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fellowshippers2002-10-16 03:09 pm
viva-gloria.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2002-10-16 03:09 pm
FIC: Not a Love Song part 4: Open Up (VM/OB, NC17)
TITLE: Open Up
AUTHOR: Gloria Mundi
SERIES: The fourth and final episode of Not A Love Song. Previous episodes (Let's Dance, Kreutzersonate, Mad About the Boy) can be found at Imagin'd Glories and Beyond the Fellowship
PAIRING: VM/OB
RATING: NC17
SUMMARY: Burn, Hollywood, burn ... there may be something they can agree on. In terms of music, at any rate.
FEEDBACK: Yes please
DISCLAIMER: A work of fiction: I made it up.
ARCHIVE: List archives, BYF only please
AUTHOR NOTES: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lazulus for beta and encouragement, morwennap for much-appreciated concern re the interruption, and Leftfield (with John Lydon) for the original 'Open Up', which I'm veering back towards after memorising the Chemical Brothers remix.
The room was still dark, and outside Viggo could hear light rain and birdsong. He kept his breathing as regular as he could, and tried not to move. He didn't want to wake Orlando yet. He felt as though he were sobering rapidly after a long, self-indulgent evening's drinking. Except, of course, he'd been allowing himself to get drunk on Orlando for much longer than just a single evening.
He was lying in bed next to a man young enough to be his son. He should be savouring his memories of yesterday evening: tasting Orlando on his mouth, feeling the ache and glow of Orlando under his skin, listening to the other man's breathing as he shifted in his sleep.
He should be running away.
Viggo was already half-hard just from the memory of things that shouldn't have happened. Now Orlando sighed in his sleep and twisted closer, knee brushing against Viggo's thigh. Viggo couldn't help the jolt that went through him. His cock twitched: Orlando's breathing changed.
Viggo kept his eyes closed, wanting to delay the inevitable –- surely inevitable? -- comedown, the look of complacency or horror or tolerance as Orlando found himself waking up with --
Orlando's hot tongue teased delicately along the seam of his closed eyelid. The surprise of it made Viggo gasp. Orlando's hand spread, broad and promising, over his hipbone, and Viggo pushed into it. He tilted his head back and opened his eyes.
Orlando was all he could see: Orlando and the shadowy familiar shapes of furniture beyond him. Orlando grinning at him, tongue poking out to lap at the skin under his eyebrow. It was peculiarly erotic. Viggo fought his own breathing down, grinned back at Orlando, allowed his hands to return to the other man's skin. They were both making little, pleased noises, trying to bring more of their skin together. Viggo stopped trying to reason his way out of this one, stopped trying to remember why he should deny himself this closeness. He kissed and licked his way across Orlando's body, hissing as their erections hit and slid.
"Good morning," said Orlando eventually, breathless. He was grinning broadly. His cock, equally exuberant, was hot against the juncture of Viggo's hip and thigh. Orlando, it was clear, had not bothered to regret anything. His hands slid triumphantly across Viggo's ribs. It was impossible not to smile back at him.
"This reminds me of when I was a kid," Viggo said softly, stroking Orlando's back. His hands smoothed down over the vertebrae. He focussed on the curve of bone at the outer edge of Orlando's eye socket, and did not meet his gaze.
"Mmm?"
"When you know you have to get up. And your mom calls you again, and you say 'just five more minutes'."
"Well, we don't have to get up," said Orlando cheerfully, breath hot on Viggo's nipple. "It's Sun--. Oh." His voice changed. "You're trying to say we should forget about this. Get up. Walk away."
Incredibly, there was scorn in his eyes. Viggo swallowed an empty, defensive protest: that wasn't what he'd meant, but it had been there underneath it all. Maybe he deserved Orlando's scorn. "It wouldn't be fair," he said softly.
"Bollocks," said Orlando. "Fair to who?"
"You. Me." Viggo rubbed his eyes. His palms were still warm from Orlando's skin. Orlando, stubbornly, was not moving away. His hands ... "I'm going to make breakfast," said Viggo abruptly. Orlando made no move to stop him as he disentangled himself.
The tree outside his kitchen window had lost nearly all its leaves. Viggo stared hard at it, trying to follow the line of each branch, but memories and images kept flitting past and distracting him. Well past time this stopped, really, if he couldn't put it back into perspective.
