Twenty-Five (Viggorli)
Title: Twenty-Five
Author: Chelsea (godofwine)
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Rating: R
Summary: Twenty-five is too young for romance
Disclaimer: And much was not owned by me.
Note: Beta? I don't need no stinkin' beta! (Well, actually, I do, but I don't write enough to actually go and find one. Bad me.)
Twenty-Five
*
It's only weakness when it's someone else chained to the metaphorical bed.
Orlando feels the steal around his wrists, biting into his skin when he struggles. Hard. Ropes around his arms, it's all the same idea.
Stands for love, and maybe this project that he's fallen in love with. Fingers itching, legs cramped against the confines of his life. Only on bad days when he remembers he hasn't been to Cairo yet, or seen Tahoe in summer.
[He remembers Viggo telling him about fishing and the whiteness of the sand. He doesn't care except he hasn't felt it grate against the soles of his feet.]
Orlando's pretty sure there's a message in there about responsibility and youth and the fear of commitment that his ex-girlfriends warned him against.
He needs to understand why it's a bad thing.
Calls Elijah and the other hobbits and makes sure to get very drunk.
Lets Viggo fuck him afterwards, hard and quick. Falls asleep on his side of the bed.
He doesn't feel anything in the morning when Viggo walks away.
*
Orlando's an elf again today, and it takes him a moment to understand what it means. Borrowed grace and beauty and sensuality. He sees Legolas in the mirror and wonders is that me? The me I am today? It's only scary when he remembers how easy it is to put on the ears and the bow, like he's only the mask of his clothes.
Orlando tries not to remember very often.
He's not the perfect actor, can't find the right detachment in between scenes when he still has his make-up on. Needs to keep still in Legolas' form, look wise and knowing and like someone who's lived for over two hundred fucking years, and yeah, that's scary in its own right when Orlando can't imagine being fifty. But when he's Legolas, it's easier and the years fade away like some secret pact among elves.
Like elves exist, and he's already losing himself in this world.
He forgets, from time to time, that it's a movie and not some endless game of Let's Pretend. He wonders if that's how Viggo feels all the time, and he thinks that Viggo must be very tired indeed.
He feels Viggo watching him after the make-up artists walk away and Legolas emerges. He wants to be soft, say pretty words and run, like something Legolas would do. He's wrong, he knows, because Legolas is an elf, yeah, and one of those faraway prince figures that he's always believed Viggo to be, but he's also a warrior and a damn good one at that. Proper aggression in the right places, and maybe it's just the hair, the wig, that confuses him.
He fools himself anyway because it's easy.
He sits and waits for Viggo to come over. He lets Viggo touch him, palm across his cheek, cold fingers through his hair.
Viggo's breathe, too soft against his ear and the silence is going to kill him soon. It's too close to a dream, a fantasy, and maybe he's still asleep after all.
Orlando blinks and Viggo's still there.
He pulls their hands together, likes the symmetry of their fingers. Viggo's calluses against his own, palm to palm.
Falls into this land that they call Middle Earth and Legolas calls home. Falls away from himself into this other shell and maybe that's why he's still holding Viggo's hand.
He doesn't think Legolas would care, so he doesn't either.
Orlando doesn't mind being an elf today.
*
It's been a particularly long shoot. Orlando couldn't find Legolas in the folds of velvet, the twitching of a bowstring. Fidgets a little here and leans the wrong way there. P.J.'s yells of "cut" and "one more time guys", and he hopes it isn't just him.
He's pretty sure he's not that important though.
But maybe, that's what a Fellowship means, failing together. He doesn't like how that sounds, like one man drowning a hundred, and maybe they're not that close at all.
He finds Viggo afterwards. Or, he waits outside Viggo's trailer until Viggo finds him.
Orlando's blown off a night of drinking and general mischievousness to be here, and he thinks that that's significant in the definition of his life.
Viggo's pulling him close, forehead against his, and he likes how he can lean against Viggo's strength.
Maybe Viggo's significant, too.
He didn't think he'd be so attached, so fixated in this so-called relationship, and it's almost chilling in its enormity.
He takes Viggo home anyway.
They stop in the hall of Orlando's sea-side apartment to kiss. Frantic pause, hurried, and Orlando doesn't particularly understand it since tomorrow's Sunday, and technically they have all the time in the world. He doesn't remember taking their time, ever, always some desperate need, desire and passion and everything, driving them on. He hears the waves outside beating to the sound of blood pulsing through his ears, through his cock, and he's glad he leaves the windows open to have something to focus on besides the hiss of Viggo's tongue against his own. Viggo's arm around his waist, body crushing him to the wall, and Orlando really doesn't mind as long as it never ends.
Eventually, Viggo pulls him along to the bedroom, and Orlando doesn't stop to question the ease that Viggo finds his way in the dark of Orlando's apartment. He asks Viggo about it later with a laugh, and Viggo turns and smiles and doesn't answer him.
