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sophrosyne31.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2004-09-29 02:29 am
sophrosyne31.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-09-29 02:29 am
Fic: A narrow space, Orlando/Viggo
Title: A narrow space
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sophrosyne31
Pairing: Orlando/Viggo
Rating: R
Disclaimer: this was a request for FICTION.
Feedback: yes please, i'm exhausted
A/N: for the gloriousqueenofalostart
Viggo and Orlando have been at the supermarket for hours, it feels. Getting supplies for a barbeque, gearing up for a long afternoon at Billy’s place, lying on the grass and getting drunk and gnawing bits of charred animal that Dom will inevitably, brandishing tongs and wearing his “Kiss the Cock” apron as he always does, will proclaim ‘well sauteed’ and which will soak up the alcohol not nearly well enough. Orlando won’t even be eating it, so he’s looking to be well-boozed by the time he’s picked at the limp salad that Elijah said he’d make. Lettuce and onion it’ll be, and Orlando’s already wishing, as he heaves the bags in the back of Viggo’s beaten-up old car, that he’d snuck some muesli bars in.
The day’s hot, the supermarket was too chilly, and by the time they’re halfway to Billy’s Orlando’s tired. Viggo’s humming at the wheel, some tuneless drone, and doing that jaw-shifting thing, from side to side, in time with his refrain and his long lean thighs splaying beneath the dashboard. Orlando watches Viggo’s thighs in their denim, and his own, thinner legs in shorts.
“Giss a smoke, Vigs,” he says, but he doesn’t raise his head off the window-frame to draw one from the pack that’s lying between Viggo’s thighs. The wind’s battering at him through the window as the car rackets along, and it’s cool on his face but under his clothes he’s already sticky with freezer-dried sweat.
Viggo turns his face for a moment, but keeps his eyes on the road. Behind his orange sunglasses his eyes are drowsy too. “Save it for when we get there. Better still,” and he rummages for the pack himself, shaking a cigarette loose with one hand, “I’ve got some incredible weed off Sala. Don’t drink too much and we’ll have a toke later.”
Orlando’s already feeling wasted; he thinks he might not survive beer and lettuce and pot, but he lets his hands dangle over his knees as smoke streams past him and says, “I’ll wait.”
::
The party is the usual frayed mess of bodies and tartan blankets on the dry grass and empty beer bottles that Elijah manages to knock over every time he wanders across to rub Dom’s tummy and stand close to him and generally irritate everyone with his adolescent-girl flirting maneuvers. Billy’s grumbling about cigarette butts in his lawn, such as it is, and Bean keeps wanting to talk about Shakespeare but no one, not even Viggo, is really up for it. The stunt guys look amazed, and turn away, drinking more beer than anyone’s thought to cater for.
Orlando’s happy after all, the beer has settled fizzily in his limbs and he’s not so much sleepy as floating. The sun is light on his skin and the air’s delicately warm, and he can feel himself blooming loose as he watches Miranda walk over with a glass of something clear and cool and beaded in her hand. She plonks down next to him and rubs his hair.
“Is that—“
“Gin and tonic,” she says smugly. “Gotta have friends,” and she holds the glass away, mockingly, and then brings it close. “Have a sip, honey.”
The drink is bittersweet and oily in his mouth and the clarity of it makes Orlando lift himself up to sit, ready to ask about working in the States and what it’s like to go to a premiere, because he can always ask Miranda stupid stuff like that and she’ll just pretend to toss her hair in starlet fashion and then say something like, “To be honest, my main fear is always that I’ll forget to shave my legs”. But sitting, he sees Viggo stand up on the other side of the yard and wink at him.
“I’ll be back,” he says, and clambers to his feet. The drink flushes up to his brain and his vision is momentarily as dappled as the shade beneath the dry trees. He stands still a second, until the ground is straight again under his feet, and picks his way over sprawled bodies and litter to follow Viggo down the side of the house.
