FIC, Carnivale, NC17

[azrhiaz.livejournal.com]

Title: Carnivale
Author: Azrhiaz
Series: Sequel to “Masque”, and will make more sense if you read that one first.
Rating: NC-17 for much lurid nastiness. Woo!
Pairing: Orli/Viggo/Elijah/Liv. Yes, slashes all in the right places. You do the math.
Warnings: Het content.
Summary: Viggo throws a party. Wait a minute, carnival isn’t in November, is it?
Disclaimer: This did not happen, despite my fervent wishes to the contrary. Am not making any money off of this sordid little daydream. Don’t sue.
Archive: BTF, Night’s Garden, others please ask
Feedback: whap me.
Author’s notes: This one’s been in my head for the longest; it’s dedicated to the resplendent Gloria Mundi for twisting my arm prettily to get me to put it on paper. Thanks to her as well for musical assistance. Musical selections are as follows: first piece is Camille Saint-Saens’ Danse Macabre, Op. 40 (my pick); second piece is Mozart’s Don Giovanni, Act II, the Commendatore scene (Gloria’s pick). Musical terminology: accelerando means becoming faster. Crescendo means gradually getting louder. L’istesso tempo means at the same speed.




Tonight.

Orli felt his heart leap into his throat as he read the word again on the creamy parchment, the blood-red sealing wax on the torn envelope shaking in his left hand. He looked around his trailer’s kitchen, but, of course, no one was there. The envelope had been sitting there, propped delicately against the canister of Earl Grey, when Orli had emerged from the bathroom after his shower. It had caught his eye immediately, out of place in the clear morning light, and he’d nearly lost his towel in his rush to snatch it up. Now, standing here with water still dripping from his Mohawk, he felt a surge of dread at going onset and facing Viggo today.

Because it was Viggo who had left it. He knew that without a doubt. Although it had been three weeks since the masked Halloween ball, Orli had been utterly unable to think of anything else. Viggo, for his part, had never said a word about it, merely smiling enigmatically whenever he saw Orli. But Orli knew, and remembered- oh, yes- and each cast of those steel-colored eyes in his direction sent shivers down his spine.

Elijah, on the other hand, had been only too happy to tease Orli about it, dropping swift double-entendres into conversations with others that made Orli’s face burn; in the past week, however, he’d let up, an occurrence which made Orli so grateful he didn’t think to question why, chalking it up instead to boredom with the game.

And it was a game, wasn’t it? Thought Orli as he dropped the letter on the yellow formica and went to get dressed. Well, fuck that. Maybe I don’t want to play.

He made quite certain the door was locked when he left.

By lunchtime Orli still hadn’t seen Viggo. A casual questioning of the wardrobe master revealed that he was off doing some reshoots today for Weathertop. Orli didn’t know exactly what he would do if he did see Viggo. Just march up and ask him about the envelope? No, not likely…but he was turning the possibilities over in his mind as he sat in the catering tent, picking at gummy linguine in an uninspired marinara sauce. Dom had parked himself beside him and was chattering away, something about surfing next weekend, and Orli nodded in the appropriate places. He stood up and went to get more water, and when he got back to the table Dom was gone.

By Orli’s plate, however, was a gold pocket watch.

Orli reached out to pick it up, his hand moving in slow motion, fingers entwining with the crimson velvet ribbon threaded through the fob. The design on the watch case was an intricate floral, but that told him nothing- no initials or anything were engraved on it. He pressed it open with his thumb and removed any doubt.

The hands were stopped at nine o’clock.

Orli snapped the watch shut and hastily shoved it in Legolas’ leather pouch, his nerves jangling as he scanned the tent. No Viggo. No Elijah. He stood up and went to ditch his tray. According to his stomach, lunch was definitely over.

He spent the rest of the afternoon working on a riding sequence with John, and the pertinent matter of staying on the horse consumed his attention quite nicely. So much so that, walking in a dust-sweat haze into the makeup trailer for ear removal, he was actually startled to see a carved wooden box perched precisely where the red devil mask had been left three weeks before.

The makeup girl, when questioned, said that it had been there when she got back to the trailer this afternoon. A gift, perhaps? She inquired brightly. Orli just nodded and dropped the matter, sitting still while she peeled the glue away. He wasn’t about to open the box in front of her.

