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Thursday (always comes too late) [Jan. 19th, 2004|09:27 pm]
not yet day


It is well after dark by the time Orlando gets back to the hotel, bone-tired and aching, his expensive Russian headache having never really gone away. He spent the entire day gritting his teeth and hitting his marks, got both the scenes from the day before in the can and two more besides.

In between takes he sips tea and munches crackers; at lunch he locks himself in his trailer and catches twenty minutes of desperately needed sleep. His hands are going to shake no matter what, either from lack of food or lack of sleep, so he goes with what he considers the lesser of two evils.

He feels unbelievably old and at the same time ridiculously young. Old because he hurts all over, deep down in every joint and muscle, because he feels like he's walked a thousand miles and back again, because he's so weary that he's practically drooling. But young, yeah, because he's got that flippy feeling in his chest, the one he remembers so well from when he was fifteen and this bird called Angie with enormous tits and a perky arse asked for his number and said she'd ring him after school.

It's half heart-attack and half-hard on, knowing that if he can just make the next nine hours go as fast as possible, then he'll have... something, maybe not all of everything, like, not entirely what he's... but it's...

It's Viggo.

He eyeballs the clock, it eyeballs him back. Yeah, nine hours, give or take. Viggo's still in bed, probably, won't get up until Henry hollers up the stairs something about there being laws in California requiring you to feed your children. Unless it's a school day. Orlando scrunches up his forehead, trying to remember whether or not Viggo said school was back in session. Bloody Americans, mucking up the terms.

But yeah, nine hours. Time enough for a long hot soak, a late supper, maybe nod off for a while in front of CNN Worldview. It's the only channel that's in English.

He can wait. He's waited before.

[User Picture]From: _ming
2004-01-20 06:22 am (UTC)
Viggo wakes up on the kitchen floor, linoleum imprint itching at the underside of his face and Henry's slightly dirty toes wormed beneath his chin for warmth.

Henry glances down from the Sports section of last weekend's newspaper. "Yo, Dad."

Viggo turns over onto his back and gazes up from his shamefully sober stupor. "Yo, son."

"What do you think about the Patriots?"

"In general, historically, or personally?"

"No, what do you think about the Patriots' chances in the Superbowl?"

"Oh." Viggo gets to his feet and starts brewing some coffee. "You know I don't follow football."

Henry makes vague affirmative noises as he folds the newspaper into precise eighths. "I have school in like twenty minutes, Dad, you know that, right?"

Viggo turns away from his son to look at the clock, makes a face and vehemently mouths motherwhorefucker! before sticking his head inside the refrigerator so he can have some privacy as he cusses himself out. "Yes, of course," he remarks placidly, rifling through a tray of asparagus with one hand and combing his hair out with the other. He notices they're low on eggs and that the milk is two days away from going bad, so he decides to stay where he is for a while. Out of concern for the food. Not because he spent last night drooling under the table like a college kid. "I was just waiting for you to get up."

"With your eyes closed?" Henry grins.

"I'll meet you out on the driveway in ten!"

Viggo takes Henry to school and fields pleas for a learner's permit with bittersweet impatience. He stops by the supermarket on the way home but can't find any uncracked eggs, so he buys a carton of Eggbeaters instead, figuring he can just drink the thing if push comes to shove.

There's nothing on the agenda, so Viggo spends a quiet Thursday puttering around the house. He starts a poem,


but by the time he hits his stride he's forgotten what he was trying to say, so he puts it under a potted plant in the television room for later revision.

Orlando asked him to call again tonight, same time as yesterday, and he wants to, goddammit. But he needs to think of something good to say. He needs something a little less fantastical but completely charming, something he can write on the back of an old polaroid with good ink and slip under an unsuspecting pillow, if he ever gets the chance. He might be getting ahead of himself, here, already thinking about pillows and what he'd like to slip under them, but despite the weird start it's been a pretty good day and he can't help feeling upbeat.

Viggo pushes pieces of Henry's magnetic poetry set around the fridge door for half an hour before it's time to begin making dinner.
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-21 01:32 am (UTC)
There is one thing that the Spanish and Orlando agree on, and that is bathtubs. The one in his suite is a massive construction, running the entire length of the bathroom, a big square base covered in shiny red and gold tiles, the tub itself deep and long with one end curved just right for his aching back.

