vigorli

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Title: Ever Changing Destinations © 2006 by Myr Juhl & Bee
Part: 4/6
Fandom: Viggo/Orlando;
Type: RPS, AU, Crossover-ish, Historic
Rating: PG-13
Cast: Orlando (Ranuccio) / Viggo (Caraviggio)

*** WARNINGS *** This series is rated NC-17 and contains for this chapter: * Male slash * Language *

Disclaimer: The events never happened. This fic is for entertainment purposes only, not profit. We, the authors, make no claim through this work as to the fictional characters/ actual lives/ preferences/ activities of the people mentioned herein.
Summary: This story is a rich gallery of historic people in the shape of Orlando and Viggo as they find each other every time Orlando steps inside an old painting in his mother’s attic and go back in time.

Beta:

inwe_salonde Thanks so much darling. *hugs*
Timeline: Main line is 2005. The rest obvious is various times in history.
/.../ Indicates thoughts.
Archive: http://www.livejournal.com/users/piximyr/
Archive requests please contact the author.

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Ever Changing Destinations Part 4

By Bee & Myr

Viggo was furious with frustration; not only had he missed his flight because of the traffic, he had just been informed that, yes, of course there were other flights to England, but none had a seat. He could be placed on stand-by, and wait, or if Sir would like he could book a seat on the next available plane, four days out.

Something was bothering the older man; there was an unease that would not dissipate, no matter how he tried. He was concerned for Orlando, and would not rest until he saw for himself.

So, Viggo did both, booking a seat on the plane four days out, and put his name on stand-by.

Moving to a relatively quiet area, the blue eyes gazed at the digital display on his cell phone, debating with himself.

Apprehension won out, and he pressed the send button, calling Orlando once more.

The ring tones continued until the younger actor’s voice mail message picked up.

Sighing in resignation, Viggo left a short message about missing his flight, and would Orlando please call him back. Snapping the flip lid shut, he jammed it into his breast pocket and moved back into the steady flow of pedestrians, each intent on their own purpose.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” An older man walking next to him gave him the once over and moved away.

Orlando was feeling tired when he awoke in the middle of the day within the loft. He shuddered and wondered what day it was really. It felt so long ago since he was back in reality. He went downstairs on wobbly legs and found his mother sitting at the kitchen table. Her raised eyebrows made him look down and he realised why she was close to giggling. He was still wearing the middle age costume.

“Would you believe me if I told you I found it in the attic?”

Sonia smiled and shrugged. “Not really, Orlando, but if you say so.”

He came and sat next to her, putting an arm around her and kissing her cheek.

“You’re such a tease, luv’,” she said.

“Am I?” Orlando asked.

“You’re wonderful.”

Orlando smiled and kissed her cheek again, and then he went to change. He would soon run out of street clothes so he went to the second hand store he had always loved to purchase a variety of clothes. He had a feeling he would need them shortly.

His blue eyes watched the combatants closely, not to see who would win, but to admire the fluidity of muscle, the grace of movement, and the overall appeal of the human form.

Caraviggio was looking for a new model, not the usual heavily muscled forms others were using, but a more slender, svelte body.

Circling the other spectators, the Italian artist came to an abrupt halt. There, on the opposite side of the ring, stood a beautiful man with soft brown hair, wild curls framing an angular face of perfect symmetry. Lush intoxicating eyes of dark mahogany stared fixedly back at him, almost beckoning in their intensity.

Moving through the throng of gawkers, Caraviggio stopped next to the tall brunette. Never one to mince words or waste time on social niceties, he introduced himself.

“I am Caraviggio. What is your name sir, and by chance, are you looking for employ?”

Orlando panted slightly from the fight he had just won, and undid the wrappings protecting his fists. They still hurt like a bitch, but having found Viggo again so soon was worth the pain. He then knew who he was. He remembered Beanie’s character from Caravaggio and found it intriguing to be in the middle of the events with Viggo as the charismatic painter.

He took his hand and, with seductive sparkling eyes, he answered, “Then I guess I’m your Ranuccio. And I take any job.”

Caraviggio nodded and their eyes locked for a few seconds.