Back at his trailer, the box squirreled safely away under his arm, he let himself in and placed the box on the counter. Stared at it for a minute before losing the inevitable battle with curiosity. He ran fingers along the top- carved in a very Elvish manner, undoubtedly stolen from the props department- and found the delicate latch.

The lid swung open to reveal a nest of cheap carnival beads in the traditional green, gold, and purple. One strand, however, was red. Orli drew it out from the rest and saw that dangling on the end was a key, and a paper tag.

The elegant black script on the tag indicated that the key would open door 863 at the Wellington Grand Hotel. Old fashioned key- not a card key, Orli thought as near-hysterical laughter bubbled up from his throat. Well, I’m not going.

Am I?

He answered himself by heading to the shower.

Somewhat later- eight forty-five, to be precise- Orli is walking down the hotel hallway. He’d dressed quickly, in a rather subdued indigo button-up and ancient corduroys. The soft zhup-zhup they made as he walked was the only sound he heard in the deserted corridor. Lights flickered from the sconces, adding to the creeping feeling of déjà vu that was gripping Orli. He turns a corner to the left and finds himself at the end of the hallway, facing room 863.

Ten paces and then the key is in his hand, the doorknob under his fingers, and it isn’t too late to turn back. Glide of the metal as he turns the knob, the click of the key slid home in the lock, and then…it is.

He pushes the door open and steps into the room, shutting the door behind him with a click that seems loud enough to wake the dead.

The room is dimly lit, even more so than the hallway, and he blinks for a moment while his eyes adjust. A multitude of red pillar candles flicker throughout the spacious suite, throwing shadows against the navy paisley of the wallpaper and revealing a sitting area to his right, furnished in tasteful if somewhat generic Queen Anne. Cherry coffee table set with a crystal glass of wine so dark red it appears black in the candlelight and a bowl of something dark, blue tufted loveseat, and over and around everything strands and strands of the same gaudy plastic beads, cheapening the furnishings with a whorish gleam. Another door that Orli assumes is to the bathroom, and another beside that- a closet? His eyes flick involuntarily left, taking in the enormous rice-carved bed and the fireplace beyond. See that something is perched in the middle of the dark blue bedspread.

His mouth gone suddenly dry, Orli steps over to the bed.

It’s a Pulcinella mask. And another piece of parchment.

Put it on.

Hands shaking, he does, feeling slightly foolish. And the beginnings of something else. There is still no one else in the room. He stands there for a moment in anticipation. Nothing. Orli tries the bathroom door, but finds that it’s locked. With a sigh, he goes over to the loveseat and sits down to wait. Closer inspection reveals that the dish contains chocolate-covered espresso beans and he eats three, rolling the melting bittersweet over his tongue. Washes it down with a large swallow of the wine, the rich cherry tannins blending perfectly with the chocolate. Sits the glass down.

Interminable minutes of scraping corduroy beneath his thumbnail. Leg bouncing. Watching the wick of one candle sputter, sending dark smoke pluming up in a lazy curl.

Then the clock on the mantelpiece begins to strike nine and the bathroom door opens. Elijah steps out- Orli knows it’s him, the small black mask can’t hide that, especially not when he expected as much- and a swift glimpse behind him before the door is shut reveals it’s not the bathroom at all. An adjoining suite, then.

Elijah doesn’t immediately speak to Orli. He comes to him and kneels between his legs, looking up at him with a smirk and cruel light dancing from the reflective blue of his eyes. The red satin of his shirt reminds Orli of Viggo’s Lucifer mask, but on Elijah the effect is more that of a wicked sprite. Orli thinks seeing his friend kneeling in front of him like this, masked and shimmering in the candlelight, is possibly the oddest experience of his life to date.

Until, that is, Elijah slides his hand up Orli’s thigh, and the trip down the rabbit hole is complete.

“Are you sure you’re ready for carnival?” Elijah says in a throaty whisper, and Orli doesn’t quite know the answer to that.

“I thought carnival was in February-“ Orli begins, but Elijah cuts him off with a finger placed on Orli’s lips.

“This one’s now.” And Elijah slides his finger into Orli’s mouth, and Orli tastes salty skin and a hint of burnt cloves, and he sucks reflexively, swirling his tongue around the finger, and Elijah smiles, small white teeth glinting. Registering consent, Elijah stands up and goes back to the door, turning to Orli and gesturing for him to stay put.