The last time he was alone with Viggo in an alley—and this isn’t an alley, but the narrowness and sudden quietness reminds him—was a week ago, when Viggo beckoned him around the corner at the Stone Street studio in a quiet moment between takes and said, “You know, you smell like a hungry lion.” Orlando hadn’t known what to say to that, except open his mouth to give a fake roar, and then Viggo had leant in, and carefully licked the corners of his mouth, his tongue so unexpected, so hot, that Orlando had shivered all over and when it was taken away without delving any further in, had closed his mouth petulantly and simply watched as Viggo walked away saying “You taste wild, too”.
Since then Orlando’s gone through feeling perplexed, irritated, benign, and then aroused when at night he’s lain there rubbing a wetted thumb over his lips, pushing it in between again and again, not caring how stupid it is.
::
Viggo’s already lounging up against the weather-boards of the house and he’s got the limp joint in his mouth. He gives Orlando a sideways smile around the butt and mumbles, “Hot.”
”Not so bad,” Orlando says, and lounges next to him. Their legs angle identically. One of Orlando’s straightened knees gives suddenly and he dips, then recovers.
“You drunk?” Viggo asks, and Orlando frowns and says, “Not so bad” again. Viggo smells like sweat and tobacco. From back in the yard he can hear Elijah screaming “Tom Waits! Tom Waits” over the Nelly Furtando someone’s put on really loudly.
Abruptly Orlando tugs on the sleeve of Viggo’s pink t-shirt. “Why don’t you take it off?” just as Viggo drags on the joint and starts coughing. Orlando blushes, as much as he can do with cheeks already pink from heat, as if he’s just stumbled into some bad dialogue and he bites his cheek and takes the joint from Viggo’s hand.
“It’s a stinker,” he adds, and Viggo just looks at him and then strips the pink cloth over his head. The scent of sweat is stronger now, and Orlando feels kind of thin next to Viggo’s burly solidity, but he nips the joint between his lips and carefully takes his own shirt off over his head. As he’s negotiating the neckline over his face Viggo’s hand appears and gropes blind for the joint, and his thumb bumps into Orlando’s mouth, and Orlando thinks Yeah and then the shirt’s off his face and he’s back to the side of the house and he just takes another toke.
“Steady, it’s really strong,” Viggo says, still watching him. Orlando thinks, Can he smell me now? The beer and the gin and the pot all crash together in his head, he can feel it suddenly, as if the world’s gone blockish, and it’s incredible that he’s in this narrow fenced place, with those bushes straggling along the concrete, and Viggo has a smell, and Orlando sniffs it before he realizes how stoned he is.
It’s not a very lasting realization, however; he drifts off again, looking at the coarse hairs around Viggo’s nipples, and he says, breaking into Viggo’s humming (what is it he’s humming?) “You said I tasted wild.”
He wishes Viggo would stop watching him and just kiss him already. “Did you mean ‘wild’ as in ‘wilderness’ or as in ‘amazing’?” he adds, and giggles because he managed to get all that out together, an actual sentence.
“I can’t remember,” says Viggo, and chucks the joint on the concrete. He’s smiling, and that makes the brush-off—or is it a tease?—less awful. Orlando thinks, It’s a come-on, and he says, realizing as he’s saying it how clichéd it is, “Let’s find out” and he leans in and smoothes his mouth against Viggo’s.
There’s a moment when he thinks nothing’s going to happen, and maybe that’s the pot slowing time down or that really nothing’s happening, but he slips his tongue out and the wetness of it against Viggo’s lips seems to work, because then there’s tongues and moistness and hotcool slither, and there’re Viggo’s hands on his shoulders, pushing him back against the wall, and a finger rubbing around his jaw, forcing his head back, and when Orlando opens his eyes again he’s looking at the sky and the eaves and he forgets for a moment what’s happening but then there’s sensation and he closes his eyes again.