Somehow, they don't rush the sex through the blood-red haze of lust though they don't hesitate either. They were never tentative lovers and the thought of the whispered words of concern and encouragement and pent-up desires of bad romance novels makes Orlando chuckle and push back harder. Viggo raises an eyebrow, blinks, and continues without losing the pace and the angle.
This is perfection, Orlando thinks, and feels Viggo inside him and Viggo's hand tight and hot and wonderful against his cock.
Afterward, on the edge of sleep, Orlando watches their legs twine together, and thinks it'd be a pretty picture to take. Sees themselves through artists' eyes.
He doesn't want to think this way. Languid in their contentment, lost in the routine, and he wonders how to keep the emotions away.
He doesn't love Viggo, and Viggo doesn't love him. They're together, and they're happy, and it doesn't matter in the end, he hopes.
He thinks about walking away and realizes it'd hurt if he did. It scares him, and he thinks maybe he ought to pull back.
He doesn't think it should be so hard.
He pushes Viggo away, anyway. So he can breathe.
"You wouldn't leave a bloke to himself after a night of fucking, would you Vig?" he says, as a start. He hates how smug he sounds, how fucking arrogant, like he means it and all he sees is Viggo's frown, forehead knit in confusion.
Viggo's hand, stopped on his arm, but the heat is comforting.
He thinks about shifting away and wonders when he's become so cruel.
"Is that an invitation to leave?" Viggo asks, calculated casualness.
"Is that what you want?"
"I want...many things."
Typical Viggo response, vague and exciting and slightly off topic.
He slides closer, kisses Viggo's ear, and whispers, "I bet you do."
Viggo's arm around his waist, loose and affectionate. Orlando kisses his his face, climbs onto him, cock rubbing across his thigh and pressing closer. Breathing his hair, tongue across his skin.
Viggo pushes him back a little, studies him with too blue eyes.
"And what do you want, Orlando?"
Laughs. "Right now? Sex."
Viggo's smiling now, gentle and sacred in its magnificence.
"You're telling the truth, aren't you." Kisses his lips softly, delicately.
He doesn't break, but he thinks maybe he should.
Viggo's getting up now, pulling on his clothes.
Orlando thinks he ought to say something, rushes out "Viggo", but doesn't know how to continue, doesn't think it matters.
Viggo's bare feet are quiet on the wood floor, and he closes the front door too softly for Orlando to hear.
This is wrong, Orlando knows, but maybe he is too young for romance just yet.
He half expects Viggo to return nonetheless. He is stilling waiting when he falls asleep, cold. He wakes up alone.
*
Author: Chelsea (godofwine)
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Rating: R
Summary: Twenty-five is too young for romance
Disclaimer: And much was not owned by me.
Note: Beta? I don't need no stinkin' beta! (Well, actually, I do, but I don't write enough to actually go and find one. Bad me.)
Twenty-Five
*
It's only weakness when it's someone else chained to the metaphorical bed.
Orlando feels the steal around his wrists, biting into his skin when he struggles. Hard. Ropes around his arms, it's all the same idea.
Stands for love, and maybe this project that he's fallen in love with. Fingers itching, legs cramped against the confines of his life. Only on bad days when he remembers he hasn't been to Cairo yet, or seen Tahoe in summer.
[He remembers Viggo telling him about fishing and the whiteness of the sand. He doesn't care except he hasn't felt it grate against the soles of his feet.]
Orlando's pretty sure there's a message in there about responsibility and youth and the fear of commitment that his ex-girlfriends warned him against.
He needs to understand why it's a bad thing.
Calls Elijah and the other hobbits and makes sure to get very drunk.
Lets Viggo fuck him afterwards, hard and quick. Falls asleep on his side of the bed.
He doesn't feel anything in the morning when Viggo walks away.
*
Orlando's an elf again today, and it takes him a moment to understand what it means. Borrowed grace and beauty and sensuality. He sees Legolas in the mirror and wonders is that me? The me I am today? It's only scary when he remembers how easy it is to put on the ears and the bow, like he's only the mask of his clothes.
Orlando tries not to remember very often.
He's not the perfect actor, can't find the right detachment in between scenes when he still has his make-up on. Needs to keep still in Legolas' form, look wise and knowing and like someone who's lived for over two hundred fucking years, and yeah, that's scary in its own right when Orlando can't imagine being fifty. But when he's Legolas, it's easier and the years fade away like some secret pact among elves.
Like elves exist, and he's already losing himself in this world.
He forgets, from time to time, that it's a movie and not some endless game of Let's Pretend. He wonders if that's how Viggo feels all the time, and he thinks that Viggo must be very tired indeed.
He feels Viggo watching him after the make-up artists walk away and Legolas emerges. He wants to be soft, say pretty words and run, like something Legolas would do. He's wrong, he knows, because Legolas is an elf, yeah, and one of those faraway prince figures that he's always believed Viggo to be, but he's also a warrior and a damn good one at that. Proper aggression in the right places, and maybe it's just the hair, the wig, that confuses him.
