposed to make it happen. "Please."

Viggo stops cold, looking down at Sean. "What?"

"I said please," Sean says. "Please stop."

"You're fucking kidding me. Stop now?"

"I'm begging you," Sean says quietly. "Stop. Please."

For a few seconds, Viggo simply stays there. Still. Unable to believe he's hearing that. And then he lets out a soft growl and climbs off Sean's cock, wiping his hand on the bedcovers and grabbing for his pants.

"Son of a bitch," Viggo mutters. "Goddamned fucking son of a bitch--"

"Push push push," Sean snipes. He sits up, grabbing for a towel from the nightstand and swabbing at his body. "You don't want me to call your bluff, you don't push so hard."

"Fuck you, Sean."

"Already did," Sean points out. "But not again tonight."

Viggo doesn't have a comeback for that. He finishes dressing, grabs up his sword, and slams out of Sean's house, leaving his shoes at the side of Sean's bed. It's a long walk home to Viggo's house, but he's done it before. Sean's done the opposite, too, made the walk home to his house in the middle of the night, half-hard and still lubed and wanting, more than anything, to just turn around and go back to Viggo's. Slam him into the floor and fuck him until he's bleeding.

They never do, though. It's a point of pride that either one can stop at any moment. Either one of them can call matters off, and either one of them can stop a night that's not going to their advantage with the word please.

It doesn't make the walk home any easier for Viggo, and it doesn't make getting to sleep any easier for Sean. And in the morning, they'll be back in their trailer and someone's going to get fucked over a counter covered in makeup and glass bottles and trinkets picked up here and there.

And if neither one of them's quite happy this way, it doesn't matter. They both need it, and it's rare enough to find this much of it. Maybe it couldn't be this way if they didn't half hate each other. Neither one of them's willing to let their guard down enough to find out.


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 09:56:00

A Simple Arrangement 2 (SB/JLM) NC-17
A Simple Arrangement 2
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Jonny Lee Miller
Warnings: Kink.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't know 'em or own 'em. Absolutely fiction. Made it all up.


Jonny's seen more of Monet and Manet today than he cares to ever see again, on the verge of hating when his job requires him to be more instructor than curator. It's only the thought of 7 o'clock that's kept him from going ballistic and marching the Harry Potter wannabes down the hall away from the Impressionists to the Caravaggio room with a detour by Delaroche.

So he's barely out of the National Gallery before he's bringing up his PDA's email and double-checking the address Sean had emailed him. It only requires one line change, so getting there shouldn't take too long, and he's down into the Charing Cross station and on his way with backpack slung over one shoulder.

Stop being so eager, Miller. It's like you're 22 again. He laughs, thinking back on actually being 22 and stepping into Professor Sinclair's office for the first time. He hadn't known the first thing about domination or submission and kink was when his da's back would go out. But Harry changed all that, didn't he?

The Tube's not too crowded, and he's to the stop nearest Sean's house with time to spare, making the jaunt a couple blocks east an easy walk in the late afternoon sun.

Sean's taken the last few minutes to give one more phone call to Pierce -- "for God's sake, Sean, have fun with the kid, all right? I'm fine here, and if there are screaming noises when I get home I swear I won't call the police before asking you if they're the good sort of screams" -- and get the house tidied up. God, it's like a first date. All right, it is a first date, sort of. Christ, I hope it's as good in person as it was on the phone.

He's still in trousers and a button-down shirt, though the sleeves are rolled up now and the tie's long since gone, two buttons undone that are showing off his white undershirt beneath. Hope he doesn't expect everything to be leather harnesses and codpieces. The harnesses aren't so bad, but Christ those codpieces itch like hell.

Jonny knocks on the front door and takes a deep breath. Okay, you look fine. He glances down. T-shirt and jeans with a button-down shirt hanging open over it. After all, Sean said wear something that could be ripped off. Wonder if he expects you to kneel the minute you get inside?

Sean's heart jumps into his throat as soon as he hears the knock, and it takes two deep breaths to calm himself down. He's almost laughing at himself by the time he reaches the door, grinning broadly as he opens it and sees Jonny on his doorstep, and he holds the door open. "It's good to see you again," he says softly. "Come in."

"Evening, sir," Jonny says, stepping in and to the side. He lets his backpack slide down his arm till his fingers are wrapping the straps. "It's good to see you, too." Stop being nervous. You've done this before. "I hope I'm not early."

"You're exactly on time," Sean says. "Go ahead and set your pack down." He closes the door, looks Jonny up and down -- not even trying to hide the way he's giving him a once-over. And Jonny looks good tonight. Good enough to eat. Bite. Devour.

Dropping his pack on the floor near the couch, Jonny does a quick turn, giving Sean an even better look. He doesn't mind being stared at, checked over, even if he is blushing at it. Natural reaction. "Took no time to get here from work. Just one changeover and you're damned close to the Tube station." He probably doesn't care about your day, Miller. Or small talk.

Sean cares; it's just that he'd rather save talk for afterward. He steps close -- too close -- close enough to feel body heat moving between them -- and then brushes the backs of his fingers across Jonny's cheek. "Up against the door," he says softly.

"Yes, sir," he says, stepping back toward the door. Fuck, he didn't specify which way. And you can't assume he means one by default. Jonny opts to err on the side of not turning around and he presses his back against the door, thinking Sean can order him to turn or just spin him around, slam him face-first into the door. Either's fine with Jonny.

Sean comes up to Jonny, runs his fingertips down Jonny's face, over his cheeks, his throat. And then digs his hands into the collar of Jonny's shirt and rips, buttons flying everywhere, hands coming down to grab at Jonny's wrists and slam them into the door while Sean's body presses hard up against Jonny's and his teeth snap dangerously close to Jonny's ear.