Viggo’s got his hands around Orlando’s waist now and his mouth nuzzling sweat off Orlando’s throat, and he murmurs “Like you need a test.” Orlando doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but he pushes his palm hard against Viggo’s groin and the hard length there is wonderful, his own cock feels just as hard pushing out the front of his shorts and he shoves at the hardness in his hand, clumsy through the denim. “Lemme—“
He thinks his hands won’t work but that’s the magic of pot, you think you can’t and then you have and he’s already undone the buckle of Viggo’s belt, the leather sweaty in his hand and fuck it’s hot, he thinks he must be purple with the heat of the day and the booze and the way Viggo’s letting out little sighs now. He loves the feel of sweat-slick ribs under his palms, oh yeah the belt, and it opens and he fumbles at the fly and there’s a hot, real cock in his palm now, hair under his fingertips and yeah, just a little bead of come on the tip, Orlando smears it around and he’s so entranced by this that he barely registers that Viggo’s slipped the belt out of its hoops and is pushing at him to turn.
It does occur to him, suddenly, that they’re down the side of someone’s house, and he’s busy peering up towards the party (oh, they’ve changed the music, what’s that… Radiohead?) when his face slams into the wooden wall.
Viggo’s got him pinned, and he’s rubbing his chest up against Orlando’s shoulder blades now, crooning, and it’s weird, but Orlando’s not scared. Maybe a bit confused but hey, that’s the pot, and there’s skin on his skin and a cool breath on the back of his neck and Viggo pulling his arms back and tying his wrists with the belt.
”Uh—“ Orlando says, because he’d like a bit of guidance here, there’s just the thinnest edge of fright because yeah, he’s up for any kind of shit but maybe not when he’s this wrecked and—
“You good?” Viggo says into his ear, and that voice is so honeycomb, so familiar but the situation isn’t and the thrill of it suddenly hits Orlando like a sheet of rain. His knees buckle a bit and he mashes his mouth away from the wall enough to say “Yeah.”
If he chafes his wrists together he can feel the belt slipping, it’s not really tied properly and it’s so slick with sweat (Viggo’s, from where it touched him), but Orlando stands still against the wall and doesn’t flicker when Viggo yanks his shorts down and pushes two thumbs into his arse cheeks. He feels his balance shift a bit as Viggo crouches, and the thumbs push his cheeks apart and then there’s a little warm tongue digging at his hole. Orlando keeps very still then.
Nudge, nudge goes the tongue, and licks of chill spread up Orlando’s spine and he shudders, suddenly, and the tongue withdraws and then something bigger pushes at him, oh god it’s his thumb, in and out, just a little bit at a time and goosebumps rise all over him and he hears himself let out a little mew. He concentrates on the texture of the boards against his face, he rubs his face into them, and the thumb pops through, right into him and fuck it must be hot in there because he feels like there’s a volcano blowing through him right now.
Viggo clambers to his feet, his thumb still inside, and grazes his teeth over Orlando’s shoulders. “You do taste wild,” he murmurs. Orlando feels himself smile.
The thumb is nestled tight inside him, and every time Viggo turns it there’s a new shower of lava sparks going off. There’s a vacancy suddenly and it takes Orlando a moment to realize that there’s nothing inside him, but then Viggo’s thumb is shoving at his lips and between his teeth and Viggo says, “Taste yourself” and he opens his mouth and sucks hard.
“That’s my boy,” Viggo says.
The music has changed now, something latin and bassy and Orlando sucks in time, his hips start bucking and then Viggo releases him and stands back. The air on Orlando’s skin is shocking.
“Time to get back, I think,” Viggo says, and Orlando’s wrists are released and he sags against the wall, not understanding. There’s the sound of a fly being zipped. Viggo lays a warm damp hand on the back of his neck and pulls his face away from the hard solid wall and Orlando staggers a bit and then turns and Viggo’s looking at him, with the same mysterious calm Viggo smile as ever but maybe something more knowing.
“Was that okay?” Orlando finds himself saying, and Viggo laughs with all his crazy teeth and cuffs his head.
“That was fine,” he says, and walks away. Orlando waits there, just getting the hang of reality again for a minute, and sees the crushed joint on the ground beneath him. He pulls up his shorts and puts the roach in his pocket. Then he walks after Viggo, smelling the other man on his skin all the way.
