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vigorliOK. So...I was seriously considering of taking part in Viggo's_50 - under another username. Then I decided against it for several different reasons, many of which had to do with the very busy and utterly uncertain "turn" my life has taken in the last few weeks. But then I thought, "hey, I need this," cause it's not like I've been writing a lot lately, right?
And I feel like I would really like to try and do this, if not for the challenge, then at least as a "gift" to Mr. Viggo Mortensen, who has been such an inexhaustible source of inspiration for me over the years. I'll probably won't be able to finish this, not in time and not as part of the challenge, since I don't have a beta. But I really want to try and use the prompts given as a way to jump-start my writing and inspiration. Hope this is OK with you, too.
So...these are the ficlets:
1. Fifty
Viggo was turning fifty this week. Oh God, that was half a decade. Half a decade of what? Viggo stayed up at nights to wonder. To try and find something that would make his life meaningful. Surely, there once were things to make him happy. His marriage, the birth of his children, his success in one of the greatest law firms in Europe.
Somehow none of those made him feel anything anymore. He resented his job, due to which he had to abandon dreams of making art. He didn’t get along with his wife who must have been cheating him regularly the last few years of their seemingly and superficially perfect marriage. And his kids…oh well, that turned out to be quite the disappointment. Not that Viggo blamed his kids from keeping their distance from him. After all, he was the one who pushed them away in the first place, by not being there as they were growing up, by missing plays and football games and graduations.
He wondered if it was too late to try to fix things.
And then he thought, “I really don’t care to fix things anymore,” and the thought scared the shit out of him. Because, in the silence of his empty, lonely night hours he spent in his study, he knew he cared about one thing alone.
And that thing was a bad thing. It was a dirty thing. Most of all, it was a wrong thing to want, or care about.
But he wanted it so bad it ached. So bad, his fantasies would swirl out of control, and carelessly dance around the improper object of desire: Orlando. Orlando Bloom. A prostitute. A male prostitute. How many kinds of wrongs was that?
“I mean, fuck, Viggo Mortensen!” Viggo laughed at himself. “How did you let this happen?”
It had been a couple of months since he had first “met” the young man, yet it was still a mystery to him, how everything had spiraled out of his control, so quickly, so…unexpectedly.
Viggo looked his face at the mirror, traced the lines of it with tired eyes. He touched the graceful wrinkles - that’s what Orlando had said one night with his fingers brushing up and down Viggo‘s face, “graceful lines, made of wisdom, just beautiful” - only Viggo knew all too well that there was no wisdom in them. He touched them, nevertheless, with strange affection, and closed his eyes and pretended it was Orlando’s fingers caressing him.
Cheekbones, curve of nose, upper lip, jaw, fluttering eyelids and eyelashes.
Viggo let out a hard chuckle. He confronted his eyes in the mirror:
“What happened to you, man? Fifty years old, and you’re running after some piece of ass.”
Somehow the fact that that particular piece of ass belonged to a man just made the whole affair seem more undignified. Viggo sighed in defeat, and turned off the lights as he walked out of his bathroom.
2. birthday
His birthday party was to be this extravagant event his wife was more than eager to organize. Everyone would be there; everyone who was someone, or more than someone. Politicians, lawyers, judges, people of the fine arts and members of the aristocracy( Julia always hinted some kind of obscure connection to the most remote branches of the British gentry.)
Viggo knew the pictures would appear the next day on newspaper columns about the rich and the famous. Some - the most notorious ones - might even end up in Hello! Magazine, and then there would be suing and so on and so forth, and Viggo would enter another year of his life in the same drunken, misdirected manner he did every 20th of October.
Which, until now, was somewhat fine. Depressing as it was, after every birthday bash he would withdraw alone in his study, drink himself to the point of stupor while gazing at the stars through his open window. And he would remember all those things that he had once loved, the things that made him feel human. Eventually, he would pass out on the floor, windows open, autumn wind blowing in, waking him up in the morning with a soft yet mocking caress: “welcome to the first day of the rest of another miserable year.”
