For slashababy drop-out: Sense Memories
Title: Sense Memories
Recipient: slashababy drop-out
Author: caras_galadhon
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando, Viggo/Karl, Viggo/Craig, Viggo/Ian
Rating: R
Summary: Being with Viggo was a feast for the senses.
Pre-reveal Notes: The recipient asked for a number of really fascinating pairings, so I plucked out the ones that had something in common and went to work from there. I hope you enjoy the story that resulted. Happy Holidays!
Post-reveal Notes: Many thanks to savageseraph for acting as a soundboard and helping me out on some of the details (such as, "What do you think Viggo smells like?").
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Maybe Orlando wasn't as keyed into the popular music scene as Elijah, Dom or Billy, but he knew real music when he heard it. Guildhall had served him well, even if he was absorbing music by osmosis, rather than design. Still, students from each programme habitually mingled in hallways, homes and at parties, and it was all but impossible to not leave with a tune on your lips and a half-decent ear for euphonic arts.
So it was his ears that first introduced him to Viggo, a reedy whistle that announced Viggo's presence before he opened the trailer door. The tune was something strange, an exotic almost-cacophony that curled in the shell of Orlando's ear, bringing with it echoes of places he'd never visited but always returned to, people he'd never met but had always known.
Later, twined together in sticky sheets, Viggo laughed when Orlando asked him what he'd been whistling that first day, pulled him closer to purr the answer soft and low against his cheek, and Orlando was amazed to find there were sounds Viggo made that were even more enthralling. The way he gasped when Orlando scraped his teeth lightly across the small of his back. The thrumming whine in the back of his throat as he opened up to Orlando's fingers. The quiet hitch to his breath as his body tightened and he came. Orlando knew then that it'd take all his skill to draw the perfect melody from Viggo's body, playing over each inch of his skin, but if it took all the time in the world, he'd hear that song still.
***
Early on, Karl resigned himself to all sorts of ribbing about his smell. Working almost exclusively with horses tended to do that. And it didn't matter how meticulous he was, how many times he scrubbed in the shower, he was still subject to what became a regular round of ridicule every day of the shoot: jokes about horse apples, rolls in the hay, horseflesh and leather. Not that he minded, not really. It was never malicious, after all, and in an odd sort of way, created quite a bond with the crew. And he had to admit, it was hard not to keep stray pieces of straw completely out of his hair, and all the surreptitious armpit sniffs in the world couldn't stand up to a day of sweat and hard riding.
But where Karl tried to be careful, Viggo really did look like he stank. Karl was more than a little wary of getting too close to the man -- he had heard the stories about lengthy campouts and roasted roadkill, after all -- and he was certain all the skill of every makeup artist and costume designer in the world wasn't behind the authenticity of grit and grime that seemed permanently ground into Viggo's skin.
It took a cast gathering for Karl to find himself near Viggo, and when he did, he inhaled the soft scent of worn cotton and denim, herbed soap and citrus cologne. No mud and manure tickled Karl's nose, not even when he leaned close and breathed in deep, earning a raised eyebrow and wicked grin from Viggo. A grin that reappeared hours later as Karl nuzzled Viggo's neck, drawing in his own particular musk, a heady spice that needed to be teased from beneath shampoo and astringent. And as Karl slid down Viggo's body, buried his nose in Viggo's curls, he was struck by the knowledge that this was a scent that he'd gladly be marked by from now to eternity.
***
At times, keeping his skin smooth seemed a harder task than learning his lines, hitting his mark, and making it all seem natural. Craig had taken to shaving two and three times a day -- as, indeed, most of the Elves had -- simply to keep stubble down. It was no wonder the rest of the cast had dubbed them "prissy," given the soothing aloe lotion that became a staple, applied thick and cool after each pass with a razor, and the constant consultation of mirrors to make sure no Elf spontaneously sprouted a beard.
