Fic: Fragrant (1/1) VM/OB
Title: Fragrant
Author: laeglass
Pairing: V/O
Rating: R(ish)
Disclaimer: Made-up fantasy, no profit, etc.
A/N: Beta'd by the awesome silvan_lady *snuggles* Inspired by the interview Viggo gave to The Guardian. You'll know which part. *g*
Most people have only one life.
Orlando had two.
One was where he went places and attended things with his girlfriend, wearing sunglasses and a collection of things wrapped around his neck, or a tuxedo should the event require it; one where he alternately dodged paparazzi and journalists, and sought them out, depending on where he was, who he was with and if he had a movie coming out. The one where his dream of making a name for himself had come true.
Then there was the other where he was always welcome no matter the hour, the location or state of mind; life where he went to bed, and woke up, in Viggo's arms. Where he was loved, and accepted, and criticized in equal measure. A life where he could turn up unannounced, unshowered, unwashed, plain dirty, and still have his entire body kissed and licked and taken to new heights.
It wasn't a shallow thing, the worship Viggo subjected his body to. It hadn't much to do with his muscles or his skin, or even his face. It was physical, yes; how could it not be when your lover sucked on your nipples until you felt you would burst? - but it was also more than that. His essence was housed in this body. His appearance was but a manifestation of the person he was inside.
But how Viggo worshipped at his temple.
Viggo didn't seem to find anything disgusting about any part of Orlando's body, or how it functioned. Viggo had seen him puking out his guts after a night out; dirty all the way down to his toenails, face sweaty and flushed red with exertion, eyes blood-shot with lack of sleep and/or hangover, and none of it seemed to matter.
It had made him self-conscious at first, back in New Zealand, how Viggo would welcome him into his arms straight from practice, sweaty and filthy; Viggo would bury his face in Orlando's nape, or his armpit, and poke him in the back of his thigh with his dick as he hardened. He wouldn't let Orlando get up in the morning to brush his teeth before snogging him sloppily.
Given Viggo's unending fascination with his body, Orlando had once teased Viggo that he probably jerked off smelling his underwear, or God forbid, his socks. Viggo had grinned but shook his head.
He did know what Viggo's favourite spots where; well, after a fashion at least. He knew that Viggo liked to trace his hairline with his nose after he came home from his morning run, or after they had finished making love. Viggo also liked to rub his beard - should he have one - or whiskers down Orlando's spine all the way down to his cleft, although Orlando suspected this had more to do with making him squeal than anything else.
Viggo liked to kiss him in the mornings with tongue, sweeping his lips and his gums, stroking deeply until Orlando was trembling with desire, or from lack of oxygen.
Orlando thought it perhaps had something to do with pheromones; his body sending chemical messages to Viggo. He remembered the welcome hug he'd given Viggo when he'd joined the cast, all arms and babble and their cheeks brushing, and the sharp, almost wide-eyed stare Viggo had directed at him; and then the countless times afterwards where Viggo seemed to look for reasons, or even excuses, to stand close to him. He barely needed to, of course, since Leggy and Aragorn seemed to be joined at the hip most of the time; but it'd been nice, turning around and finding Viggo just a few feet away, with an intent look in his eyes.
Orlando had felt skittish and excited, recognising interest when he saw it. It seemed that his body had set out to seduce Viggo right from the word go, far before he consciously recognised and acted on the mutual attraction.
That Viggo would acknowledge him, and their little thing to the world in such an off-handed way (not that anyone would ever connect it to him, of course) in an interview made him giddy. Viggo's favourite smell, indeed. Most people answered coffee, or vanilla, or fresh bread, but Viggo wouldn't, of course. Viggo's favourite smell. It wasn't the smell of a horse, like some would think. Or even fresh air, or the scent of a newly printed book - or an old one.
It was found somewhere between Orlando's ear and collarbone, along his neck, early in the morning. The natural scent of him that developed between showers - and in bed, it seemed. Viggo nuzzled him with nose, tongue and lips; sometimes he liked to paint parts of Orlando's body with his pre-come, just to lick it off.
When Orlando came home, he usually found the same linen on the bed that had been there when he left. First, he shrugged it off. But it wasn't until he came home, jetlagged and tired, and found his pillow sitting next to Viggo's just like it had been a month ago, that it finally fell into place.
Viggo wanked to Orlando's pillow case.
Not to a photo, or a video of him, but to his scent.
