Leitmotif

by Nienor

In private, Orli is nothing.

In public, Orli has power.

He has the power to demand Viggo's attention. He has the power to touch without reproof, to take a moment and make it his, to laugh and tease and look at Viggo from the corners of his eyes and watch him for signs of irritation.

They're nearly always there. Viggo almost always draws back, tips his head away, tucks his chin under, draws in his shoulders. Guarding behavior, guarded expressions. He doesn't complain in any other way when Orli tackles him or runs his fingers through his hair, especially not if he's on camera... and that's just when Orli can't resist.

Orli can't stand not touching Viggo for long periods of time; he can't stand Viggo's cool understated voice and his unruffled camera face. He can't stand the way Viggo turns inside himself, quiet, reflective, instead of opening up and shouting so everyone will know: 'I love to fuck Orlando Bloom!'

It's not a useless habit, by any means, because sometimes Orli wins. Sometimes after Viggo recovers from the initial affront of having his face grabbed or his hair mussed or his belly patted, he'll look at Orli with a rueful flicker of affection-- and that makes everything worth it, even though sometimes Orli's arse will still be stinging from the punishment he got the last time he leaped on Viggo like a big lanky puppy and flirted with him, right there in front of God and the press and everybody.

Orli keeps on doing it as often as humanly possible, hoping for that little flicker, but if he doesn't get it, that's all right, too. When the moment is over, Orli's cock will still be tingling, half-hard with the sure knowledge of the invisible thoughts going through Viggo's head-- plans to punish him, thoughts of his naked arse, thoughts of the bright red weals he'll put on it later.

He does it, hoping Viggo will beat him with his bare hands: wide hard palms making five-fingered prints and bruises on his arse. He knows Viggo's hands have to sting when he does that, but he likes it best that way. "Your hands," he pleads when Viggo orders him to his belly on the bed and goes to fetch the strap. "Please. Your hands." Viggo understands, he thinks; there's no contempt or talk of cowardice. And sometimes he'll bring the strap anyway, but sometimes he'll leave it.

When he does, he changes his orders and lays Orli out over his lap, pants around his ankles. He warms Orli's arse with crisp, savage strokes while Orli writhes his belly against Viggo's thighs, trying to touch Viggo with his cock. He can't, but he tries, while Viggo peppers him with sharp stinging smacks-- three at a time, five, adding up till the heat glowing in Orli's arse leaves him gasping and desperate to come.

After a while, Viggo makes Orli turn, and he uses the other hand. When it gets tired, he shoves his dry, hard fingers inside Orli; he hand-fucks him with rough sharp strokes. Orli thinks he can tell how annoyed Viggo really is by how many fingers he uses; he's never pissed Viggo off enough to make him use the whole hand, but he keeps trying.

Orli knows he's cherished because Viggo's nails are never long; they're always trimmed short, carefully rounded. They never cut him. Viggo's fingers stab roughly at his prostate until he whimpers and begs and his eyes stream tears to drip off his chin. He doesn't come easily that way, and Viggo knows it; sometimes he'll finger-fuck Orli for an hour, not letting him come, till he's raw and desperate.

Then most of the time Viggo shoves Orli off his thighs and onto the floor; he parts his legs and pulls his dick out of his jeans for Orli to suck.

When he's there Elijah watches, round-eyed, his own jeans straining to contain him; he lies on the bed waiting, knowing better than to interrupt. He watches Viggo lift his hips, grunting soft in his throat, fucking Orli's mouth. He watches Orli gobble Viggo down greedily. He watches Viggo pull out and shoot his load onto Orli's face. He watches Orli lick the head of Viggo's cock clean, come gleaming on his lips and his cheeks and his eyelids.

Elijah doesn't interfere.

This is Orli's time, and he thinks that maybe Viggo likes it.

Once Viggo licked his own come off Orli's face-- rough, broad-tongued licks, wet cool spit drying on his skin. Then Viggo kissed him, soft and bitter and long and sweet.

Orli thinks sometimes that maybe Viggo lets him have his public power.

Orli hopes that maybe he is something after all.

-finis-

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