19. For ranmaru
DISCLAIMER: All of the fics at this community are works of fiction. The authors claim no knowledge of Orlando or Viggo's lives. They make no profit from their works.
OVERALL RATING: NC-17 overall, not every single fic is, but just in case.
Notes: I've removed anything that could point to the author, like beta, etc. Writers, don't reveal your indentities yet! Readers, guess the author, list of participants is right here. Leave feedback, but play nice. No flaming.
19. For ranmaru, who requested: Viggo, Orlando, and a fish in New Zealand.
Title: How to Be a Domestic Goddess
Warning: Um. Crack? Yeah, this is probably crack.
Days ran together like a dream in the strange environment in which they lived. Time off was a luxury more valuable than gold; rare times they could be themselves, uninterrupted, for time they could count in days, not hours.
Orlando had ceased to be an elf roughly three hours previously and had spent the intervening time crawling out of the elf’s head and back into his own. He was playing modern music and scratching himself. He had even tried slouching for a while, before remembering that he was gay and didn’t slouch even when he wasn’t being fey.
Confident that he had shaken off most of the elf and was, once more, Orlando, he set about his preparations. With nodded acknowledgement, he had said goodbye to Aragorn in the light of the early afternoon. Now, as evening approached, he grew giddy as he anticipated welcoming Viggo into his house.
Viggo, who was away somewhere shrugging off the layers of ranger in his own manner. Orlando didn’t know what it involved; neither did he want to know anything more than that it involved Sean and beer and that he would be bringing dinner with him.
Working incalculable hours had a tendency to suck the romance out of one. Although Orlando would never complain about a being sucked off up against a tree between scenes or forgoing lunch in favour of a quick yet satisfying fuck in the cuntebago, it was no substitute for a long, slow comfortable evening of agonizingly slow exploration and back to back orgasms.
He shivered just to think about it. There was nothing else for it; when his man got home, Orlando was going to seduce the pants off him.
He had been planning, and he knew it was all about setting the scene.
1. The scent of home.
Orlando had read, once, probably in Cosmo, that one should send mixed signals. And so, if he was aiming to seduce Viggo into a night of intensely filthy acts, it would be a good start to offer him the illusion of homely innocence. What better way, Orlando considered, than to let him open the door onto the lingering sweet smell of baked goods?
He was shocked and appalled at the number of people he had to call before he found someone who could offer him advice on this point, and somewhat surprised when the useful person turned out to be one Billy Boyd. He indicated the very logical point that, as Orlando wasn’t really intending they should eat the end product, it didn’t really matter when he tried to make. He might as well just dump some flour, butter and eggs in a pan until it stuck together, then stick it in the oven until it smelled nice, even if it was inedible.
Orlando was determined, though, and had insisted that he was doing this properly. With a sigh, Billy dictated to him a simple shortbread recipe and insulted him until he hung up.
It would have helped considerably if Orlando had been in possession of a device for measuring quantities. He had no scales, and resorted to estimating approximate quantities by virtue of what looked like… a wodge. In a bowl that was altogether too small for the purpose, a wodge of butter met a wodge of flour about the same size. In a valiant attempt at the mythical “rubbing in” method, Orlando’s hands went into the mixture and two-thirds of the flour went up straight up his nose.
Fifteen minutes of choking later, Orlando was able to breathe for himself again.
“Fuck this,” he used his first breath to say, then moved on to his second task.
2. The invitation.
Orlando regained his composure with the skill of a classically trained actor, or at least a pretty one, and sat down to make a call. Building anticipation was something he had learned from “The Bad Girl’s Guide to Sex” and boyhowdy, did it work. He dialled a number he knew from heart and interrupted as soon as it was answered.
“Don’t say anything,” he said, lounging as enticingly as he could; just to get into character, like. “Just listen. I don’t want you to hurry back; I want you to take your time, because we have all weekend, three whole days. And in those three days I am going to let you have me, every way and in every room of this house, including the roof, well, you know that little balcony that sticks out? I reckon we could do it up there, there’s got to be room for a blow job at least, if you sit back on the tiles and I put my feet… anyway,” he caught himself getting distracted. “I just want you to think about it, for a minute, how great it will be spending all weekend putting that big knob of yours in every hole it’ll fit into. No, shush,” he said, as Viggo tried to interrupt. “Just enjoy the image, you big sexy beast, and I don’t want to see you a minute before six.”
