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[personal profile] sal_si_puedes
Title: Everything
Author: Lara Lee [ profile] take_this_waltz
Pairing: Viggorli
Rating: NC-17
Request: Written for [ profile] anglicandoorway, for [ profile] shegollum who requested: Angst w/a happy ending; like first-time or scared/angsty V and A misunderstanding causes problems; fear causes problems and she's squicked by: Just don't overdo the mechanics, please - I want smut, not "Insert Tab A into Slot B"
Summary: Viggo wants his share. But will that be enough? Angsty, as requested, and with a happy ending. :-) (set in NZ and in 2002)
Warnings: none
Beta: [ profile] elanna9. Thank you so much, sweetie! *hugs*
Disclaimer: All fiction. Those people belong to themselves.
Author's Note: This was fun! Thanks to Jen for the fic-a-thon and to [ profile] shegollum for the challenge.


Moments take so very long: who has time to fear?
Trust to set no precedent; why should it be accompli?
Giving you a little less is taking what I need.
Everything is never quite enough.

(Everything... (... Is Never Quite Enough), Wasis Diop)

I. Words, just words (New Zealand, principal photography)

Orlando's face is beautiful when he comes, a beauty that's not from this world but from some completely different place and it takes your breath away. That's what Dom says, of course, but Viggo believes all of it. Dom also says that Orlando's skin is softer than anything else, especially around his eyes and between his legs, on the inner side of his thighs. Elijah confirms. Viggo believes them but he also believes Sean who contradicts the hobbits and claims that the softest thing he's ever felt is the skin between Orlando's ear and his clavicle, the right one, and he invokes his fingertips and the tip of his tongue as witnesses. Viggo believes. He listens to the stories, the tales, the whispered words of cast and crew, he takes them in and believes them and turns them over and over in his mind and voice, he takes them to the easel and canvas, he takes them to ink and paper, to lens and paper, he takes them home at night and takes them to bed with him and he believes all of those words even if he knows that some of them, most of them, all of them are just bragging, just sharing, and everything but the truth. He takes them to bed with him and to the shower. He listens to those words he believes and doubts over and over again when he touches himself, and the words mingle with his moans and his breath and they take it away, leaving him breathless and spent. Once his breath and thoughts return, Viggo once more is torn between belief and doubt as well as between wonder and shame.

Viggo doesn't like cock. But Viggo wants to know the taste of Orlando's, wants to see for himself if it's true what they say: that Orlando tastes sweeter than chocolate. Viggo has never sucked cock but he wants to find out how the skin on the underside of Orlando's cock feels against his tongue, if he can fit Orlando's length in his mouth. He wants to find out if Orlando can really come four times in one night like they say, even if he doesn't want to come undone by the hands, tongue, touch, kiss, voice, face, skin of a man. Boy.

He listens to the words, and whether he believes or doubts them, he wants his share. His face blushes the first time he thinks that. He doubts that and he wants to prove those words wrong. And if he can't have that he at least wants his share, his share, his share of skin, of taste, of touch, of moans, of cock, of words, his fair share of the inner sides of Orlando's thighs. And if he can't have that, he doesn't know what. And, truth be told, he wants the shares of the others as well, he envies them, he wants summer and rivers, white linen, an angel's hip, the keys and the steady hands and the words, even if they're just that, words, for all he ever knew.

II. Reminders, lines of frost (L.A., 2002)

Dennis had been shuffling through the stack of papers for some time now, reading, murmuring lines, scratching his head, taking sips from his glass of wine. At some times a faint smile appeared on his mouth, at other times his brow knit. At one moment Viggo heard him hiss.

Viggo moved around the studio while Dennis read. He sorted through some sketches, rearranged some canvasses, cleaned a couple of brushes. He refilled Dennis's glass when the other man had drained it and then he's settled down on the old sofa on the other side of the flat table opposite the chair in which Dennis was sitting. He picked up a book and switched on the floor lamp next to the sofa before he began leafing through the pages. Every once in a while he'd look up from his book and glance at Dennis who had been sitting in the same position for a long time: elbows on his knees, glasses on the tip of his nose, head bent, sheets of paper in his hands.

He reached for his glass and turned his eyes back to the book when Dennis cleared his throat and made Viggo look up again.