A few of the more adventurous actors had found themselves a beautician skilled in hair removal, and had come back prickle-free, if sporting red and stinging cheeks. Craig considered it over a laconic lunch, wondering aloud if it would help the cause, only to feel rather than hear a trickling tickle of laughter run up his spine. Viggo was close, oh so close as only he could ever be, a subtle presence you were never quite aware of until the heat of his body wrapped around your own, his quiet, mumbling murmur exhaling gentle words that scorched as often as they warmed. He'd flirted with sugar and wax, he said, and he'd be happy to offer up his experience. Craig opened his mouth to say no, but the lightest brush of Viggo's hand against his thigh coaxed forth an unexpected yes.
Craig arched upward, skin slick and smooth, each tingling touch a terrible tease, leaving him all the more aware of his bared body. Viggo's beard bristled against the hollow of his throat, the inside of his elbows, as Craig ran trembling fingers over Viggo's furred chest, through the strands of his hair. Viggo'd been solicitous in his attentions from the moment he'd slipped off Craig's coat to the second he'd exposed him fully to the air. And now, in a haze of sensation and heat, nerves singing with need, Craig was convinced that even with every second saved up and savoured, he'd never feel more than he did under Viggo's callused hands.
***
The world had a penchant for comparing the more senior members of society to rancid comestibles; sour old women, bitter old men, curdled by time and age, shoved unceremoniously to the back of life's refrigerator. Once in a great while, if you were genetically lucky (or financially blessed), you would obtain a kinder label, one that said you were well-preserved, a vintage year, one of the finer things in life's journey. An exemption, if you will, that would allow you to keep up appearances, mix and mingle with youth laid out eternal without carrying the stigma of doilies and boiled sweets.
Ian thought the whole thing was bollocks, pointless claptrap designed to divide the world in two: fresh-faced youth, ripe and full on the vine; and withered, gnarled age, bruised and tumbled to the ground, trampled underfoot. But he had to admit that if being as good as a block of cheese meant he could keep bedding younger men, then so be it. He wouldn't turn his nose up at the pick of the harvest, and he'd be sure to savour every one. It was, he was sure, the reason he'd lucked into such a suitable understanding with Viggo; bristling with the juice of life, full to the brim with intoxicating sweetness, he'd made Ian's mouth water just by being near.
Yet it wasn't until Ian had Viggo naked and spread across his bed like a banquet that he realized how starved he'd been. It wasn't until he ran his tongue up the inside of Viggo's thigh, swallowed him whole, that he understood how fine a wine he was tasting, how Viggo's eagerness and youth mellowed with wisdom beyond his years, sweat and semen spiced with such intoxicants that Ian felt even with eternity, there'd never be enough time to drink his fill.
***
Viggo was an odd duck, on that Orlando, Karl, Craig and Ian could certainly agree. And yet there was something about him, something that went beyond "weird," that made your eyes follow him as he crossed the set, sometimes as lithe as a cat, creeping up behind an unsuspecting victim, claws extended, a wicked gleam in his eye until he'd pounce, metamorphosing in midair, a puppy when he landed, all flopping limbs and eager wriggling. Sometimes he seemed adrift on the air, apart from everyone, floating along on his own thoughts, seeking solitude even in the midst of a crowd. And sometimes he was the centre of the maelstrom, whipping up everyone in his path, a nonstop chatterbox unable to keep his ideas inside.
The longer you knew him, the more you noticed rooms fell silent as he entered, the inhabitants all holding their breath; his loping walk and ready smile making addicts of them all. Quicksilver, he was, a man of many moods if not of names, as able to fit in in the noisiest pub as at the most upperclass art exhibit. Yet the way he looked at you, the way he looked through you -- as if seeking out and finding some inner secret even you did not know -- was at first unnerving, then thrilling, then, if considered too long and too late, unbelievably arousing. So much so that in the darkest watches of the night, Orlando, Karl, Craig and Ian had separately and silently stroked themselves to completion, only one man in their minds' eyes.
Maybe his fantasy-self begged them, maybe he pleaded, maybe he ordered and argued and insisted. Maybe he spread himself wide, or pressed deep and firmly in; a different feat, a different debauched deviation driving every desire. But for each man, one thing was certain: as they shuddered and squirmed, remembering Viggo's sound, scent, feel and flavour, this phantom Viggo saw through to the heart of them with wide open eyes, and they knew there was no way they'd ever be able to look away.