It wasn't as though there were an Orlando-shaped gap in his life. He had friends, lovers, family: he had words and film, two sorts of film, and paint and music. And he could imagine Orlando filling every blank canvas, every empty page, when there was so much more to life.
On the other hand, Orlando was beautiful and sensual and Viggo felt himself getting hard again at the thought of Orlando waiting for him in his bed. White sheets against olive skin: the pure shape of his skull on the pillows ... But there would be something stale and banal about taking this further, taking advantage of Orlando's crush on him, burying himself in tight young flesh and comprehensibly fucking him up.
Viggo forced himself to think of practical matters. A handful of coffee beans, a glass of apple juice, the remains of yesterday's bread. He ached to be back in bed with Orlando, skin to skin, tasting apples and mint on Orlando's tongue ...
Too much at stake. Too much temptation.
He could hear Orlando moving around, taps running, toilet flushing. Time for them both to act like adults, sketch out how things would be between them now that ... now that last night had happened. At least Orli wasn't lying there, being tempting, in his bed any more. Viggo ruthlessly refused to think about persuading him back into it.
"Oh, cool!" he heard Orlando say from the other room. "Leftfield!"
"It's Henry's," said Viggo before he could stop himself. He cursed under his breath, waiting for Orlando to say something, anything: to sulk or swear or protest.
"Yeah, yeah," said Orlando cheerily, draping himself against the doorjamb with a rude gesture in Viggo's direction. Viggo recognised the track he'd put on, but he was damned if he was going to say so. "At least someone in your family has some taste."
He didn't look offended, or snubbed. His smile was as broad as ever, and the look in his eyes made Viggo want to --
"I have excellent taste," he said, rather stiffly, instead. Outside it had stopped raining. Viggo scowled at two black birds -– crows? -- squabbling on the fence. It would have been churlish to scowl at Orli, even now that he was singing along with the CD.
"You're thinking about it too much," said Orlando softly from the doorway. "Worrying about it, even. What are you worried about?"
"This can't work," said Viggo, on an exhalation. He measured out ground coffee with a spoon, concentrating on not spilling any: there was nowhere else to hide. "Open up," sang Orlando softly, and Viggo scowled again, for no better reason than Orli knowing the words to a song.
"What can't work?"
It was, Viggo realised, an honest question. He raised his eyes to Orlando's, and willed himself not to be distracted again. Orlando was naked to the waist: probably naked under his jeans, too, considering last night's events. That was an exceptionally distracting thought. "I don't know," Viggo said.
"Maybe I'm missing something," said Orlando. "I suppose I ... But I want you. And you want me. Yeah?"
"Yeah," Viggo said. It would have been dishonest to look away.
"Vig, I'm not going to fall for you. I mean, yeah, I love you. You're a friend. I admire you. That's not ... that's nothing to do with the way I want you." Orlando's voice was quite steady. "Last night doesn't change anything. For me."
Now that was a question. Orlando was looking straight at him, perfectly open, not trying to seduce him or make him feel guilty or pretend that things were different. Orlando -- who was a friend and a colleague, not to mention the object of more than one explicit (and as yet unfulfilled) fantasy -- was looking straight at him, waiting for a resolution.
"I don't want it to change anything," said Viggo slowly. "I don't want to fall in love with you."
Orlando's eyebrows shot up, comically exaggerated. "Are you? I -- I mean, have you?" He was, astoundingly, blushing.
Viggo took a moment to savour the response. "Hell, no," he drawled, and was glad that Orlando looked relieved. "I could," Viggo said more seriously. "I won't. If that's what you want, we must ... this has to stop now."
"What if it's not what I want?" asked Orlando. He was smiling. He pushed himself off the doorframe and came slowly towards Viggo, like one of the lesser carnivores stalking its prey.
Viggo raised an eyebrow, perfectly content to be prey now that the whole thing was out in the open between them. "You'd better tell me what you do want, then. Perhaps we can come to an agreement."
Orlando didn't reply, and his gaze never dropped from Viggo's. He was still singing: "Burn, Hollywood, burn." The play of muscle under his skin was mesmerising. Lust, Viggo decided, would be quite sufficient. He thought they could probably agree on lust.
"Gonna make me burn?" he challenged, grinning.
"Count on it," said Orlando, closing the distance between them. "If you think you can be ... persuaded."