It's sudden and brutal, and Jonny has a momentary instinct to fight back, until his wrists are slammed into the door and Sean threatens tthe bite at his jaw. He said wear clothes that could be ripped off. He wasn't kidding. The adrenaline surge slithers through Jonny's brain and he's hard the next instant. Is it too soon to beg for more? his brain laughs at his rapid-fire desire.

Sean's thigh presses between Jonny's legs and rubs hard. He licks around the curve of Jonny's ear and then bites at the lobe, tugging at it. "I want you," he whispers between bites, "on the floor. Crawling for me. I want you so hard you're afraid you'll break if you can't get my hand or my mouth on your cock."

"Oh, god, yes," Jonny pants out without thinking. "Please. Want to crawl. Want to beg." Christ, he needs it so badly. Hadn't realized just how much he was missing it, just that notion of being sent to his knees for another man.

Growling, groaning against Jonny's skin, Sean pulls back. He glances down at Jonny's shirt; a few buttons are hanging by threads, and some have gone missing. And it really isn't enough. He tugs Jonny away from the door, spins him around, jerks his shirt down over his arms. "What else do you want?" he whispers.

Fuck, yes. That. And more. "Whatever you'll give me, sir," Jonny says breathlessly. "You're in charge. I take what you offer, do as you say."

"Stay still for me," Sean whispers, tugging the shirt all the way off Jonny's arms and letting it drop to the ground. "Put your hands up above your head. Cross your wrists."

Still. Jonny takes in a deep breath, consciously willing himself to stop moving, and he slowly raises his arms, above his head, crosses his wrists. You can do that. Stay still. Focus. It takes a moment to start dropping back into a familiar headspace, one he hasn't sought out in months.

Sean closes the space between them, fitting his body between Jonny's legs. He draws his hands up, from waist to wrists, getting to know the feel of Jonny's muscles under his hands. "I could have you like this," he murmurs against Jonny's ear. "Up against my door, slamming you into oak and making you beg for more against the paneling."

With a word. Jonny thinks it, but doesn't say it. Still. That was the order. It implies silence, no motion of any kind, expect what Sean gives him. He begs with limpness, letting his body meld to Sean's, move only as it's directed. Yes. Want that. Fuck, yes.

Christ. Whether it's training or practice or instinct or just being what Sean wants, it doesn't matter; his new boy (my new boy, Sean thinks, half-taken breathless, he is, Christ) is putting him in the kind of headspace where all he wants is to tear him to pieces and then pull him into bed and put him back together again. "I had so many thoughts about you," Sean murmurs. "And you're going to have to wait to find out what they are. I want you this way. Loose and willing against my door." His hands slide down again, reach to the front of Jonny's fly and start working buttons and zipper open.

Everything's coming back, all the places the others taught him about, how to drop into that headspace where all that matters is the man using you, the one calling ths shots. Jonny's there, sliding into it, waiting and willing and wanting. "Please," he murmurs against the door, breaking his own silence as Sean's fingers reach for his cock, "use me."

There's a low growl starting in the back of Sean's throat, and it wells up and spills over as he takes a soft bite at the back of Jonny's neck. "Want to," he breathes, "going to, patience, lad."

Patience? It's a virtue, and Jonny knows he has it. At least a bit of it. Patience. He takes the promise from Sean's lips and settles deeper into the headspace where there's nothing but patience and waiting on his master -- master. yes, he is. already. with so little as words and a touch -- to do as he pleases.

Sean curls his hand around Jonny's cock, gives it one warm sliding stroke before stepping back and tugging Jonny's pants around his thighs. He reaches into a pocket for lube, pops the capsule open and slicks his fingers, sliding them into Jonny without warning or hesitation. Three fingers, slippery and gliding, moving in, stretching him, fucking him with slow confidence.

Jonny clenches his body at the invasion, goes up on his toes, face sliding against the door. Three fingers shouldn't bother him. He's had more. Much more. But it seems so long ago and these fingers -- oh, fuck, yes -- or maybe it just feels that way because he wants it so badly. Jonny eases his body down, letting the invasion stretch his body.

"Tell me how it feels," Sean breathes, free arm wrapping around Jonny's chest, getting as much of their bodies pressed together as he can while still fucking him with those long wicked fingers.

"Tight. Hurts. Just enough. Want more." Jonny's words get strangled in a sharp hiss when those fingers curl over his prostate, dig at him from within. "Can't get enough."

"Greedy," Sean says, shoving his fingers in harder, thrusting faster, just this side of vicious. "Starved for it. Slut for it." And you look so fucking good this way. He licks at the side of Jonny's neck. "Is it enough, my fingers in you? Being fucked this way?" He gives his fingers a rough twist as he drags them over Jonny's prostate, twists them just as hard as he shoves back in.

No. Want more. The subconscious is honest. The mouth is submissive, though, and between monosyllabic whimpers and trying not to squirm, Jonny manages to get out a more proper answer. "If you want it to be enough, sir, this boy can be satisfied with just your fingers."

"If I want it to be enough, then it's enough," Sean agrees, nipping at Jonny's neck. "Or if I want to fuck you with my fingers, my cock, with a dildo 'til I'm recovered enough to give you my cock again, over and over for the next nine hours, then that's enough, too. If I want it to be." He worries at Jonny's skin, just enough to bring up a warm red bruise that's going purple by the time Sean pulls away. "It won't be enough for me until you're begging." He twists his fingers again, corkscrewing them with the next several thrusts.

"Oh, fuck, yes," Jonny blurts out, totally in agreement with all the ideas. "Want you to fuck me till I can't get words out anymore, till I have to beg with just my body, open and waiting. God, yes, please, want your fingers and cock and anything else you want to shove up my arse."