And he hung up, feeling pleased with himself.
On a riverbank, several miles away, Viggo finished washing his hands clean of fish guts and made his way back to Sean, as he hung up Viggo's phone.
“It was Orlando,” Sean said, looking just a tad green around the gills, suggesting a seasickness of which Viggo hadn’t previously been aware. “He says he’ll see you later.”
3. The Romance.
Rose petals. Really, was there anything more romantic? Orlando had picked up the roses on the way back from work, at a van that sat at the side of the road a couple of streets away from his house. They weren’t expensive, but that was a good thing, as it would have been an awful shame to sacrifice really good quality flowers for this destructive purpose.
He tore the heads off half a dozen of the stems, throwing the disintegrating bodies into the bottom of a Tupperware container. He shook it up a little and, humming what seemed to be a romantic tune, began to scatter the petals in a line from the front door. Eventually, he would have laid a path leading from the entrance to the bedroom and therein, he giggled wickedly, to his entrance. The third time he placed his hand into the bowl, however, it met with distinctly animated resistance. He yanked his hand back urgently, revealing the intruder beneath. The spider loomed, huge, threatening, and maybe all of a centimetre across, threatening him with its wholly innocuous mandibles.
Orlando did what any sane man would have done. He screamed, and flung the entire bowl sideways against the wall.
He clutched at his chest, gaping and attempting to regain his composure. He would have to remember to send Viggo on a spider hunt. After the first round of mind blowing sex, of course. He was confident he could shag in a spider-infested house, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep in it.
In any event, he wasn’t fucking picking those rose petals back up. Viggo could find his own damned way to the bedroom.
4/5. Candles. And underwear. Making yourself the centre of attention.
He closed the door on Sean Bean’s rapidly retreating back. Orlando had been quite worried when the doorbell went, fearing Viggo had grown too eager after their conversation and hurried back, despite his instruction. It had turned out to be Sean, who had been sent by Viggo to deliver that which would become dinner, along with the reassurance that he had an errand to run and would be home as arranged. The other man had looked surprisingly shifty, unwilling to meet Orlando’s eye as he handed over his parcel and ran off down the path. Orlando set the heavy package in the kitchen and went back to his business.
It wasn’t too late to salvage his romantic evening. If he drew the curtains closed, lit some candles and squeezed himself into the leatherette hotpants that had arrived via mail order that very morning, he was confident he could still turn his house into a tempting paradise of sensuality and buttsex.
There was no theme to the candle organisation; it was a slapdash arrangement of glade scented nonsense, emergency powercut candles and horrible sticky things from Lush. But when they were all lit up, it overcame their individual rubbishness and the effect was rather special, if he did say so himself.
The shorts were next. He dispensed with all other clothing and started the surprisingly difficult task of dragging the itsy bitsy garment up and fastening it over John, Paul and George. (Ringo being round the back, of course).
It was bloody hard. He was a skinny little bastard (even since giving up his teenage experimentation with vegetarianism) so god knows what kind of creature they were designed to fit. He was determined, though, pushing his cock one way and his balls the other, tensing his buttcheeks, breathing in, breathing out, not breathing at all and inching the zip up, a millimetre at a time.
With one last effort, he pulled the zip up the last inch and fastened the top button. Things were fine until he tried to bend over, and then came the telltale snapping sound of cotton giving in to pressure. He turned around quickly, fearing the worst, and lost his footing, heading toward a precariously balanced trio of candles.
6. Fish.
Orlando gave up. He sat in the kitchen, slightly singed, patched with droplets of wax, barefoot in tracksuit bottoms, staring at the half-unwrapped package and too dejected to even try.
And that was how Viggo found him, at 6p.m. and thirty seconds, sitting in the kitchen, pouting at a gutted fish. Viggo approached him, very gingerly, taking in his surroundings as he went. He seemed to observe the half-laid path of petals, terminating in a discarded Tupperware container. He seemed to see the floury kitchen, the powder that still seemed to thicken the air and the tiny pieces left in Orlando’s hair. But, with the calm demeanour that had helped him land this part and this piece of ass, he barely reacted.
“Orli?” he pressed, gently.
Orlando sighed forever, his shoulders rising and sagging in a pantomime gesture of despondency.
