Fic: Animal
E-mail: the_smooth_one910@hotmail.com
Rating: R.
Warnings: The usual. Boy on boy.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Pairings: Orlando/Colin Farrell
Summary: Who cares? It's just an excuse to write such pretty boys together!


You don't remember where it was where you met him. Both of you have earned reputations as party animals, as industry crawlers drinking, smoking, fucking their way to stardom. You suppose it was only a matter of time before you'd run into him, before you decided he was the next, albeit insignificant, step on your ladder to endless fame.

You don't remember if it was at the premiere for The Recruit or Daredevil. No, it wasn't The Recruit; that was the Blond Skankorama Incident. It had to have been at Daredevil, or something else. You don't fucking remember, but it was somewhere. You usually don't remember anything at all about your "encounters."

But you can never forget this. Not how he walked, like liquid sex, with total confidence. He walks like a panther, graceful yet feral, searching and stalking his prey. His eyes, too, are unforgettable, as they scan and scout and settle on his victims, as they widen as his minds explores the way he can bend them all to his will, as his eyes tighten into slits as he plots how he's going to make you beg for every moment of it.

And you do. You remember that. He slinked his way up to you, smirking those gorgeous, sinful lips, telling you in that fucking accent, "How many drinks I do have to give you to make you spread your legs?"

You had such immediate respect for such honesty, you decided there was no need to play games. You said, "Don't need drinks. Just the right words." and his smile widened, his laugh genuine and rich. You smiled back, and slid off your barstool, gestured for him to follow you back to the dance floor, swaying your hips and letting your shirt slide up and expose a sliver of your back.

You never even made it to the wall, he had you in his arms, gripping your shoulders and raping your mouth with force you've never experienced befor. You would have liked to fight back, you would have liked to pin his tongue down and do what you do best, but with one kiss, your body turned pliant, you just wanted to melt against him and only feel, only feel what his body, what his wicked tongue and lean hips and dirty, succulent mouth, are doing to you.

And his mouth was so dirty, so raunchy and deep and rapsing and breathless. "So fucking easy," he whispered, harsh and deep in your ear, in between the bites he bestowed on your neck. "You're just one easy bastard, aren't you?"

Yes. No. Maybe. Fuck. That's all you couldn't say, as you gasped and whimpered and begged with mewling noises. Your nails dug into his back as he lead you, hands on your hips, to a dark corner of the room. "You're just a little doll. So delicate. So dainty." He bit you so hard, you could almost feel the blood trickling down your neck. "You just want me to tear you apart, don't you?"

Yes. You remember this part especially, the part where his hand is somehow in your pants, not touching you, but grabbing and flicking and controlling. "Feel so good," he panted on your collarbone, and you thought you were going to cry, the feeling was so divine. "Fucking made for this shit," he rasped, and the way it rolls off his tongue (it actually sounds like shite) was almost your undoing. He said it with such force and unabandoned passion, it's sex, the word shit has forever become associated with sex.

It was only moments later when you came, hard and fast, and you slumped against him, trying to catch your breath. Surprisingly, he let you, wrapping you in a hug, his mouth near your ear, breathing low and unsteady. When you finally regained your senses, you looked up at him, and he smiled, without teeth. "When you're ready for another round, I'll be at the bar," he murmured, kissing you and walking away, just like a panther.

You know you'll never have the courage to seek him out. But that's okay. You both will still put in appearances, still drink and suck and fuck anything, and you know you won't have to go to him, despite what he says. He will stalk you again, center his attention on you and claim you again. And that's okay, too, because the next time, you'll be able to do something other than beg and whimper. You'll take him and rip him apart, and you will be the animal this time.

Or so you hope.


How many hobbits can we fit in a bed?
This ain't floating my boat!
Home, Jones!


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