Author:
sophrosyne31Pairing: Orlando/Viggo
Rating: R
Disclaimer: this was a request for FICTION.
Feedback: yes please, i'm exhausted
A/N: for the glorious
queenofalostartViggo and Orlando have been at the supermarket for hours, it feels. Getting supplies for a barbeque, gearing up for a long afternoon at Billy’s place, lying on the grass and getting drunk and gnawing bits of charred animal that Dom will inevitably, brandishing tongs and wearing his “Kiss the Cock” apron as he always does, will proclaim ‘well sauteed’ and which will soak up the alcohol not nearly well enough. Orlando won’t even be eating it, so he’s looking to be well-boozed by the time he’s picked at the limp salad that Elijah said he’d make. Lettuce and onion it’ll be, and Orlando’s already wishing, as he heaves the bags in the back of Viggo’s beaten-up old car, that he’d snuck some muesli bars in.
The day’s hot, the supermarket was too chilly, and by the time they’re halfway to Billy’s Orlando’s tired. Viggo’s humming at the wheel, some tuneless drone, and doing that jaw-shifting thing, from side to side, in time with his refrain and his long lean thighs splaying beneath the dashboard. Orlando watches Viggo’s thighs in their denim, and his own, thinner legs in shorts.
“Giss a smoke, Vigs,” he says, but he doesn’t raise his head off the window-frame to draw one from the pack that’s lying between Viggo’s thighs. The wind’s battering at him through the window as the car rackets along, and it’s cool on his face but under his clothes he’s already sticky with freezer-dried sweat.
Viggo turns his face for a moment, but keeps his eyes on the road. Behind his orange sunglasses his eyes are drowsy too. “Save it for when we get there. Better still,” and he rummages for the pack himself, shaking a cigarette loose with one hand, “I’ve got some incredible weed off Sala. Don’t drink too much and we’ll have a toke later.”
Orlando’s already feeling wasted; he thinks he might not survive beer and lettuce and pot, but he lets his hands dangle over his knees as smoke streams past him and says, “I’ll wait.”
::
The party is the usual frayed mess of bodies and tartan blankets on the dry grass and empty beer bottles that Elijah manages to knock over every time he wanders across to rub Dom’s tummy and stand close to him and generally irritate everyone with his adolescent-girl flirting maneuvers. Billy’s grumbling about cigarette butts in his lawn, such as it is, and Bean keeps wanting to talk about Shakespeare but no one, not even Viggo, is really up for it. The stunt guys look amazed, and turn away, drinking more beer than anyone’s thought to cater for.
Orlando’s happy after all, the beer has settled fizzily in his limbs and he’s not so much sleepy as floating. The sun is light on his skin and the air’s delicately warm, and he can feel himself blooming loose as he watches Miranda walk over with a glass of something clear and cool and beaded in her hand. She plonks down next to him and rubs his hair.
“Is that—“
“Gin and tonic,” she says smugly. “Gotta have friends,” and she holds the glass away, mockingly, and then brings it close. “Have a sip, honey.”
The drink is bittersweet and oily in his mouth and the clarity of it makes Orlando lift himself up to sit, ready to ask about working in the States and what it’s like to go to a premiere, because he can always ask Miranda stupid stuff like that and she’ll just pretend to toss her hair in starlet fashion and then say something like, “To be honest, my main fear is always that I’ll forget to shave my legs”. But sitting, he sees Viggo stand up on the other side of the yard and wink at him.
“I’ll be back,” he says, and clambers to his feet. The drink flushes up to his brain and his vision is momentarily as dappled as the shade beneath the dry trees. He stands still a second, until the ground is straight again under his feet, and picks his way over sprawled bodies and litter to follow Viggo down the side of the house.
The last time he was alone with Viggo in an alley—and this isn’t an alley, but the narrowness and sudden quietness reminds him—was a week ago, when Viggo beckoned him around the corner at the Stone Street studio in a quiet moment between takes and said, “You know, you smell like a hungry lion.” Orlando hadn’t known what to say to that, except open his mouth to give a fake roar, and then Viggo had leant in, and carefully licked the corners of his mouth, his tongue so unexpected, so hot, that Orlando had shivered all over and when it was taken away without delving any further in, had closed his mouth petulantly and simply watched as Viggo walked away saying “You taste wild, too”.