Viggo was not eager to fulfill the particular tradition, yet the night progressed towards its customary direction. He was already giving up; already looking forward to a nice orgasm, brought on by the intense and solitary masturbation that would mark the end of his birthday celebrations - before, that is, blacking out on the floor of his study.
And therefore waking up to the first unsatisfying day of his 50th year of unsatisfying life. So, was that how life would be from there on? Was that what he’d have to expect for the rest of his life?
A tray hovered in front of him. Viggo snatched not one, but two flutes of champagne, one in each hand. He brought the first glass to his lips, tilted his head back and poured the liquid down his throat, then did the same with the other flute. Woozily, he landed the glasses back on the tray, smiling to the astounded waiter.
“The faster I get there, the better,” Viggo thought to himself, without designating what “there” meant. Hastily, he downed one more glass of champagne, then a couple of whiskeys back to back, throat burning.
Already giving up. Already sinking back to his familiar helplessness, already the room spinning, when…
3. Gift
…when hands wrapped around his waist, and propped him gently.
“Steady, birthday boy…”
Viggo knew that voice. Still, he was surprised when he turned and came face to face with a grinning Orlando. Viggo opened his mouth, then closed it again, his mind trying to process the information: Orlando was at his birthday party. Orlando was holding him. Orlando was there, in front of him, no longer a phantom painted out of lust, but solid, real, warm and…smiling like it was the most normal thing for him to be there.
“Jesus…” Viggo whispered once he regained his balance, resting his hands on Orlando‘s shoulder to straighten himself up. “What are you doing here?”
He grabbed Orlando by his arm, and dragged him to the dark, dusty space underneath the staircase, hoping that nobody would spot them there.
“Ouch,” Orlando protested, smiling still. Viggo pulled away shyly, and both men stared indecisively at the red marks on Orlando’s forearm , until those faded.
“What are you doing here?” Viggo asked again, voice calm but eyes deep and distressed and beseeching, his voice trailing off to a kind of raspy plead. Orlando lifted his hand and cupped Viggo’s cheek, wanting to soothe.
“Just wanted to wish you happy birthday, ’s all,” he said ingenuously.
Viggo didn’t make any move to repel him, so Orlando thought it was OK to lean in and kiss him. He was about to feel Viggo’s lips when the man pressed his palms against Orlando’s cheeks, pushing him back, shaking his head “no”.
“How…” Viggo paused in uncertainty.
“I was invited. I’m here with Julian.”
“What? Why?” Viggo sighed and slumped back against the wall. Orlando rubbed the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortable. The music droned on, some kind of lounge jazz, filling the silence between them.
“I’m sorry,” Orlando said after a while, “I’m going to go. It’s just…I really wanted to see you. I didn’t mean to make you feel…awkward. Umm…happy birthday, yeah?”
This time Viggo seized him by the wrist - “Orlando?” - pulling him back into their hide-out.
“You’re set to leave bruises on me tonight, aren‘t you?” Orlando chuckled. He left his wrist into Viggo’s clasp anyway.
“Don’t leave,” Viggo said.
“OK…” Orlando hesitated, bent his head on the side, searching Viggo’s eyes.
Changeable, uncertain blue. Despite their sadness, Orlando detected the spark in them, and he wanted to somehow let it out, to release it. Let it shine on everyone, let it burn everything. He licked his lips just as Viggo’s grasp loosened, and felt the man’s thumb stroke the spot where his pulse thumped steadily, resolutely, richly. “You sure?”
Viggo nodded. Affirmative silence, eyes deepening in awareness of how dangerous this could become. The flame became stronger, and it traveled down his spine, changing his posture.