“I give up,” Orlando said. “I can’t make fish sexy.” Viggo carefully didn’t comment yet. “I’ve been trying all afternoon to get this place ready, to make it all, you know, like, sexy. I even bought sexy pants but they chafe my nuts. And it’s just not working. I thought maybe, my last chance would be to make a nice dinner out of the food you brought but I can’t make fish sexy. It has eyes and it smells like vagina.”
Viggo’s nose crinkled but didn’t linger on the image.
“Orlando,” he said quietly, approaching the other man as if he were a skittish kitten. “The fish is pretty sexy right now.”
“No it isn’t,” Orlando pointed out. “It really isn’t.”
“It is,” Viggo corrected him, coming to stand right in front of his stool. “Because it’s sitting next to you. I mean, you’re wearing sweatpants and you have cookie dough in your hair and you’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, baby.”
Orlando tilted his head in disbelief.
“Really?”
Viggo steeled himself; he knew when actions were preferable to words. He reached out, sweeping the fish and all its packaging onto the floor, along with a bowl of half-mixed cookie dough and a half-melted chocolate-scented candle that actually smelled like dirt and singed elf. Orlando was staring, open-mouthed, at his display of manly strength and dominance, and still reeling when Viggo picked him up and dumped him on the work surface where the bag had previously sat, before kissing him silly.
“This,” Viggo said, pulling back and standing between Orlando’s legs like he belonged there which, of course, he did, “just you, half-naked and all mine for three whole days. It’s so beautiful that you think you need to try.”
“You think I’m beautiful?” Orlando asked, looking up through naturally coquettish eyelashes.
Viggo grunted, glad none of his manly man friends were around to see him pander so saccharinely to his lover. “I think the hottest thing I can think of right now is you, naked in my bed, okay?” That lost him a few man points, he knew, but it was worth it to see Orlando grin.
“There aren’t any rose petals on the bed,” Orlando said apologetically. “They were infested.”
Viggo stepped back to let Orlando slide from the work surface.
“Petals on a bed are overrated,” he explained. “They stain the covers and some poor fucker has to clean them up after.”
Orlando stared at him for a good four seconds before throwing his arms around his neck and kissing him thoroughly, before dragging him off to a petal-free bedroom, where he proceeded to do things with his tongue that would have Dita Von Teese giving him a standing ovation.
He should write a book, or something.
The End.
OVERALL RATING: NC-17 overall, not every single fic is, but just in case.
Notes: I've removed anything that could point to the author, like beta, etc. Writers, don't reveal your indentities yet! Readers, guess the author, list of participants is right here. Leave feedback, but play nice. No flaming.
19. For ranmaru, who requested: Viggo, Orlando, and a fish in New Zealand.
Title: How to Be a Domestic Goddess
Warning: Um. Crack? Yeah, this is probably crack.
Days ran together like a dream in the strange environment in which they lived. Time off was a luxury more valuable than gold; rare times they could be themselves, uninterrupted, for time they could count in days, not hours.
Orlando had ceased to be an elf roughly three hours previously and had spent the intervening time crawling out of the elf’s head and back into his own. He was playing modern music and scratching himself. He had even tried slouching for a while, before remembering that he was gay and didn’t slouch even when he wasn’t being fey.
Confident that he had shaken off most of the elf and was, once more, Orlando, he set about his preparations. With nodded acknowledgement, he had said goodbye to Aragorn in the light of the early afternoon. Now, as evening approached, he grew giddy as he anticipated welcoming Viggo into his house.
Viggo, who was away somewhere shrugging off the layers of ranger in his own manner. Orlando didn’t know what it involved; neither did he want to know anything more than that it involved Sean and beer and that he would be bringing dinner with him.
Working incalculable hours had a tendency to suck the romance out of one. Although Orlando would never complain about a being sucked off up against a tree between scenes or forgoing lunch in favour of a quick yet satisfying fuck in the cuntebago, it was no substitute for a long, slow comfortable evening of agonizingly slow exploration and back to back orgasms.
He shivered just to think about it. There was nothing else for it; when his man got home, Orlando was going to seduce the pants off him.
He had been planning, and he knew it was all about setting the scene.
1. The scent of home.
Orlando had read, once, probably in Cosmo, that one should send mixed signals. And so, if he was aiming to seduce Viggo into a night of intensely filthy acts, it would be a good start to offer him the illusion of homely innocence. What better way, Orlando considered, than to let him open the door onto the lingering sweet smell of baked goods?
