Viggo takes his shirt off and bunches it into a pillow beneath his head. He lights a cigarette and leans back, lets out a long breath and loosens his jeans.
It's eight o'clock on a Sunday evening. Probably not the best time to be lying mostly naked in his backyard, but the fences are high and the kid is away and the night is quiet, settling into its soft routine. He can hear horns blaring from the crawling highways, he can feel grass bending beneath his body, he can feel wind slipping across his skin. He is sunk deep into the sweetest bed nature ever made, sunk deep into thoughts of a sweet lay.
Sweet and dirty, yeah, definitely dirty, but the night is so new, so humid and heavy and clean. It doesn't feel like Viggo's out in the open at all, more like he's under a heavy comforter, yeah, nice and white, and maybe he's under there with a pair of long strong legs and deep brown arms and ridged rise of chest and smooth sweep of neck and that spot, yeah, that one right there, that place where Orlando's ribs fade into gracious waist and thin, trim hips. Viggo used to slide his hands beneath that back and rest, press till there was no lack between them, yeah, till Orlando was there just under him, face and arms and legs there, open just for him.
Viggo pushes his jeans aside and eases inside his boxers. Orlando had said Yeah, I want it, I do if you do, and Viggo presses so hard, yes goddammit, sí mí gatito, tan doloroso, tan perfecto, so hard that he can't feel anything for a moment, so hard that he can't see stars.
Viggo's cigarette is still lit, the cherry flare visible between brittle blades of brown and greenish grass. He should water the lawn more. Fuck, he waters the indoor plants all the time, why not the lawn? It's been a dry season full of red skies and no rain, grey clouds and empty days. He should crush that light before the clean air catches fire, but from the corner of his eye the small flame almost looks like that old familiar spark, so Viggo lets it burn just out of sight, and never really looks away.
He never really looks away.
So, a good plan would be to stop cunting about andmake the bloody call. A good plan would be to stop smoking and eating oranges in bed, a good plan would be to focus and get the agony over with, a good plan would be to just pick up the phone, it's going nine in California, that's right, mate, pick it up...
Quite of its own volition, Orlando's finger dials 7 again. Bloody-minded finger. Doesn't know what's good for it.
"Diego! Yeah, again. Listen, I'm still starv- yeah, the fruit was great. From your cousin's farm, no joke? Brilliant. Tell him I said so. Listen, Diego, eggs. Heh... hayvos? Riiiight, huevos, yeah, I am catching on, innit? An omelette sounds fanbloodytastic, mate. Put like six eggs in it. Whatever, throw everything in it. Sí, the kitchen sink, haha. Hey, that reminds me, Diego, what the hell does gatito mean?"
There is a sudden gap in the chatter on the other end of the line, and Orlando's stomach tightens up. He and Diego shout amiably at each other practically every night, never understanding much more than half of what the other says, but not once has Diego ever been silent. What the hell has Viggo been calling him?
"Lo siento, Señor Bloom, I do not understand. Where you hear this word?"
"Um." Bollocks. "Um, from a friend? My friend, it's what he calls me sometimes."
"What you say, a nickname, sí?"
"Sí." He strains to hear, over the background noise of clanging pots and pans. Somewhere in the kitchen a food processor whirs to life. It sounds like Diego is... snickering?
"Ehh, Señor Bloom, gatito is a... baby cat. Little cat. What you say, keetain?"
He almost drops the phone. Kitten? Motherfucking bloody kitten? What is he on about, fucking kitten? Orli turns, catches sight of himself in the mirror, his hair standing frizzily on end.
Yeah. Motherfucking bloody kitten. He sighs, puts the phone back up to his ear.
"Well, okay, gracias, that explains... a lot. 'Kay, um, Diego? Those huevos... Yeah, that'd be great. Toast is great. Lots of butter. Talk to you soon."
He punches Viggo's numbers, flaming embarassment wrestling with overwhelming affection. Fucking kitten. Unbelievable.
It rings six, seven, ah-ha. There is a clunk and a smashing noise. "Hello?" Viggo says breathlessly.
"MEOW." So there. Orli waits.
