NaNoWriMo - The Story So Far, Parts 69-72
69. Playboy Mommy
Fell face down, didn't help my brain out.
Elijah/Orlando, PG, 500 words, prequel/sequel to Past the Mission
"Fuck, man. Those were my shoes," Viggo protested. He was as annoyed as Orlando had ever seen Viggo get. Orlando grabbed a couple of paper towels and gingerly wiped Elijah's vomit off of Viggo's running shoe.
"In his defense," Orlando said, "you shouldn't have engaged him. You know how philosophical he gets after he's had a few, Vig."
Viggo rolled his eyes and grabbed the towel away from Orlando, swiping at his shoe before giving up and hurling the towel and both of his shoes into a nearby trashcan. "Just... take care of him," Viggo grumbled, pointing at a closed bathroom stall before he left, barefoot.
Orlando washed and dried his hands and then knocked softly on the stall door. He heard a shuffle and a grunt from inside. He knocked louder, and Elijah made a strange noise but didn't unlock the door. "Come on, man," Orlando said, pulling at the handle. He knelt down, peering under the stall door, but could only see Elijah's calves and feet.
So Orlando heaved a sigh and crawled under the stall door, coming face to face with Elijah in all of his red-eyed, drunken glory. He was sitting on the toilet with his pants still on, his elbows propped on his knees and his chin resting on one hand. "What are you doing in here?" he said gently, reaching out to stroke Elijah's knee.
Elijah sniffled slightly and exhaled a shaky breath. "Viggo hates me," he whispered.
"Viggo doesn't hate you," Orlando said, knocking one of Elijah's elbows away from his knee and resting his own chin in its place. "At best, he'll go back out there, try to drink Beanie under the table, fail and wake up shoeless tomorrow morning without remembering anything. At worst, he's on his way home right now to write a poem about your vomit."
Elijah smiled down at Orlando and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Really?" he said, swaying just slightly on the toilet seat.
"Really," Orlando grinned, squeezing Elijah's leg. "Roses are red, vomit is green, Elijah got drunk, where could my shoes be?"
Elijah pouted slightly. "That doesn't rhyme."
"Slant rhyme, Elwood," Orlando said gently. Orlando leaned back, shifting his weight from the balls of his feet to his heels, and he put his free hand on Elijah's other thigh. "Come on, 'Lij," he said. "Let's go home."
Elijah smiled. "Yeah, okay," he said again, sniffling one last time before he stood up, then immediately sat back down. "Room's a little spinny," Elijah said.
Orlando chuckled and stood, offering his hand to Elijah, who grabbed it. Orlando pulled him up slowly until they were standing chest to chest in the small stall. He squeezed Elijah's hand and leaned down to kiss the younger man on the mouth. When they parted, Elijah smiled at Orlando through half-lidded eyes.
"I love you, Doodle," Orlando laughed, opening the stall door and guiding Elijah out. "But you taste like vomit."
Elijah's shout of protest echoed through the bathroom.
*****
70. Precious Things
So you can make me come, that doesn't make you Jesus.
Billy/Orlando, NC-17, 500 words
Orlando curls his slender fingers, and Billy makes an incoherent noise and nearly bucks off the bed. Orlando slides a hand up his thigh to rest on Billy's hip, holding him down as he does it again. Billy throws his arm over his face and bites his lip as Orlando lowers his mouth onto Billy's cock. He hollows his cheeks, sucking up the length of Billy's erection until he reaches the head and releases it with a pop. Billy grunts again, and Orlando smiles up at him.
"You like that, Bill?" he nearly taunts, so close to Billy that he can feel his breath. "Want me to do it again?"
Billy nods his head, still buried under his own arm, and Orlando ducks his head down again, tonguing the head of Billy's cock, lapping at the bead of pre-come that has formed. He pumps his fingers inside Billy, slowly spreading them apart. Billy twists his hips, willing his body to accommodate Orlando's two, no, three fingers now. Orlando smiles wolfishly and goes to work on Billy's cock, fucking it with his mouth in a steady rhythm until Billy is thrusting up despite the hand on his hip.
Just when warmth is starting to pool in the bottom of Billy's stomach and he's nearly ready to give in to the wet heat of Orlando's mouth, the younger man pulls both his hands and his mouth away. Billy moves his arm aside and looks down to see Orlando kneeling between his thighs, stroking his own cock with a generous amount of lube. He's watching Billy intently, and Billy stares back at him.