He could feel the heat from Orlando before their bodies touched. He wound his arms around Orlando's waist, pulling him in to be kissed. Being back in contact was like coming into a warm house in winter, or like a draught of cold beer after a long day's work in the sun.
"Now," he said conversationally, "suppose you tell me what it is that you want."
"You want me to explain it all?" said Orlando, fingers deft on the knotted cord of Viggo's dressing-gown. Viggo shivered as Orlando's hands renewed their acquaintance with his ribs. "I mean, I could do it verbally," Orlando offered, grinning.
"Actions speak louder than words." Viggo pushed his hands down under the waistband of Orlando's jeans, pulling their hips closer together, spreading his hands over firm muscled flesh. Orli moaned against the hollow of Viggo's throat. His right hand wrapped itself, finger by finger, around Viggo's erection. His left hand stretched from sternum to ribs, and Viggo imagined a hot, possessive Uruk-Hai handprint, invisible and indelible against his skin. He kissed Orlando again.
"So this is what you want, huh?" Viggo managed eventually, when they came up for air.
"It's a start." Orlando's weight pinned him against the edge of the sink. He angled his hips against Viggo's, and they both groaned. "It could take ages, showing you everything."
"Shame," said Viggo, grinning. "Wanna go back to bed?"
Getting Orlando's jeans off turned into a kind of wrestling match. Eventually Viggo simply tripped Orli and they collapsed together onto the rumpled bed, laughing. Orlando ended up on top, hands pinning Viggo's wrists somewhere under the pillows, body sprawled across him. They were both breathing heavily, flushed with exertion and arousal.
"Mmm, how ... manly," Orlando murmured, licking sweat from the dip under Viggo's ear.
Viggo laughed, and rolled his hips suggestively against Orli's. Orlando groaned, and rocked against him, and Viggo inhaled sharply.
"Vig?" Orlando's breath was ragged. "Have you got ..."
It would be so easy to say 'no' and avoid that escalation until they were more used to one another as ... more than friends. Or to say 'yes' and let go, succumb to his fantasies, take Orlando as though that was the only way things could be. Viggo swallowed, and managed, "Yes." He pushed Orlando off him, hands lingering on warm skin, and fumbled in the drawer of the bedside table. "But ..."
"But what?" Orlando was stroking him unhurriedly, neck to thigh, and Viggo wished he could purr.
"I want you," he said, voice low. "Inside me."
Orlando's smile spread, slow and broad as morning. "Sounds good to me," he said, lips against Viggo's, taking the little bottle of lube from Viggo's curled hand. "But I want you inside me, too."
"We've got all day," Viggo began, watching Orlando flick the bottle open one-handed. A faint woody scent mixed with the smell of sweat and arousal. "I can --" He gasped as Orlando's cold, slick finger pushed into him. Orlando dropped soothing kisses along his collarbone, and his other hand continued to stray across Viggo's chest, brushing his nipples and making him moan. Viggo's free hand was curled around Orlando's hard cock, palm moist against the hot, velvety skin.
"I'll take you up on that, later," Orli said huskily, adding a second finger and making Viggo moan more urgently. The edges of the foil packet were sharp against his finger joints. Orlando pushed himself backwards, one-handed, so that he was kneeling over Viggo. In the gloomy bedroom, his straining cock was almost as dark as the sun tattoo beside it. His grin was wider than Viggo had ever seen it. It was impossible not to grin back, impossible not to relax and let Orlando arrange him, impossible not to open up in this final, physical, sense.
Viggo ripped open the condom packet, smelling rubber and spermicide. He stretched and tilted up against Orli's fingers, grunting as Orli added a third and pushed into him more forcefully. Viggo rolled the condom down over Orlando's erection, gradually and carefully, breath shallow: then Orli's fingers were gone, daubing more wetness on him, and then oh heaven, sliding in, so damned slow that Viggo almost begged, an arm sliding under the hollow of Viggo's back to pull him up off the bed and further onto Orlando. Orli's skin, everywhere they touched, was slippery with sweat, and his pulse seemed to reverberate through Viggo's entire body, from his wrist against Viggo's back and his palm against Viggo's shoulder and the heat where they were joined.
"Slowly," Viggo said, voice hitching. "It's been a while." His body, giving him the lie, tightened around Orlando.
"Oh God, Vig," Orlando groaned. Viggo could hear his teeth grinding together. "That ... is .... so ... good."
