Just Another One Night Stand

by P. R. Zed

Sequel to Just Another Day's Work

You lay fully clothed in the dark, sprawled on the bed, the shapes of the furniture looming around you like mute sentinels. The door of the hotel room is unlocked and ajar. Just in case.

In case he decides what it is he wants. In case he finds he can trust what is between you. In case he follows the trail you have blazed for him, if only he can read the signs.

The time you have known each other is short--can be measured in weeks--but you've felt a connection with him since you arrived. You admire his commitment to his role, his willingness to do anything to make his character believable, to make him real. And he is real, for you. Boromir of Gondor has been real for you from the beginning, was real to you today. Especially today.

Today, Boromir died in your arms. You wonder if a piece of your own soul has withered, in mourning for a man who never lived, wonder if you will be haunted by the shade of a fictional creation.

But Sean isn't fictional, isn't a ghost. Isn't dead. He breathes and smiles and worries and lives. Your heart lightens when his eyes crinkle in amusement, and you feel pain when you see him hurting. Like he was today.

Boromir's death has affected you both, but Sean most of all. He'd been subdued since shooting ended for the day, barely talking at dinner, disappearing as soon as good manners allowed.

You followed, could do nothing else. And you went alone, though that hadn't been easy. Hobbits, Elves, Dwarves and Wizards had all noticed Sean's mood and expressed concern. Even Lawrence, Boromir's murderer, had wanted to join you, make certain Sean was all right. But you had placated, cajoled and insisted and they had, eventually, let you search Glenorchy alone for an errant English actor.

The quest hadn't taken long. The town is tiny, just three small streets, and Sean had been exactly where you expected: sitting by the lake, watching the sun set behind the mountains. You joined him on the park bench, sharing a silence that was so much more, full of potential. And then you did it: stroked his cheek; kissed his forehead; spoke the words.

"I'll be back at the hotel." Behind those words were others left unsaid. Follow me. Come to me. Trust me. But you've been waiting for what seems like hours and he hasn't followed, hasn't come. Hasn't trusted.

You sit up, convinced he'll never appear, never acknowledge the attraction between you, never want you the way you want him. You're about to stand, shut the door and turn the lock, when you hear a movement in the hall. The door opens, slowly, tentatively, and he enters the darkened room, stumbling as his eyes adjust to the gloom.

"Vig?" he says, his voice cracking, making him sound much younger than his years.

"Here," you respond. "I'm here." You stand, wait as he follows your voice, crosses the room until only inches separate you.

You stand like that for minutes, for ever, neither of you moving, frozen with the possibilities of the moment. You can feel the soft puffs of his breath kissing your face, can hear the air leaving his throat.

Still you don't move.

He is the one who reaches out first. Takes your shoulders in a grip that is gentler than you expected. You hope you're not making a foolish mistake as you take him in your arms. Hope this won't be just another one night stand. Hope this is between Viggo and Sean, not Aragorn and Boromir.

You pull him close and feel his heart hammering in his chest. His hands fumble awkwardly, just for a second, as if he's unsure what to do. But the moment passes and then he's stroking your back, caressing your hair.

He leaves awkwardness behind completely as his tongue traces a path down your throat. His teeth play with your earlobe--tickle, retreat, bite--and you gasp, head arching back as your senses are overwhelmed.

Your mouths come together is a furious clash, teeth meeting teeth, tongues seeking each other out. He unbuttons your shirt and his hand slides across your chest, your belly. Your nipples harden as his hand dips lower, into your waistband, and brushes the top of your cock. Before you know it, he's undone your fly and your cock is fully exposed to his touch, hard and weeping.

He takes your cock in a firm grip, strokes it until cries of pleasure sound in your throat, until you think you're going to come right now. But you don't want it like this. You're impatient for the feeling of his skin against yours. Reluctantly, you stay his hand and strip out of your clothes as he watches. The room is dark, but your eyes have long since adjusted to the shadow and you can see the half-smile on his parted lips as you reveal yourself to him.

Your mission is half-accomplished, but he is still fully clothed. You move close to him, ease hands under his sweater and trace kisses up his belly to his nipples. You look up and the smile is gone from his face, replaced by a look of need, of want. You grin and pull the sweater over his head, struggling as it tangles briefly on his flailing arms. You deal with his jeans more efficiently, stripping them off in a neat movement that is more inspired than practiced.

Now you're both naked, and a brief shyness takes hold of you. You're both still, cocks hard, breath coming in rough gasps. But the stillness is only a pause, a rest before the next bar of music begins. Soon enough, you are drawn back into the song, mouths locked in a deep, unending kiss as your bodies grind together. Your hands knead his ass as his do the same. You overbalance, and then you're falling backwards onto the bed, with him a satisfying warm weight on top of you.

You let him set the pace as you begin to move together, cocks gliding across each other, inflaming your arousal more than you thought possible, leaving you wanting still more. You grab him and roll till you're on top, then apply your full weight to him to still his movements.

"Take me," you say. "Fuck me."

You know if the lights were on you would see his eyes go dark, the black of the pupil expanding till the thinnest edge of green is all that remains of the iris. He licks his lips and swallows hard.

"You sure?" he asks.

In answer, you reach over and pull the lube and condoms out of the nightstand where you'd stashed them. You put them deliberately in his hand, smiling as you feel his cock pulse in reaction.

"Never more sure," you say, telling the truth. You want this, want him.

He swallows again and nods, and you know you have him. One kiss, hard and possessive, and you slide slowly off him, taking your time, then get on elbows and knees. You'd like to see his face, but you also want to make this easy for him. And you want to feel him surround you, envelop you as he fucks you.

You hear him open the condom, fumble as he rolls it on, makes it slick with lube. Then he pauses, trailing fingers lightly over your back, your sides, your thighs. You moan and push back against him, hoping to speed him up. And you do. He's opening you with his fingers, with his cock, licking your spine, biting your shoulder. He thrusts hard and you have him all, his balls snug against your ass. Your cock twitches with the perfection of it, this sensation of him filling you. He wraps his arms around you, his fingernails scraping deliciously across your chest. Then he moves his hips and he's thrusting into you, harder than you expected, yet not nearly hard enough.

He reaches down and pumps your cock, and you wonder that you can take all this sensation: the feeling of him pounding into you, surrounding every part of you. You clench your eyes shut and try to memorize it all, how it feels, but it's changing and you're coming, spilling over his hand, your ass spasming around his cock.

It's as if that's what he's been waiting for. A wordless cry escapes his lips and he's coming, wrapping you in an even tighter embrace as his cock throbs and his hips make those last few thrusts against you.

When he's finally still, chest heaving against your back, you sigh and slip onto your side. He follows, his cock still buried inside you, but softening even now. You wish you could stay this way forever, the feeling of him inside you, his solid warmth at your back, the evidence of your orgasm drying on your belly, on his hands.

You know you must move eventually, but not now. For now, you will enjoy what you have. For now, you will trust what is between you.

Fin



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