And this time Viggo allowed himself to be touched. From where their fingers touched, Orlando’s hand journeyed up Viggo’s arm, slowly, lightly brushed over the elbow and moved higher, stroking over the contour of ropey triceps and finally resting around the side of his neck. He smiled. Viggo’s pulse was going crazy under Orlando‘s fingertips. Viggo leaned forward uncertainly, holding the brown eyes, his hand cupping Orlando’s nape.
Their tongues met, and their mouths leisurely covered each other, and Viggo gave in to the one thing he really wanted. Orlando’s low breathing drove him crazy with something uncontrollable, and he drove the lithe body into the wall, swelling his lips between his teeth. Orlando arched, pushed forward, ground against Viggo, pulled him to the stickiness of his motion. No music was heard now, only moans and grunts echoing inside their ears, and Orlando let his mouth draw open to be fed with Viggo’s tongue and taste of wine and cigarettes and whiskey.
They pulled away with a loud smooching sound that made them both smile roguishly and blush. Orlando grasped a delirious Viggo by the collar, and slid his crotch teasingly against him.
“Well? Don’t I get a tour?”
“Sure,” Viggo breathed, pressing his crotch back into Orlando’s and fishing for the young, thin-lipped mouth again. Orlando smiled and stopped him.
“What? Now?” Viggo looked reluctantly at him.
“If we find a nice, quiet room, I could even give you your gift,” Orlando suggested. “if you want it that is,” he added, letting his hand trail down the smooth fabric of his Armani trousers towards a very conspicuous bulge that filled his front.
“Fuck,” Viggo groaned.
“Perhaps. You shall have to unwrap it first, and then we‘ll see.”
Viggo groaned again, cupped Orlando’s elfin face and pressed a big wet kiss on the relentless lips.
Cake
Viggo had just pushed Orlando on the bed in Henry’s room, and was undoing his trousers, his mouth watering in the thought of swallowing his heavy, fragrant cock, when voices called him from the big hall for the cake.
“No,” Orlando whimpered, “don’t stop…”
He was too lost in this, breathing heavily and trying to hold on to Viggo’s hair and shoulders. The voices grew stronger.
Viggo crawled upwards with a sigh of disbelief at what was happening.
“Got to go…got to go,” Viggo swatted away Orlando’s frantic hands, trying to hold him down, trying to calm him. He pressed his nose into Orlando’s cheek, breathing heavily.
“Baby, I have to go. Thank you for this. Thank you for tonight.”
Orlando gave up and eventually quietened.
“Come find me later,” he asked with a passionate whisper, holding Viggo’s flushed head between his palms.
“Viggo! Where are you? The cake’s waiting, come make a wish you big fool!” someone was drawing dangerously near.
“Fuck, I hate fucking birthday cakes,” Viggo laughed and mumbled against Orlando’s mouth.
“Come find me later,” Orlando demanded again, breathless.
“Boy, you’re…indescribable.”
Viggo got up, considered tiding his shirt and tie and all, but then felt provocative and thought “what the fuck”. He got out with his mouth full of Orlando, and even though he cut the cake and made the wish ( can I be in a room and fuck Orlando forever, please?) he denied to eat or drink anything that would wash away the taste of him.
I'm not yet going to post this to the original community - since I don't have a beta. Hope what I'm now doing is allowed. It's actually like borrowing the 50 prompts as personal writing exercise. If it offends the community let me know and I'll delete the post.
And I feel like I would really like to try and do this, if not for the challenge, then at least as a "gift" to Mr. Viggo Mortensen, who has been such an inexhaustible source of inspiration for me over the years. I'll probably won't be able to finish this, not in time and not as part of the challenge, since I don't have a beta. But I really want to try and use the prompts given as a way to jump-start my writing and inspiration. Hope this is OK with you, too.
So...these are the ficlets:
1. Fifty
Viggo was turning fifty this week. Oh God, that was half a decade. Half a decade of what? Viggo stayed up at nights to wonder. To try and find something that would make his life meaningful. Surely, there once were things to make him happy. His marriage, the birth of his children, his success in one of the greatest law firms in Europe.