Orlando already knew what portrait Caraviggio would choose for him to pose first, the one with the sword and loincloth. He hoped his back could take the strenuous pose.

Once Orlando arrived at Caraviggio’s studio, the artist wasted no time and asked him to strip naked. Orlando hesitated a few seconds. It was rather blunt and the painter stared at him. Slowly, he kicked off his shoes, then he pulled the string keeping his baggy pants together, and after they pooled around his ankles, the undershirt went over his head. Naked.

Caraviggio said nothing, just stared at his body. Orlando licked his lips nervously all of a sudden.

“I... have a back injury...” he suddenly confessed.

“I know... I can tell from your posture,” Caraviggio said, but still his scrutinizing blue eyes ran over his body.

“Turn around.”

Orlando turned around and he knew the master would see his scar. He didn’t mind, but the man might wonder how he had survived this had it happened in this realm, but the master didn’t say a word. He just arranged the loincloth around his body and began arranging him in the position he wanted to paint him.

Caraviggio moved to his canvas, his mind already on the details of his next creation. Deftly outlining his intentions on the blank surface, Michele Caraviggio’s eyes darted between subject and medium, frowning at the result. Stepping back, the artist shook his head and moved to the still form.

Lightly twitching and adjusting the covering, Michele rearranged arms, head angle, and then torso, his hands lightly skimming the warm flesh.

“Jerusaleme, come here, I have need of you!”

Striding to the easel, the older man, his blond hair impatiently swept from his forehead, began to speak to his model.

“You have a beautiful body, sweeping lines, long, well formed limbs.” Blue eyes once more travelled from dark curls to slender feet, pausing at the hip and then continuing on. “All of you is beautiful, as if created for perfection. Tell me of yourself, young Ranuccio, what aspirations do you seek?”

Orlando looked at him a few seconds and then turned his gaze to where Viggo wanted it.

“I basically want to be here. I like this studio. I love the smells and ...” Suddenly his words were interrupted when the first famous coin slid across his lips.

Keeping their eyes locked, Michele let the butt of the brush travel from his model’s shoulder, across the soft skin covering the fragile clavicle bones. His eyes dropped to pay attention that the pointy stick slid exactly across the model’s erect brown nipple. He heard a soft gasp of surprise and allowed himself to look up into Ranuccio’s eyes and saw the passion there.

Humbled somehow, Michele knew he wouldn’t have to pay this model as much as he usually did the others. This boy had natural passion. The painter carefully returned to his position and saw the boy was busy looking at him rather than at his commanded fix point.

“Concentrate, Ranuccio,” Caraviggio said.

It was hard and Orlando needed to swallow saliva. He let go of the large coin, which fell to the floor. The sound was loud in the studio but nobody reacted to it. Orlando had to close his eyes a few seconds before he returned to stare at his fix point. He was so turned on he was breathing shallowly.

Michele closed his eyes, secure in the knowledge that Ranuccio could not see him behind the large canvas. Raising his lids, he stared at the white stretch of material in front of him, noticing how his hand shook.

Leaning to his right, he peered around the wooden frame, studying the younger man. The world faded, light and darkness became one and before ceasing to exist. Air, sun, days and nights, nothing but the man standing before him was real.

Dropping the brush and ignoring the splattering paint, the older man walked towards Ranuccio, compelled beyond his own understanding.

Fingering the dark fringe on the high forehead, Caraviggio stepped onto the pedestal and carefully drew the lithe form against his, cautious of the sword Ranuccio still held. One hand gently tipped the chin up, his fingers ghosting over slightly parted lips of sculpted flesh. Gently inserting his thumb, Caraviggio grazed the wet tip of Ranuccio’s tongue, and then slowly slid out.

Coming back to his senses, the artist moved from the platform and retreated behind the safety of his canvas and easel once more.

Orlando hadn’t dared breathe, and he slowly let out air. His eyes darted towards the canvas, but he couldn’t see the artist hiding from his gaze.

Concentrating, he did his best to keep the pose, but it became harder as he kept feeling Michele’s finger on the tip of his tongue.

Twenty minutes passed, and the pose became strenuous.