Orli does, his blood thrumming in his ears now, feeling the kick of adrenaline racing around his heart. From somewhere indistinct he hears music start, the mournful tones of a violin imitating the tolling of bells. A second later, the door opens again, and adrenaline becomes overdrive in a skittery rush of pulse.

Elijah’s holding a thin black leash. Attached to the leash, naked and crawling on all fours, instantly recognizable despite the tiny black feathered mask, is Liv.

Orli sucks in his breath, tries to process simultaneously that it must have been Liv by the fountain and the sight of her naked flesh in front of him now. Her breasts sway gently with the awkward crawl, small but nicely shaped, nipples large and deep rose. She crawls with her back deeply arched, exaggerating the undulating rise of her ass, her eyes cast down at the floor. Orli is embarrassed to look at her but his eyes are riveted to the sight and he is suddenly, achingly hard. He shifts uncomfortably on the loveseat, not certain what is expected of him at this point; but when Liv has reached a spot just barely out of arm’s reach, Elijah gives the leash a short swift yank and she stops.

Elijah looks at Orli and speaks, not bothering with whispering now.

“You like to watch, don’t you?” Malicious intonation- Elijah already knows the answer-

“Yes.” Orli mouths the word, a flicker of breath only, but it’s enough. Elijah undoes the button on his black pants and the zipper follows in quick succession, and then he’s pulling out his erection, and it’s bigger than Orli had anticipated, shockingly large against Elijah’s small frame. Another jerk of the leash and Liv is up on her knees, opening glassily-lacquered red lips to envelop the swollen head. She draws her tongue around in a languid circle, once, twice, and then Elijah threads his hand through the fall of her hair and shoves her head down. Orli thinks he hears a tiny gag but Liv recovers almost instantly and begins to deep throat Elijah’s cock, moving back and forth in a slick ruby slide. Elijah’s fingers tighten and release in her hair, only to tighten again with his next shallow ragged breath.

Orli’s fingers have moved of their own volition to stroke his straining cock, and he is so caught up in the sight of Liv blowing Elijah that he nearly jumps out of his skin when strong hands clamp on his shoulders from behind.

A warm dust of breath by his ear, the sound oddly filtered, and then Viggo’s voice, quiet and flat:

“Not yet.”

The hands let go, and Viggo walks around the loveseat in front of Orli just as the music changes with an ominous flourish, deep bass pressing a warning into his skin. The mask is different, full-face this time, but it’s still Lucifer; this version sports golden horns curling delicately from the garnet forehead. A swirling black cape, operatic in its dimensions, completes the picture, and Orli almost laughs at the sheer over-the-top air of it all. Almost. The laugh dies in his throat when he realizes that Viggo is naked underneath the cape.

Heat shimmering in syrupy air. The strange pulsations of the bassoon. The sight of Elijah lying down and Liv following, still sucking, all fours again, l’istesso tempo. Viggo’s swift kneeling motion, the cape flicking back with ease, the seamless push home into waiting wetness as he fucks Liv like a dog. Orli’s world has flown far out of orbit now. Strains to obey Viggo and not touch, but the sight alone is nearly enough to make him come.

Liv whimpers, small noises of pleasure escaping around Elijah’s cock, and Elijah begins to buck up into her mouth, coming with a hoarse cry. Orli sees a tiny bit of pearly come slip from her lips, the pink tip of tongue flicking out to catch it. Elijah disengages and sits back to watch as Lucifer-Viggo fucks Liv hard and impassively, her whimpers ratcheting up to deep moans.

Torture, like so much hot wax dripped onto sensitive skin; Orli unbuttons his pants, dips his hand in- Elijah sees. Comes over to sit beside him on the loveseat, and wraps calloused small fingers around Orli’s cock. Sweet rasp of skin-on-skin at last, and Elijah’s moving his hand and it’s so fucking sweet-- Orli turns his head suddenly, tilting far right to accommodate the nose of his mask, and dives in to capture Elijah’s mouth in a kiss.

If Elijah’s startled, he doesn’t show it, returning the kiss in a hot glide of tongue, violins swelling with each muffled slap of flesh. Elijah squeezes and twists, and suddenly Orli is coming in a hot flood over Elijah’s hand, the kiss breaking apart as he convulses, fingers knotted in Elijah’s shirt.