Since then Orlando’s gone through feeling perplexed, irritated, benign, and then aroused when at night he’s lain there rubbing a wetted thumb over his lips, pushing it in between again and again, not caring how stupid it is.
::
Viggo’s already lounging up against the weather-boards of the house and he’s got the limp joint in his mouth. He gives Orlando a sideways smile around the butt and mumbles, “Hot.”
”Not so bad,” Orlando says, and lounges next to him. Their legs angle identically. One of Orlando’s straightened knees gives suddenly and he dips, then recovers.
“You drunk?” Viggo asks, and Orlando frowns and says, “Not so bad” again. Viggo smells like sweat and tobacco. From back in the yard he can hear Elijah screaming “Tom Waits! Tom Waits” over the Nelly Furtando someone’s put on really loudly.
Abruptly Orlando tugs on the sleeve of Viggo’s pink t-shirt. “Why don’t you take it off?” just as Viggo drags on the joint and starts coughing. Orlando blushes, as much as he can do with cheeks already pink from heat, as if he’s just stumbled into some bad dialogue and he bites his cheek and takes the joint from Viggo’s hand.
“It’s a stinker,” he adds, and Viggo just looks at him and then strips the pink cloth over his head. The scent of sweat is stronger now, and Orlando feels kind of thin next to Viggo’s burly solidity, but he nips the joint between his lips and carefully takes his own shirt off over his head. As he’s negotiating the neckline over his face Viggo’s hand appears and gropes blind for the joint, and his thumb bumps into Orlando’s mouth, and Orlando thinks Yeah and then the shirt’s off his face and he’s back to the side of the house and he just takes another toke.
“Steady, it’s really strong,” Viggo says, still watching him. Orlando thinks, Can he smell me now? The beer and the gin and the pot all crash together in his head, he can feel it suddenly, as if the world’s gone blockish, and it’s incredible that he’s in this narrow fenced place, with those bushes straggling along the concrete, and Viggo has a smell, and Orlando sniffs it before he realizes how stoned he is.
It’s not a very lasting realization, however; he drifts off again, looking at the coarse hairs around Viggo’s nipples, and he says, breaking into Viggo’s humming (what is it he’s humming?) “You said I tasted wild.”
He wishes Viggo would stop watching him and just kiss him already. “Did you mean ‘wild’ as in ‘wilderness’ or as in ‘amazing’?” he adds, and giggles because he managed to get all that out together, an actual sentence.
“I can’t remember,” says Viggo, and chucks the joint on the concrete. He’s smiling, and that makes the brush-off—or is it a tease?—less awful. Orlando thinks, It’s a come-on, and he says, realizing as he’s saying it how clichéd it is, “Let’s find out” and he leans in and smoothes his mouth against Viggo’s.
There’s a moment when he thinks nothing’s going to happen, and maybe that’s the pot slowing time down or that really nothing’s happening, but he slips his tongue out and the wetness of it against Viggo’s lips seems to work, because then there’s tongues and moistness and hotcool slither, and there’re Viggo’s hands on his shoulders, pushing him back against the wall, and a finger rubbing around his jaw, forcing his head back, and when Orlando opens his eyes again he’s looking at the sky and the eaves and he forgets for a moment what’s happening but then there’s sensation and he closes his eyes again.
