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Orin pulls Seymour into the bathroom, immediately resuming his onslaught of sloppy and open-mouthed kisses on Seymour’s neck as Orin slams the door shut and locks it. Seymour whimpers, the contact sending jolts of electricity up his spine, and snakes his shaky hands under Orin’s wifebeater, smelling faintly of cigarette smoke and motor oil. He feels up the planes and curves of Orin’s body, his sides, his stomach, his abs… Seymour always loves to savor every inch of sweaty skin that Orin allows him to, and he brings his hands higher to his hairy chest. Orin growls at this—whether from annoyance or pleasure, Seymour doesn’t know—and Orin bites down hard, sinking his teeth into Seymour’s sensitive, flushed flesh. Seymour cries out, a broken moan. Orin swallows it by smashing his lips into Seymour’s before pulling away, leaving a dull ache throbbing in his neck.
“You fuckin’ whore,” Orin grunts out, voice rough. Seymour whines at the nickname, a bit quieter this time; he really was trying. “Keep it down, will ya? Or d’ya want us to get caught?” Seymour shakes his head and removes his hands from under Orin’s tank top. “Knowing you, you’d probably like that, ya little slut.” Seymour’s cheeks burn red-hot from shame, but he says nothing more. Not a single protest.
“Fuck, you’re so good for me, better than Audrey…” Orin mutters as he quickly brings his lips back to Seymour’s, prodding his tongue against them as an invitation. Seymour all too happily accepts it into his mouth, his heart flipping from the praise in a weird mixture of pride and anger. He soon forgets about any negative feelings that bubble up though, mind fogging over from the sheer pleasure as he attempts to tug Orin impossibly closer to him, fists balling up in the fabric of Orin’s shirt. Seymour isn’t aware of how much time passes like this, all tangled up with the admittedly handsome dentist, but somewhere between making out and more quiet moans, Seymour had started to grind down into Orin’s leg that he had graciously slipped between them.
Seymour was getting increasingly desperate through the layers of fabric, his hips working overtime to feel as much friction, as much Orin as he could, humping him like the pathetic guy he was. And although Orin would rather die before he would ever admit this, he got desperate too, trying to press his erection into Seymour’s. Through their almost drunken haze, Orin manages to crack an eye open, and shit— Seymour looks absolutely stunning. All sweaty and worked up, brows knit up in concentration… Orin could stare at Seymour like this for hours.
However, something else catches his attention. Something… interesting, though nothing could ever be as interesting as Seymour. When Orin saw the black stool tucked away in the corner of the bathroom, a predatory look flashes in his eyes, and he grins against Seymour’s mouth— an idea simply too perfect to resist. Orin pushes Seymour away with a shove, almost too aggressively, guiding him towards the stool. Seymour snaps out of it, dazed and confused, and he stumbles, glancing behind him. “Huh? W-What?”
“Sit,” Orin orders, pointing.
“What— why?”
“I said, sit,” he spits out, venom lacing his words. “Need I repeat myself, Krelborn?”
Seymour shakes his head hastily and obliges, almost akin to a puppy. He shifts awkwardly as he tries to settle onto the uncomfortably small stool, still squirming from arousal.
Orin backs away from him with a sharp grin, and slowly starts to unzip his black jeans, taking his sweet, sweet time as if no one else were there. Then, he goes for the button and pushes his pants down just past his hips, revealing pale thighs and his boxers stained with a small amount of precum, dick visibly straining against it. “Watch,” Orin commands, as if Seymour’s eyes weren’t already glued on the intoxicating sight before him.
Finally, Orin frees his cock from its fabric confines and wraps a hand around his length, setting a leisurely pace as he strokes up and down. He groans from the contact and bites his lip, fighting back the urge to speed up. Orin looks up at Seymour; his thighs are squeezed tightly together as his hands white-knuckle the edge of the stool, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes both somehow unfocused yet locked onto Orin’s cock with a rapt interest, pupils dilated. Orin moans upon seeing him, and Seymour’s hips jerk up of their own volition, clearly trying to chase something that wasn’t there. Fuck, Orin thought, I’m not gonna last long like this, his hand already betraying his intentions to draw this out by going a bit faster. He wills himself to slow down again, and Seymour only whines. Christ, this vocal botanist was really gonna be the death of him. He could feel a bead of sweat travel down his face, dripping onto his top.