Orli shoves a small supper in his face: tea, rice, some broiled chicken breast, finds himself longing for a cheeseburger. Another one of Viggo's addictions that somehow he acquired, like those harsh cigarettes in the yellow box that he buys when nobody's watching, or that snappish red wine that he orders by the case. He looks at the clock and tries to pretend he's not looking at the clock.

Kate rings while he's undressing for his soak, he tries to waffle on about nothing with her and she allows it, has been allowing it for a while. He thanks her for the flowers she'd sent for his birthday, doesn't tell her that they made his eyes water and his nose run, and were summarily pitched. She talks a little about her new project and how she'll be glad to see him in six weeks when he's back in L.A.; he asks after her mother and finally pleads out, citing his headache and not mentioning its cause.

After, when he's hung up and is soaking in steamy bliss in the tub, Orlando thinks about how he's always telling her what he thinks she wants to hear and never asking what she really wants. He knows that she hooks up with other guys, he knows she knows that he hooks up with other guys; she's become less a girlfriend and more a friend who's a girl who he fucks in the arse when he's been drinking, who covers for him ceaselessly and always smiles.

He closes his eyes, slides down in the tub until the water is tickling just below his nose and thinks about Viggo, about Viggo not calling the other night, about Viggo not calling so many times and how Orlando always forgives him. The tiles are sweating with steam; he raises a dripping finger and traces a word he's never said out loud to either Kate or Viggo.

Everybody's got somebody they're not being fair to.
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[User Picture]From: _ming
2004-01-21 05:15 am (UTC)
It's not getting any better, but he can't put the damn thing down. It bothers him so badly that he only eats half the dinner Henry ended up making before retreating to the other room.



"Fuck it," Viggo huffs, leaning back and swiping his hands at his face as if to wipe away the past forty-five minutes wasted on mediocrity. "Murdered words, what the fuck is that?" he grumbles to himself as he shoves the poem back under the drooping plant. It's not romantic, that's for fucking sure. He won't slip it under any pillow unless it's with intent to harm.

Viggo stares angrily at the TV screen. Eventually he sees his own reflection and laughs. He's such a grumpy old fuck, such an ugly old man. He settles down to watch sitcom reruns until eight, at which point he starts going to the kitchen during every commercial break to wait for the phone to ring.

Pastel green. What a tragic color.

"Well," Viggo says to nobody at 8:34, and decides that he really is going to do this.

There are fourteen rings before a fumbling static breaks the shrill monotony. Viggo thinks he hears a pillow hit the floor, then maybe the receiver itself judging by the muffled curses. A bleary "What?" finally emerges in near clarity before being interrupted by an admirable yawn.

"Buenos días, gatito," Viggo murmurs, a pleased smile stretching his voice to uncommon raspiness. It sounds like Orlando still wakes up with all the grace of a fat, angry cat.
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-21 05:28 am (UTC)
Orli dozes off in the bath and wakes an hour later sputtering tepid water; he drains the tub and showers off, crawls into bed in his oldest, favouritest flannel pyjama pants, the orange and green striped ones he bought new to go to New Zealand. He likes to sleep on the right side, by the window; he piles up the pillows and puts the phone on the other side, within reach.

He sleeps so deeply that he almost doesn't hear the ringing anyway.

When he's finished thrashing and flailing, when he's untangled the sheets wrapped round his waist like an Egyptian cotton anaconda, he flops back on the pillows and puts the receiver to his ear.


"Buenos días, gatito," comes Viggo's purring voice, makes all the hairs stand up on Orlando's arms, makes his cock twitch and his gut flop.

"Hey, mornin' cowboy..." he mumbles, turning on his side, rubbing at his belly. "You called."

"I said I would, huh?" Viggo says huskily. Click, snap, suck, he's lighting a cigarette three thousand miles away and suddenly Orlando wants one fiercely. And then some.

"Yeah, you did, um...mmf. Nice of you." Orli rubs lower, then pulls his hand back. "Whassup, hmm?"