***
Recipient: slashababy drop-out
Author: caras_galadhon
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando, Viggo/Karl, Viggo/Craig, Viggo/Ian
Rating: R
Summary: Being with Viggo was a feast for the senses.
Pre-reveal Notes: The recipient asked for a number of really fascinating pairings, so I plucked out the ones that had something in common and went to work from there. I hope you enjoy the story that resulted. Happy Holidays!
Post-reveal Notes: Many thanks to savageseraph for acting as a soundboard and helping me out on some of the details (such as, "What do you think Viggo smells like?").
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Maybe Orlando wasn't as keyed into the popular music scene as Elijah, Dom or Billy, but he knew real music when he heard it. Guildhall had served him well, even if he was absorbing music by osmosis, rather than design. Still, students from each programme habitually mingled in hallways, homes and at parties, and it was all but impossible to not leave with a tune on your lips and a half-decent ear for euphonic arts.
So it was his ears that first introduced him to Viggo, a reedy whistle that announced Viggo's presence before he opened the trailer door. The tune was something strange, an exotic almost-cacophony that curled in the shell of Orlando's ear, bringing with it echoes of places he'd never visited but always returned to, people he'd never met but had always known.
Later, twined together in sticky sheets, Viggo laughed when Orlando asked him what he'd been whistling that first day, pulled him closer to purr the answer soft and low against his cheek, and Orlando was amazed to find there were sounds Viggo made that were even more enthralling. The way he gasped when Orlando scraped his teeth lightly across the small of his back. The thrumming whine in the back of his throat as he opened up to Orlando's fingers. The quiet hitch to his breath as his body tightened and he came. Orlando knew then that it'd take all his skill to draw the perfect melody from Viggo's body, playing over each inch of his skin, but if it took all the time in the world, he'd hear that song still.
***
Early on, Karl resigned himself to all sorts of ribbing about his smell. Working almost exclusively with horses tended to do that. And it didn't matter how meticulous he was, how many times he scrubbed in the shower, he was still subject to what became a regular round of ridicule every day of the shoot: jokes about horse apples, rolls in the hay, horseflesh and leather. Not that he minded, not really. It was never malicious, after all, and in an odd sort of way, created quite a bond with the crew. And he had to admit, it was hard not to keep stray pieces of straw completely out of his hair, and all the surreptitious armpit sniffs in the world couldn't stand up to a day of sweat and hard riding.
But where Karl tried to be careful, Viggo really did look like he stank. Karl was more than a little wary of getting too close to the man -- he had heard the stories about lengthy campouts and roasted roadkill, after all -- and he was certain all the skill of every makeup artist and costume designer in the world wasn't behind the authenticity of grit and grime that seemed permanently ground into Viggo's skin.
It took a cast gathering for Karl to find himself near Viggo, and when he did, he inhaled the soft scent of worn cotton and denim, herbed soap and citrus cologne. No mud and manure tickled Karl's nose, not even when he leaned close and breathed in deep, earning a raised eyebrow and wicked grin from Viggo. A grin that reappeared hours later as Karl nuzzled Viggo's neck, drawing in his own particular musk, a heady spice that needed to be teased from beneath shampoo and astringent. And as Karl slid down Viggo's body, buried his nose in Viggo's curls, he was struck by the knowledge that this was a scent that he'd gladly be marked by from now to eternity.
***
At times, keeping his skin smooth seemed a harder task than learning his lines, hitting his mark, and making it all seem natural. Craig had taken to shaving two and three times a day -- as, indeed, most of the Elves had -- simply to keep stubble down. It was no wonder the rest of the cast had dubbed them "prissy," given the soothing aloe lotion that became a staple, applied thick and cool after each pass with a razor, and the constant consultation of mirrors to make sure no Elf spontaneously sprouted a beard.