One of Seymour’s hands makes its way down to his clothed erection, palming himself through the fabric and panting loudly before he even has the time to register what he’s doing. Orin groans again.
“Mm– Krelborn! Did I say you could touch yourself?” he snaps, Orin’s dark and threatening gaze piercing through his cloudy lust. Seymour's face flashes with a sudden panic; he looks like a deer caught in the headlights.
“No— No, doctor,” Seymour croaks out, pulling his hand away and planting it firmly onto the stool once again. His hips rock into the air as he whines, his cock desperate for something, anything, presenting a very visible bulge in his pants.
“Better,” Orin hisses out. He attempts to tease Seymour by wiping away the precum beading at his tip with his thumb, massaging it into his cock. It works—Seymour’s breath hitches, and he sees his hands flex—but Orin can feel his resolve crumbling by the second. Eventually. he decides to shakily stumble his way backwards and sits on the closed toilet seat, in case his legs threaten to buckle under him from the sheer pleasure he was experiencing. With a huff, Orin allows himself to speed up, grunting at the increased pace. Every stroke sent a wave of fire crackling through his nerves, and it was getting harder to resist not coming right then and there, as Seymour continued to tremble and squirm in the corner all cute like he always did, his face flushed a deep, pretty red.
“Pl-Please, doctor,” Seymour begs, almost incoherent, his thighs shifting for any sort of friction, “please, I-I need you, I need you to touch me, need you to ruin me, need you to—”
Whatever Seymour was babbling after that, Orin couldn’t hear; he loses it at that moment, his hand setting a brutal pace as he hungrily chased his own climax, groaning raggedly, and Orin spills over into his hand and onto the floor. The scene immediately goes straight to Seymour’s cock and he moans, obscenely loud, but he doesn’t care, they both couldn’t care anymore, and Seymour almost comes from the sight alone. His hips stutter and find nothing yet again. He whines.
Orin, still panting and light-headed from his high, makes his way over to Seymour in a crazed frenzy, practically ripping his pants and boxers away as Orin drops to his knees. He takes Seymour’s cock into his mouth, enveloping him with a wet heat, and Orin dips his tongue into Seymour’s slit, licking up the precum dribbling from his tip. Seymour gasps and instantly tries to buck deeper into Orin, whimpering, his hands finding themselves tugging at Orin’s hair. That seems to spur him on, and Orin takes as much of Seymour’s cock as his mouth and throat could allow, lapping him up and tasting every inch of him, of Seymour, with newfound determination. Seymour’s thighs shook as he keened, hips jerking with Orin’s momentum, moaning with each thrust. Orin gently scrapes his teeth along him, and the sudden pain combined with the overload of sensations makes Seymour short-circuit. He comes with a high-pitched cry, shooting ropes of cum down Orin’s throat, which he swallows up eagerly. Seymour goes limp on the stool and is left panting, trying to catch his breath. Orin is in a similar state, and eventually pulls away from his cock, mourning the loss a little. His lips are dark, dripping with saliva as Orin smirks and looks up at his lover. Seymour blushes.
His attempt to get up from the stool is in vain, and Seymour almost falls over with a yelp, but Orin catches him and gives him a quick peck on the lips. “Easy, stud,” Orin says, and they both straighten up, dusting themselves off, though not without Orin slapping Seymour on the back first.
They tuck themselves back into their boxers and pants. Seymour stares awkwardly at Orin and picks at his fingers, unsure of what to do next; Orin just laughs.
“Now, let’s get back to that party, yeah?” he suggests. A few beats pass before Seymour nods, and they go for the door.
As they both exit the bathroom, a blonde-haired woman passes by and glances over at Seymour and Orin. Audrey giggles, a knowing glint in her eyes, and the click of her heels fall away as quickly as they came. Seymour turns beet-red once again in record time; Orin punches him in the arm, making Seymour squeak. And only one thought passes their minds at that moment:
Well, fuck.
...and here's what said cuck chair looks like for those curious folk out there! (courtesy of elliott ofc)