Somehow none of those made him feel anything anymore. He resented his job, due to which he had to abandon dreams of making art. He didn’t get along with his wife who must have been cheating him regularly the last few years of their seemingly and superficially perfect marriage. And his kids…oh well, that turned out to be quite the disappointment. Not that Viggo blamed his kids from keeping their distance from him. After all, he was the one who pushed them away in the first place, by not being there as they were growing up, by missing plays and football games and graduations.
He wondered if it was too late to try to fix things.
And then he thought, “I really don’t care to fix things anymore,” and the thought scared the shit out of him. Because, in the silence of his empty, lonely night hours he spent in his study, he knew he cared about one thing alone.
And that thing was a bad thing. It was a dirty thing. Most of all, it was a wrong thing to want, or care about.
But he wanted it so bad it ached. So bad, his fantasies would swirl out of control, and carelessly dance around the improper object of desire: Orlando. Orlando Bloom. A prostitute. A male prostitute. How many kinds of wrongs was that?
“I mean, fuck, Viggo Mortensen!” Viggo laughed at himself. “How did you let this happen?”
It had been a couple of months since he had first “met” the young man, yet it was still a mystery to him, how everything had spiraled out of his control, so quickly, so…unexpectedly.
Viggo looked his face at the mirror, traced the lines of it with tired eyes. He touched the graceful wrinkles - that’s what Orlando had said one night with his fingers brushing up and down Viggo‘s face, “graceful lines, made of wisdom, just beautiful” - only Viggo knew all too well that there was no wisdom in them. He touched them, nevertheless, with strange affection, and closed his eyes and pretended it was Orlando’s fingers caressing him.
Cheekbones, curve of nose, upper lip, jaw, fluttering eyelids and eyelashes.
Viggo let out a hard chuckle. He confronted his eyes in the mirror:
“What happened to you, man? Fifty years old, and you’re running after some piece of ass.”
Somehow the fact that that particular piece of ass belonged to a man just made the whole affair seem more undignified. Viggo sighed in defeat, and turned off the lights as he walked out of his bathroom.
2. birthday
His birthday party was to be this extravagant event his wife was more than eager to organize. Everyone would be there; everyone who was someone, or more than someone. Politicians, lawyers, judges, people of the fine arts and members of the aristocracy( Julia always hinted some kind of obscure connection to the most remote branches of the British gentry.)
Viggo knew the pictures would appear the next day on newspaper columns about the rich and the famous. Some - the most notorious ones - might even end up in Hello! Magazine, and then there would be suing and so on and so forth, and Viggo would enter another year of his life in the same drunken, misdirected manner he did every 20th of October.
Which, until now, was somewhat fine. Depressing as it was, after every birthday bash he would withdraw alone in his study, drink himself to the point of stupor while gazing at the stars through his open window. And he would remember all those things that he had once loved, the things that made him feel human. Eventually, he would pass out on the floor, windows open, autumn wind blowing in, waking him up in the morning with a soft yet mocking caress: “welcome to the first day of the rest of another miserable year.”
Viggo was not eager to fulfill the particular tradition, yet the night progressed towards its customary direction. He was already giving up; already looking forward to a nice orgasm, brought on by the intense and solitary masturbation that would mark the end of his birthday celebrations - before, that is, blacking out on the floor of his study.
And therefore waking up to the first unsatisfying day of his 50th year of unsatisfying life. So, was that how life would be from there on? Was that what he’d have to expect for the rest of his life?
A tray hovered in front of him. Viggo snatched not one, but two flutes of champagne, one in each hand. He brought the first glass to his lips, tilted his head back and poured the liquid down his throat, then did the same with the other flute. Woozily, he landed the glasses back on the tray, smiling to the astounded waiter.
