by Calico

He had a dream where Viggo didn't treat him like something best left to its own devices, and that was nice. In the dream, Viggo was wandering through Rivendell, barefoot, and Orlando was stalking him like Viggo was the juiciest reindeer in the herd. He wasn't a very good stalker. Viggo saw him within about twenty seconds. Grinned, shouted. Orlando took off his shoes so he'd feel the same stuff Viggo was feeling, and Viggo looked at him funny. Viggo said, "I brought you a guava," because he was sweet and cool and listened to Orlando and took in what he said.

They shared the guava, which was utterly tasteless but smelt divine. "Better to smell it than eat it," Orlando said, after the first bite. "It's like all the flavour's gone."

Viggo looked at him sideways. "That's what I was thinking," he said, and Orlando felt happy they were on the same wavelength.

"Can't resist, though," Orlando added, sniffing at the pale chunk of flesh until his lungs were full, then exhaling quickly and sniffing again. Just amazing, glorious. Couldn't get enough. "Something smells this good, you have to eat it," he explained, and popped it in his mouth. Again, the dazzling fragrancy dissolved into the taste equiva lent of a moist-firm shrug. He didn't mind that much, though. He wasn't the sort to put something so potentially gorgeous back on the plate, however mediocre it turned out.

Viggo waved his own piece under his nose. "It does smell great," he admitted, then grinned. "I think I'll savour it like this, instead."

The next part of the dream was underwater, for no reason Orlando could think of, but it seemed very logical. They were mer-men, after all. Orlando's tail had vast flat emeralds on it instead of scales, while Viggo's was made of tiny round black jewels. Underwater, Viggo was kissing his neck, his hair floating around Orlando's fingers, his tail coiling round the place Orlando's ankles would have been. Then Elijah was there, human, sinking, eyes fluttering obscenely, and Viggo swept him up out of the water and lay him on the beach and forced air back into his lungs with his mouth. Orlando watched from the surf and waved his tail jealously, sending little tidal waves over the beach.

When he'd woken up, he'd remembered the part where Viggo kissed his neck the best.

On second thoughts, though, overall, the neck-kissing aside, maybe it wasn't such a great dream. His brain was apparently pretty desolately certain that Viggo was going to avoid him now, after yesterday - like he was a mug with a faulty handle, full of piping-hot coffee, ready to break the moment anyone picked it up. Better just leave it on the table, going cold, congeling. Then only the coffee's changed, and there are no embarassing shattery noises or vile stains to deal with.

Orlando thought he might just write that down and send it to Viggo anonymously - drink the coffee, you fool. caffeine good! - but he had a feeling it might not go down beautifully. Just because Viggo wrote stuff didn't mean he'd melt over a metaphor.

Ha. Pity, that.

Will metaphor for sex, Orlando thought dryly, then wondered if that was appropriate verb use. Wonder if Viggo would approve. Viggo had a pretty good idea of grammar, it seemed.

Also, he realised, in steamy pelt of the shower, shamelessly trying to recreate the sensation of Viggo's mouth by swiping his wet fingers over his wet collarbones: what sort of merman has a tail coated in caviar? A seriously fucked up one, that's for sure. Weird.

He jerked off lazily, because he didn't have to be on set until 10, and it was 8 now, and he didn't have any plans. Disturbingly piscine images rebounded through his brain - salty tail, jewelled black, slick and muscular, so very salty - and he countered them by imagining Viggo's legs, imagining Viggo wrapping his legs loosely round Orlando's waist and lying back, curling his hips off the bed, curving towards Orlando's crotch. Imagine it, Orlando thought ruthlessly; imagine teasing him, pushing forwards until Viggo's breath sweeps inwards on a staggered gasp, then twisting his hips so the contact skews and slips away, and hearing him growl.