Sean lets his knuckles drag hard over Jonny's prostate when he pulls his fingers out the next time. "Fucking adorable boy," he grins. "How many times do you think you can bear to come in the next hour?"

"How many? Hour?" Jonny's trying to think, but it's damned hard with the sensory overload ricocheting through his body. "Three. Maybe. Don't honestly know, sir."

God, he's young. Sean grins, thinking back to being in his twenties and under Nigel and just how far he was willing to go then. "Let's find out. I want you to come whenever you can. Just from my fingers this first time." And he starts rocking them in at a fast, not quite brutal pace, rubbing over Jonny's prostate with every stroke.

Come whenever you can. Okay, that's permission. And, fuck, he's on edge, so damned close, and every touch of Sean's fingers over that spot nudges him one step nearer to falling off. Ten minutes? Can you last that long? Five, he makes a deal with himself. You can make it five more minutes. But his brain's not talking to his cock and his cock is hard and demanding the release. But coming without being touched? Fuck, that's rough. Okay, you get three minutes.

Sean's not ticking off the seconds. Not this time. But he could. And he's tempted to. Not yet. Save that for another time. That's advanced technique, and you're just learning each other. He bites Jonny's neck again, though, licks over the bite, starts to wonder just how many bruises he can leave before he'll get his new boy in trouble with the rest of his life.

It's all he needed. Biting. Bruising. It sends Jonny over the edge and he's coming, his cock jerking and spurting creamy jets against the door, over his stomach and groin. "Oh, fuck, yes," he whimpers, tugging to make the bite go deeper. No one cares how many bruises he has. And fuck if it's summer; he'll just wear very thin turtlenecks.

Perfect. Sean pulls his fingers back, then curls an arm around Jonny's waist. "Good boy," he growls. "I want you over the back of the sofa. You can collapse once you're there," he grins. "Come on." But despite the growl, he's letting Jonny lean on him all the way over, and he drapes a blanket over the sofa's arm before bending Jonny over it.

Jonny doesn't move except for Sean's guiding him to the couch and being draped over it like an afghan knitted especially for the room. Good boy. I like that. He stretches out his arms in front of him, touching the cushions, and spreads his legs, body more open than before, yielding.

"It's going to hurt when I fuck you," Sean murmurs, letting his trousers down and pushing his briefs down over his hips. He's got a condom in hand, and he slicks it over his cock, bending over to press his chest against Jonny's back. Imagine what this is going to feel like when you've turned his skin red from shoulders to thighs. "Would you tell me if you thought you couldn't bear any more of it?"

Trick question. Fuck. Skin-on-skin contact, Sean leaning over Jonny's back, short-circuits his brain even more. "Guess so, sir, if it got to that. Can't imagine a fucking getting me to safeword, and that's pretty much the point where I'd say I couldn't bear it."

"Good boy." Sean licks over the back of Jonny's neck and slides a hand between them, lining his cock up and pressing in slowly, one inch at a time, until Jonny's got him -- all of him -- and Sean's closing his eyes, holding himself steady and feeling just how warm and tight and good this is.

"Fuck, yes," Jonny hisses, his body clenching, creating a sinfully tight drag on Sean's cock. Friction's sweet, and lube on the condom's not enough to keep it from burning. He spreads his legs wider, tries to open himself up, but doesn't relax too much. He really doesn't want to give up the pain.

Sean pushes up enough to brace both arms on Jonny's hips, pinning him to the arm of the couch and holding him still. The thrusts are slow but nearly brutal, Sean clenching his teeth together and enjoying every rough clench of Jonny's muscles. At this pace he could keep going for quite a while before needing to come -- and that's not the point. Not this time. He starts moving a little faster, looking for the pace that'll get Jonny's fingers clenching at the cushions.

It's not going to be long before Sean gets his wish. Jonny's pushing up on his feet as the pace quickens, his cock slammed against the unyielding arm, and within minutes he's stretching as he can, face buried in the cushions and fingers clawing under them, one hand digging against the couch's back while the other grips the front edge of the middle cushion. He's muttering random syllables into the fabric, yesmoreohyeah.

Sean reaches down and grabs for Jonny's hair, dragging his head back. "Louder."

"Yes, sir," Jonny says, loud and clear. "Fuck, that's good. More. Please. Want it."

More. Sean tightens his grip in Jonny's hair and gives it to him, long hard thrusts coming faster and faster, until he can hear the sofa creaking underneath them.

"Godfuckindamnnit, yes," Jonny hisses, his neck strained backwards, his fingers now scrambling to find their hold again.

"How does it feel?" Sean growls. "Are you hard for me again?" He wonders, grinning, if there was really enough time between ending and beginning for Jonny not to be hard. Maybe not.

He is. Pinned against the couch, barely enough time to come down, and Jonny's hard again. And it hurts more beautifully than the first time. "Yes, sir," he breathes out between Sean's calculated thrusts.

"Good boy," Sean grins -- he's been saying that a lot, but hell, Jonny's earned it -- and he rises a little, hooking his fingers under Jonny's hips and holding on tight while he fucks his boy until Jonny's skin must be carrying impressions of the blanket's weave.

Jonny's thinking he may be imprinted into the couch before the night's over, his mind tripping for a second to wonder if Sean's husband'll mind having a boy woven into the furniture. The rough fabric's scratching his cock, which only adds to the tension, the delicious pull for more. "Oh, fuck, sir, so close." Fuck, don't want to be. Want to wait, need more.

"That's two," Sean grins; he's not close, not yet, and not planning on stopping until he's goddamned good and ready. "Come for me, lad."