“The faster I get there, the better,” Viggo thought to himself, without designating what “there” meant. Hastily, he downed one more glass of champagne, then a couple of whiskeys back to back, throat burning.
Already giving up. Already sinking back to his familiar helplessness, already the room spinning, when…
3. Gift
…when hands wrapped around his waist, and propped him gently.
“Steady, birthday boy…”
Viggo knew that voice. Still, he was surprised when he turned and came face to face with a grinning Orlando. Viggo opened his mouth, then closed it again, his mind trying to process the information: Orlando was at his birthday party. Orlando was holding him. Orlando was there, in front of him, no longer a phantom painted out of lust, but solid, real, warm and…smiling like it was the most normal thing for him to be there.
“Jesus…” Viggo whispered once he regained his balance, resting his hands on Orlando‘s shoulder to straighten himself up. “What are you doing here?”
He grabbed Orlando by his arm, and dragged him to the dark, dusty space underneath the staircase, hoping that nobody would spot them there.
“Ouch,” Orlando protested, smiling still. Viggo pulled away shyly, and both men stared indecisively at the red marks on Orlando’s forearm , until those faded.
“What are you doing here?” Viggo asked again, voice calm but eyes deep and distressed and beseeching, his voice trailing off to a kind of raspy plead. Orlando lifted his hand and cupped Viggo’s cheek, wanting to soothe.
“Just wanted to wish you happy birthday, ’s all,” he said ingenuously.
Viggo didn’t make any move to repel him, so Orlando thought it was OK to lean in and kiss him. He was about to feel Viggo’s lips when the man pressed his palms against Orlando’s cheeks, pushing him back, shaking his head “no”.
“How…” Viggo paused in uncertainty.
“I was invited. I’m here with Julian.”
“What? Why?” Viggo sighed and slumped back against the wall. Orlando rubbed the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortable. The music droned on, some kind of lounge jazz, filling the silence between them.
“I’m sorry,” Orlando said after a while, “I’m going to go. It’s just…I really wanted to see you. I didn’t mean to make you feel…awkward. Umm…happy birthday, yeah?”
This time Viggo seized him by the wrist - “Orlando?” - pulling him back into their hide-out.
“You’re set to leave bruises on me tonight, aren‘t you?” Orlando chuckled. He left his wrist into Viggo’s clasp anyway.
“Don’t leave,” Viggo said.
“OK…” Orlando hesitated, bent his head on the side, searching Viggo’s eyes.
Changeable, uncertain blue. Despite their sadness, Orlando detected the spark in them, and he wanted to somehow let it out, to release it. Let it shine on everyone, let it burn everything. He licked his lips just as Viggo’s grasp loosened, and felt the man’s thumb stroke the spot where his pulse thumped steadily, resolutely, richly. “You sure?”
Viggo nodded. Affirmative silence, eyes deepening in awareness of how dangerous this could become. The flame became stronger, and it traveled down his spine, changing his posture.
And this time Viggo allowed himself to be touched. From where their fingers touched, Orlando’s hand journeyed up Viggo’s arm, slowly, lightly brushed over the elbow and moved higher, stroking over the contour of ropey triceps and finally resting around the side of his neck. He smiled. Viggo’s pulse was going crazy under Orlando‘s fingertips. Viggo leaned forward uncertainly, holding the brown eyes, his hand cupping Orlando’s nape.
Their tongues met, and their mouths leisurely covered each other, and Viggo gave in to the one thing he really wanted. Orlando’s low breathing drove him crazy with something uncontrollable, and he drove the lithe body into the wall, swelling his lips between his teeth. Orlando arched, pushed forward, ground against Viggo, pulled him to the stickiness of his motion. No music was heard now, only moans and grunts echoing inside their ears, and Orlando let his mouth draw open to be fed with Viggo’s tongue and taste of wine and cigarettes and whiskey.