"You want this, Billy? Hmmm?" Orlando asks, thrusting his slim hips forward, his cock sliding quickly through his slick fingers. Billy nods slowly, and Orlando makes a "tsk" noise in the back of his throat. "Say it, Bills. Say it." He strokes himself harder, staring Billy in the eyes as he does, hand pumping his own length as fiercely as he'd sucked Billy's cock just seconds ago.
Billy hesitates, and Orlando stops stroking himself. He moves to climb off the bed, but Billy kicks out a leg and holds him in place. Orlando looks at him, and Billy finds himself unable to hold Orlando's stare. He drops his eyes down, focusing on the tattoo on Orlando's belly as he says, "Please. Fuck me. Please."
Orlando bears his teeth in a twisted version of a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and he grabs Billy's hips, sliding the Scot toward him and balancing Billy's legs on his shoulders. He rubs his cock against Billy's slick opening, teasing him. Billy pushes down, anxious to have Orlando inside of him, but Orlando is maddeningly patient.
"Say it again." Billy growls and grabs at Orlando, but Orlando gracefully leans back, avoiding Billy's fingers. "Again, Billy," Orlando says, butting his cock against Billy's ass.
Billy finally breaks. "Goddamnit, Orlando, fuck me!"
"Good, Billy. Good." Orlando smiles down at him as he pushes slowly inside.
*****
71. Pretty Good Year
They say you were something in those formative years.
Elijah/Viggo, NC-17, 500 words
Elijah is flexible in a way that only the young are. He bends his knees up until they touch his ears, the better for Viggo to slide inside him so slowly that Viggo actually physically aches with the effort. When he's all the way inside, buried as far in Elijah's ass as possible, Viggo thrusts, once. He feels Elijah squeeze around every inch of his cock, pulling back until he's completely out. And he does it again, nudging, pushing, sliding inside as Elijah clenches wonderfully around him.
When he's back inside, Viggo strokes slowly in Elijah, little pushes back and forth, his balls lightly slapping against Elijah's ass, and Elijah leans forward and grabs at Viggo's chest, seeking purchase but not finding it. "Not enough. Not enough," he whimpers. "Please, Viggo, I need more," he begs, staring up at Viggo with huge blue eyes.
Viggo reaches a hand down and wraps it around Elijah's shaft, stroking once with his still-lubed palm. Elijah groans and raises himself up, throwing his legs around Viggo's neck. The new angle causes each of Viggo's slow strokes to brush against the perfect place inside Elijah. Viggo grunts and jerks Elijah's cock, pulling twice as fast as he thrusts into Elijah's body. A drop of sweat drips off Elijah's brow onto his chest, and Viggo reaches up with his free hand and traces the droplet's path down Elijah's breastbone.
"Viggo," Elijah grunts, using his legs to pull Viggo's head down. Their foreheads touch, and Viggo has to close his eyes. Elijah keeps his open while Viggo moves inside of him, counting the strokes of Viggo's cock in his ass, of his hand on Elijah's erection, the number of brown eyelashes that flutter across Viggo's lower lid. Elijah reaches a hand up and buries it in Viggo's hair, threading his fingers into the rough strands at the base of Viggo's neck.
Elijah's orgasm builds with each number that he counts. Viggo changes positions, pulling back and letting Elijah's legs drop from his shoulders to wrap around his waist. Elijah digs a heel into Viggo's ass, pulling him deeper. He comes with a shout, covering Viggo's hand and his own stomach with his semen. Viggo opens his eyes and finds Elijah's and he brings his hand up to his lips and tastes Elijah on his own skin. Viggo comes inside of Elijah, thrusting erratically until he's spent.
He collapses on top of Elijah, breathless. Elijah holds onto Viggo's shoulders, pressing Viggo against his chest. His own heart rushes in his ears, and the ceiling goes out of focus for a moment, until Viggo shifts and rolls over, spooning up against Elijah's side.
"I can't do this again, Elijah," Viggo breathes into his ear. "I just.. I'm sorry." Viggo reaches out and strokes an errant piece of Elijah's hair, twisting the strands around the tip of his finger.
And Elijah understands, because he is flexible in the way that only people who have never had their hearts broken are.
*****
72. Professional Widow
Give me peace, love and a hard cock.
Dom/Orlando, PG-13, 500 words
"You know what he told me?" Orlando scoffs. "He told me that love and peace are fiction."
Dom rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his beer. "Isn't Viggo young enough to remember the Sixties?" he asks. "Not only that, wasn't he a damn hippy in that one movie? Whatever happened to the Method? I'd have thought he was a fucking flower child after that."