Viggo laughs, soft and smoky. "Sleepy, huh?"

No, just trying really hard not to wank over your bloody pornographic voice, cowboy. "Little bit, yeah, it's like... going on six, innit?"

"I have no idea," Viggo says cheerfully. "You have an early call?"

"Like... eight? Eight." Orlando stretches and yawns, pulls his duvet up from where he'd kicked it off. "Talk to me? What did you do today?"

He hears Viggo laugh again. "Not much. The usual assaults on the English language..."
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[User Picture]From: _ming
2004-01-21 06:03 am (UTC)
"Yeah?" Orlando asks, and Viggo can tell he's not really paying attention, but that's fine by him. Everything's so terribly fine right now.

"Yeah." Viggo cracks open the window so he won't smell too badly of smoke in the morning. He's got some interviews set up for Friday and he doesn't think he'll feel like showering come sunrise, but he does what he can to uphold some small standard of sanitation. "I spent over two hours on you. I've been trying to write a poem for you, but I can't get it quite right."

"What kind of poem?" Orlando purrs.

"The good kind, of course," Viggo chuckles, rolling the cigarette butt from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue. "But you know me, I had to turn it into some crap kind of misery fest. No fault of yours, don't worry, I had only good things to say about you. Just couldn't write them down."

"Read it to me?"

"No, I don't think so. Not right now, gatito."

Viggo pauses for a bit, thinks about the absolutely nothing he did today. Orlando just wants to hear him speak, doesn't want to listen to anything in particular, and that knowledge starts a spark low in his gut. Each of Orlando's mewled prompts pushes the heat higher till Viggo's stomach, chest, throat, and mouth expands with it. He pushes smoke out of his mouth and just listens to Orlando struggle further out of sleep. Viggo breathes heavily against the receiver, and the air hangs heavy between them, even continents apart.

"Why not?" Orlando demands after a minute, and Viggo can almost taste the greedy confusion.

"I want to give you something good," Viggo answers, and the phrasing's close enough to what he really wants to make Orlando's breath stutter.
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-21 06:30 am (UTC)
Orlando wriggles, rolls over and stuffs a pillow under his hips. Somehow... he did not forsee this, somehow he forgot this, how Viggo, properly motivated, turns his brain to hot buttered porridge.

The fact that Viggo is, apparently, properly motivated is a very good thing indeed, and he doesn't want to dwell on the how or the why just now, just wants to get off on that obscene slithery note in Viggo's voice when he says,

"I want to give you something good."

Sweet fucking Christ. Orli grunts, bites the inside of his cheek. You will not. You. will. NOT.

"Okay," he says after a beat. "Give me what you've got then. It doesn't have to be pretty."
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[User Picture]From: _ming
2004-01-21 06:47 am (UTC)
"Oh. Oh, no," Viggo sighs, a strange something pulsing below his throat, like his heart is trying to beat it's way out of his body and to the boy on the other end of the line. "I think it does have to be pretty, Orlando, if it's going to be about you. It's gotta be nice and pretty for you."

"Yeah?" Orlando says, sound of sheets rustling, being kicked away. "Yeah?" Orlando says again, no pause, maybe just to have a word in his mouth so that panting doesn't seem so pathetic.

When did this become... this? It's fast, too fast. Before last night they hadn't said a friendly word to each other in months, and now Orlando's panting, fucking panting, over the bare mention of poetry.

Well, poetry's not really what they're talking about, but this...

"Yeah, Orlando," Viggo says, trying to keep himself from saying anything more as he leans against the kitchen counter, pressing to relieve the pain of what he's been missing. Yeah, and Orlando must be moving more against the sheets and Viggo shudders, seeing him there, wanting to be there, and finding words for what he wants to say about Orlando is suddenly no longer the problem.

It's keeping quiet.
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-21 07:05 am (UTC)
Shit. Fuck. Bloody. Bollocking. Hell.

Orlando clamps his teeth down on his lower lip, tries to keep it down, tries to keep it inside, keep it together, not fucking come all over the sheets like he's 15 and Angie-of-the-tits-and-arse just touched him for the first time. What the hell is it, what has Viggo got that pushes every last one of his buttons, ratchets his pulse up to redline?