Elijah smiles, and laps his hand wantonly as Viggo turns his masked face to them. Something in the cold blue-grey eyes sends aftershocks rippling through Orli as Viggo pulls out, ignoring Liv’s mewl of protest. He stands up and in two strides is in front of Orli, his glistening erection standing out from his body, longer than Elijah’s, if a bit thinner, and sharply curved.

“Suck it.”

Unearthly strong hands grab the back of Orli’s head and drag it forward; there’s no point in protesting, so Orli obliges, opening his mouth and Viggo pushes in. It’s still slick and Orli tastes Liv’s cunt, faint echoes of seawater but not unpleasant, and the taste of Viggo’s flesh underneath mingling with it pushes Orli back towards hardness. He can’t see them, but from the sounds Orli guesses that Elijah has taken Viggo’s place with Liv.

Orli sucks, his hand wrapped around the base of Viggo’s cock, until he tastes a bitter hint of pre-come and Viggo jerks away, apparently not ready to bring this to an end.

The music swells, accelerando- and Viggo extends his hand to Orli in silent invitation. Orli understands implicitly what is being offered. To cease being one body and abandon for a time all things but this, on the floor with Elijah and Liv and Viggo.

He hesitates for a second, the tableau of bodies strange and vaguely monstrous, far more than he’d bargained for when he slid the key into the lock-- a second only, and then he takes Viggo’s hand.

Elijah is flat on his back, Liv riding him in deep rockings, sweat sheening over the flex and give of her thighs. Viggo pulls Orli around behind her and pushes him to his knees, and then Viggo’s hands are reaching around to Orli’s cock, smearing cool slick lube over the length. Orli waits for the downstroke and he grabs Liv’s hips with both hands, stopping and spreading and pressing in, oh, the sudden give-- he releases her hips and she presses down and back until he’s buried in tight heat.

Awkwardness, the rhythm stumbles, but they synchronize, and Orli is pushing into Liv as she slides down Elijah’s cock, and he can feel Elijah bumping against him through the wall of muscle, just fuck-

-- and then Viggo’s hands are on his hips and he feels the cold hard wetness shove into him from behind, white-hot pain that brings tears to his eyes before easing into sweet fullness— Viggo thrusts quickly, each stroke striking glittery opiates behind his eyes; the brass crescendo, echoing the rising cries of Elijah and Liv, and he is both the impaler and the impaled, and there is nothingnothingnothing like this in the world, sweat and heat, full and deep--

-- exploding red convulsion free fall endless NOW--

When he regains consciousness a split second later Orli realizes he’s fallen on Liv; Viggo has fallen on him, and Elijah is squirming, unable to breathe. Viggo slides out of him, and despite the pleasure it’s a relief. He eases out of Liv and falls over again, lying panting on his side on the soft carpet. Liv stands up on somewhat shaky legs, takes off the leash, and helps Elijah up. With a parting smile for Orli, she takes Elijah’s arm and they slip back into the other suite, closing the door behind them. A second later the music clicks off.

Orli watches as Viggo stands up and begins extinguishing the candles with a brass snuffer, slowly drawing the room into silent darkness.

“Do you want—“ he begins, but Viggo shushes him.

When the candles are all out the room is pitch-black. Orli can’t see a thing as he crawls in the general direction of the bed. Finds it, the covers already turned back, and gets in. Viggo is there, breathing heavily beside him, naked skin pressing close. Orli wonders if he’s taken off the mask, and reaches up in the dark to touch his face, but Viggo catches his wrist and draws it away.

“Good night,” Viggo says softly, and Orli doesn’t have the energy to argue.

The yellow-orange sun burning through his eyelids wakes Orli with a start. He sits up, blinking, eyes sticky and raw. The room looks very different in the daylight, plain, a nice hotel room—nothing more. The candles are gone. He is alone. Orli swings his feet over the bed and stumbles to the third door-- bathroom after all, not a closet-- eyes half-shut. Turns on the cold-water tap and splashes his face. When he straightens up he sees a square, drawn in lipstick, framing the exact spot in the mirror where his face is. Reads with horrified pleasure the scarlet scrawl underneath:

Mine.


End.