Dennis was now holding two stacks of paper - a bigger one in his left hand and a smaller one, consisting of only a few sheets in his right.

"You're planning on publishing these?" Dennis asked.


"These four." Dennis held out the smaller stack.

Viggo reached across the table and took the sheets from Dennis's hand. He spread the sheets like a fan and studied them briefly. They had been in different places in the typewritten stack, but. Dennis had grouped them together.

Taking a sip from his glass Viggo nodded. He swallowed. "Yeah," he mumbled around the taste of the wine and shrugged slightly. "Why?"

Dennis leaned back in his chair and glanced at Viggo over the top of his glasses.

"What?" Viggo set his glass down on the floor next to him.

Taking off his glasses Dennis sighed. He laid them on the table and looked Viggo straight in the eyes. "Did you ever tell him?"

Viggo hesitated but after a moment he answered: "I... we... he wasn't... we weren't... the time wasn't like that, and I..." His hands rearranged the sheets into a neat pile and placed them on the floor next to his glass. "No, I didn't."

"Just friends then?"

Viggo snorted. "Yeah, friends. Just friends."

"You ever-"

"No, Dennis," Viggo interrupted. "I never. And I wouldn't have started with him, I... it wasn't like that. We weren't like that."

Dennis nodded. "And you still intend to publish those?" He gestured at the sheets at Viggo's feet.

"Yeah, sure. Why not? It's not like anyone else will notice, is it?"

"I wouldn't count on that," Dennis replied. "I wouldn't count on that..."

III. Coincidence of Memory (L.A., 2002)

Viggo knows that Orlando is enraged the second he opens the door. He storms past Viggo like the whirlwind he is, throws a "Vig!" at him and heads for the sitting room. And he gets straight to the point this time, no fidgeting, no introduction, just a book thrown on the table.


It has only been a week or so since the book came out, and here Orlando is, slamming it on Viggo's table. As Dennis said he would. Viggo stops at the door and scratches his chin. His hands are sweaty. He doesn't move and he doesn't speak.

"Viggo." Orlando starts pacing, his eyes dart back and forth between Viggo and the table, the book, and Viggo can hear Orlando's heavy breathing. Maybe his heartbeat, too, but he isn't sure. "Were you ever planning on telling me?"


There is just room for one word. There is no room for questions or explanations in Viggo's mind. There is no room for Orlando in his house, it's enough that he's in his colors and lines. It's more than enough, Viggo thinks.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why did you never tell me?" Orlando slumps down on a chair next to the table, facing the book. He fumbles for his cigarettes and lights one. In Viggo's sitting room. Turning his back on Viggo.

"Tell you?" Viggo murmurs. "Tell you what?"

"This!" Orlando's hand moves and picks up the book. It reconnects with the surface of a table with a slapping noise. "The poems. You. Me. This!" When he picks up the book once more Viggo can see that his fingers are trembling, because the book is moving with the tremble, its pages fanning slightly.

Three times does the charm, Viggo thinks and knows that that is not what it is all about. He still doesn't move. He doesn't speak either.

"All the time you..." Orlando talks to the table, doesn't turn, doesn't face Viggo but keeps his eyes fixed on the book. "We could... And why didn't you... Christ, Viggo! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what," Viggo repeats. He won't say it, no, he will keep his mouth shut and his eyes, too, that's for the best.

"That you l-"

"No." Not that, Viggo thinks. Not that. It's not about that. All it is about is wanting, is finally getting his share. If it is about anything at all.

"That you wanted me." Small voice all of a sudden. Small voice and small hands that seize the book again and break the charm. Four times isn't what it's supposed to be, Viggo thinks, it's too much.

Orlando takes a last drag from his cigarette and kills it in that old ashtray Henry made in pottery class when he was seven or eight. Maybe nine, Viggo doesn't remember. Then he gets up and turns around. He leans against the table and starts chewing on a piece of skin or maybe his thumb nail.

Viggo shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Never quite enough," he whispers.

And suddenly Orlando is right there, right in front of him, all vibrant and warm, and Viggo can feel Orlando's breath on his face, he's that close. Words touch Viggo's face, just words, like breath. "Wanted you too. Wanted you too."