Viggo’s got his hands around Orlando’s waist now and his mouth nuzzling sweat off Orlando’s throat, and he murmurs “Like you need a test.” Orlando doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but he pushes his palm hard against Viggo’s groin and the hard length there is wonderful, his own cock feels just as hard pushing out the front of his shorts and he shoves at the hardness in his hand, clumsy through the denim. “Lemme—“
He thinks his hands won’t work but that’s the magic of pot, you think you can’t and then you have and he’s already undone the buckle of Viggo’s belt, the leather sweaty in his hand and fuck it’s hot, he thinks he must be purple with the heat of the day and the booze and the way Viggo’s letting out little sighs now. He loves the feel of sweat-slick ribs under his palms, oh yeah the belt, and it opens and he fumbles at the fly and there’s a hot, real cock in his palm now, hair under his fingertips and yeah, just a little bead of come on the tip, Orlando smears it around and he’s so entranced by this that he barely registers that Viggo’s slipped the belt out of its hoops and is pushing at him to turn.
It does occur to him, suddenly, that they’re down the side of someone’s house, and he’s busy peering up towards the party (oh, they’ve changed the music, what’s that… Radiohead?) when his face slams into the wooden wall.
Viggo’s got him pinned, and he’s rubbing his chest up against Orlando’s shoulder blades now, crooning, and it’s weird, but Orlando’s not scared. Maybe a bit confused but hey, that’s the pot, and there’s skin on his skin and a cool breath on the back of his neck and Viggo pulling his arms back and tying his wrists with the belt.
”Uh—“ Orlando says, because he’d like a bit of guidance here, there’s just the thinnest edge of fright because yeah, he’s up for any kind of shit but maybe not when he’s this wrecked and—
“You good?” Viggo says into his ear, and that voice is so honeycomb, so familiar but the situation isn’t and the thrill of it suddenly hits Orlando like a sheet of rain. His knees buckle a bit and he mashes his mouth away from the wall enough to say “Yeah.”
If he chafes his wrists together he can feel the belt slipping, it’s not really tied properly and it’s so slick with sweat (Viggo’s, from where it touched him), but Orlando stands still against the wall and doesn’t flicker when Viggo yanks his shorts down and pushes two thumbs into his arse cheeks. He feels his balance shift a bit as Viggo crouches, and the thumbs push his cheeks apart and then there’s a little warm tongue digging at his hole. Orlando keeps very still then.
Nudge, nudge goes the tongue, and licks of chill spread up Orlando’s spine and he shudders, suddenly, and the tongue withdraws and then something bigger pushes at him, oh god it’s his thumb, in and out, just a little bit at a time and goosebumps rise all over him and he hears himself let out a little mew. He concentrates on the texture of the boards against his face, he rubs his face into them, and the thumb pops through, right into him and fuck it must be hot in there because he feels like there’s a volcano blowing through him right now.
Viggo clambers to his feet, his thumb still inside, and grazes his teeth over Orlando’s shoulders. “You do taste wild,” he murmurs. Orlando feels himself smile.
The thumb is nestled tight inside him, and every time Viggo turns it there’s a new shower of lava sparks going off. There’s a vacancy suddenly and it takes Orlando a moment to realize that there’s nothing inside him, but then Viggo’s thumb is shoving at his lips and between his teeth and Viggo says, “Taste yourself” and he opens his mouth and sucks hard.
“That’s my boy,” Viggo says.
The music has changed now, something latin and bassy and Orlando sucks in time, his hips start bucking and then Viggo releases him and stands back. The air on Orlando’s skin is shocking.
“Time to get back, I think,” Viggo says, and Orlando’s wrists are released and he sags against the wall, not understanding. There’s the sound of a fly being zipped. Viggo lays a warm damp hand on the back of his neck and pulls his face away from the hard solid wall and Orlando staggers a bit and then turns and Viggo’s looking at him, with the same mysterious calm Viggo smile as ever but maybe something more knowing.
“Was that okay?” Orlando finds himself saying, and Viggo laughs with all his crazy teeth and cuffs his head.
“That was fine,” he says, and walks away. Orlando waits there, just getting the hang of reality again for a minute, and sees the crushed joint on the ground beneath him. He pulls up his shorts and puts the roach in his pocket. Then he walks after Viggo, smelling the other man on his skin all the way.
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This is So Vereh COOL! I just LOVED where you went with this - and I hope there will be more!
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thank you, that's lovely. and i've never done viggorli before, so i might come back to this one day...
*prepares more party drinks*
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thank you!