Viggo inhaled, and began to time his breathing to the rhythm of Orlando's slow, twisting thrusts, trying to think of it as a breathing exercise, trying in fact to think of anything apart from the delirious head-spinning heat of Orli inside him, trying to get further inside him with every stroke. Gradually Orlando's breathing slowed to match Viggo's, and his own painfully slow rhythm, and for a little while they breathed and moaned together, Orlando shifting him and stretching down to kiss Viggo sweetly and gently.
But Viggo eventually couldn't stop himself pushing up into one of those slow, excruciating movements. Orlando's next thrust hit his prostate at a new angle and made him cry out, and that made Orli swear and slide his hand from Viggo's waist to his aching erection. Viggo kept breathing in time with Orli's rhythm, his entire body tensing in the hiatus between one stroke and the next: but hell it was difficult when Orli was moaning and gasping his name in between long, slow licks across his sweaty neck, and Viggo had to breathe faster, almost panting, but that didn't matter because Orli's hands were firm on him, pulling him close against that deliciously taut body, and he could see stars, he was at the centre of the galaxy and Orli was there with him, arching into him, making inhuman sounds into his ear, pouring heat into his body, his hand hot and fast and Viggo came hard, choking on Orlando's name as he convulsed in Orlando's hand, around Orlando's cock.
It was a while before either of them began to breathe normally again. Orlando, collapsed on top of Viggo, slid over to snuggle stickily against him instead. Viggo held him close and kissed the smooth scalp above his ear.
Orlando buried his face against Viggo's neck. "You smell great," he murmured.
"You smell ... masculine," Viggo teased, tracing lazy patterns on Orli's shoulders. He couldn't stop smiling. Outside, he could hear traffic, though it was still fairly early. The rain was coming down again, and somewhere a dog was barking. Viggo lay, blood thrumming strong and regular through his relaxing body, covered with sweat and cum, covered with smiling Orlando.
"This," said Orlando. "This is what I want."
"It's a damn fine start," said Viggo.
"You want more?" Orlando raised his head just enough to blink, mock-alarmed, at Viggo.
"No rush," said Viggo tranquilly. He resisted the urge to show and tell Orlando, in detail, about some of the other things they might both want. "No rush at all. This is enough."
-end-
AUTHOR: Gloria Mundi
SERIES: The fourth and final episode of Not A Love Song. Previous episodes (Let's Dance, Kreutzersonate, Mad About the Boy) can be found at Imagin'd Glories and Beyond the Fellowship
PAIRING: VM/OB
RATING: NC17
SUMMARY: Burn, Hollywood, burn ... there may be something they can agree on. In terms of music, at any rate.
FEEDBACK: Yes please
DISCLAIMER: A work of fiction: I made it up.
ARCHIVE: List archives, BYF only please
AUTHOR NOTES: Thanks to
lazulus for beta and encouragement, morwennap for much-appreciated concern re the interruption, and Leftfield (with John Lydon) for the original 'Open Up', which I'm veering back towards after memorising the Chemical Brothers remix. The room was still dark, and outside Viggo could hear light rain and birdsong. He kept his breathing as regular as he could, and tried not to move. He didn't want to wake Orlando yet. He felt as though he were sobering rapidly after a long, self-indulgent evening's drinking. Except, of course, he'd been allowing himself to get drunk on Orlando for much longer than just a single evening.
He was lying in bed next to a man young enough to be his son. He should be savouring his memories of yesterday evening: tasting Orlando on his mouth, feeling the ache and glow of Orlando under his skin, listening to the other man's breathing as he shifted in his sleep.
He should be running away.
Viggo was already half-hard just from the memory of things that shouldn't have happened. Now Orlando sighed in his sleep and twisted closer, knee brushing against Viggo's thigh. Viggo couldn't help the jolt that went through him. His cock twitched: Orlando's breathing changed.
Viggo kept his eyes closed, wanting to delay the inevitable –- surely inevitable? -- comedown, the look of complacency or horror or tolerance as Orlando found himself waking up with --
Orlando's hot tongue teased delicately along the seam of his closed eyelid. The surprise of it made Viggo gasp. Orlando's hand spread, broad and promising, over his hipbone, and Viggo pushed into it. He tilted his head back and opened his eyes.