"C'mon," he grinds out, face half buried in the pillows, his left hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist to keep from reaching...

This wasn't supposed to happen like this. This was supposed to be about reclaiming a lost connection, a lost... self, like the little boy in "Puff the Magic Dragon" who goes to find himself, yeah? And he needs his best friend to do it, right? There was no sodding bed humping in that story. There was no shaking and hyperventilating and waiting for the word, just one word...
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[User Picture]From: _ming
2004-01-21 07:20 am (UTC)
"C'mon," Orlando grunts, and Viggo's pretty sure he didn't mean to say that out loud but it makes him press against the counter harder, press until he's nearly doubled over, cradling the phone between his cheek and the cutting board. He keeps his eyes wide open and stares at the sharp grooves criss-crossing the grainy surface with almost Zen stillness.

He is completely aware that Orlando is writhing on a bed all the way in Spain, alone because he was waiting for Viggo to call, writhing because Viggo called. And he absolutely knows that this is not right, this is not adult, or too adult, and they should know better.

Orlando deserves better, no matter how much they might both just want this and more, just a little more, just there...

"Orlando," Viggo grates, making his voice flat as he is pressed against the counter, hard as. Well, hard. "Orlando," he says, but Orlando just moves more.

"Orli. Orlando. Orlando, stop."
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-21 07:34 am (UTC)
All he hears is Orlando Orlando Orli Orlando and he's finished. Viggo, three thousand miles away, saying his name in a way he hasn't heard in three years.

He forgets, momentarily, the following: that he is not supposed to be doing this, that he should know better, that the colour of the inside of his eyelids is not a brilliant blue that's almost white in its intensity, his name, and the date.

When he's done gasping and choking and trembling and making porno noises, when he's done and feeling like a wrung-out dishrag in a really good, really nasty way, he rolls over onto his back and fumbles the phone up to his ear.

Viggo is breathing steadily but heavily, like a marathoner after the first six miles, before it's started to burn. Orlando listens a moment longer, then tries to gather together enough of the remnants of his splattered brain matter to form a complete sentence.

"I don't um... I mean. Um. Should I be sorry? Sorry."
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[User Picture]From: _ming
2004-01-21 09:44 am (UTC)
Viggo promises himself that old and dirty as he is, he is not in fact a dirty old man, and he did not call Orlando with the intention of having laughably non-verbal phone sex on top of a household appliance. He promises himself that he will not come from this, that he has more self control than this, that he is indeed decades past this sort of thing, even as he feels the damnably familiar tense and pull, the fucking twist that spirals down his spine and impacts with the guilty pleasure of a drunken fistfight.

Orlando's been making noises all the while, but Viggo can tell from their distant quality that he must have lost the receiver somewhere among the sheets. Viggo convulses silently, nothing escaping him except the obvious and a few heavy exhalations. As Orlando goes beautifully loud then suddenly quiet, Viggo realizes that at some point he stubbed his cigarette out near his crotch and didn't even notice the pain.

He turns his back to the counter and slides down to the floor, promising for real this time that Henry absolutely will not find him there in the morning.

Orlando groans, soft and sweet, before catching his breath in sudden censure, the same Viggo's been suffering from throughout. "I don't um..." he says, sounding slightly scared. "I mean. Um. Should I be sorry? Sorry."

"No," Viggo hushes him, rubbing his own forehead and leaning against his knees. "No, gatito, don't worry about it, it's nothing. It's okay, shh, it's okay."

Orlando's tiny sobs are tremulous and quick. Viggo makes his voice as calm a lull as he can manage, and soon Orlando is breathing again. Just breathing.

"Listen, Orlando. Call me when you get back tonight. Whatever the time, you just call me, all right? So we can talk about this?"

"All right."

Viggo murmurs a while longer, provides a steady wall of accepting white noise until he's sure Orlando will be able to sleep a bit longer. After he hangs up he shucks his pants and prepares for the first early morning laundry run he's had to make since he was Orlando's age.