"Hurtssirsogood," he moans into the air. He does, at the command, and it's harder and more painful than the first, his cock tight against the couch, no room for the spasming, and he's drenching the fabric, body jerking back into Sean's unending thrusts. Lad. Fuck, yes.

"God, fuck, so good for me," Sean pants, planting a hard hand on the back of Jonny's neck, giving them both a few second's rest with his thighs pressed hard against Jonny's. "So good for me. Can you take more?"

"Christinfuckinghellyes," Jonny spits out without knowing if he can or can't. He wants it. He wants to pass out with wanting it. But his cock's arching from having come twice already and his body's damned sore. None of it matters. Only thing that does matter is what Sean wants. Jonny really doesn't have any choice. "Take it, sir. Yes, whatever you give."

"Hold on for me," Sean murmurs, one firm hand on Jonny's neck, the other still on his thigh, and then he lets go: just fucks him, hard and fast, until he's growling from it.

"Hold on," he repeats. Hold on to what? How? And then the questions become moot as he's fucked back into the couch's arm, body taking the full force of brutal thrusts. Jonny doesn't even want to think about what his butt's gonna look like, with nice black bruises. Fuckin' brill, that's what.

Closer. And closer. And then he's there, gripping and flirting on the knife-edge that'll send him over, knowing exactly how much the body under him's hurting, how he's being torn apart, that he's taking it, every moment of it, every inch of it, for Sean, and then he's coming, hard and hot and every bit as brutal as the motions of his hips have been these last intense minutes.

Burning from within. That's the only way Jonny can describe that sensation of being fucked so hard till the other man comes. The moment he's begged for, on knees, hands and knees, crawling. He pushes back, hands clutching at the sofa cushion for something to hold onto, a brace against those final thrusts.

Sean nearly collapses forward onto Jonny when he's done, arms aching, entire body winded. "Christ." He takes a few more deep breaths. "God, you're a good lad for me."

"Thank you, sir," Jonny breathes out, trying to suck in oxygen being shoved out of his lungs. "Enjoyed it. A lot." He conscioiusly leaves out the nouns and pronouns, not sure if Sean wants to hear third-person or first or just not hear Jonny talk at all.

"I could tell," Sean teases. He eases his way back out of Jonny --slowly, God, carefully, grimacing as he stands up again -- and as soon as he's disposed of the condom, he climbs onto the couch and tugs Jonny forward. "Come lie on me a while. You feel good."

"Lie on you? Yes, sir." Jonny pushes himself up with a long, drawn-out wincing, every muscle he can count hurting. Been too fuckin' long. He stretches out over Sean's body, tucking his leg in between the already outstretched ones, liking the fit immediately, finding it relaxing and comfortable.

There's a small part of Sean that wonders what his lover would do if he found Sean curled up with a sated, bruised, well-fucked boy when he got home. He doesn't think they'll stay curled up quite that long, but he does tug the afghan down from over the back of the couch, tucking it around both of them. "Mine," he murmurs.


Yet Another AU ([info]yetanotherau) wrote,
@ 09/28/2004 09:50:00

A Simple Arrangment 1 (SB/JLM) NC-17
A Simple Arrangement 1
Authors: [info]helens78 and [info]lunasv
Pairing: Sean Bean/Jonny Lee Miller
Warnings: Kink.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't know 'em or own 'em. Absolutely fiction. Made it all up.

Married GWM, 45, seeks long-term boy for domination, painplay, sex. Not a threesome. Partner is vanilla and supportive but not interested in joining.
Sir, responding to your ad. This boy is very interested. Would like to meet you. Call 555-5646-7993 to arrange time.

Sean picks up his phone and his cigarettes and heads to the kitchen table to return a phone call. He dials the phone number left in voicemail, lights a cigarette, and glances out to the front lawn, looking at the squirrels who are still trying to get into the bird feeders. Silly, really, but entertaining enough to watch.

It takes Jonny one ring to notice the phone's trying to get his attention, and another two rings to find it. By the third ring, he's picking it up with barely a glance to the caller ID display, not that he recognizes the name on it anyway. "Miller here," he says, picking up the watering can and giving the small potted ficus tree a drink. "Can I help you?"

Sean takes a soft drag off his cigarette before responding. "Hello, Mr. Miller. My name's Sean. I believe you responded to an ad I placed..."

Jonny thinks for a minute. Ad. Oh, fuck, yeah. He puts down the watering can. "Yessir, I did," he says, voice still light but a shade softer. "It's Jonny, not Mr. Miller."

"Jonny, then." Sean slides his breath out between his teeth, licks his lips and tastes smoke. "You left voice mail suggesting we arrange a time to meet. How does tomorrow night sound? Nine o'clock. There's a bar I know. Quiet. Private. We can talk about my ad and your interest in it over drinks."

"That would be fine. Nine o'clock. I don't have any conflicts." Jonny glances down, rubs a stray patch of potting soil into the denim. "Is there a dress code? Should I wear anything special?"

"Oh, something comfortable," Sean says. "Something that won't bother you to move around in. But no, special requests apart from that, that's the sort of thing we negotiate if we both end up wanting more than just talk."

"I understand, Sir. Just wanted to make sure it wasn't super-dressy. Comfortable I can do easily enough." Special requests. Don't get ahead of yourself, Miller. It's just a talk.

"Fair enough, then. Anything you'd like to ask before we meet?" Sean says.

"Obvious question. How will I know you?"

"You won't have to -- I'll leave your name with the hostess and she'll bring you back to my table -- but if you'd like a description, I can give you one. Or--" And Sean grins; this is one of the best parts of meeting people in this day and age as opposed to ten years earlier--"I can email you a picture if you like."