Orlando was all he could see: Orlando and the shadowy familiar shapes of furniture beyond him. Orlando grinning at him, tongue poking out to lap at the skin under his eyebrow. It was peculiarly erotic. Viggo fought his own breathing down, grinned back at Orlando, allowed his hands to return to the other man's skin. They were both making little, pleased noises, trying to bring more of their skin together. Viggo stopped trying to reason his way out of this one, stopped trying to remember why he should deny himself this closeness. He kissed and licked his way across Orlando's body, hissing as their erections hit and slid.
"Good morning," said Orlando eventually, breathless. He was grinning broadly. His cock, equally exuberant, was hot against the juncture of Viggo's hip and thigh. Orlando, it was clear, had not bothered to regret anything. His hands slid triumphantly across Viggo's ribs. It was impossible not to smile back at him.
"This reminds me of when I was a kid," Viggo said softly, stroking Orlando's back. His hands smoothed down over the vertebrae. He focussed on the curve of bone at the outer edge of Orlando's eye socket, and did not meet his gaze.
"Mmm?"
"When you know you have to get up. And your mom calls you again, and you say 'just five more minutes'."
"Well, we don't have to get up," said Orlando cheerfully, breath hot on Viggo's nipple. "It's Sun--. Oh." His voice changed. "You're trying to say we should forget about this. Get up. Walk away."
Incredibly, there was scorn in his eyes. Viggo swallowed an empty, defensive protest: that wasn't what he'd meant, but it had been there underneath it all. Maybe he deserved Orlando's scorn. "It wouldn't be fair," he said softly.
"Bollocks," said Orlando. "Fair to who?"
"You. Me." Viggo rubbed his eyes. His palms were still warm from Orlando's skin. Orlando, stubbornly, was not moving away. His hands ... "I'm going to make breakfast," said Viggo abruptly. Orlando made no move to stop him as he disentangled himself.
The tree outside his kitchen window had lost nearly all its leaves. Viggo stared hard at it, trying to follow the line of each branch, but memories and images kept flitting past and distracting him. Well past time this stopped, really, if he couldn't put it back into perspective.
It wasn't as though there were an Orlando-shaped gap in his life. He had friends, lovers, family: he had words and film, two sorts of film, and paint and music. And he could imagine Orlando filling every blank canvas, every empty page, when there was so much more to life.
On the other hand, Orlando was beautiful and sensual and Viggo felt himself getting hard again at the thought of Orlando waiting for him in his bed. White sheets against olive skin: the pure shape of his skull on the pillows ... But there would be something stale and banal about taking this further, taking advantage of Orlando's crush on him, burying himself in tight young flesh and comprehensibly fucking him up.
Viggo forced himself to think of practical matters. A handful of coffee beans, a glass of apple juice, the remains of yesterday's bread. He ached to be back in bed with Orlando, skin to skin, tasting apples and mint on Orlando's tongue ...
Too much at stake. Too much temptation.
He could hear Orlando moving around, taps running, toilet flushing. Time for them both to act like adults, sketch out how things would be between them now that ... now that last night had happened. At least Orli wasn't lying there, being tempting, in his bed any more. Viggo ruthlessly refused to think about persuading him back into it.
"Oh, cool!" he heard Orlando say from the other room. "Leftfield!"
"It's Henry's," said Viggo before he could stop himself. He cursed under his breath, waiting for Orlando to say something, anything: to sulk or swear or protest.
"Yeah, yeah," said Orlando cheerily, draping himself against the doorjamb with a rude gesture in Viggo's direction. Viggo recognised the track he'd put on, but he was damned if he was going to say so. "At least someone in your family has some taste."
He didn't look offended, or snubbed. His smile was as broad as ever, and the look in his eyes made Viggo want to --
"I have excellent taste," he said, rather stiffly, instead. Outside it had stopped raining. Viggo scowled at two black birds -– crows? -- squabbling on the fence. It would have been churlish to scowl at Orli, even now that he was singing along with the CD.
"You're thinking about it too much," said Orlando softly from the doorway. "Worrying about it, even. What are you worried about?"
"This can't work," said Viggo, on an exhalation. He measured out ground coffee with a spoon, concentrating on not spilling any: there was nowhere else to hide. "Open up," sang Orlando softly, and Viggo scowled again, for no better reason than Orli knowing the words to a song.
"What can't work?"
It was, Viggo realised, an honest question. He raised his eyes to Orlando's, and willed himself not to be distracted again. Orlando was naked to the waist: probably naked under his jeans, too, considering last night's events. That was an exceptionally distracting thought. "I don't know," Viggo said.
