Sean has an arm around Pierce's waist, and he kicks open the door, tugging Pierce inside. "Come on, then. Up -- over the doorframe -- in you go, that's right. Come on."
Pierce is smiling too much to notice when he trips over the doorframe, nearly knocking both Sean and himself to the floor in the process. "Tell me you're not proud of me," he says, words not quite slurred but given to a great deal of inertia. "Tell me you don't think I'm the best fucking Irishman in -- in--" Pierce gropes for a word, and failing the word, gropes Sean instead. "Here," he says.
"What, in my pants?" Sean asks, laughing despite himself. He extricates Pierce's hand from his jeans and shuts the door, twisting the lock and slipping the little chain into the slot. "You're the best fucking Irishman who's ever been in my pants. I'll give you that for free."
Pierce chuckles, and the chuckle has inertia, too. He ends up tugging at Sean's shirt, at the fly of his jeans. "Fucking buttons," he mumbles. "You always have to wear things with so many buttons? Off! Off with them."
"You--" Sean grabs for both of Pierce's hands, shaking Pierce just a little once he's got both wrists secured. "You are blind, stupid, stinking drunk, love, and I need to get you to bed. You're going to be so hung over in the morning..."
"Don't get hung over," Pierce says. "Just don't sober up too fast, either. And let go. You're not on top."
Sean rolls his eyes and holds his hands up, letting Pierce's wrists go. Pierce stares at both wrists as if he's never seen them before, turning his hands this way and that to get a better look at them. "I'll be damned," he says. "Look at that."
"Look at what?" Sean asks, though he's not looking at anything in particular. He's taking his shoes off, hanging up his coat on the coat rack by the door. "I'm for bed. What about you?"
"Where's bed again?" Pierce asks.
Sean sighs and wraps an arm around Pierce's waist again. "This way," he says, guiding Pierce through their cottage and into the bedroom. It's just off the kitchen, and as soon as Sean has Pierce seated on the foot of the bed, he goes to the kitchen for a glass of water, which he puts on Pierce's nightstand before starting to strip off. "You probably ought to drink that," he says, nodding at the water glass.
Pierce, though, is much more interested in his half-naked lover than any boring glasses of water on nightstands. He crawls over the bed and puts both hands on Sean's arms, running his hands up to Sean's shoulders and then back down to his wrists. "It's St. Patrick's Day," he points out.
"Believe me, Pierce, I realize that," Sean says dryly.
"Can't pass out on St. Patrick's day without getting fucked," Pierce says. "Where's the lube?"
"You're insane," Sean says, shaking his head, finally undressed. He rolls onto his back, pulls Pierce up on top of him. "You're so drunk you couldn't find my arse with your cock and both hands, so enough. Let's get some sleep, yeah? And if you're not hung over you can fuck me all you want tomorrow morning."
"I resent that," Pierce says gruffly. "I resent that very much. I can find your arse just fine." He wriggles a hand under Sean's body and squeezes. "It's right here."
Sean jerks under Pierce, shoving at his shoulders. "Your hand's freezing," he yelps. "Get off. We've still got to strip you. Christ, you smell of Guinness."
"Thank you," Pierce grins, and rolls obligingly off Sean. "Get the lube out."
"Get the lube out and when I'm sober I'll flog you red from arse to ankles."
That's an offer that makes Sean pause, looking Pierce over and considering it. "You brought floggers?"
"Why go anywhere without at least one flogger?" Pierce asks. He tugs at his sweater, successfully getting it over his head after three tries. Next it's his t-shirt, his jeans -- he pauses to kick out of his shoes once his jeans are around his ankles -- and then he throws the covers out of the way and slides into the sheets. "Lube?"
Sean doesn't dare hand the lube over to Pierce; God knows where it'd end up. Instead, he's got fingers tucked into himself already, hips tilting up, tongue poked out between his teeth. Whether this is a good idea or not, he's willing to play along -- if for no other reason than to get Pierce to shut up and go to sleep.
Pierce pushes up on one arm to watch, then strokes his hand down Sean's arm. "Fucking lovely," he murmurs. "Come on, then. Turn over."
Sean puts the lube back on the nightstand and turns over, coming up to hands and knees and spreading his legs apart. "Right here," he murmurs. "Come fuck me, Irishman."
"Hmph." Pierce crawls up behind Sean and lays a hard slap on his right cheek. "Making fun of me on St. Patrick's Day. Not very nice."
Sean yelps when the blow lands, then bends down some, tilting his arse back a little more. "Come on," he breathes. "Please."
There are a few soft sounds from behind Sean, and he does feel Pierce's cock at his opening. But Pierce presses forward, and his cock goes sliding along Sean's cleft. "Shit," Pierce mutters.
"Been in the States too long," Sean grins. "Shouldn't that be 'shite'?"
Pierce slaps Sean's other cheek this time. "Shut up," he mumbles. "You want to get fucked or not?"