He fools himself anyway because it's easy.
He sits and waits for Viggo to come over. He lets Viggo touch him, palm across his cheek, cold fingers through his hair.
Viggo's breathe, too soft against his ear and the silence is going to kill him soon. It's too close to a dream, a fantasy, and maybe he's still asleep after all.
Orlando blinks and Viggo's still there.
He pulls their hands together, likes the symmetry of their fingers. Viggo's calluses against his own, palm to palm.
Falls into this land that they call Middle Earth and Legolas calls home. Falls away from himself into this other shell and maybe that's why he's still holding Viggo's hand.
He doesn't think Legolas would care, so he doesn't either.
Orlando doesn't mind being an elf today.
*
It's been a particularly long shoot. Orlando couldn't find Legolas in the folds of velvet, the twitching of a bowstring. Fidgets a little here and leans the wrong way there. P.J.'s yells of "cut" and "one more time guys", and he hopes it isn't just him.
He's pretty sure he's not that important though.
But maybe, that's what a Fellowship means, failing together. He doesn't like how that sounds, like one man drowning a hundred, and maybe they're not that close at all.
He finds Viggo afterwards. Or, he waits outside Viggo's trailer until Viggo finds him.
Orlando's blown off a night of drinking and general mischievousness to be here, and he thinks that that's significant in the definition of his life.
Viggo's pulling him close, forehead against his, and he likes how he can lean against Viggo's strength.
Maybe Viggo's significant, too.
He didn't think he'd be so attached, so fixated in this so-called relationship, and it's almost chilling in its enormity.
He takes Viggo home anyway.
They stop in the hall of Orlando's sea-side apartment to kiss. Frantic pause, hurried, and Orlando doesn't particularly understand it since tomorrow's Sunday, and technically they have all the time in the world. He doesn't remember taking their time, ever, always some desperate need, desire and passion and everything, driving them on. He hears the waves outside beating to the sound of blood pulsing through his ears, through his cock, and he's glad he leaves the windows open to have something to focus on besides the hiss of Viggo's tongue against his own. Viggo's arm around his waist, body crushing him to the wall, and Orlando really doesn't mind as long as it never ends.
Eventually, Viggo pulls him along to the bedroom, and Orlando doesn't stop to question the ease that Viggo finds his way in the dark of Orlando's apartment. He asks Viggo about it later with a laugh, and Viggo turns and smiles and doesn't answer him.
Somehow, they don't rush the sex through the blood-red haze of lust though they don't hesitate either. They were never tentative lovers and the thought of the whispered words of concern and encouragement and pent-up desires of bad romance novels makes Orlando chuckle and push back harder. Viggo raises an eyebrow, blinks, and continues without losing the pace and the angle.
This is perfection, Orlando thinks, and feels Viggo inside him and Viggo's hand tight and hot and wonderful against his cock.
Afterward, on the edge of sleep, Orlando watches their legs twine together, and thinks it'd be a pretty picture to take. Sees themselves through artists' eyes.
He doesn't want to think this way. Languid in their contentment, lost in the routine, and he wonders how to keep the emotions away.
He doesn't love Viggo, and Viggo doesn't love him. They're together, and they're happy, and it doesn't matter in the end, he hopes.
He thinks about walking away and realizes it'd hurt if he did. It scares him, and he thinks maybe he ought to pull back.
He doesn't think it should be so hard.
He pushes Viggo away, anyway. So he can breathe.
"You wouldn't leave a bloke to himself after a night of fucking, would you Vig?" he says, as a start. He hates how smug he sounds, how fucking arrogant, like he means it and all he sees is Viggo's frown, forehead knit in confusion.
Viggo's hand, stopped on his arm, but the heat is comforting.
He thinks about shifting away and wonders when he's become so cruel.
"Is that an invitation to leave?" Viggo asks, calculated casualness.
"Is that what you want?"
"I want...many things."
Typical Viggo response, vague and exciting and slightly off topic.
He slides closer, kisses Viggo's ear, and whispers, "I bet you do."
Viggo's arm around his waist, loose and affectionate. Orlando kisses his his face, climbs onto him, cock rubbing across his thigh and pressing closer. Breathing his hair, tongue across his skin.
Viggo pushes him back a little, studies him with too blue eyes.
"And what do you want, Orlando?"
Laughs. "Right now? Sex."
Viggo's smiling now, gentle and sacred in its magnificence.
"You're telling the truth, aren't you." Kisses his lips softly, delicately.
He doesn't break, but he thinks maybe he should.
Viggo's getting up now, pulling on his clothes.
Orlando thinks he ought to say something, rushes out "Viggo", but doesn't know how to continue, doesn't think it matters.
Viggo's bare feet are quiet on the wood floor, and he closes the front door too softly for Orlando to hear.
This is wrong, Orlando knows, but maybe he is too young for romance just yet.
He half expects Viggo to return nonetheless. He is stilling waiting when he falls asleep, cold. He wakes up alone.
*