Orlando laughs bitterly. "Right. Since he became a painter after that Gwyneth Paltow movie, you'd think so."
"Well, screw him," Dom proclaims.
"Been trying," Orlando mutters. "That's kind of my problem."
Dom looks over at Orlando and smirks, then takes another pull from his bottle. "No. Your problem is that you'll believe anything he says. Fucking Viggo tells you that peace is fiction, you believe him, suddenly you're all 'what's-it-all-mean'?" He laughs and twists the silver ring on his middle finger with his thumb. The words "Executive Transvestite" are written on the back of his hand in black Sharpie. "Peace isn't fiction." Dom scuffs his shoe on the ground, then adds, "love isn't fiction."
Orlando protests. "I am not 'what's-it-all-mean.'"
"Yeah, you are," Dom answers quickly. "I mean, no offense, Orli, but you've been hung up on him since you tried and failed to get him in your bed. So the guy tells you he doesn't believe in peace, that it's just some fairy tale made-up bullshit that parents tell their kids at night to make them feel better about the world and stop worrying that North fucking Korea is going to nuke us all to death in our sleep, and suddenly your world is all askew."
Orlando takes a draw from his own beer, giving Dom's statement some thought before retorting, "Okay, Dommie. Tell me why it isn't fiction."
Dom looks contemplative for a minute, scratching absently at the growing stubble on the side of his jaw. "Alright," he finally says. "You fuck a bloke, right? And he's so good, so tight, fits you like a glove that's one size too small. And you have the most mind-numbing, earth-shattering, room-spinning orgasm you've ever had. What do you feel right after that?" Dom asks.
"Like I need a cigarette," Orlando answers.
"No, right after that." He waits for Orlando's reply, but Orlando just looks at him blankly. "I'll tell you what you feel right after that: Peace."
"Dom..." Orlando starts to interject, but Dom just talks right over him.
"You've got a friend, okay, someone who finishes your sentences. Your other half, but better. You can't imagine your life without him-- them," Dom corrects himself, continuing, "They make you a better person. What do you feel for them?" He looks at Orlando, but Orlando just waits for Dom to finish. "Right. Love. So there you have it. Empirical evidence that peace and love aren't fiction and that Viggo is full of shite."
Orlando sips his own beer again and swallows very slowly.
"Doesn't mean you don't want to fuck his brains out," Dom adds.
Fell face down, didn't help my brain out.
Elijah/Orlando, PG, 500 words, prequel/sequel to Past the Mission
"Fuck, man. Those were my shoes," Viggo protested. He was as annoyed as Orlando had ever seen Viggo get. Orlando grabbed a couple of paper towels and gingerly wiped Elijah's vomit off of Viggo's running shoe.
"In his defense," Orlando said, "you shouldn't have engaged him. You know how philosophical he gets after he's had a few, Vig."
Viggo rolled his eyes and grabbed the towel away from Orlando, swiping at his shoe before giving up and hurling the towel and both of his shoes into a nearby trashcan. "Just... take care of him," Viggo grumbled, pointing at a closed bathroom stall before he left, barefoot.
Orlando washed and dried his hands and then knocked softly on the stall door. He heard a shuffle and a grunt from inside. He knocked louder, and Elijah made a strange noise but didn't unlock the door. "Come on, man," Orlando said, pulling at the handle. He knelt down, peering under the stall door, but could only see Elijah's calves and feet.
So Orlando heaved a sigh and crawled under the stall door, coming face to face with Elijah in all of his red-eyed, drunken glory. He was sitting on the toilet with his pants still on, his elbows propped on his knees and his chin resting on one hand. "What are you doing in here?" he said gently, reaching out to stroke Elijah's knee.
Elijah sniffled slightly and exhaled a shaky breath. "Viggo hates me," he whispered.
"Viggo doesn't hate you," Orlando said, knocking one of Elijah's elbows away from his knee and resting his own chin in its place. "At best, he'll go back out there, try to drink Beanie under the table, fail and wake up shoeless tomorrow morning without remembering anything. At worst, he's on his way home right now to write a poem about your vomit."
Elijah smiled down at Orlando and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Really?" he said, swaying just slightly on the toilet seat.
"Really," Orlando grinned, squeezing Elijah's leg. "Roses are red, vomit is green, Elijah got drunk, where could my shoes be?"
Elijah pouted slightly. "That doesn't rhyme."
"Slant rhyme, Elwood," Orlando said gently. Orlando leaned back, shifting his weight from the balls of his feet to his heels, and he put his free hand on Elijah's other thigh. "Come on, 'Lij," he said. "Let's go home."