"S'up to you. I don't need to know what you like to meet you and talk. Your ad made me curious enough for that." Jonny moves to the kitchen sink, starts stacking dishes to wash. "I'd be happy to swap photos, though, if you want to know more of what you're getting into."

"Mm, I'd like that. What's the point of having all the bloody computers if you're not going to take advantage of them?" Sean tucks his cigarette between his lips and goes to the computer on the counter, between the fridge and the toaster oven. "What's your email address, then?" As soon as he's got it, he's mailing off the pictures, a few decent full-length shots and something that takes in his face a little closer. They're all relatively recent, leather jacket, longish hair.

Jonny pulls the laptop across the counter and starts rummaging through the pictures folder on his computer. Too many make him look like a teen. But maybe that's what the guy wants. And the others make him look, he sighs, like a horny actor in one of those Brit stock comedies. He finally settles on one where he has a decent smile and is wearing that grey-black slick shirt he likes so much. It's nearly full-length, so it'll give the guy an idea of what he's getting. And then adds to the email in progress the shot of him with the white shirt and brown dress jacket. In both, his hair is mussed and its natural blond-brown.

He likes what he sees in Sean's photos. "Nice looking, Sir. Like the hair."

"Like yours, too," Sean agrees with a grin, as soon as Jonny's photos load up. Fuckin' adorable. "Looking forward to meeting you in person."


Jonny finds himself anxious all day, not paying a bit of attention to his lentil soup at lunch and even less to the conversation from his colleagues in the crypt cafe. He's thinking ahead to the evening, and so it's no surprise he has his outfit picked out by dinner time. It's a simple look, black trousers and an off-white shirt layered over a black tee, the clothes fitted enough to accent a runner's body but not lewdly suggestive.

He walks into the bar and looks around. Sparse crowd, most of whom look like comfortable regulars. Just as he starts to give his name to the hostess, he notices a familiar face in the back of the room. Looks enough like the photo in the email, he thinks and he shrugs the woman off with a quick "I see him" before heading to the table.

Sean stands up as soon as he spots Jonny, taking to his feet and holding his hand out once Jonny gets there. "Hello," he grins. "How are you doing tonight?"

Taking the hand, Jonny shakes it solidly but not too eagerly before letting go, nothing to betray the sudden leap his libido took on getting closer. Very nice in person. "Fine, Sir. You?" He pulls out a chair and sits down, politely waiting on Sean to do so first. "Tube's running glitchy tonight. Was worried I'd be late."

"I'm fine as well. Glad to meet you in person," Sean offers. He gets the attention of a nearby waiter and tilts both eyebrows up at Jonny. "Something to drink?"

"Beer'll be fine," Jonny says quickly, resisting the urge to add unless you have plans for later that mean I shouldn't be drinking. "Whatever's on tap is great."

"Two," Sean nods at the waiter, "whatever lager you've got on tap." He waits until the waiter's gone and then leans forward on the table. "So we could wander through small talk until it doesn't feel quite so awkward, or we start talking about what we're doing here." He grins. "Have a preference?"

Ice broken. That's good. Jonny smiles, glances around and satisfies himself there's no one really paying attention to them. "Let's venture into why we're here and occasionally meander back into the small talk," he says, tilting his head slightly. "You want a boy. Any special requirements?"

"Are there any requirements that aren't special for something like this?" Sean asks. "I'm looking for someone who likes serving --whether that's through offering sex or offering pain or simply being around for two days a week waiting for me to decide what use to make of him next. I like watching -- which can mean mirrors or watching you strip off or touch yourself for me -- and I like boys who blush. And you? What do you require from someone you're going under for?"

Last requirement's fulfilled quite easily, as Jonny blushes faintly just from the idea of mirrors. "I like serving, being on my knees," he says, "for as long as you need be to be. I'm a bit exhibitionist when I sink into space, and I can formal if you get off on it." Jonny pauses, thinking through his words before pushing them out of his mouth. "And I like pain, too much for my own good sometimes."

"Does that mean you have trouble safewording when you need to, or have you just been worried about what would happen if you had a dom who didn't know when to stop?" Sean asks, going a little more serious now. "Or something else?"

"Means I'm a slut for pain, if we're talking bluntly, and I tend to have trouble saying no to doms who want to push the envelope," Jonny answers, voice quiet and serious. "Never had one push me to the point of feeling I needed to safeword, so not sure if I'd have trouble with that or not." He sits back as the waiter approaches with the beers, wondering just how much those admissions are going to put Sean off.

Sean takes his beer, thanking the waiter for it, and sends him off again; at this rate, it'll be a while before he's ready to order dinner. "I do like to push," Sean murmurs, "but that's something to be worked up to. And if you want to be pushed 'til you safeword, that's one thing, but I can't imagine dropping that on you unexpected."

"Didn't anticipate it on the first date, Sir," Jonny says. He picks up his beer, takes a couple sips, his mind nowhere near thinking about food. "Just saying I'm not a novice at this, I don't have many limits and I'm open to new experiences."

And all three taken on top of each other have Sean's cock twitching in his trousers, briefs suddenly feeling uncomfortably tight. He flicks his tongue out over his lips and keeps his eyes dead-solid locked on Jonny's, and reaches down to adjust himself. "Good," Sean murmurs. "So the attraction's plain enough, unless I'm reading everything wrong tonight. Do you want to go after something with me?"

It's hard for Jonny to hold the eye contact, the intense stare, without blushing. "I want to give you what you asked for in your ad, Sir." He shifts, spreading his legs under the table, stretching out his foot, his own trousers feeling a bit snug and his clothes suddenly way more than he wants to have on. "A boy to dominate, hurt and fuck. We can talk more specifically if you like."