"MEOW, you prick."
Viggo bursts out laughing.
Viggo is still lying down outside when the phone starts to ring, several cigarettes smoldering on the ground around his head and an uncomfortable mess in his lap. His jeans are twisted around his knees but he leaps to his feet and takes three great bounds toward the kitchen before falling face first through the open door and into the edge of the counter. He knocks the ringing phone with his elbow. It skids and falls, crashes to the floor with jarring force, breaks apart into its original preassembled components. The pastel green turtle shell casing cracks, the archaic metal and wire guts spill, post modern carnage.
Amazingly, the beast continues ringing. "Fuck!" Viggo breathes. He knows it's Orlando, otherwise he would've just let the answering machine pick up. This phone call means a lot, the phone's physical integrity has been sacrificed for this call. It is imperative that Viggo takes this call. Fuck fuck fuck he thinks as he grabs the receiver, holding the phone together with his hands and smooshing the various bits into each other in an impotent attempt at makeshift science. "Hello?"
An angry cat noise erupts across the connection. Viggo stares balefully at the buzzing bits of machinery between his fingers and longs for a Twilight Zone rerun instead of the live taping he is apparently suffering through. "I'm sorry?"
"MEOW, you prick," and suddenly it all comes clear.
"Gatito!" Viggo greets, collapsing back onto the ground, careful to keep his arms steady so that the phone doesn't fall apart. He looks down at himself; he is completely naked now, his pants hanging on by two toes. His dick is a baleful, limp weight against his sticky stomach. His elbows are skinned, white and raw but not bleeding yet. And his ass is unspeakably, unbearably, intolerably cold. "Um, mind if I call you back?"
"Uh, pardon?" Orlando asks, obviously confused.
"I've just had a. There's this little. Listen, I'm just gonna call you back in a few seconds from the upstairs phone, alright? My house is trying to eat me alive."
Diego sends his headwaiter Paolo up with a massive bacon and cream cheese omelette and a mountain of extra-buttery wheat toast; Orlando didn't ask for it but there is also a carafe of black coffee and he blesses Diego's foresight, sends Paolo back down to the kitchen clutching wads of Euros. Yeah, more like it, fuck fruit and dry white toast, he's supposed have a few more kilos on him for this part anyway. Indulgence is not so wrong.
He strips down to his shorts and pulls the cart over within reach, climbs into bed and sits tailor fashion, plate on one knee, his pile of pillows under his faintly aching back. It's been almost ten minutes since Viggo said he'd call back, what the fuck was the man doing?
Of course his mouth is full when the phone finally does ring, and he snatches it up before he's even finished chewing. "Fuffugh?"
Orlando swallows with effort, and chases the sticky wad of bread and egg with a mouthful of coffee. "Veeeeeeego," he articulates. "What on earth have you got up to? I was starting to worry."
"Ah. Well. Er. Nothing. Much."
It's simply not possible, because Viggo does not get embarrassed, but he sounds positively mauve. Orlando mentally adds up the breathless crashing 'can-I-call-you-back' with this stammering evading business and... Two plus two, mate. Ah-hah.
"OoohOOOH," Orli hoots. "You've been naughty, haven't you? Oh, you pervy old wanker."
"I don't have to put up with this," Viggo threatens, but he doesn't sound serious. "I can hang up."
"But you won't," Orlando teases happily. "I'll purrrrr for you if you don't."
Viggo strives for amused detachment. "You will, will you?" he chuckles, but the prospect of hearing Orlando recreate anything even vaguely similar to their unwitting phone sex antics of a couple nights ago makes his voice drop hard and fast as a falling piano or an unlucky telephone. Viggo's in danger of straying into sex kitten territory himself, at this rate. "You want me to stick around that bad, huh?"
There. Good. Viggo sounded suitably manly just then. He still feels embarrassingly fluffy, though, like a lovesick puppy dog with a phlegmatic growl.
Orlando doesn't seem to mind. He huffs out a laugh, hums around a hefty hunk of food, and then - fuck alive - purrrrrs. It's a rumble from high in his throat, a constant current of pleased consonants. Viggo goes stupid-eyed and slack-jawed, an admittedly unflattering and Pavlovian response.