Elijah smiled. "Yeah, okay," he said again, sniffling one last time before he stood up, then immediately sat back down. "Room's a little spinny," Elijah said.
Orlando chuckled and stood, offering his hand to Elijah, who grabbed it. Orlando pulled him up slowly until they were standing chest to chest in the small stall. He squeezed Elijah's hand and leaned down to kiss the younger man on the mouth. When they parted, Elijah smiled at Orlando through half-lidded eyes.
"I love you, Doodle," Orlando laughed, opening the stall door and guiding Elijah out. "But you taste like vomit."
Elijah's shout of protest echoed through the bathroom.
*****
70. Precious Things
So you can make me come, that doesn't make you Jesus.
Billy/Orlando, NC-17, 500 words
Orlando curls his slender fingers, and Billy makes an incoherent noise and nearly bucks off the bed. Orlando slides a hand up his thigh to rest on Billy's hip, holding him down as he does it again. Billy throws his arm over his face and bites his lip as Orlando lowers his mouth onto Billy's cock. He hollows his cheeks, sucking up the length of Billy's erection until he reaches the head and releases it with a pop. Billy grunts again, and Orlando smiles up at him.
"You like that, Bill?" he nearly taunts, so close to Billy that he can feel his breath. "Want me to do it again?"
Billy nods his head, still buried under his own arm, and Orlando ducks his head down again, tonguing the head of Billy's cock, lapping at the bead of pre-come that has formed. He pumps his fingers inside Billy, slowly spreading them apart. Billy twists his hips, willing his body to accommodate Orlando's two, no, three fingers now. Orlando smiles wolfishly and goes to work on Billy's cock, fucking it with his mouth in a steady rhythm until Billy is thrusting up despite the hand on his hip.
Just when warmth is starting to pool in the bottom of Billy's stomach and he's nearly ready to give in to the wet heat of Orlando's mouth, the younger man pulls both his hands and his mouth away. Billy moves his arm aside and looks down to see Orlando kneeling between his thighs, stroking his own cock with a generous amount of lube. He's watching Billy intently, and Billy stares back at him.
"You want this, Billy? Hmmm?" Orlando asks, thrusting his slim hips forward, his cock sliding quickly through his slick fingers. Billy nods slowly, and Orlando makes a "tsk" noise in the back of his throat. "Say it, Bills. Say it." He strokes himself harder, staring Billy in the eyes as he does, hand pumping his own length as fiercely as he'd sucked Billy's cock just seconds ago.
Billy hesitates, and Orlando stops stroking himself. He moves to climb off the bed, but Billy kicks out a leg and holds him in place. Orlando looks at him, and Billy finds himself unable to hold Orlando's stare. He drops his eyes down, focusing on the tattoo on Orlando's belly as he says, "Please. Fuck me. Please."
Orlando bears his teeth in a twisted version of a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and he grabs Billy's hips, sliding the Scot toward him and balancing Billy's legs on his shoulders. He rubs his cock against Billy's slick opening, teasing him. Billy pushes down, anxious to have Orlando inside of him, but Orlando is maddeningly patient.
"Say it again." Billy growls and grabs at Orlando, but Orlando gracefully leans back, avoiding Billy's fingers. "Again, Billy," Orlando says, butting his cock against Billy's ass.
Billy finally breaks. "Goddamnit, Orlando, fuck me!"
"Good, Billy. Good." Orlando smiles down at him as he pushes slowly inside.
*****
71. Pretty Good Year
They say you were something in those formative years.
Elijah/Viggo, NC-17, 500 words
Elijah is flexible in a way that only the young are. He bends his knees up until they touch his ears, the better for Viggo to slide inside him so slowly that Viggo actually physically aches with the effort. When he's all the way inside, buried as far in Elijah's ass as possible, Viggo thrusts, once. He feels Elijah squeeze around every inch of his cock, pulling back until he's completely out. And he does it again, nudging, pushing, sliding inside as Elijah clenches wonderfully around him.
When he's back inside, Viggo strokes slowly in Elijah, little pushes back and forth, his balls lightly slapping against Elijah's ass, and Elijah leans forward and grabs at Viggo's chest, seeking purchase but not finding it. "Not enough. Not enough," he whimpers. "Please, Viggo, I need more," he begs, staring up at Viggo with huge blue eyes.