"If you'd like to run through a checklist of sorts, we can do that back and forth via email," Sean offers. "Why don't you tell me what sort of kink drives you wild, and if there are any specifics there you want to offer -- strap vs. flogger vs. cat? -- you're welcome to."

"Kinks? Okay, starting point." Jonny leans onto the table, elbow up and thumb tracing the edge of his teeth as he thinks. "I like being beaten," he starts, shifting his hand to run through the edges of his hair. "Tied up, begging for it, struggling till my wrists are raw from the cuffs or rope cutting into the flesh. Heavy flogger. Cat works nice. One with barbs is even better," he pauses, "but you gotta be into bloodplay a bit for that."

"I can do bloodplay," Sean murmurs. "And I like everything you're describing. Do you like sex with pain, or do you prefer keeping them separate?"

Jonny smiles wider. Oh, yeah. Can do bloodplay. And he runs his hand down over his neck. "Don't have a preference. If one yields the other, that's brill. If not, it's alright."

"Getting into blood has its complications," Sean says, "but it's fucking gorgeous to play with. And it's worth the complication on my end. Christ." He shakes his head, laughing softly. "Didn't mean to make dinner a buffet of kink. I like this, though. I like how this sounds. I like the way this feels, the places it seems like it's going. How do you feel?" he asks.

"Horny," Jonny says bluntly. "Hard. Wanting to drop to my knees right now and crawl around the table to you, beg you to hurt me." He pauses, takes a long sip of beer. "Yeah, I like the way it feels."

"And I'd want to put you between my legs and press your face between my legs, then have you rest at my feet while I hand-fed you. Christ, I should've picked a kink-friendly restaurant for this," Sean laughs. "But no -- this is good -- I've rushed things before and had bad results out of it. If you go home and feel like wanking as much as I do right now, though, I want you to call me. Would you call me?"

That image only serves to make Jonny harder than he was before, and he shifts uncomfortably. "Promise. Might be on the mobile walking up to the flat, 'cause I know I'm gonna wanna pull off after this. No two ways about that, Sir."

"All right." Sean exhales. "Christ. And now we're supposed to think about food."

"Yeah, something thick and juicy and," Jonny laughs. "I'm just working myself into trouble, aren't I?"

"You might be," Sean grins. "Do you like getting into trouble?"

"I don't try to get into it. Sometimes it just finds me." Jonny shrugs. "Not enough so's I've been hauled in for anything, but a few scrapes."

"And what about getting into trouble with your tops?" Sean asks. "How do you feel about taking punishment?"

"If it's justified, I don't have any problem with it," Jonny says. "As long as it's not a top's whim, just to see how I react."

"I'm the same thing, in reverse," Sean agrees. "Don't mind punishment as long as it's not deliberate misbehavior in order to be punished. Can't quite wrap my mind around that. It's too many paradoxes in a row for me."

"Don't have to worry about that, Sir." Jonny bites softly at his lip. "I wouldn't misbehave for you."

Sean's just about to say something when the waiter comes back. And he's not sure whether it's just, again, I'm going to like the fit of this or whether it'd lead to something more like Come here -- lean over the table -- I want to find out what your lips taste like. But then the waiter's standing there and he doesn't have the chance to think about it anymore. It's just picking out dinner and pretending he isn't harder than he's been in recent memory, thinking that finally he's going to have what he's been missing all this time.

Jonny orders something. He knows it's not from the vegetarian side of the menu, but beyond that he doesn't have a clue. He's too busy staring at Sean to pay attention to the waiter, and when the food comes, he's still idly chatting and watching. Would it be too forward to say fuck the phone call and just take me home? By the time the check's come, he's barely concentrating on the half-eaten meal, turns out it was steak with a peppercorn sauce, and trying to figure out if the hard-on he has is going to be noticeable to his fellow Tube travelers.


The drive back to Sean's flat is fast and easy, and by the time he walks in his erection's subsided. A little, anyway. He hangs his jacket up and heads upstairs to the study, where he's not likely to get much done apart from waiting, and wondering how long it'll be before Jonny calls, and what Sean's going to have him do when he does. He rests the heel of his hand against his cock and presses down, hard and then harder, forcing himself not to open up his trousers and just start stroking. You can wait.

Fortunately for Jonny, the Tube's not overly full on a weekday night and he doesn't have to avoid too many people. He's damned hard walking from the station to his flat and, true to his word, he's on the mobile before he gets there, phone tucked in his pocket and headset on.

"C'mon, pick up," he mutters as he rounds the corner to his street. He's anxious, curious what Sean'll do over the phone, wanting it more than he's wanted anything in a long time. Key's out and front door's unlocked when he hears the call finally click through and he's holding his breath without thinking.

"Hello, lad," Sean says softly. "How was your trip home?"

"Too long, Sir," Jonny says, letting out the breath as he closes the door behind him, leans against it. "But I'm home."

"Get somewhere comfortable," Sean orders -- first order. He has to give his cock another hard squeeze to keep from groaning over it.

"Comfortable," Jonny echoes, toeing out of his loafers and heading up the townhouse's stairs. Bed's best. He doesn't bother turning on the light, but sits down on the bed, back against the headboard and pulls his mobile from his pocket, laying it on the pillow. "Okay, Sir. I'm there."

"Still dressed the way you were at dinner?" Sean asks, heel of his hand rocking down against his cock, one hard press, another, and this is almost cheating, almost touching himself before he intended to, so he puts his hand on the armrest and exhales softly. Not yet.

"Yes, Sir. Just walked in the door." Jonny slides his hand to his thigh, an unconscious gesture, but doesn't touch himself. "Haven't had time to undress."

"Good," Sean murmurs. "Because I want you to undress for me. Start with your shirt. I want your chest bare. Your fingertips gliding over your skin for me."

