He had a dream where Viggo didn't treat him like something best
left to its own devices, and that was nice. In the dream, Viggo was wandering
through Rivendell, barefoot, and Orlando was stalking him like Viggo
was the juiciest reindeer in the herd. He wasn't a very good stalker.
Viggo saw him within about twenty seconds. Grinned, shouted. Orlando took
off his shoes so he'd feel the same stuff Viggo was feeling, and Viggo
looked at him funny. Viggo said, "I brought you a guava," because he
was sweet and cool and listened to Orlando and took in what he said.
They shared the guava, which was utterly tasteless but smelt
divine. "Better to smell it than eat it," Orlando said, after the first
bite. "It's like all the flavour's gone."
Viggo looked at him sideways. "That's what I was thinking," he
and Orlando felt happy they were on the same wavelength.
"Can't resist, though," Orlando added, sniffing at the pale chunk
flesh until his lungs were full, then exhaling quickly and sniffing
again. Just amazing, glorious. Couldn't get enough. "Something
this good, you have to eat it," he explained, and popped it
mouth. Again, the dazzling fragrancy dissolved into the taste equiva
of a moist-firm shrug. He didn't mind that much, though. He wasn't
sort to put something so potentially gorgeous back on the plate,
mediocre it turned out.
Viggo waved his own piece under his nose. "It does smell great,"
admitted, then grinned. "I think I'll savour it like this, instead."
The next part of the dream was underwater, for no reason Orlando
could think of, but it seemed very logical. They were mer-men, after
all. Orlando's tail had vast flat emeralds on it instead of scales,
while Viggo's was made of tiny round black jewels. Underwater, Viggo
kissing his neck, his hair floating around Orlando's fingers, his
coiling round the place Orlando's ankles would have been. Then
was there, human, sinking, eyes fluttering obscenely, and Viggo
him up out of the water and lay him on the beach and forced air back
into his lungs with his mouth. Orlando watched from the surf and
his tail jealously, sending little tidal waves over the beach.
When he'd woken up, he'd remembered the part where Viggo kissed
neck the best.
On second thoughts, though, overall, the neck-kissing aside,
wasn't such a great dream. His brain was apparently pretty
certain that Viggo was going to avoid him now, after yesterday -
was a mug with a faulty handle, full of piping-hot coffee, ready to
break the moment anyone picked it up. Better just leave it on the
going cold, congeling. Then only the coffee's changed, and there are
embarassing shattery noises or vile stains to deal with.
Orlando thought he might just write that down and send it to
anonymously - drink the coffee, you fool. caffeine good! -
had a feeling it might not go down beautifully. Just because Viggo
stuff didn't mean he'd melt over a metaphor.
Ha. Pity, that.
Will metaphor for sex, Orlando thought dryly, then
that was appropriate verb use. Wonder if Viggo would approve. Viggo
a pretty good idea of grammar, it seemed.
Also, he realised, in steamy pelt of the shower, shamelessly
to recreate the sensation of Viggo's mouth by swiping his wet
over his wet collarbones: what sort of merman has a tail coated in
caviar? A seriously fucked up one, that's for sure. Weird.
He jerked off lazily, because he didn't have to be on set until
and it was 8 now, and he didn't have any plans. Disturbingly piscine
images rebounded through his brain - salty tail, jewelled black,
slick and muscular, so very salty - and he countered them by
imagining Viggo's legs, imagining Viggo wrapping his legs loosely
Orlando's waist and lying back, curling his hips off the bed,
towards Orlando's crotch. Imagine it, Orlando thought ruthlessly;
imagine teasing him, pushing forwards until Viggo's breath sweeps
inwards on a staggered gasp, then twisting his hips so the contact
and slips away, and hearing him growl.
He could see it, Viggo propping himself up on the bed on his
and saying, softly, "go on, then," and giving Orlando a little nudge
with his heels - and it was amazing, denying him, standing there
his knees resting against the mattress, smiling and stirring tiny
circles with his hips and not pushing into him even though he's
"Fuck," this Viggo hisses, lying down flat again and pushing his
hands high above his head, letting Orlando smooth his hands slowly
that impressively solid torso. So good to press down, a one-way
palms skidding over muscle and hair and warm, damp skin.
So good, holding those shoulders down, pale fingers pushing
the firm curves of muscle, watching Viggo pant shallow curses and
against Orlando's cock. The fantasy swells, curls over him. He
thrusting lightly, not enough to push inside, just enough to make
grit his teeth and try to bear down and beg, using Orlando's name
currency, running up huge promise-laden IOUs.
"This is for making me wait," Orlando says, clawing at Viggo's
shoulders a little, lightly mouthing the skin of his throat. "This
for all that fucking about, yesterday."
Because of course all this would be happening later today,
acid little voice said, but Orlando's hand was getting tighter as it
slid over his cock, and he kept getting hot water in his mouth that
oddly sensuous to swallow, and the images of Viggo spread out
him were getting sharper and more indulgent. No little voice
could survive in that climate.
"This is for kissing my fingers like something out of Avalon," he
would whisper, against the underside of Viggo's jaw, "when all I
was to taste your mouth instead of your hand."
"I was being," Viggo mutters, hips rocking rhythmically so
cock almostalmost breaches the strength of his ass, "was being...
A cruel taunt flicks through Orlando's hips. "Chivalric," he
drawling it like evaluation, then lifting up, smiling down at
glazed eyes, "well, maybe I'm being chivalric right now - you never
know." He shudders his hips gently, deliberately, so the head of his
cock nudges hard at the entrance to Viggo's body, forcing into the
of it just enough to make Viggo gasp, then twisting out again. "I
asked if I could fuck you blind, after all."