"I'm here, aren't I?" Sean wiggles his arse a bit, grinning.
But it's no use; Pierce tries a few more times, and can't manage to find the right fit. The closest he gets still doesn't carry the head in far enough for Pierce's hips to take over and just shove in hard; he ends up rolling to the side of Sean, muttering vague curses in what sounds like Gaelic.
"It's all right," Sean murmurs. "In the morning we can--"
Sean pauses. "What?"
"Fuck me." Pierce spreads his legs, draws his knees up. "You're sober enough. Fuck me."
"My God, you're drunk," Sean says, shaking his head. "When's the last time you let anybody fuck you?"
"1987," Pierce answers immediately. "Come on. Can't go to sleep without getting laid at least once. Please?"
Sean's almost mortified by how arousing the thought is. Holy Christ, I've wanted to fuck you, he thinks, but I wish you'd offered when you were sober and it wasn't just to fulfill tradition. "Pierce, no," he murmurs, "you'll regret it in the morning."
"'Course I will," Pierce harrumphs. "Been seven -- eight -- nine years? Can't do maths this late when I'm pissed. Fucking virgin all over again. I'll be sore as hell and you," he says, half-sitting so he can poke Sean in the arm, "will pamper the hell out of me, and rim me until I'm feeling better."
Sean shivers again. It sounds... it really does sound good. "Pierce, I'd do that for you even if you haven't let me fuck you," Sean says softly, reaching over and running his hand through Pierce's hair. "Like the idea of caring for you."
"I like it, too," Pierce agrees, sounding every bit as serious, "but right now I'm asking you to fuck me."
"Suppose I make it an order. Will you fuck me then?"
Sean stops cold, halfway to under the covers. "I think orders given when you're drunk don't count," he says quietly. "That's probably in one of those books of yours."
Pierce sighs heavily and nods. "You're right. Of course you are. So I'm just asking. It's late, it's St. Patrick's Day, I'm drunk, happy, horny and in love. Come fuck me. I promise the only time I'll regret it tomorrow is if I'm trying to sit on something hard."
"Why don't you ever talk like this when you're sober?" Sean murmurs. He reaches out, runs the backs of his fingers over Pierce's cheek. "You always have to cover it over."
Pierce catches Sean's hand. "I don't know," he says quietly. "It's easier asking like this."
Sean lets that sink in. He nods, finally, and pulls the covers back. "Get under," he murmurs. "Put yourself on your side."
Pierce slides under the covers with not too much difficulty. Once he's there, he turns over on his side, facing away from Sean, and draws one leg up toward his chest. He curls up around a pillow and exhales softly.
Sean gets the lube and slides into bed behind Pierce, curling up with just enough room left over to slide his hand between them and press slick fingers to Pierce's cleft. He draws his fingers down, then slides them just inside, waiting once he's past the tight ring of muscle and Pierce clenches around him.
"Is it all right?" Sean asks.
"Lad, it's not as though I've never done this before," Pierce says. "Going to need more than that..." And he does his best to relax, opening for Sean's fingers.
Sean lets Pierce have what he's asking for, sliding his fingers in despite the resistance. He rests his lips against the back of Pierce's neck, breathing out against his skin, trying like hell not to rush things though he's trembling with arousal. "Please," he whispers. Begging comes so naturally to Sean with Pierce. Someday they'll both want to see how far that goes, Sean thinks, and the idea is both exciting and just the slightest bit frightening. It would be so easy to get lost with Pierce.
"Not yet," Pierce whispers back. The fog of alcohol isn't escaping yet, but he's aware some kind of balance has shifted, and that it's shifted in his favor. "Wait for it."
"Yes--" Sean's surprised by the word that wants to come out of his mouth; they've tried it once, and all it did was send Sean into snickering and Pierce into rueful grins. But now Sean could offer it, and mean it; he keeps moving his fingers, keeps stretching Pierce, and tries not to think about it much.
The stretch and burn's uncomfortable, but there's something about this Pierce likes very much. He takes another breath and rocks back against Sean's fingers. "How badly do you want it?"
Sean can hardly see for wanting it. He strokes his fingers across Pierce's prostate and whispers, "Please." His lover's drunk past words and smells and tastes of Guinness, and still he has Sean begging. "Please."
"Do it," Pierce whispers. "Slide into me and make it good for me."
Make it good for me. And suddenly that's the only thing Sean cares about, the only thing on his mind. Making it good for his lover, someone who always manages to ask the right way or say the right thing, and then no matter what Sean thought he'd say, he ends up wanting to say yes. Yes or Yes, please or -- and in the morning he'll look back on the urge and laugh again -- Yes, Master.
Sean pulls his hand back and guides his cock to Pierce's opening. "Please," he breathes.
"Now," Pierce answers, and Sean slides forward, taking in a slow breath as he feels Pierce's body closing around him. Sean's eyes close, and he puts a hand on Pierce's hip, drawing Pierce back as he moves forward.