“Can I take a rest or I won’t be able to come back tomorrow...” Orlando said.

“I paid you for four days, Ranuccio,” the painter said.

Orlando smiled, “Sure, but you can’t dictate a broken back.”

Michele’s head peered from the edge of the painting.

“Broken? How?”

Orlando straightened and turned his back to the artist who looked intrigued at the red scar outlining the young man’s spine.

Still holding his brush in his hand, he suddenly began painting Orlando’s spine from the pointy part on the back of his neck and all the way down.

Orlando closed his eyes, feeling how the cool paint wetted his back right to the first folds of the cloth draped around his hips.

With his other hand, Caraviggio pulled down the cloth to reveal the cleft parting round buttocks. He continued to apply paint until he reached the narrow cleft. A little smile appeared on his when he saw how goose bumps immediately spread over the smooth skin.

“Will you paint me?” Orlando asked breathlessly, and they both knew he didn’t mean the canvas.

Caraviggio dropped his hand holding the brush and stepped back, knowing he could not continue.

Moving away from the stunned younger man, the painter moved to the clay pot of water and cleansed his brush, trying to calm his beating heart.

He’d done this before, become attracted to his subject, allowed them into his heart and body, only to have them leave once the attraction faded. He could not allow it this time.

“You may take a short break. On the table is bread and sweet wine; you are free to avail yourself of it. I will be back in a few moments.”

Tossing the brush haphazardly on the workstation, Michele stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

Hasty steps brought him to the small walled in garden, quiet from the everyday rush of people, secluded and restful; this was the artist’s sanctuary.

Sitting on the stone bench, he loosened the ties on his pants, and moved to cup his throbbing erection, palming the heated length.

Biting his lip, he began to stroke himself, seeking release and relief.

Inside, Orlando took some wine. It was sweet indeed. He took some more and soon he felt the effect. He had drunk too much.

Grinning, he broke the bread and began eating. He stopped, feeling eyes on him. Looking up, he saw Jerusaleme sitting and grinning at him. Michele’s handsome helper was busy grinding powder to make more flesh coloured paint for his master. Orlando smiled and went to him.

“Hi,” he said, but got no answer of course.

In silence, he watched the apprentice produce paint until they were interrupted by the return of the artist.

“Back to work,” the man said.

Quickly, Orlando returned to the pose and Caraviggio prodded and arranged his costume.

Orlando stared at him. His hands smelled musky and... The young actor’s eyebrows rose a fraction. The artist had just wanked.

Michele looked up to find his object’s amused eyes rest on his face.

Gruffly he asked, “What are you looking at?”

“You,” Orlando said. “I disturb your little world, don’t I?” he asked.

“Please,” the painted snorted. “You have high hopes of your own appeal, haven’t you?”

Orlando smiled and shook his head. “Whatever...”

“Whatever...” the painter repeated and was finally satisfied with his model. Orlando noticed his drapery were lower than before, and a smile constantly threatened to ruin the neutral face the painter required.

Stroke. Stroke. Gaze. Stroke. Gaze. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Gaze. Stroke... Groan.

On and on Michele worked, trying to concentrate on his canvas, on the OBJECT, not the person, not the long, willowy torso. Not concentrate on the length of exposed honey toned limbs, the subtle curve of back, whittling down to the slender hips just above the gentle swell of buttocks...

Shaking his head, thick blond hair wildly arcing in a glistening halo, Michele closed his eyes and breathed in and out several times.

Lightly gliding the sable bristles over the semi-nude form on the canvas, the older Italian pursed his lips...something was missing; the painting did not feel alive.

Striding to the posing man, Michele gripped his shoulders, measuring the breadth of his upper body.

Without looking into the deep brown eyes staring at him intently, curiously, Caraviggio made to return to the easel.

His model’s hand on his arm stopped Michele.

“You wish something Ranuccio?”

Orlando stared at his own hand resting on the strong arm attached to the painter’s upper body. Slowly he lifted his eyes and they met such longing in the other man’s gaze that Orlando gasped.

“Oh Viggo, it’s been so long. Even a day seems like an eternity.” Orlando knew Michele Caraviggio wouldn’t know what he spoke of, but he’d get the physical part of it.