A few of the more adventurous actors had found themselves a beautician skilled in hair removal, and had come back prickle-free, if sporting red and stinging cheeks. Craig considered it over a laconic lunch, wondering aloud if it would help the cause, only to feel rather than hear a trickling tickle of laughter run up his spine. Viggo was close, oh so close as only he could ever be, a subtle presence you were never quite aware of until the heat of his body wrapped around your own, his quiet, mumbling murmur exhaling gentle words that scorched as often as they warmed. He'd flirted with sugar and wax, he said, and he'd be happy to offer up his experience. Craig opened his mouth to say no, but the lightest brush of Viggo's hand against his thigh coaxed forth an unexpected yes.
Craig arched upward, skin slick and smooth, each tingling touch a terrible tease, leaving him all the more aware of his bared body. Viggo's beard bristled against the hollow of his throat, the inside of his elbows, as Craig ran trembling fingers over Viggo's furred chest, through the strands of his hair. Viggo'd been solicitous in his attentions from the moment he'd slipped off Craig's coat to the second he'd exposed him fully to the air. And now, in a haze of sensation and heat, nerves singing with need, Craig was convinced that even with every second saved up and savoured, he'd never feel more than he did under Viggo's callused hands.
***
The world had a penchant for comparing the more senior members of society to rancid comestibles; sour old women, bitter old men, curdled by time and age, shoved unceremoniously to the back of life's refrigerator. Once in a great while, if you were genetically lucky (or financially blessed), you would obtain a kinder label, one that said you were well-preserved, a vintage year, one of the finer things in life's journey. An exemption, if you will, that would allow you to keep up appearances, mix and mingle with youth laid out eternal without carrying the stigma of doilies and boiled sweets.
Ian thought the whole thing was bollocks, pointless claptrap designed to divide the world in two: fresh-faced youth, ripe and full on the vine; and withered, gnarled age, bruised and tumbled to the ground, trampled underfoot. But he had to admit that if being as good as a block of cheese meant he could keep bedding younger men, then so be it. He wouldn't turn his nose up at the pick of the harvest, and he'd be sure to savour every one. It was, he was sure, the reason he'd lucked into such a suitable understanding with Viggo; bristling with the juice of life, full to the brim with intoxicating sweetness, he'd made Ian's mouth water just by being near.
Yet it wasn't until Ian had Viggo naked and spread across his bed like a banquet that he realized how starved he'd been. It wasn't until he ran his tongue up the inside of Viggo's thigh, swallowed him whole, that he understood how fine a wine he was tasting, how Viggo's eagerness and youth mellowed with wisdom beyond his years, sweat and semen spiced with such intoxicants that Ian felt even with eternity, there'd never be enough time to drink his fill.
***
Viggo was an odd duck, on that Orlando, Karl, Craig and Ian could certainly agree. And yet there was something about him, something that went beyond "weird," that made your eyes follow him as he crossed the set, sometimes as lithe as a cat, creeping up behind an unsuspecting victim, claws extended, a wicked gleam in his eye until he'd pounce, metamorphosing in midair, a puppy when he landed, all flopping limbs and eager wriggling. Sometimes he seemed adrift on the air, apart from everyone, floating along on his own thoughts, seeking solitude even in the midst of a crowd. And sometimes he was the centre of the maelstrom, whipping up everyone in his path, a nonstop chatterbox unable to keep his ideas inside.
The longer you knew him, the more you noticed rooms fell silent as he entered, the inhabitants all holding their breath; his loping walk and ready smile making addicts of them all. Quicksilver, he was, a man of many moods if not of names, as able to fit in in the noisiest pub as at the most upperclass art exhibit. Yet the way he looked at you, the way he looked through you -- as if seeking out and finding some inner secret even you did not know -- was at first unnerving, then thrilling, then, if considered too long and too late, unbelievably arousing. So much so that in the darkest watches of the night, Orlando, Karl, Craig and Ian had separately and silently stroked themselves to completion, only one man in their minds' eyes.
Maybe his fantasy-self begged them, maybe he pleaded, maybe he ordered and argued and insisted. Maybe he spread himself wide, or pressed deep and firmly in; a different feat, a different debauched deviation driving every desire. But for each man, one thing was certain: as they shuddered and squirmed, remembering Viggo's sound, scent, feel and flavour, this phantom Viggo saw through to the heart of them with wide open eyes, and they knew there was no way they'd ever be able to look away.
***