Now that, that would be entirely, completely, way too intimate to reveal.
finis
Author: laeglass
Pairing: V/O
Rating: R(ish)
Disclaimer: Made-up fantasy, no profit, etc.
A/N: Beta'd by the awesome silvan_lady *snuggles* Inspired by the interview Viggo gave to The Guardian. You'll know which part. *g*
Most people have only one life.
Orlando had two.
One was where he went places and attended things with his girlfriend, wearing sunglasses and a collection of things wrapped around his neck, or a tuxedo should the event require it; one where he alternately dodged paparazzi and journalists, and sought them out, depending on where he was, who he was with and if he had a movie coming out. The one where his dream of making a name for himself had come true.
Then there was the other where he was always welcome no matter the hour, the location or state of mind; life where he went to bed, and woke up, in Viggo's arms. Where he was loved, and accepted, and criticized in equal measure. A life where he could turn up unannounced, unshowered, unwashed, plain dirty, and still have his entire body kissed and licked and taken to new heights.
It wasn't a shallow thing, the worship Viggo subjected his body to. It hadn't much to do with his muscles or his skin, or even his face. It was physical, yes; how could it not be when your lover sucked on your nipples until you felt you would burst? - but it was also more than that. His essence was housed in this body. His appearance was but a manifestation of the person he was inside.
But how Viggo worshipped at his temple.
Viggo didn't seem to find anything disgusting about any part of Orlando's body, or how it functioned. Viggo had seen him puking out his guts after a night out; dirty all the way down to his toenails, face sweaty and flushed red with exertion, eyes blood-shot with lack of sleep and/or hangover, and none of it seemed to matter.
It had made him self-conscious at first, back in New Zealand, how Viggo would welcome him into his arms straight from practice, sweaty and filthy; Viggo would bury his face in Orlando's nape, or his armpit, and poke him in the back of his thigh with his dick as he hardened. He wouldn't let Orlando get up in the morning to brush his teeth before snogging him sloppily.
Given Viggo's unending fascination with his body, Orlando had once teased Viggo that he probably jerked off smelling his underwear, or God forbid, his socks. Viggo had grinned but shook his head.
He did know what Viggo's favourite spots where; well, after a fashion at least. He knew that Viggo liked to trace his hairline with his nose after he came home from his morning run, or after they had finished making love. Viggo also liked to rub his beard - should he have one - or whiskers down Orlando's spine all the way down to his cleft, although Orlando suspected this had more to do with making him squeal than anything else.
Viggo liked to kiss him in the mornings with tongue, sweeping his lips and his gums, stroking deeply until Orlando was trembling with desire, or from lack of oxygen.
Orlando thought it perhaps had something to do with pheromones; his body sending chemical messages to Viggo. He remembered the welcome hug he'd given Viggo when he'd joined the cast, all arms and babble and their cheeks brushing, and the sharp, almost wide-eyed stare Viggo had directed at him; and then the countless times afterwards where Viggo seemed to look for reasons, or even excuses, to stand close to him. He barely needed to, of course, since Leggy and Aragorn seemed to be joined at the hip most of the time; but it'd been nice, turning around and finding Viggo just a few feet away, with an intent look in his eyes.
Orlando had felt skittish and excited, recognising interest when he saw it. It seemed that his body had set out to seduce Viggo right from the word go, far before he consciously recognised and acted on the mutual attraction.
That Viggo would acknowledge him, and their little thing to the world in such an off-handed way (not that anyone would ever connect it to him, of course) in an interview made him giddy. Viggo's favourite smell, indeed. Most people answered coffee, or vanilla, or fresh bread, but Viggo wouldn't, of course. Viggo's favourite smell. It wasn't the smell of a horse, like some would think. Or even fresh air, or the scent of a newly printed book - or an old one.
It was found somewhere between Orlando's ear and collarbone, along his neck, early in the morning. The natural scent of him that developed between showers - and in bed, it seemed. Viggo nuzzled him with nose, tongue and lips; sometimes he liked to paint parts of Orlando's body with his pre-come, just to lick it off.
When Orlando came home, he usually found the same linen on the bed that had been there when he left. First, he shrugged it off. But it wasn't until he came home, jetlagged and tired, and found his pillow sitting next to Viggo's just like it had been a month ago, that it finally fell into place.
Viggo wanked to Orlando's pillow case.
Not to a photo, or a video of him, but to his scent.
Now that, that would be entirely, completely, way too intimate to reveal.
finis