He'll probably catch that shower after all, since no amount of open windows or good intentions could possibly clean up this mess.
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-22 05:40 pm (UTC)
We'd love hear what you think, so if you'd like to leave
any feedback, please feel free to reply to this comment. Thanks!!
- beccaming & traveller

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[User Picture]From: treelines
2004-01-22 08:21 pm (UTC)
You two should write screenplays. Novels.


Well, maybe not textbooks. But, God, I feel like I'm peeking in on their lives and this is all so realistic. Awesome job with Viggo's poetry, and I applaud you for not leaving out Kate. I know I'll have something better and more impressive to say later, but I just want to set it on the table that you two are...amazing. Please keep this up; it's so great for the rest of us watching. Thank you so much for sharing!
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[User Picture]From: _ming
2004-01-22 09:04 pm (UTC)
Oh, textbooks. School would be so much more interesting that way, wouldn't it? And so much more worthwhile! *g*

I think Cee's doing a really awesome thing with the Orlando/Kate dynamic. I'm not going to declare myself an expert on the subject, but I've noticed that most Viggorli's pretty much run like this;
"I am angsty, Viggo! Fame is hard to deal with! Too many girls like me!"

"I am an experienced older man, little boy. C'mere."


"Oh, Viggy baby!"

"Oh, Angel!"

"I will love you forever!"

"I will love you forever too! Let's adopt babies, and then you can get addicted to drugs and/or kidnapped/raped!"

"That's so romantic, Vig, omgwtftrulov!"
Hopefully, notyetday will avoid the path other fics of its genre have taken and rise to new levels of h0tass. ;)

Thanks so much for reading and commenting!
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-22 09:10 pm (UTC)

(brought you by Pepsi!)

omfg, Ming, you are such freak. <33333x4evr
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[User Picture]From: lykaios
2004-01-22 11:16 pm (UTC)
you have that formula down to a t.

killing two birds with one stone: the very first viggorli i read, orlando was kidnapped AND raped.
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[User Picture]From: lykaios
2004-01-22 11:17 pm (UTC)
bugger. didn't read your kidnap/rape comment right.
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-22 09:13 pm (UTC)
I've said many times, Becca's fake!Viggopoems are better than real!Viggopoems, and I'm a poet, so there. ;) thanks for reading, we are having a blast and can only hope that everyone else is as well. <3
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[User Picture]From: spillingvelvet
2004-01-23 05:10 am (UTC)

i keep fucking re-reading this!! and it makes me cry everytime!! arg!! *sniff*

can i carry you two around in my pocket? you could come to the grocery store with me, and help me pick out pomegranates, and then we could go to California, capture Orlando's heart with our combined brilliances, and take turns with him each night.


/molly being a fucking weirdo.
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-23 10:18 am (UTC)
yep, Molls, you are a fucking weirdo. but that's okay. <3
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[User Picture]From: spillingvelvet
2004-01-23 01:23 pm (UTC)
just pack me off to the looney bin, is what i say.
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[User Picture]From: slightlytricky
2004-01-23 06:23 pm (UTC)
I have the distinct feeling this story will be the death of me. You two have put amazing voices to these two characters. Becca, your Viggo.. I mean. *speechless* I thought the way you snuck the plane shaped clouds in last time was great, but the tiny touches here, like putting the poem under the plant, and Henry.. omg how much do I love Henry and his relationship with Vigg? Amazing.

And anyone who can bring Puff the Magic dragon into a fic like this and make it work..?

*hump* And I mean that.
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[User Picture]From: _ming
2004-01-23 06:35 pm (UTC)
I swear, you've gotta be the sweetest girl around to say such things! WE WUB U 2!!

*heaves own bosom back at your face*
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[User Picture]From: frisbyg
2004-03-14 07:36 pm (UTC)
I have 'puff the magic dragon' stuck in my head, but it is so beyond entirely worth it. I cannot begin to tell you how much I am enjoying this realm that you two have so artfully created. I feel like I am being some awful sort of voyeur, because I feel like I am hovering just over each character's shoulder when I read. Like I have some sort of secret peep-hole into their lives.

this is simply beyond fantastic.

