For someone who plays an elf, Orlando is not all that graceful.
Actually, he's extremely ungraceful. Sean can't remember all the times he's had to pick the lad up off his arse, dust him off, and send him back into the metaphorical fray. And Sean isn't going to think of all the scrapes and nicks and cuts and the two broken toes Orlando has suffered due to his serious lack of gracefulness.
Yet for some reason, all those girls out there seem to think Orlando is all light and airy and just no.
He's not that good of a dancer, either.
He's an incredibly shite dancer if Sean is honest. All jerking limbs and out of rhythm, unable to hold the beat for more than a few seconds, and Viggo had once commented that Orlando danced like an epileptic on speed.
The description is fairly accurate.
Case in point, the way he's currently standing on the sofa, straddling Sean's lap, and waggling his hips in something Sean supposes is meant to be sexy (even though Sean can't quite figure out why Orlando's doing it, because it's not like he doesn't know that all he has to do is ask if he wants to get fucked six ways to Sunday). And given that he's wearing just a tiny pair of red briefs with a few bells and a bow sewn on the front, it would be sexy if he would just stand still.
Orlando is incredibly good at posing.
The bells jingle every time Orlando moves – which means they're ringing constantly – and Sean closes his eyes. He can't help but wonder just how much Orlando has had to drink.
A fair amount he's willing to bet.
Which means he won't stop until Sean puts his foot down. Or something to the same effect. And the bloody ringing has got to stop.
So Sean reaches up, hooks his finger around the thin strip of stretchy fabric running between Orlando's legs (and if that means his knuckle is pressed right up against the underside of Orlando's balls, well), and gives it a tug. It has the desired effect of pulling Orlando off-balance so he collapses into Sean's lap.
"Lad," Sean huffs, another finger delving beneath the fabric to stroke over warm skin in a way that makes Orlando squirm, "can you not put your jingle bells in my face?"
"I can think of much better places for you to be putting 'em," Sean says, adding a third finger that has Orlando sucking in his breath as his eyes go heavy lidded.
"Oh," Orlando says, shifting to wrap his arms around Sean's shoulders, hips already rocking against Sean's hand (in what is possibly the only example of perfect rhythm that Orlando ever exhibits), and Sean makes a mental note to burn those damn briefs just as soon as he can.