Dropping the sword to the floor, he put his other hand on the painter’s cheek.

“Ranuccio...” the painter seemed insecure all of a sudden, and Orlando just smiled, stepping closer.

He slid his hands up the artist’s strong arms and marvelled at the wonderful aroused expression in his eyes.

“Jerusaleme. Go to bed,” Michele commanded his helper who had stopped grinding paint.

Orlando didn’t wait for Jerusaleme to leave but crossed his arms behind Caraviggio’s neck. As soon as their lips touched, Orlando pressed harder and sucked in the full lower lip. The man tasted wonderful. With an excited smile, the actor liked the plump mouth and finally, he gained a response when he heard a deep moan escape the man’s throat.

Orlando tried to figure out where they could act out their desire, but there was nowhere they’d be comfortable.

“Outside. In the garden,” Michele panted.

Not waiting to see if his soon to be lover would follow and with his earlier convictions forgotten, Caraviggio made purposeful strides towards the same bench from before.

The older man could hear the soft footfalls behind him as Ranuccio followed, his breath a rasping reminder of what was to come.

Closing his blue eyes to the twilight sky, he tipped his head back, allowing his hair to brush his shoulders in a gentle sway as the night breeze wove a pattern through the strands.

Suddenly there was the warm pressure of hands gripping his hips, drawing him back against a firm chest, fingers lightly rubbing over his lower belly.

Twining his fingers with the younger man’s, Michele gently pulled his lover’s arm forward to tenderly cup his throbbing erection.

“I have beauty in my hands; show me the beauty in yours, the beauty of your body joining with mine.”

All these opportunities to have Viggo every which way he could was showing a pattern. Orlando understood he could learn from this and hopefully one day, he’d be brave enough to go to Viggo and admit to the man how he felt.

“Michele,” he said, watching the man turn to him, and in that moment, still in his arms, he caught his full red lips. “I can say everything I want to you, and not regret a word. /Because in the morning, you’ll probably be gone and only I heard them./

“Yes,” the artist moaned against the eager lips. He was consumed by passion and followed the young model down on the soft grass as his hands were pulled.

Kneeling in front of each other, they quickly began undressing. Orlando couldn’t take his eyes off the artist’s incredible body. His skin tone was amazing, bronzed by the sunlight, smooth and covered in blond hairs all over. Orlando knew this was Viggo’s body. He couldn’t wait to see those buttocks. He loved Viggo’s arse. Had loved it from the first time he saw it in the trailer. Just hadn’t been aware of how it had excited him back in New Zealand.

“Turn around,” he commanded breathlessly and, as soon as the painter had done so, Orlando pressed his palms against a butt each and he groaned, kneading the firm flesh.

“Fuck - does it come more sexier than this?” he asked, feeling his cock rise to lie against Michele’s legs, trapped between the man’s thighs.

The heady sensation of allowing another control was something Michele had never experienced before, that he was willing to allow another to have power over his actions, his pleasure, and it was causing excited shivers to ripple along his back.

The heated pressure of Ranuccio’s cock nestling against his heavy balls and pulsating dick ripped a moan of desire from him, rumbling from low in his chest to erupt into the sultry air.

Resting his upper body weight on one arm, Caraviggio twisted and reached between his legs to graze his fingernail along the vein on the underside of his lover’s rod. Stopping when he reached the leaking tip, the blue eyes narrowing to slits of concentration, he swirled his thumb over the wet tip.

Flexing his heavy thighs, squeezing the model’s trapped member, the artist shifted his hips back, rubbing against the captured flesh.

“I have not often worked with marble of this quality. My lover, show me its uses.” Caraviggio’s voice, deep and husky with lust, reverberated along his spine, tickling his over sensitive skin.

"Marble?" Orlando smiled, turning the other man to face him. He leaned in to trace his nose along Michele's jaw line. Inhaling deeply the scent from the man's skin, the younger man thrust slowly inside Michele's hand that quickly folded like a sheath. They locked eyes and Orlando grinned, feeling strong and erotic.

“Sex with you is a revelation. I love having sex with you, Michele.”