"Maybe I'm missing something," said Orlando. "I suppose I ... But I want you. And you want me. Yeah?"
"Yeah," Viggo said. It would have been dishonest to look away.
"Vig, I'm not going to fall for you. I mean, yeah, I love you. You're a friend. I admire you. That's not ... that's nothing to do with the way I want you." Orlando's voice was quite steady. "Last night doesn't change anything. For me."
Now that was a question. Orlando was looking straight at him, perfectly open, not trying to seduce him or make him feel guilty or pretend that things were different. Orlando -- who was a friend and a colleague, not to mention the object of more than one explicit (and as yet unfulfilled) fantasy -- was looking straight at him, waiting for a resolution.
"I don't want it to change anything," said Viggo slowly. "I don't want to fall in love with you."
Orlando's eyebrows shot up, comically exaggerated. "Are you? I -- I mean, have you?" He was, astoundingly, blushing.
Viggo took a moment to savour the response. "Hell, no," he drawled, and was glad that Orlando looked relieved. "I could," Viggo said more seriously. "I won't. If that's what you want, we must ... this has to stop now."
"What if it's not what I want?" asked Orlando. He was smiling. He pushed himself off the doorframe and came slowly towards Viggo, like one of the lesser carnivores stalking its prey.
Viggo raised an eyebrow, perfectly content to be prey now that the whole thing was out in the open between them. "You'd better tell me what you do want, then. Perhaps we can come to an agreement."
Orlando didn't reply, and his gaze never dropped from Viggo's. He was still singing: "Burn, Hollywood, burn." The play of muscle under his skin was mesmerising. Lust, Viggo decided, would be quite sufficient. He thought they could probably agree on lust.
"Gonna make me burn?" he challenged, grinning.
"Count on it," said Orlando, closing the distance between them. "If you think you can be ... persuaded."
He could feel the heat from Orlando before their bodies touched. He wound his arms around Orlando's waist, pulling him in to be kissed. Being back in contact was like coming into a warm house in winter, or like a draught of cold beer after a long day's work in the sun.
"Now," he said conversationally, "suppose you tell me what it is that you want."
"You want me to explain it all?" said Orlando, fingers deft on the knotted cord of Viggo's dressing-gown. Viggo shivered as Orlando's hands renewed their acquaintance with his ribs. "I mean, I could do it verbally," Orlando offered, grinning.
"Actions speak louder than words." Viggo pushed his hands down under the waistband of Orlando's jeans, pulling their hips closer together, spreading his hands over firm muscled flesh. Orli moaned against the hollow of Viggo's throat. His right hand wrapped itself, finger by finger, around Viggo's erection. His left hand stretched from sternum to ribs, and Viggo imagined a hot, possessive Uruk-Hai handprint, invisible and indelible against his skin. He kissed Orlando again.
"So this is what you want, huh?" Viggo managed eventually, when they came up for air.
"It's a start." Orlando's weight pinned him against the edge of the sink. He angled his hips against Viggo's, and they both groaned. "It could take ages, showing you everything."
"Shame," said Viggo, grinning. "Wanna go back to bed?"
Getting Orlando's jeans off turned into a kind of wrestling match. Eventually Viggo simply tripped Orli and they collapsed together onto the rumpled bed, laughing. Orlando ended up on top, hands pinning Viggo's wrists somewhere under the pillows, body sprawled across him. They were both breathing heavily, flushed with exertion and arousal.
"Mmm, how ... manly," Orlando murmured, licking sweat from the dip under Viggo's ear.
Viggo laughed, and rolled his hips suggestively against Orli's. Orlando groaned, and rocked against him, and Viggo inhaled sharply.
"Vig?" Orlando's breath was ragged. "Have you got ..."
It would be so easy to say 'no' and avoid that escalation until they were more used to one another as ... more than friends. Or to say 'yes' and let go, succumb to his fantasies, take Orlando as though that was the only way things could be. Viggo swallowed, and managed, "Yes." He pushed Orlando off him, hands lingering on warm skin, and fumbled in the drawer of the bedside table. "But ..."
"But what?" Orlando was stroking him unhurriedly, neck to thigh, and Viggo wished he could purr.
"I want you," he said, voice low. "Inside me."
Orlando's smile spread, slow and broad as morning. "Sounds good to me," he said, lips against Viggo's, taking the little bottle of lube from Viggo's curled hand. "But I want you inside me, too."