Still not looking up Viggo clenches his hands into fists, and his knuckles bruise his upper thighs. Spoiled, he thinks, dark on light. He can sense Orlando's closeness, and it's too much, it's far more than he can take and it's not enough. Not now, not ever, he thinks and stares at his feet.

"I'm not into this." He has to make that clear now lest there be misunderstandings later. He has to make Orlando listen and see, he won't make him understand, he knows that. But it might be enough to make him listen.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

That question, again, on his face, and it's not leading anywhere. "This is not leading anywhere." Viggo watches his hand worm out of his pocked and make contact with Orlando's face. Just fingertips against skin, and Viggo thinks of Sean and of words and beliefs and doubts. "Is it?"

And when he looks up, there's Orlando and he's biting his lip. Viggo's fingers move to Orlando's mouth and try to soothe, to calm, to unhinge. "Don't do that."

Orlando frowns and his mouth goes slack. Viggo knows what he's thinking. Why should I care, Viggo thinks and: He doesn't know. There's nothing he can do to stop his fingers from tracing those lips, and the lips are wet and Viggo really wants to find out how they taste.

"What the others said," he murmurs, and Orlando doesn't understand. Viggo watches Orlando's eyes narrow, and the air Orlando sucks in feels cold against Viggo's moist fingers.

"I wanted to find out if it was true what they said and then I didn't." How weird to watch those lips slightly stretching, baring teeth, forming a smile. A very faint one but a smile.

"It's not true." Orlando's hand catches his, and Orlando's lips brush over Viggo's knuckles. "What did you want back then?"

Viggo clears his throat and tries to keep his mouth shut - even though he's sure it won't work. You can say it, he thinks. Just say it. "My share." He expects Orlando to withdraw, to push him away, to pick up his book and leave. Which Orlando doesn't. Instead, Orlando reaches for Viggo's chin and makes their eyes meet.

"Your share? Your share of what?"

"You," Viggo answers. "The words."

Orlando nods slowly. "And now?"

Viggo's mouth opens and then closes again. He inhales. Twice. Three times. "The same." He holds his breath. After a moment, he releases it again, slowly. "More."

And suddenly Orlando's lips are on his and Orlando's hand is in his hair. Viggo feels his lips caressed, then opened. He lets it happen, waits, tastes. He feels Orlando talking against his lips.

"Come on. You know you want to." Orlando is right, of course.


"Oh no, I don't do those, Viggo." More words into his mouth. "Not with you. Not after all this time."

Viggo breaks the kiss and cups Orlando's face. "I told you that I-"

"You will do fine."

Leave it to Orlando to reassure him. Only Viggo isn't reassured. He's scared shitless to tell the truth. More than ever. Doesn't know what to say, what to do. But God forbid he'd admit that. Now that he's so close to whatever this is. Or is going to be.

"Friends," Viggo gasps. And knows he sounds breathless.

"Friends," Orlando echoes. Twice. Three times, and Viggo shakes his head. "That's not," he kisses Orlando deeply, allows his tongue to venture and explore. "Not enough." Slurred words, open mouths, trembling lips and questing tongues.

"No?" Orlando's eyes, wide and dark.

"No," Viggo's eyes fixed on lips. "Not now, not after all this time. Not then. Never enough."

Reconnecting, tentative touches, gazes everywhere and nowhere. Empty hands seeking to be filled.

And that persistent smile on Orlando's lips.

"Then let's go for more, shall we?"

Yes, yes, yes, Viggo thinks and shakes his head. "I don't know."

"But I do."

And Viggo thinks that maybe that's enough. Orlando can know for the both of us, he thinks, just like that.

So, yes, he lets Orlando guide the kiss, lets him touch and steer, allows Orlando's fingers to start undoing buttons. Orlando knows what to do, Viggo remembers. And it doesn't really matter that his own fingers search and fumble as long as Orlando's are steady and sure.

"Wanted you too, back then," Orlando smiles against Viggo's chest. "If you'd told me I'd..." Trails his tongue along Viggo's sternum, circles his nipples, returns to throat. "All those things..." And Viggo shakes his head and runs his fingers through Orlando's hair. His head soon tilts backwards, his throat needs to be exposed.

"All those things," Viggo hears his own voice repeat. What the others said, he thinks, my share, he thinks, this man, he thinks. He notices that they've made it to the couch. His knees touch the couch and they give in so easily. Sinking, falling, hitting the ground. Smashed and shattered. Shares of body.