They pulled away with a loud smooching sound that made them both smile roguishly and blush. Orlando grasped a delirious Viggo by the collar, and slid his crotch teasingly against him.
“Well? Don’t I get a tour?”
“Sure,” Viggo breathed, pressing his crotch back into Orlando’s and fishing for the young, thin-lipped mouth again. Orlando smiled and stopped him.
“What? Now?” Viggo looked reluctantly at him.
“If we find a nice, quiet room, I could even give you your gift,” Orlando suggested. “if you want it that is,” he added, letting his hand trail down the smooth fabric of his Armani trousers towards a very conspicuous bulge that filled his front.
“Fuck,” Viggo groaned.
“Perhaps. You shall have to unwrap it first, and then we‘ll see.”
Viggo groaned again, cupped Orlando’s elfin face and pressed a big wet kiss on the relentless lips.
Cake
Viggo had just pushed Orlando on the bed in Henry’s room, and was undoing his trousers, his mouth watering in the thought of swallowing his heavy, fragrant cock, when voices called him from the big hall for the cake.
“No,” Orlando whimpered, “don’t stop…”
He was too lost in this, breathing heavily and trying to hold on to Viggo’s hair and shoulders. The voices grew stronger.
Viggo crawled upwards with a sigh of disbelief at what was happening.
“Got to go…got to go,” Viggo swatted away Orlando’s frantic hands, trying to hold him down, trying to calm him. He pressed his nose into Orlando’s cheek, breathing heavily.
“Baby, I have to go. Thank you for this. Thank you for tonight.”
Orlando gave up and eventually quietened.
“Come find me later,” he asked with a passionate whisper, holding Viggo’s flushed head between his palms.
“Viggo! Where are you? The cake’s waiting, come make a wish you big fool!” someone was drawing dangerously near.
“Fuck, I hate fucking birthday cakes,” Viggo laughed and mumbled against Orlando’s mouth.
“Come find me later,” Orlando demanded again, breathless.
“Boy, you’re…indescribable.”
Viggo got up, considered tiding his shirt and tie and all, but then felt provocative and thought “what the fuck”. He got out with his mouth full of Orlando, and even though he cut the cake and made the wish ( can I be in a room and fuck Orlando forever, please?) he denied to eat or drink anything that would wash away the taste of him.
I'm not yet going to post this to the original community - since I don't have a beta. Hope what I'm now doing is allowed. It's actually like borrowing the 50 prompts as personal writing exercise. If it offends the community let me know and I'll delete the post.
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no subject
Date: 2008-09-21 12:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 12:55 pm (UTC)Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2008-09-21 01:43 pm (UTC)Maybe you're right though with the beta thing but then ask for help there! Please...
lol
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 12:52 pm (UTC)Awww, you really think so? Thank you!
We will see how it goes;)
*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 12:48 pm (UTC)here (http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sever_it&keyword=the+subject&filter=all)
Either I post it in viggo's_50 or not, I shall try to finish all 50 prompts.And the story will go on anyway;) Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2008-09-21 04:22 pm (UTC)Thank you - looking forward to more.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 11:03 am (UTC)Thank *you*, dear!
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 12:46 am (UTC)Enjoyed these! I look forward to the rest!
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 10:52 am (UTC)You think I should post in
Anyways.I'm continuing this anyway,whether I post it at the comm or not.
*mwah*
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 09:47 am (UTC)I feel like Christmas come early. :)
Do continue, please, I'd love to read more (but you know that) and I particularly like this insight on Viggo's life.
Thanks.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 10:56 am (UTC)Insight on Viggo's life because it started out as part of viggo's 50 challenge. I may write more extended chapters on the same events from Orlando's POV too. We'll see how it goes.
Thank you, your words were one of the reasons I keep going with this story:)
*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 12:16 pm (UTC)I love AU worlds and this was a nice study in contrasts - the almost despair at the beginning to the acceptance and 'maybe it's not so bad' feeling at the end.