He was shocked and appalled at the number of people he had to call before he found someone who could offer him advice on this point, and somewhat surprised when the useful person turned out to be one Billy Boyd. He indicated the very logical point that, as Orlando wasn’t really intending they should eat the end product, it didn’t really matter when he tried to make. He might as well just dump some flour, butter and eggs in a pan until it stuck together, then stick it in the oven until it smelled nice, even if it was inedible.
Orlando was determined, though, and had insisted that he was doing this properly. With a sigh, Billy dictated to him a simple shortbread recipe and insulted him until he hung up.
It would have helped considerably if Orlando had been in possession of a device for measuring quantities. He had no scales, and resorted to estimating approximate quantities by virtue of what looked like… a wodge. In a bowl that was altogether too small for the purpose, a wodge of butter met a wodge of flour about the same size. In a valiant attempt at the mythical “rubbing in” method, Orlando’s hands went into the mixture and two-thirds of the flour went up straight up his nose.
Fifteen minutes of choking later, Orlando was able to breathe for himself again.
“Fuck this,” he used his first breath to say, then moved on to his second task.
2. The invitation.
Orlando regained his composure with the skill of a classically trained actor, or at least a pretty one, and sat down to make a call. Building anticipation was something he had learned from “The Bad Girl’s Guide to Sex” and boyhowdy, did it work. He dialled a number he knew from heart and interrupted as soon as it was answered.
“Don’t say anything,” he said, lounging as enticingly as he could; just to get into character, like. “Just listen. I don’t want you to hurry back; I want you to take your time, because we have all weekend, three whole days. And in those three days I am going to let you have me, every way and in every room of this house, including the roof, well, you know that little balcony that sticks out? I reckon we could do it up there, there’s got to be room for a blow job at least, if you sit back on the tiles and I put my feet… anyway,” he caught himself getting distracted. “I just want you to think about it, for a minute, how great it will be spending all weekend putting that big knob of yours in every hole it’ll fit into. No, shush,” he said, as Viggo tried to interrupt. “Just enjoy the image, you big sexy beast, and I don’t want to see you a minute before six.”
And he hung up, feeling pleased with himself.
On a riverbank, several miles away, Viggo finished washing his hands clean of fish guts and made his way back to Sean, as he hung up Viggo's phone.
“It was Orlando,” Sean said, looking just a tad green around the gills, suggesting a seasickness of which Viggo hadn’t previously been aware. “He says he’ll see you later.”
3. The Romance.
Rose petals. Really, was there anything more romantic? Orlando had picked up the roses on the way back from work, at a van that sat at the side of the road a couple of streets away from his house. They weren’t expensive, but that was a good thing, as it would have been an awful shame to sacrifice really good quality flowers for this destructive purpose.
He tore the heads off half a dozen of the stems, throwing the disintegrating bodies into the bottom of a Tupperware container. He shook it up a little and, humming what seemed to be a romantic tune, began to scatter the petals in a line from the front door. Eventually, he would have laid a path leading from the entrance to the bedroom and therein, he giggled wickedly, to his entrance. The third time he placed his hand into the bowl, however, it met with distinctly animated resistance. He yanked his hand back urgently, revealing the intruder beneath. The spider loomed, huge, threatening, and maybe all of a centimetre across, threatening him with its wholly innocuous mandibles.
Orlando did what any sane man would have done. He screamed, and flung the entire bowl sideways against the wall.
He clutched at his chest, gaping and attempting to regain his composure. He would have to remember to send Viggo on a spider hunt. After the first round of mind blowing sex, of course. He was confident he could shag in a spider-infested house, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep in it.
In any event, he wasn’t fucking picking those rose petals back up. Viggo could find his own damned way to the bedroom.
4/5. Candles. And underwear. Making yourself the centre of attention.
He closed the door on Sean Bean’s rapidly retreating back. Orlando had been quite worried when the doorbell went, fearing Viggo had grown too eager after their conversation and hurried back, despite his instruction. It had turned out to be Sean, who had been sent by Viggo to deliver that which would become dinner, along with the reassurance that he had an errand to run and would be home as arranged. The other man had looked surprisingly shifty, unwilling to meet Orlando’s eye as he handed over his parcel and ran off down the path. Orlando set the heavy package in the kitchen and went back to his business.