Jonny unbuttons his overshirt and sits up, pulling it off, dropping it off the side of the bed. "Taking my T-shirt off now," he says, catching his fingers in the hem and rolling it up, over his head, stretching his arms out as he finishes and casts it away. He isn't sure how detailed a description Sean wants of his movements. "Moving my hands back down, hands crossed behind my neck, pulling my fingers over my shoulders."

"Tell me what it's like," Sean says. "What does it feel like having my voice on the line, telling you to touch yourself? How does it make the sensations feel when you actually do it?"

"It's hard to describe. Exhilarating. Your voice, it's like cream over trifle," Jonny starts, blushing at having to put into words what he's thinking, feeling. "Frightening, that you control over me, but in a good way, like getting on the haunted house ride at Brighton. I want it." He runs his hands down over his chest, thumbs casually crossing nipples. "There's a tingle, a shudder when I'm touching my chest. I can close my eyes and imagine it's you doing it."

"Good lad," Sean breathes. "I can imagine what you'd look like, touching yourself for me. Obedient. Gorgeous. Mine." He grins. "I'm going to start unbuttoning my shirt, lad, and I want you sucking your fingers into your mouth for me. And then I want them running in circles around your nipples, hot and wet."

Obedient. Yes. Jonny slides his fingers into his mouth and sucks on them, one by one, the noise carrying through the phone. "Yessir, obedient boy," he says, circling a wet thumb over his right nipple while sucking on the left index finger and sliding it down to amuse his left nipple. "Christ, Sir, that feels so good. They're hard, almost instantly." For a moment, he wonders how it'd be different if he'd gone with the drunken whim to get them pierced.

"You sound good," Sean decides, finishing with the buttons down the front of his shirt and moving to the buttons of his sleeves. "Pinch one for me -- hard -- and hold the pinch 'til I tell you to stop."

That's a simple command. Jonny pinches his left nipple, twisting his fingers just a nudge and he immediately reacts, stomach sucking in and breath hitching for the second it takes the pain to splinter through his chest. "Yessir," he moans, "doing it. It hurts. Sudden, sharp pain. Haven't been treated like this in a while."

"You sound perfect," Sean whispers, trailing his own fingers up and down the center of his chest. "Fucking good for me, lad. Stop now. Ease back."

He lets go, finger easing up and hand sliding away, and then lets out a breath he'd forgotten he was holding. "You're good for me, Sir," Jonny says, just as softly, his voice eerie in the darkness of his room. "I haven't done this in a long time, given over."

"Have you been missing it?" Sean asks. But what he's really wondering is why now?, and all the questions that might go along with it, ones that are perhaps too complicated to go over when he's got a charming, obedient lad on the other end of his phone line.

"Yes." It's not something Jonny needs to go into, not now. Maybe later, if it's important. It wasn't that the last guy hurt him, not really, more like it just didn't work, and he got out of the habit of looking for anyone else, just threw himself into making a career. And it's too early to think this might work, that he might've found something. "I've missed having the control. Didn't realize how much, Sir, till you started talking, telling me what to do."

"Next on the list of things to do: I want your hands still. On your thighs unless you need to use one to hang onto your mobile. I want you to listen to me tossing off. While I'm thinking of putting you on your knees and using your mouth." Sean leans forward in his chair and tucks his phone between ear and shoulder in order to get his shirt pulled off. "Do you like being on your knees, sucking men off?"

"Fuck, yes, love it, sir." Jonny swears he could come just from listening to Sean describe what he's going to do, much less do it. He flattens his palms against his thighs, carefully not letting his fingers slip too close to his cock. "Hands on thighs, sir. Mobile has a headset." Not that Sean needs to know, but Jonny's just talking.

"Lucky boy," Sean teases. "If we decide to take up phone calls more often, I'm going to have to get myself the same." He stands up, unbuckles his belt one-handed and pulls it out of his belt loops. "I've got my shirt off, and I'm working on the rest of it..." There's the soft sound of a zipper, and Sean makes the rustle of fabric a little more audible than it would normally be. "There -- better --down to my boxers, and give me a moment to get those off as well." He sets the phone down, finishes stripping out of his clothes, and climbs back into the armchair, glad the leather's still warm with his body heat.

"I'm sure you realize exactly what he's doing to this boy," Jonny says, licking his lips and flexing his fingers, pushing his thighs down into the bed. "I'd like to be there, Sir, undressing you, folding your shirt neatly before I'm allowed to touch your trousers. Kneeling to pull your shoes off and staying there, till I'm told differently." Normally, being this hard, it'd be more difficult by the second not to touch himself, but Jonny's content to wait, to follow orders, be told what he can do and when.

"Oh, and you'd look good there. Still for me. Quiet. And I'd come around you in a circle and run my fingertips over your cheeks, thinking of how they'd hollow while your lips were tight around my cock. God, yes..." Sean curls hand around cock and starts stroking lightly. "Touching myself now. Thinking of you."

Jonny shivers, suddenly icy cold in the too-warm room. "I'd take you in, Sir, down my throat, as far as you wanted." He swallows, wets his lips. "Anything you'd give me. Everything."

"You'd have to watch a while first," Sean breathes, heartbeat echoing the slow rhythm of his strokes, hand on cock, fingers drawing up the length of him. "You'd have my hand dug into your hair, tilting your face back, and you'd be watching me pull myself off for you. Wondering when you'd get a taste of it."

"I'd try to be patient, try not to fidget too much, wanting it, wanting to beg you for it, not knowing if I'm even allowed that privilege." Jonny wants to touch himself, wants to make his cock harder, just for the voice on the phone, the soft breath and whispered moans. "I'm tugging against your hand, Sir, not to get away, but to quietly beg for more."