He could see it, Viggo propping himself up on the bed on his elbows and saying, softly, "go on, then," and giving Orlando a little nudge with his heels - and it was amazing, denying him, standing there with his knees resting against the mattress, smiling and stirring tiny circles with his hips and not pushing into him even though he's getting desperate.

"Fuck," this Viggo hisses, lying down flat again and pushing his hands high above his head, letting Orlando smooth his hands slowly up that impressively solid torso. So good to press down, a one-way massage, palms skidding over muscle and hair and warm, damp skin.

So good, holding those shoulders down, pale fingers pushing against the firm curves of muscle, watching Viggo pant shallow curses and squirm against Orlando's cock. The fantasy swells, curls over him. He starts thrusting lightly, not enough to push inside, just enough to make Viggo grit his teeth and try to bear down and beg, using Orlando's name like currency, running up huge promise-laden IOUs.

"This is for making me wait," Orlando says, clawing at Viggo's shoulders a little, lightly mouthing the skin of his throat. "This is for all that fucking about, yesterday."

Because of course all this would be happening later today, an acid little voice said, but Orlando's hand was getting tighter as it slid over his cock, and he kept getting hot water in his mouth that was oddly sensuous to swallow, and the images of Viggo spread out beneath him were getting sharper and more indulgent. No little voice could survive in that climate.

"This is for kissing my fingers like something out of Avalon," he would whisper, against the underside of Viggo's jaw, "when all I wanted was to taste your mouth instead of your hand."

"I was being," Viggo mutters, hips rocking rhythmically so Orlando's cock almostalmost breaches the strength of his ass, "was being... chivalric."

A cruel taunt flicks through Orlando's hips. "Chivalric," he says, drawling it like evaluation, then lifting up, smiling down at Viggo's glazed eyes, "well, maybe I'm being chivalric right now - you never know." He shudders his hips gently, deliberately, so the head of his cock nudges hard at the entrance to Viggo's body, forcing into the heat of it just enough to make Viggo gasp, then twisting out again. "I never asked if I could fuck you blind, after all."

"I'm asking you," Viggo protests, and Orlando smiles at the indignant heat in his eyes and taunts him a little more, an indecent pulse of his hips to make Viggo exhale hard.

"You're in no position to know what you want," Orlando murmurs, but his voice is harsh with strain by now, his willpower pawing at the ground. "You could be hideously confused."

Viggo curses, strong legs tightening around Orlando's waist, heels nudging him insistently, and Orlando gives him an inch. Here.

Play, he commands silently, and Viggo grits his teeth and closes his eyes and nods gratefully, blissfully - and then opens his eyes again and glares, clenching tight in reproach.

"More than that," Viggo says, dignity crackling with impatience, and Orlando's breathing hard by now, trying not to shove inside, heat demons clawing at the inside of his chest.

"That's all there is," Orlando says, trying to keep the mischief from his eyes, and Viggo frowns up at him, then shakes his head like a wet dog.

"All there what?"

And god, Viggo, incoherent, Orlando thought, leaning one hand against the wall of the shower, the heat demon kissing the small of his back, then under his arms, lewd wet licks so much dirtier than the sheeting heat of water down his back. Unknot that brain, christ. What a fucking *hit*.

"That's it," he says, and nudges his cock a fraction deeper, then a fraction out again. His words feel gritted and vicious in his head, but he gentles them ruthlessly. "That's all she wrote."

"You're." Viggo tries to rub his eyes, and Orlando - oh, yeah - slams his wrist back against the bed, leaning right over him, breathing against his mouth. "You're lying."

Another nudge, like fucking but smaller, and Orlando kisses him, tastes the protests inside his mouth, feels - oh - feels him struggling helplessly, trying to talk back and kiss back all at the same time. "Lying?" he says, innocent.

"Orlando," Viggo growls, a thick-voiced warning, "for the love of god, I need you deeper than that--"

"That's it," Orlando protests, outraged, hoping Viggo can't hear the grin, "I'm just, I'm not that well hung, but it's not size that matters, right? Viggo? that's what everyone says," and Viggo growls again and shoves down, lifting off the mattress and impaling himself and Orlando feels the bone-glistening melt of sliding inside him, his breath shuddering out of him into a moan.