Orlando keeps whispering, directing. "Want to?"

Oh god, yes, Viggo thinks, and he says, "Yes, god, yes." And closes his eyes. He doesn't want to see the beaming smile on Orlando's face, it would be too much. Can't take it, he thinks but this time he keeps his words to himself. Moans instead at the sensation of Orlando's fingers opening his jeans, reaching inside. Skin against skin, and strangely enough, Viggo feels safe.

He lets Orlando undress him and watches as Orlando undresses himself. For a moment he thinks he wants to take things slowly. But that moment passes, and they are naked and touching and skin against skin.

Orlando guides Viggo's fingers to their mouths and they wet them inside of their kiss. Glistening and slick. Their hands move between Orlando's legs and make a brief pause on Orlando's cock. Orlando unlocks the clasp of joined hands and wraps those hands around his cock. Cock, Viggo thinks. Viggo doesn't like cock, he remembers, but finds those words not true. He likes Orlando's cock very much and he wants to hold it, savour the feeling of hot skin against his palm. Feels good, feels good, and he wants to taste that liquid, so he brings his hand to his mouth again and touches the tip of his tongue against the drops he has gathered. Not true, not true, not true, his mind repeats over and over again. Not true, much more, so much better--yet not enough. Still not enough, so he lets Orlando's hand seize his once more and guide it between those thighs, between those buttocks, along the crease.

Viggo hesitates but Orlando spreads his legs further and nods, and Viggo's fingers stop trembling. Steady, he thinks, careful, thorough. And it feels so good, that tightness around his fingers, the stretching, the heat.

Viggo and Orlando both moan as Orlando takes hold of Viggo's wrist and removes Viggo's fingers from his body. Not enough, Viggo thinks. Not enough.

But Orlando reaches for something on the floor and opens the tube with his teeth, never letting go of Viggo's hand. He squeezes cool gel onto Viggo's outstretched hand and shows him how to spread it across his fingers.

"Feels good." Viggo mutters, rubbing his fingers together.

Orlando nods. "Will make it easier."

Fingers return to now better known places and continue what they've been doing. Orlando chuckles, and Viggo knows how ridiculous he must look, concentrating so hard. A second finger joins the first. Tight, Viggo thinks, so tight. He takes his time, wants to be steady, careful and thorough. Wants to catch every move Orlando makes, every arch of his back, every thrust and every squeeze.

"Enough," Orlando hisses. "Enough now. I'm ready."

It's not as if he hasn't seen anything like that before but Viggo can't help but stare as a condom is rolled over his cock and then covered with gel. He stares at Orlando's moving fingers and admires how sure they are, how purposeful.

Orlando positions himself and then Viggo until the tip of Viggo's cock nudges against Orlando's entrance. The moment of hesitation is cut short by a deliberate thrust of Orlando's hips.

Viggo groans, and Orlando hisses as Viggo sinks into everything.

"Enough," Viggo presses through clenched teeth. "More," he adds, his eyes never leaving Orlando's face.

Orlando closes his eyes. "Yes," he whispers. Then, again, louder this time: "Yes!"

Movement and sweat. Pleasure. Pleasure building. More. Bites and kisses. And then, stillness.

Orlando reaches for his cock. Viggo's hand doesn't join Orlando's. Viggo needs both his hands to steady himself, to resume moving, to increase the pace of his thrusts.

Finally, Orlando cries out, and his muscles tense and clench around Viggo, and Viggo's ears are filled with Orlando's voice, and he feels something warm and moist and sticky against his skin.

And he comes, too. Good, so good, Viggo thinks. And loses thought. Loses sight and loses everything. And it's enough. It's more than enough, it's more.

It's everything, and that's the first thing he says to Orlando, who is warm and sweaty beneath him and whose heartbeat he can feel and whose breathing rests in his ears.

"Everything," Viggo says. "It's everything," he pants. "What I wanted."

He looks at Orlando, the calm face covered with a sheen of sweat.

"What I want."

And before he stretches, and before Orlando's movement causes Viggo to slip out of his body, Orlando's eyes meet his, and Orlando says: "Yes."

And Viggo feels as if he's got everything. If not more.

And it's enough.



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February 2012


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