vigorli

Title: untitled terrible blind date fic, though "Incredibly Good Beer Goggles" might work
Author: blurblely
Pairing: Orlando Bloom/the anti-Viggo
Rating: PG-13/light R? one of 'em cops a feel at any rate.
Warning: AU (as if Orlando ever needed a blind date), Humor with a tiny bit o' angst (if you were taking the characters seriously, which you shouldn't).
Summary: This is silly.
Disclaimer: Dunno if this is necessary or not, but it's all fake, no money made, and it's so obviously stupid, I hope no one takes me seriously.
Notes: Hello, I'm a year and a half long lurker in the fandom, and finally decided to post. Name's Kelly. Hope you like it.
Oh and cut text is a lyric from "Thunderball" by Tom Jones. He is the bomb diggety.

He has one nostril too large and smells like someone who has kept one hand down his pants for the greater portion of the day. Or like a meat case, with large hanging slabs of beef, where an inept employee accidentally shut the power off overnight. He is large, hairy, not quite a beast per se, but the closest thing to it without going over, thank you very much Bob Barker. He has hands like t-bones and even worse they cling to you with perspiration, grasping your shoulder, inquiring “How are you, sweetie?” Not that he really wants to know, but you think it’s fair since it’s not like you wanted him to ever touch you anyway. So you let him and it all balances out with a “Fine, cheers.”

He’s been making lewd faces at your tits for the greater portion of the dinner, which is hilarious since you’re a guy and you don’t have any, but the sheen on his eyes, and the row of empty glasses on the table indicate that he might not have noticed that yet. You wonder why your friends neglected to tell him that you’re a man and more importantly, why in the HELL they thought this dude would be your type. Still he seems turned on and for the life of you, you can’t quite make yourself slough him off just yet. He’s too much of a trainwreck in full panoramic view for you to turn away. You’re waiting for the moment he goes too far, so you can pour something wet on his general genital area, making an exit befitting a proper queen. But he hasn’t, and tit-staring notwithstanding, he has essentially been a gentleman, considering the atmosphere. So you resign yourself to at least waiting until he embarrasses himself, can’t wait to reveal that you’re a bloke, just dying to see his reaction.

And you realize you’re not the manliest of men, but seriously, this is getting ridiculous. He’s graduated to petting your hand and whispering sweaty hetero promiscuity into your ear. You’re still not quite sure why you let him get that close but maybe it’s the fact that now, after innumerable amounts of alcohol, he looks exactly like Viggo Mortensen. He’s rubbing your leg now, stroking, and lord, you’d think the tent you’ve got going on might clue him in, but still he seems oblivious, or perhaps just uncaring. Which is good because you’re about to die if he doesn’t touch you soon. Writing poetry on your earlobe with his teeth, he asks if you mind if he sticks his hand up your skirt. Gah, beautiful and considerate. Do they make men any hotter than this? As his palm makes the slow slide up your thigh you think that heaven crashed down and landed face first on your crotch, that is until his hand stops, his eyes go wide, and looks as though he might vomit.

Suddenly his reaction to your manhood feels more like a tragedy than a comedy.

He backs up, stuttering “I can’t...I don’t...um”

Eyes and pride stinging, you let him know it’s okay, that you can take rejection and this in no way makes him a dreaded homo. He can go back home, to sleep on his giant pillow and dream of cheap big-breasted women with no regrets. You watch as he hastily collects his things, leaves more than enough cash for the check, but none of it leaves you more befuddled than the fact that you’re actually sad he is leaving.