Fluffy puppy, indeed.
He blinks back to the present several seconds later to find his hands nearly down his pants again. Dammit, no. He's done enough cleaning up today! He's supposed to be nearing the golden age of Lavitra and Viagra and other Valhalla-sounding paradises of erectile restraint. What's with him? What's in the water? What is it about Orlando that makes him want to jack off or rut at the slightest hint of an opportunity?
Viggo tumbles into his sheets, alone but suddenly inordinately grateful that circumstances forced him to take this call upstairs. "Muy caliente, mí sexy kitty," Viggo coos in a goofy voice, partly out of teasing whim and mostly out of raw horniness. Then, just for kicks, "WOOF!"
He barks until Orlando's laughing too hard to purr anymore, then howls like a cartoon wolf and pants. Anything to get Orlando thinking sexy thoughts again.
Henry would be so ashamed by the sordid depths of his dad's utter fifteen-ness.
Viggo turns on a dime from silly to sexy, starts breathing hard in his ear and Orlando's cock takes notice. Fuck fucking hell... If Viggo is getting to him this bad from the other side of the world, Orli can't imagine what it will be like to be in the same room with him again, oh sodding hell, in the same bed with him again...
He slurps his coffee noisily to cover up the sound that's trying to escape from his throat, less a purr and more a needy whine. He's not bloody well fifteen, he can control himself better than this.
He sucks in a breath and lets it out again slowly. "So, you like that, yeah? Mmrrrr?" Viggo makes a soft, guttural sound in reply and Orlando decides abruptly that self-control is for priests and pussies. Fuck it, he wants this, wants to grab hold of it with both hands and swallow it whole. "You like that, wanna make me purr again, huh?"
Viggo growls - fucking growls. Orlando's hand shakes, and he puts his coffee back on the cart, gives it a push away from the bed.
"C'mon, Viggo..." he coaxes. "I'll be back at the end of February, you know, that's five and a half weeks, that's not that long, so you better clear your schedule, mate."
"Don't start something you're not prepared to finish, gatito," Viggo whispers, something sharp and shiny in his voice. The sound sings through Orlando's veins, quicksilver heat that burns away everything except the voice on the other end of the phone, Orlando's hand how did that get there? on his cock.
"I'll finish if you finish," Orli rasps. I will if you will. I want if you want. I'm in this with you to the end. "Come on, come with me."
"Alright, Orlando," Viggo grunts, turning onto his stomach and hitching his hips over a wayward pillow. The cover is soft and thin, translucent with too many washes. The thread rubs a rough undertone of friction along the inside of his thighs. He thinks of Orlando's neck and wraps one hand around his cock. "You want that? If that's what you want, we'll finish this."
Viggo twists the phone cord around his wrist and leans into the receiver, cradles it tenderly against his shoulder. He hears a distressed sigh, and Viggo knows from experience that the pained noises follow every other upsweep on Orlando's cock. "Don't worry, gatito," he croons and thrusts harder. "Don't you worry, we'll come."
"I'll give you what you want," Viggo says, "in return for all the purrs." I'll give you what I want, you'll want what I want. "You'll come when I come, kitten."
Orlando gasps, but Viggo can't tell if he's shifting on the sheets or not. He's moving too much himself to pick up faraway background noises. Doesn't matter though, all he cares about are Orlando's choked mewls and aborted gasps, all those small animal sounds that belong to him. Yeah, that trip in Orlando's breath, that's Viggo's. That almost moan, that's his.
"What do you want right now?" he asks. Orlando doesn't answer, just breathes harder, and okay, yes, now Viggo can hear the sheets. He can hear Orlando thrash, can see him spread out so beautiful on his back, can taste his dark skin. "Hmm, gatito? You want my hand on your cock?"
"No," Orlando groans, bright red.
"No?" Viggo says, pushes the words past his teeth with his tongue, wanting other lips there, wanting to breathe other air. "Not on your cock? Where do you want me, hmm?"
No words, just bright red.