"We've got all day," Viggo began, watching Orlando flick the bottle open one-handed. A faint woody scent mixed with the smell of sweat and arousal. "I can --" He gasped as Orlando's cold, slick finger pushed into him. Orlando dropped soothing kisses along his collarbone, and his other hand continued to stray across Viggo's chest, brushing his nipples and making him moan. Viggo's free hand was curled around Orlando's hard cock, palm moist against the hot, velvety skin.
"I'll take you up on that, later," Orli said huskily, adding a second finger and making Viggo moan more urgently. The edges of the foil packet were sharp against his finger joints. Orlando pushed himself backwards, one-handed, so that he was kneeling over Viggo. In the gloomy bedroom, his straining cock was almost as dark as the sun tattoo beside it. His grin was wider than Viggo had ever seen it. It was impossible not to grin back, impossible not to relax and let Orlando arrange him, impossible not to open up in this final, physical, sense.
Viggo ripped open the condom packet, smelling rubber and spermicide. He stretched and tilted up against Orli's fingers, grunting as Orli added a third and pushed into him more forcefully. Viggo rolled the condom down over Orlando's erection, gradually and carefully, breath shallow: then Orli's fingers were gone, daubing more wetness on him, and then oh heaven, sliding in, so damned slow that Viggo almost begged, an arm sliding under the hollow of Viggo's back to pull him up off the bed and further onto Orlando. Orli's skin, everywhere they touched, was slippery with sweat, and his pulse seemed to reverberate through Viggo's entire body, from his wrist against Viggo's back and his palm against Viggo's shoulder and the heat where they were joined.
"Slowly," Viggo said, voice hitching. "It's been a while." His body, giving him the lie, tightened around Orlando.
"Oh God, Vig," Orlando groaned. Viggo could hear his teeth grinding together. "That ... is .... so ... good."
Viggo inhaled, and began to time his breathing to the rhythm of Orlando's slow, twisting thrusts, trying to think of it as a breathing exercise, trying in fact to think of anything apart from the delirious head-spinning heat of Orli inside him, trying to get further inside him with every stroke. Gradually Orlando's breathing slowed to match Viggo's, and his own painfully slow rhythm, and for a little while they breathed and moaned together, Orlando shifting him and stretching down to kiss Viggo sweetly and gently.
But Viggo eventually couldn't stop himself pushing up into one of those slow, excruciating movements. Orlando's next thrust hit his prostate at a new angle and made him cry out, and that made Orli swear and slide his hand from Viggo's waist to his aching erection. Viggo kept breathing in time with Orli's rhythm, his entire body tensing in the hiatus between one stroke and the next: but hell it was difficult when Orli was moaning and gasping his name in between long, slow licks across his sweaty neck, and Viggo had to breathe faster, almost panting, but that didn't matter because Orli's hands were firm on him, pulling him close against that deliciously taut body, and he could see stars, he was at the centre of the galaxy and Orli was there with him, arching into him, making inhuman sounds into his ear, pouring heat into his body, his hand hot and fast and Viggo came hard, choking on Orlando's name as he convulsed in Orlando's hand, around Orlando's cock.
It was a while before either of them began to breathe normally again. Orlando, collapsed on top of Viggo, slid over to snuggle stickily against him instead. Viggo held him close and kissed the smooth scalp above his ear.
Orlando buried his face against Viggo's neck. "You smell great," he murmured.
"You smell ... masculine," Viggo teased, tracing lazy patterns on Orli's shoulders. He couldn't stop smiling. Outside, he could hear traffic, though it was still fairly early. The rain was coming down again, and somewhere a dog was barking. Viggo lay, blood thrumming strong and regular through his relaxing body, covered with sweat and cum, covered with smiling Orlando.
"This," said Orlando. "This is what I want."
"It's a damn fine start," said Viggo.
"You want more?" Orlando raised his head just enough to blink, mock-alarmed, at Viggo.
"No rush," said Viggo tranquilly. He resisted the urge to show and tell Orlando, in detail, about some of the other things they might both want. "No rush at all. This is enough."
-end-
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I knew I pressed *refresh* one more time for a reason... you shoulda seen me squee when I saw your name.
Gah that Viggo.. get over it already. You. Have. Orli. Take what you can get!!
no subject
I love this.
More. Please?