It wasn’t too late to salvage his romantic evening. If he drew the curtains closed, lit some candles and squeezed himself into the leatherette hotpants that had arrived via mail order that very morning, he was confident he could still turn his house into a tempting paradise of sensuality and buttsex.
There was no theme to the candle organisation; it was a slapdash arrangement of glade scented nonsense, emergency powercut candles and horrible sticky things from Lush. But when they were all lit up, it overcame their individual rubbishness and the effect was rather special, if he did say so himself.
The shorts were next. He dispensed with all other clothing and started the surprisingly difficult task of dragging the itsy bitsy garment up and fastening it over John, Paul and George. (Ringo being round the back, of course).
It was bloody hard. He was a skinny little bastard (even since giving up his teenage experimentation with vegetarianism) so god knows what kind of creature they were designed to fit. He was determined, though, pushing his cock one way and his balls the other, tensing his buttcheeks, breathing in, breathing out, not breathing at all and inching the zip up, a millimetre at a time.
With one last effort, he pulled the zip up the last inch and fastened the top button. Things were fine until he tried to bend over, and then came the telltale snapping sound of cotton giving in to pressure. He turned around quickly, fearing the worst, and lost his footing, heading toward a precariously balanced trio of candles.
6. Fish.
Orlando gave up. He sat in the kitchen, slightly singed, patched with droplets of wax, barefoot in tracksuit bottoms, staring at the half-unwrapped package and too dejected to even try.
And that was how Viggo found him, at 6p.m. and thirty seconds, sitting in the kitchen, pouting at a gutted fish. Viggo approached him, very gingerly, taking in his surroundings as he went. He seemed to observe the half-laid path of petals, terminating in a discarded Tupperware container. He seemed to see the floury kitchen, the powder that still seemed to thicken the air and the tiny pieces left in Orlando’s hair. But, with the calm demeanour that had helped him land this part and this piece of ass, he barely reacted.
“Orli?” he pressed, gently.
Orlando sighed forever, his shoulders rising and sagging in a pantomime gesture of despondency.
“I give up,” Orlando said. “I can’t make fish sexy.” Viggo carefully didn’t comment yet. “I’ve been trying all afternoon to get this place ready, to make it all, you know, like, sexy. I even bought sexy pants but they chafe my nuts. And it’s just not working. I thought maybe, my last chance would be to make a nice dinner out of the food you brought but I can’t make fish sexy. It has eyes and it smells like vagina.”
Viggo’s nose crinkled but didn’t linger on the image.
“Orlando,” he said quietly, approaching the other man as if he were a skittish kitten. “The fish is pretty sexy right now.”
“No it isn’t,” Orlando pointed out. “It really isn’t.”
“It is,” Viggo corrected him, coming to stand right in front of his stool. “Because it’s sitting next to you. I mean, you’re wearing sweatpants and you have cookie dough in your hair and you’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, baby.”
Orlando tilted his head in disbelief.
“Really?”
Viggo steeled himself; he knew when actions were preferable to words. He reached out, sweeping the fish and all its packaging onto the floor, along with a bowl of half-mixed cookie dough and a half-melted chocolate-scented candle that actually smelled like dirt and singed elf. Orlando was staring, open-mouthed, at his display of manly strength and dominance, and still reeling when Viggo picked him up and dumped him on the work surface where the bag had previously sat, before kissing him silly.
“This,” Viggo said, pulling back and standing between Orlando’s legs like he belonged there which, of course, he did, “just you, half-naked and all mine for three whole days. It’s so beautiful that you think you need to try.”
“You think I’m beautiful?” Orlando asked, looking up through naturally coquettish eyelashes.
Viggo grunted, glad none of his manly man friends were around to see him pander so saccharinely to his lover. “I think the hottest thing I can think of right now is you, naked in my bed, okay?” That lost him a few man points, he knew, but it was worth it to see Orlando grin.
“There aren’t any rose petals on the bed,” Orlando said apologetically. “They were infested.”
Viggo stepped back to let Orlando slide from the work surface.
“Petals on a bed are overrated,” he explained. “They stain the covers and some poor fucker has to clean them up after.”
Orlando stared at him for a good four seconds before throwing his arms around his neck and kissing him thoroughly, before dragging him off to a petal-free bedroom, where he proceeded to do things with his tongue that would have Dita Von Teese giving him a standing ovation.
He should write a book, or something.
The End.