"Tell me," Viggo demands. He hears Orlando kick the mattress and change position. "What do you want?"
"I want you all over!" Orlando bites out. "I want you around my cock, definitely. I want you bloody balls deep in my arse. Fuckin' c'mon, Viggo, fuckin' fuck me."
"It's all yours, gatito." Viggo flips onto his back and squeezes tight one last time before running his hand down the sides of his own hips, feeling the phantom weight of Orlando's legs there, wanting them around him. "It's all yours," Viggo says, shuts his eyes and sees Orlando curled over him, giving way to him. "Come on, you want my cock? Take it. Fuck me, kitten."
"Yeahyeahyeahfuckyeah," Orlando chants, rocking up hard against his palm, too incoherent to do more than just squeeze in time to the unconscious, automatic motion of his hips. He doesn't remember kicking away his boxers, or jamming the phone into the crook of his neck so he had both hands free.
"Take it," Viggo repeats almost angrily, "fucking take it," and Orli can tell from the snarl in his voice that he's close, really goddamn close. He moans, loudly, helplessly; his left hand has found its way under his balls, two fingers pressing up up in.
"Take whatever you got," Orli pants squeeze press squeeze press up down in up down in and later it will occur to him to be faintly embarrassed by the words spilling out of him, but right now he just babbles: "fucking fuck my arse, fuck me, feel me all around you, tight for you, Viggo, fuck, come for me, c'mon, now now now..."
He knows the sound like he knows his own name, the muffled choking sound that Viggo makes when he's coming hard, like he's covering his own mouth or burying his face in the pillows, sucking in breath desperately and shaking from head to toe. Orlando twists one wrist, flicks the other and then he's moaning the roof down, going from babble to Babel, fucking speaking in tongues, mate, and he doesn't bother to try to keep it in, he gives it all to Viggo who absorbs his noises, translates them into his own language.
When at last he opens his eyes the sunrise has turned from pink to bloody. Sailor take warning. The rain in Spain... Orlando finally finds his breath, finds one of the linen roomservice napkins and wipes his hands, his belly.
"Hey," he whispers into the phone.
"Hey," Viggo whispers back.
It's long after they've hung up, when he is drifting on the edge of contented sleep, that he realises he never called Kate. He wonders if she's wondering.
END PART FOUR
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!!
- traveller and beccaming
that was SO good. so very very hot. i loved it.
and orlando is definately a kitten
i read this again. am such a fangirl!!
First of all: Come back and complain when you've done this for 87 nights in the rain wearing suede trousers while enormous Maori warriors charge at your head with swords. You fucking amateurs.
AAAHAHAHAHAA!!! Yes!! Everytime I hear an actor bitch about the long hours now, I always think of Orli and Vigg and the rest of them in that hell for 80+ days.
♥ viggo's fifteen-ness.
my icon thinks your icon is quite shaggable.
and thank-you! you're our number one fangirl!! I have to get my digs in at the overprivleiged hollywood assholes somehow, so... glad you liked. <3
(and isn't becca teh hotass? she's the best)
and isn't becca teh hotass? she's the best
Flatterer. I contribute nothing to this series but ANGST. <3
Thank you, Miss Trick (that's kinda catchy, i'n't it?). As Cee says, ur r #1 phan + we liek u lots!!1
*wears #1 phan t-shirt* *buys pom poms*
"YOU KILLED MY MISERY!!"
*spins you both around* omg... at one point a while back, I thought I'd scared becca with my fangirlishness. Cuz i'm a harlot. *nod* But I'm loving this series you two are doing. Just loving it!
I love all of this. I love this Viggo and I love this Orlando.
And this part was hot and (guh) beautiful and I read with eagerness.
Am incoherant. *goes to read more*
(damn, you guys rock)
Glad teh hott worked for you, dear! *g*
I am so enjoying this, thank you, it's hotter than hell and I'm getting all squirmy just reading it. And I'm generally bored by VigOrli, but not this!
i am such a schnook who did not get back to you - thanks for commenting! we're trying to wrap up the next thread in the next couple of days so keep checkig back. :)