"Open your mouth for me. Tongue on your lower lip. Nice and easy." Sean exhales, squeezes his cock hard. God, this feels good. He's missed it. Far more than he realized.

Jonny does as ordered. He opens his mouth slowly, breathing out more audibly, and slides his tongue forward, resting it on his lower lip. He can almost taste the anticipation, in his mind see himself on his knees, head back, waiting for whatever Sean chooses to give him.

"The head of my cock's resting against your lips now. My hand's guiding it. Rubbing it against your open lips and your tongue, dipping into your mouth just a fraction, then pulling back. Tell me. How's my lad behaving himself?" Sean asks softly.

"He's being very good, Sir." Jonny moans at the image, licks his lips. "His hands are on his thighs and he's not moving them, in spite of being harder than he has been in a long time. He's listening, imagining what it would be like to have your cock on his lips, to be doing exactly what you say and only that."

"Oh, God, good lad," Sean breathes. "Put your hand on your cock for me, lad, and stroke 'til I tell you to stop. Don't come. Go easy."

"Yessir," Jonny says eagerly, relieved at being able to touch. He wraps his hand around his cock, swollen and demanding attention, jerking at the hint of fingers, and he pulls downward, slowly, steadily, gently tugging as he's been told to do. "My cock's hard, Sir, and it almost hurts to touch, I want to come so badly."

"Think you get to come before I do?" Sean asks, smiles over the words. "You won't be coming 'til my cock's down your throat, 'til you're tasting my come over your lips and I'm licking up whatever mess you haven't been able to swallow for me."

"No, Sir, wouldn't think it. Yes, Sir, you first. Always." Jonny's spilling out the words, his fingers tightening around his cock, stroking slow and easy. He breathes in and then out, short pants and then longer breaths, tamping back on the release that's begging to come. "Christ, Sir, just the thought of being allowed to lick up your come."

"You're going to look so good when you're on your knees for me," Sean growls. "Going to look so good come-stained and begging for more. Come for me, Jonny," and Sean doesn't wait -- he cries out, low and heavy, coming harder than he has in months, hard enough that his vision's blurred and his voice gives out before his breath does.

"Thank you," he manages before he's coating his hand, coming hard and fast and stroking his cock to make it hurt even better than it was. He stops breathing, holding it for the long minute to fall over the edge, into the void, come back up, and then gasps for the air. He wants to be come-stained, wants to be sticky and begging for more, to stay on his knees after it's over, just waiting on Sean to tell him he can move.

Sean groans, the sounds from Jonny's orgasm burned into him, and he'll be stroking himself off to the memory of those sounds until he's seen Jonny again and he has new memories to fantasize over. "Good lad," he breathes. "Oh, God. Oh, God, you're going to be so good for me..."

You're going to be something I'd forgotten I wanted. "Thanks. Same here." Jonny's catching his breath bit by bit. He wants to ask what he's supposed to do till next time, his brain already assuming there will be a next time and hoping it's more than a phone call, but that's presumptuous and definitely what a good lad does. Jonny licks his lips. He likes being called that. No one's ever used it before with him.

Sean lets out a warm sigh and reaches for a nearby handkerchief to start cleaning himself up with. "What does your week look like, lad?" he asks softly.

"I've got work, but that's flexible. Nights are completely free." Jonny doesn't add that he'd consider calling in sick and clearing anything he has on schedule just to get Sean's hands on him. "I can be at your disposal most anytime, Sir."

"Shall we start with Thursday night? My house. And we'll plan for a long evening, though I'll drive you home if you need the ride." Sean's hoping he will. He's hoping Jonny will let himself be pushed that far this fast.

"Thursday's great, Sir. Do I need to bring anything? How do you want me dressed?" Jonny's trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. It's not working, he's sure, but Thursday can't come too soon, he thinks. "And what time? Where do you live anyway?" Stop with the questions, Miller. He'll tell you what you need to know.

Sean can't help chuckling. There's enthusiasm and then there's this -- outright hunger -- and it sounds good. It sounds very good. "Bring clothes you can change into. Wear clothes you can have ripped off. I want you there early, after dinner, seven if you can manage it. And I'll email the address so you don't have to worry about taking it down." He slides his tongue out over his lips. "Anything else you want to know?"

Clothes to change into. Clothes to be ripped off. No, not much else he should know. Well, maybe one thing. "Your lover, Sir," he says hesitantly. "I know what your ad said, but will he be there? Is there anything I should know about him?"

"He won't be there," Sean says. Pierce works late on Thursdays, into the early hours of dawn sometimes. "And if there's anything you'd like to know about him, just ask -- I don't have any secrets from him, don't plan on keeping him a secret, either."

"I only need to know what you want me to," Jonny says. He will admit to a curiosity about a man who doesn't want to be on his knees for Sean, but he's not so curious as to delve into private matters. "Secrets don't do anyone any good," he murmurs, quickly drawing in a breath. "But, no, there's nothing else I can think of at the moment."

"All right," Sean murmurs. "How do you think you'll sleep tonight?"

"Better than I have in months," Jonny admits. "Not sure I want to move enough to take a shower even now. Just might drift off. You?"

"Feeling absolutely fucking brilliant," Sean says with a laugh, "and I think I'll sleep like the dead." And probably pounce his lover in the morning before work, Sean thinks, though he'll have to be careful to save the growling for Jonny.

Jonny laughs with Sean. "Perhaps I should hang up now, Sir, let you get to sleep." He pauses, thinking about that shower, still not wanting to move other than sink down into the blankets. And, fuck, they can be washed later. "I look forward to Thursday."

"So do I, lad. Have a good night."