"I'm asking you," Viggo protests, and Orlando
the indignant heat in his eyes and taunts him a little more, an
pulse of his hips to make Viggo exhale hard.
"You're in no position to know what you want," Orlando murmurs,
his voice is harsh with strain by now, his willpower pawing at the
ground. "You could be hideously confused."
Viggo curses, strong legs tightening around Orlando's waist,
nudging him insistently, and Orlando gives him an inch. Here.
Play, he commands silently, and Viggo grits his teeth and closes
eyes and nods gratefully, blissfully - and then opens his eyes again
glares, clenching tight in reproach.
"More than that," Viggo says, dignity crackling with impatience,
Orlando's breathing hard by now, trying not to shove inside, heat
clawing at the inside of his chest.
"That's all there is," Orlando says, trying to keep the mischief
his eyes, and Viggo frowns up at him, then shakes his head like a
"All there what?"
And god, Viggo, incoherent, Orlando thought, leaning one
against the wall of the shower, the heat demon kissing the small of
back, then under his arms, lewd wet licks so much dirtier than the
sheeting heat of water down his back. Unknot that brain, christ.
a fucking *hit*.
"That's it," he says, and nudges his cock a fraction deeper, then
fraction out again. His words feel gritted and vicious in his head,
but he gentles them ruthlessly. "That's all she wrote."
"You're." Viggo tries to rub his eyes, and Orlando - oh, yeah -
his wrist back against the bed, leaning right over him, breathing
against his mouth. "You're lying."
Another nudge, like fucking but smaller, and Orlando kisses him,
tastes the protests inside his mouth, feels - oh - feels him
helplessly, trying to talk back and kiss back all at the same time.
"Lying?" he says, innocent.
"Orlando," Viggo growls, a thick-voiced warning, "for the love of
god, I need you deeper than that--"
"That's it," Orlando protests, outraged, hoping Viggo can't hear
grin, "I'm just, I'm not that well hung, but it's not size that
right? Viggo? that's what everyone says," and Viggo growls
and shoves down, lifting off the mattress and impaling himself and
Orlando feels the bone-glistening melt of sliding inside him, his
shuddering out of him into a moan.
Viggo hisses, arching and breathing in gasps as Orlando's cock pushes in
to the hilt. "That, ah, you bastard," he pants, twisting his hands free of
Orlando's grip to drag his fists across Orlando's back instead, using that
purchase to screw down gloriously hard as Orlando's hips start helplessly to
jab and slide.
"bastard?" Orlando retorts, but it quavers in his mouth, cracks on his
tongue, and then Viggo's shaking his head and digging his fingers into
Orlando's hips and yelping,
"shut up, shut up, that's exactly, exactly--"
--exactly, fuck, him, like that, there, Orlando thought
tightly, and water got in his mouth again and he swallowed deep and fucked
his fist hard, and then he was coming, groaning, light flashing
behind his eyes.
The pictures in his head swirled choppily, zithering away, just a
couple of words left lingering resonant, words like
and Viggo and at last.
That-- certainly weren't fish-shaped, Orlando thought, weakly, in
Cornish accent, leaning both hands against the taps for support. His
brain reached feebly for amusement, then gave up and dropped it
The spray on his skin felt heavier, but that was probably more due to the
way his limbs were doing that limp noodle thing than any fundamental
alteration on the part of the water. Or else he'd leant on the shower dial
whilst distracted by images of his very favourite mer-man, who knew.
Mer-man, shit. He thought he'd got rid of that. He thought... he might
just sit down now.
If it was Elijah he wanted to fuck, he'd just set up two rows of eight shot
glasses and fill six of his own with water instead of vodka. "You can skip
one, if you like," he'd say, curving a companionable arm around Elijah's
shoulders and steering him closer, "on account of my extra body mass," and
Elijah would elbow him in the stomach and growl and Orlando would hoot
indignantly and then, an hour later, Elijah would be reaching for him with
porn on his tongue.
If it was Dom, he'd just kick back in his chair with a flute of champagne
and make gleeful small talk about how all the champagne world would be
theirs soon, if they wanted to take it, if they just reached out and took it
in their hand, or even if they just stood near it and gave it a pointed
little glare - and Dom would say, "maybe we better practise," and reach over
and pluck the glass stem from Orlando's fingers, and Orlando would twist
round in his chair and catch one of Dom's legs in the crook of his elbow and
manhandle him close. Because he'd want his champagne back, obviously. And
Dom would struggle, but carefully, so as not to spill a drop. And, minutes
later, Orlando would wind up with his hands on Dom's ass and his mouth on
Dom's cock, and Dom would be breathing heavily and trembling all over, and
when, a few minutes after that, Orlando would guide him around the chair to
sit in his lap, there would be little dark splatters of champagne all over
And a new nickname would have been born.
Hell, if he only wanted to fuck Viggo, he'd probably get away with just
crawling into his bed one night, muttering, "let's imagine I'm
sleepwalking," and then, at Viggo's protest, admonishing him with a hand
over his mouth and a quick, "don't wake me up!" before dipping his head and
sinking under the covers again. It would work, he was pretty sure. It would
also guarantee that Viggo would always think of him as an impetuous,
manipulative fraud, albeit one very good at giving head.
And, damn him, Orlando didn't want Viggo to think bad of him. Even
with the head thing. In fact, given the chance to become Viggo's despised
sextoy with blowjobs every day and bi-weekly loveless fucks, he'd probably
opt to stay on the Pining Bus.
Cha-ching, rack up another lost cause.