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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-03-15 06:35 am (UTC)
*blows kisses omg*
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From: alanao
2004-01-22 07:51 pm (UTC)


I heart y'all, and I don't even know you. I'm looking forward to more.
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[User Picture]From: _ming
2004-01-22 09:06 pm (UTC)

Re: swoon

Hey, random hearting is never a bad thing! We're looking forward to providing more for you to <3.
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-22 09:12 pm (UTC)

Re: swoon

thanks! :)
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[User Picture]From: lykaios
2004-01-22 11:08 pm (UTC)

mon dieu.

i agree with deviousli on the kate factor. i'm glad you haven't portrayed her as complete evil, or as the sympathetic beard whose shoulder he cries on when p.r. gets to be too much.

and the dialogue is spot on. that is a stupid thing to say, because how the hell would i really know (like any of us would, for that matter)? but in any case i can really hear them.

sorry, i'm quite awkward when it comes to this, praise, or indeed any social interaction. i just want the both of you to know i've enjoyed looking on immensely. er. keep on trucking?
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-22 11:38 pm (UTC)

Re: mon dieu.

Becca and I agreed that too much R in your RPS is creepy, but not enough is just... dumb. so I decided that I had to deal with Kate above board, you know?

glad you're enjoying it! we aim to pleases, yess. :D
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[User Picture]From: vagabondage
2004-01-23 07:34 am (UTC)
First off, let me say that I am hooked on this story. It's fanfic heroin and I always need another fix.

This particular Viggo and Orli have crept into my brain and I find myself thinking about them while I'm doing chores or driving or what have you.

The writing is top notch, the characters are on the fucking spot, and you blessed women have even written an entirely believable scenario... I'm in heaven.

And I can't wait to see what happens next.

Oh, and did I forget to mention HOT HOT HOT!!! Very sexy, very real, and very, very, creative. Not the same old sex scene, by a long shot.

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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-23 10:32 am (UTC)
you makes us all blushy, you does.

since you KNOW how much i value your opinion and your fb, this is like... pie. it's like pie with ice cream. <3333
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[User Picture]From: vixalicious
2004-01-24 10:35 pm (UTC)
Were it not 1:30 in the morning, I'm sure I could come up with some better feedback than this just rocks, but...

This just rocks!

Particularly loved Everybody's got somebody they're not being fair to.
It sounds like Orlando still wakes up with all the grace of a fat, angry cat.
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[User Picture]From: clever_kitten
2004-01-24 11:09 pm (UTC)
Another beautiful chapter and so so sexy!

I love the way Henry has been blended into this story and how much a part of Viggo is being a father and how effortless it seems to be written in. You are doing an amazing job with this.

The line "He turns his back to the counter and slides down to the floor, promising for real this time that Henry absolutely will not find him there in the morning." has stuck with me, I love it.

I want to just cuddle Orlando. I love how Orlando is being written as a mature person. I especially loved the line "Everybody's got somebody they're not being fair to."

Wonderful, wonderful job with this chapter! Thank you!
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-25 09:47 am (UTC)
my two cents on characterization (hey, YOU brought it up *g*) is that I'm the same age as Orlando, and I know that I have a long way to go, maturity wise, but also that I'm not the same idiot I was when I was 18, 20, 22, even 24. someone who has the enormous responsibilties that Orlando does, and his castmates have spoken of his focus and work ethic... I just can't see him being the flake that so many people write him as.

so it pleases me that that characterisation pleases others.

/meta ;)
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[User Picture]From: sparktastic
2004-01-25 04:01 pm (UTC)
I'm aching.

It's so pretty.

This line

"I think it does have to be pretty, Orlando, if it's going to be about you. It's gotta be nice and pretty for you."

reminded me of My Name is Asher Lev where the child prodigy artist Asher draws what he sees, and his mother asks him why he doesn't make pretty pictures. He replies that he's just drawing what he sees. Later, she is ill, and he comes in saying (paraphrasing) "Look, Mama, I drew pretty flowers and birds for you." and she ignores them, cause really, there is no pretty.

I don't know what my point is.

I just really like this. A lot.
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-25 04:12 pm (UTC)
no, no.

I get it.

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From: 1420
2004-01-28 10:46 pm (UTC)
Ok, if I go to sleep now I think I can catch a shower and four hours of sleep.... wah. why is this so very good?
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