Viggo reaches a hand down and wraps it around Elijah's shaft, stroking once with his still-lubed palm. Elijah groans and raises himself up, throwing his legs around Viggo's neck. The new angle causes each of Viggo's slow strokes to brush against the perfect place inside Elijah. Viggo grunts and jerks Elijah's cock, pulling twice as fast as he thrusts into Elijah's body. A drop of sweat drips off Elijah's brow onto his chest, and Viggo reaches up with his free hand and traces the droplet's path down Elijah's breastbone.
"Viggo," Elijah grunts, using his legs to pull Viggo's head down. Their foreheads touch, and Viggo has to close his eyes. Elijah keeps his open while Viggo moves inside of him, counting the strokes of Viggo's cock in his ass, of his hand on Elijah's erection, the number of brown eyelashes that flutter across Viggo's lower lid. Elijah reaches a hand up and buries it in Viggo's hair, threading his fingers into the rough strands at the base of Viggo's neck.
Elijah's orgasm builds with each number that he counts. Viggo changes positions, pulling back and letting Elijah's legs drop from his shoulders to wrap around his waist. Elijah digs a heel into Viggo's ass, pulling him deeper. He comes with a shout, covering Viggo's hand and his own stomach with his semen. Viggo opens his eyes and finds Elijah's and he brings his hand up to his lips and tastes Elijah on his own skin. Viggo comes inside of Elijah, thrusting erratically until he's spent.
He collapses on top of Elijah, breathless. Elijah holds onto Viggo's shoulders, pressing Viggo against his chest. His own heart rushes in his ears, and the ceiling goes out of focus for a moment, until Viggo shifts and rolls over, spooning up against Elijah's side.
"I can't do this again, Elijah," Viggo breathes into his ear. "I just.. I'm sorry." Viggo reaches out and strokes an errant piece of Elijah's hair, twisting the strands around the tip of his finger.
And Elijah understands, because he is flexible in the way that only people who have never had their hearts broken are.
*****
72. Professional Widow
Give me peace, love and a hard cock.
Dom/Orlando, PG-13, 500 words
"You know what he told me?" Orlando scoffs. "He told me that love and peace are fiction."
Dom rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his beer. "Isn't Viggo young enough to remember the Sixties?" he asks. "Not only that, wasn't he a damn hippy in that one movie? Whatever happened to the Method? I'd have thought he was a fucking flower child after that."
Orlando laughs bitterly. "Right. Since he became a painter after that Gwyneth Paltow movie, you'd think so."
"Well, screw him," Dom proclaims.
"Been trying," Orlando mutters. "That's kind of my problem."
Dom looks over at Orlando and smirks, then takes another pull from his bottle. "No. Your problem is that you'll believe anything he says. Fucking Viggo tells you that peace is fiction, you believe him, suddenly you're all 'what's-it-all-mean'?" He laughs and twists the silver ring on his middle finger with his thumb. The words "Executive Transvestite" are written on the back of his hand in black Sharpie. "Peace isn't fiction." Dom scuffs his shoe on the ground, then adds, "love isn't fiction."
Orlando protests. "I am not 'what's-it-all-mean.'"
"Yeah, you are," Dom answers quickly. "I mean, no offense, Orli, but you've been hung up on him since you tried and failed to get him in your bed. So the guy tells you he doesn't believe in peace, that it's just some fairy tale made-up bullshit that parents tell their kids at night to make them feel better about the world and stop worrying that North fucking Korea is going to nuke us all to death in our sleep, and suddenly your world is all askew."
Orlando takes a draw from his own beer, giving Dom's statement some thought before retorting, "Okay, Dommie. Tell me why it isn't fiction."
Dom looks contemplative for a minute, scratching absently at the growing stubble on the side of his jaw. "Alright," he finally says. "You fuck a bloke, right? And he's so good, so tight, fits you like a glove that's one size too small. And you have the most mind-numbing, earth-shattering, room-spinning orgasm you've ever had. What do you feel right after that?" Dom asks.
"Like I need a cigarette," Orlando answers.
"No, right after that." He waits for Orlando's reply, but Orlando just looks at him blankly. "I'll tell you what you feel right after that: Peace."
"Dom..." Orlando starts to interject, but Dom just talks right over him.
"You've got a friend, okay, someone who finishes your sentences. Your other half, but better. You can't imagine your life without him-- them," Dom corrects himself, continuing, "They make you a better person. What do you feel for them?" He looks at Orlando, but Orlando just waits for Dom to finish. "Right. Love. So there you have it. Empirical evidence that peace and love aren't fiction and that Viggo is full of shite."
Orlando sips his own beer again and swallows very slowly.
"Doesn't mean you don't want to fuck his brains out," Dom adds.