Viggo hisses, arching and breathing in gasps as Orlando's cock pushes in to the hilt. "That, ah, you bastard," he pants, twisting his hands free of Orlando's grip to drag his fists across Orlando's back instead, using that purchase to screw down gloriously hard as Orlando's hips start helplessly to jab and slide.

"bastard?" Orlando retorts, but it quavers in his mouth, cracks on his tongue, and then Viggo's shaking his head and digging his fingers into Orlando's hips and yelping,

"shut up, shut up, that's exactly, exactly--"

--exactly, fuck, him, like that, there, Orlando thought tightly, and water got in his mouth again and he swallowed deep and fucked his fist hard, and then he was coming, groaning, light flashing silver-purple behind his eyes.

The pictures in his head swirled choppily, zithering away, just a couple of words left lingering resonant, words like blood-warm and Viggo and at last.


That-- certainly weren't fish-shaped, Orlando thought, weakly, in a Cornish accent, leaning both hands against the taps for support. His brain reached feebly for amusement, then gave up and dropped it again.

The spray on his skin felt heavier, but that was probably more due to the way his limbs were doing that limp noodle thing than any fundamental alteration on the part of the water. Or else he'd leant on the shower dial whilst distracted by images of his very favourite mer-man, who knew.

Mer-man, shit. He thought he'd got rid of that. He thought... he might just sit down now.

If it was Elijah he wanted to fuck, he'd just set up two rows of eight shot glasses and fill six of his own with water instead of vodka. "You can skip one, if you like," he'd say, curving a companionable arm around E's shoulders and steering him closer, "on account of my extra body mass," and Elijah would elbow him in the stomach and growl and Orlando would hoot indignantly and then, an hour later, Elijah would be reaching for him with porn on his tongue.

If it was Dom, he'd just kick back in his chair with a flute of champagne and make gleeful small talk about how all the champagne world would be theirs soon, if they wanted to take it, if they just reached out and took it in their hand, or even if they just stood near it and gave it a pointed little glare - and Dom would say, "maybe we better practise," and reach over and pluck the glass stem from Orlando's fingers, and Orlando would twist round in his chair and catch one of Dom's legs in the crook of his elbow and manhandle him close. Because he'd want his champagne back, obviously. And Dom would struggle, but carefully, so as not to spill a drop. And, minutes later, Orlando would wind up with his hands on Dom's ass and his mouth on Dom's cock, and Dom would be breathing heavily and trembling all over, and when, a few minutes after that, Orlando would guide him around the chair to sit in his lap, there would be little dark splatters of champagne all over the carpet.

And a new nickname would have been born.

Hell, if he only wanted to fuck Viggo, he'd probably get away with just crawling into his bed one night, muttering, "let's imagine I'm sleepwalking," and then, at Viggo's protest, admonishing him with a hand over his mouth and a quick, "don't wake me up!" before dipping his head and sinking under the covers again. It would work, he was pretty sure. It would also guarantee that Viggo would always think of him as an impetuous, manipulative fraud, albeit one very good at giving head.

And, damn him, Orlando didn't want Viggo to think bad of him. Even with the head thing. In fact, given the chance to become Viggo's despised sextoy with blowjobs every day and bi-weekly loveless fucks, he'd probably opt to stay on the Pining Bus.

Cha-ching, rack up another lost cause.

Author note: sigh. because this is a new fandom for me, I feel compelled to point out that this is my attempt at this Orlando's fantasy, not my attempt at a sex scene. When (if! I meant, er, if? <g>) Viggo and Orlando actually get it on, that will be my attempt at a sex scene. er. and there's apparently a distinction, in my head. and now I sound like a fool. quieting now. :)
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