Pierce's eyes aren't closed. And as much as it burns, he's ready for it. Ready to feel it, drunk enough he's not second-guessing his want for it, and sober enough to hear the way Sean's breathing and immerse himself in the feel of Sean's reactions. Sean's so beautiful when he's like this, and Pierce has spent a lot of time wondering what it might be like if Sean were like this for him all the time.
His voice isn't slurring anymore. He slides a hand back, rests it on Sean's thigh. "Slow," he murmurs. "Easy."
Sean swallows his words -- hell, swallows his voice altogether -- and drops his head forward to rest it against the back of Pierce's neck. "Easy," he murmurs. "Please..." He's moving just like Pierce told him. Slow. Easy. And it's already got him wanting to bite down hard and go over.
Not yet, though. Pierce isn't close enough. Between the late hour and the amount of alcohol he consumed, he's not even hard yet. He could be, though, if Sean were fucking him just the right way.
"Get the angle shallower," Pierce murmurs. "You know what I want to feel."
"Yes--" Master. Sean alters his strokes just a little, so his cock goes gliding across Pierce's prostate with every stroke. "Like that?" he whispers.
"Like that," Pierce agrees, shivering now. The strokes are hitting him just right, and before long he is hard, aching and stretched too far but hard and rocking forward toward orgasm with the force of Sean's thrusts. "Good lad," he whispers. "Very good lad."
The praise sends a long shiver down Sean's spine, and he licks at the back of Pierce's neck. "I'm close," he whispers, blushing hard. He shouldn't be this ready this fast. He shouldn't have to warn Pierce that he's close. It's not as though he needs permission to come while he's fucking his lover.
But coming because I'm told feels even better than just coming, Sean thinks, teeth scraping against the back of Pierce's neck. "Please," Sean whispers, speeding up and pressing in harder. "Please, I'm close."
"Put your hand on my cock," Pierce murmurs. "You know how to touch me. Do it."
And Sean does know how to touch Pierce, all long gliding twisting strokes, the way he's learned over the last near-year, the way Pierce has taught him. Sean's eyes squeeze shut almost desperately, and he bites down hard on his lower lip, making desperate nearly-pained whimpers as he tries to keep himself from coming. It feels so good touching Pierce -- knowing how he's making his lover feel -- and to be fucking him on top of that, God. Sean's moaning against his lower lip, the pain barely enough to keep him away from the edge.
There. All those sounds, the sense of desperation, but above that the feel of Sean needing to beg for it -- that's what sends Pierce over, and he doesn't even try to stop himself. He reaches back and digs his nails into Sean's thigh, coming with soft panting gasps over Sean's hand.
Sean's mouth comes open, and he lets out a harsh, rasped cry. "Pierce, please, please let me come, please--"
And even though Sean's strokes are starting to hurt and Pierce is beginning to feel the headache that's going to kill him in the morning -- all the talk of not getting hangovers was so much bravado, and Pierce knows it -- Pierce isn't ready to say yes yet. Sean sounds so good when he's begging. Pierce wants to know how far Sean's willing to go.
"Not yet," Pierce whispers. "Steady, lad, and I haven't told you to stop."
Sean lets out a sound that can only be described as a whimper, and keeps moving inside Pierce, shuddering every time his cock goes in deep.
"You can beg me for it," Pierce offers, nails scraping down Sean's thigh, reaching further back to sink into the back of his thigh. "Keep begging, lad. We both know you want to."
"Oh God -- please, Pierce -- please -- so fucking tight inside you -- God -- don't know when the last time I needed it this badly was -- need it -- from you, need it -- Pierce, give me permission, please, tell me to go over -- I can't until you tell me, please--"
Jesus. The words rush through Pierce's body, and he exhales slowly, carefully, making sure his voice is even before he says the words. "Come for me, lad."
Sean's coming as soon as his body and brain realize they have permission, and he cries out sharply, openmouthed and openthroated as he slams into Pierce's body one last time.
When he's got his breath back, Sean presses a kiss to Pierce's shoulder. "God," he manages. It's as profound as he thinks he can get.
Pierce chuckles, but the chuckle quickly moves into a wince. "Enough, please -- hurts," he says, suddenly feeling every one of those pints he imbibed earlier.
Sean eases his way out and rolls over on his back, still panting. "Pierce..."
The tone in Sean's voice cuts through the fuzziness in Pierce's head, and he rolls over, wrapping an arm around Sean. "It's all right," he murmurs. "Everything's all right."
"Are you sure?" Sean asks, laughing just a little because he can't help it. "God, what I was saying -- what I wanted to say -- I would have..."
"I know," Pierce whispers, kissing the point of Sean's shoulder. "I promise you it's all right. We can talk about it in the morning." Damn it. His voice is starting to slur again, and he doesn't want it to. "I know where you were," he tries. "I was there with you."
Sean nods, throat closed up a little too much to speak. He closes his eyes and stays wrapped up in Pierce's arms, and after a while they both manage to find sleep.