The artist smiled at the adorable face, eyes dark with passion. “You talk as if we’ve shared our bodies before. I’m sure I would have remembered you.” He squeezed harder.

Orlando bit his lower lip. “Yeah - squeeze me.” He closed his eyes and thrust harder.

Michele let go and pulled the model towards him. “I want you.” Spitting in his right hand, he reached behind the writhing and shivering young thing that seemed so eager to please him. When the first digit slid inside the hot opening, the writhing stopped with an audible gasp.

Their locked eyes spoke their own language. Michele wasn’t sure what he read in the brown eyes, but shortly after when they closed he knew this was going to be fantastic.

Gently pulling his fingers apart, savouring the tight resistance, the artist rested his head on Ranuccio’s shoulder, enjoying the light rolling of the younger man’s hips. Pressing his mouth to the salty flesh, Caraviggio licked a wet trail up to the model’s ear lobe, flicking his tongue over the dangling bit of skin. Breathing heavily into the whorl, his artist-rough hand palmed the firm muscles of the chest against his.

Caraviggio carefully pulled and pushed his thick digits between the supple cheeks of the olive toned man’s ass, turning and twisting, opening him further. Inserting a third finger, he separated them, stretching Ranuccio.

Plunging deep into Ranuccio’s body, Caraviggio created a rhythm that sent the young model into a delicious frenzy of pleasure. Rubbing the sensitive inside of his tight channel, he made the brown-haired man follow his moves and it was no trouble pressing him to lie on his back.

He pressed his lover’s knees towards his chest and they stayed there willingly. Smiling, Caraviggio pulled out of the young man and his hand went to encircle his hard cock to insert himself into the small aperture already open and willing, clenching in eager excitement.

“Please...” he heard the young man gasp in need.

“Yes,” he answered.

Easing past the guardian ring protecting Ranuccio’s nether port, the blue-eyed artist bit his lip to muffle his passion. Once his throbbing cock-head was firmly seated, Caraviggio stopped, short gasping breaths puckering the outer edges of his full lips as he exhaled.

Reaching under the younger man’s buttocks, he grasped the rounded flesh and pulled them apart, whimpering as the subtle movement caused his cock to shift in the tight hole. Soon, there were no hesitations.

Orlando held on to the strong man in his arms, for there were no tender considerations now. The fast thrusts sent shivers of shock up and down his spine. His eyes couldn’t stay open and he gritted his teeth as he was thoroughly and efficiently fucked.

Short gasps for breath escaped his mouth with each vicious whip of the man’s hips and it felt as if Michele was drilling into his arse.

It felt sensational and the pleasure coursing his body persistent, as if the artist was determined to finally fuck him thorough the mattress - he believed the term was...

The sweet reward of a massive climax winked at him ahead, building up, surrounding the both of them as they travelled to the zone of no turning back.

Caraviggio could hear the whimpering mewls of passion from his lover, the clawing, raking of his hands as he sought purchase in the flesh of his back, and revelled in each sensation.

Slamming his hips forward, he buried his throbbing erection deeply in the younger man’s accepting body, and growled as Ranuccio’s clenching heat tipped him over the edge. Arching his head and neck back, one final thrust and erupted, his liquid passions filling the younger man’s body, coating the clinging walls as he surged forward.

His hand searched between their slick bodies to find the model’s thick erection. A few brutal yanks and the beautiful creature came all over their bodies, breathing harshly with fire in his eyes. Michele bent to catch his noisy mouth, and the kiss definitely astounded them.

Caraviggio slid out. Falling on his side next to Ranuccio, Caraviggio instinctively knew this was going to be one strenuous task. He would want to fuck the boy every time he saw him, and the boy would let him. That wouldn’t do. He would have to let go of him. He would soon be poor if he didn’t paint but was more busy in seeking the pleasure of the flesh.

Looking at the kiss-swollen lips, he should be a crazy man for letting this beauty go, but he had to for his sanity’s sake.

A soon as the thought had entered his mind, Caraviggio felt Ranuccio distance himself; as mist he disappeared before his very eyes.

"No - I didn't mean that. Come back!"

TBC

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