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amfiguree[LotR cast] [Viggo/Orlando] [PG]
Looking
He has gorgeous eyes. Perhaps that was the first thing that drew you to him. The way his eyes sparkled with passion, filled you with warmth, and sent a jolt of electricity down your spine whenever he looked at you, the way that intellectual gaze seemed to look right into and through you, as if he was exploring every corner, every dark and hidden fissure of your mind, your soul. It was the way his eyes expressed everything he was feeling, without him saying a word, the way his intense gaze left you weak, helpless with inexplicable desire for more. It was the way they left you choked with emotion, gasping for breath under the assault of those powerful sensations all at once. It was the way you seemed to drink in every wordless declaration of those impossibly blue eyes.
You would stare, obvious yearning in your own eyes, you were sure, and he would glance over at you, and smile, before turning back to Sean and sharing a private joke that was meant for their ears only. That smile sent you into a daze, and you spent the next hour or so grinning like an idiot, not caring that Peter was yelling for you to wipe the smile off your face, because Legolas never smiled, and you were ruining the whole scene.
At the end of the day, he would walk up to you, and laugh, shaking his head, and ask you what the good news was. You would look at him, blankly, before inhaling deeply, his scent coursing through your veins, sending your senses reeling. It was a mixture of sweat and heat, sensual and intoxicating, sexy and inviting all at once, and you would shrug, smile, and walk away, before you lost control of yourself, wondering what he would smell like out of costume, a fusion of aftershave and soap, refreshing and breathtaking at once.
Then, later, at whichever bar the hobbits were crazy enough to want to try out, you would sit in a corner for a few minutes, watching him sip his beer, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and wonder what it would feel like to lick the column of his throat, wonder if he would make any sound of approval, wonder if he would slip his hand into your hair and pull you closer, before meeting your lips with his own, a clash of saccharine goodness and potent, moist, heat. Addictive and alluring; the incredible sensations pulling you closer to the hell gates of desire. You would shake your head, quickly, destroying further illusions, and slide off your seat to join the dance crowd. You’d feel his eyes on you every time, just as you joined the swarming mass of bodies, but when you spun around, his gaze would already be averted, and you would blend into the crowd, just another nameless face on a lonely night out.
The next morning, your phone would ring, and you’d open your eyes, your mind hazy with the familiar I-hate-waking-up glaze, reach out to grab the receiver off the hook – just to shut the damn thing up, if nothing else – and groan into the phone to let him know you were awake. He was always the one who called – Elijah had rung you up once, and then been summoned to his room, before going around looking subdued the rest of the day; no one else had ever given you the wake up call aside from him after that. He would chuckle, and your mind would clear, almost instantly, when he started to speak. “Rise and shine, sugar.” He had a beautiful voice. Soft and mysterious, much like his character, and it seemed to rumble through your ears, both soothing and sexy. And then you would groan one more time as you got out of bed – out of need rather than weariness this time, though he didn’t need to know that, and probably never would – and hop into the shower, hoping to ease the swollen ache, hidden by your boxers.
At breakfast, you would brush past him, mumble a good morning, and never once dare to look him in the eyes, because you just know you’d start blushing, after the images in the shower. And he would smile, and kiss your cheek, and ask if you slept well. You’d always smile back, because he was so sweet and concerned and you just couldn’t help it; you love his smile. His fingers would skim your back as he led you to the table – ever the gentleman, you would tease – and nod with a little lopsided grin, and he would slide his hand to meet yours, give it a little squeeze, and then disappear. You always felt as though your whole world had come alive with colour and you would sit, for a few moments, till you regained your senses and it didn’t feel as if your skin was burning from his touch.
You still look at him all the time. You still wonder. You still go to bed at night wishing you were in his room. You think you’ve probably learnt his every emotion by now, and it’s still the eyes that captivate you the most – you’ve probably stared at him longer than you have at your own reflection – and you can recognize, you think, any emotion that could possibly appear there.
And you knew, you always knew, that he was laughing at you – he had that glint in his eyes that was impossible to miss, especially now that you *knew* those eyes. His face was clean of emotion, as always, but his eyes… you felt sick enough to throw up everything you’ve possible eaten in your entire life. He was laughing at his shadow, you knew, at the way your lovesick gaze followed his every movement, how a practical teenager – in his eyes – was infatuated with him, how you were pathetic enough to lick up every single second he deigned to spend with you. But you don’t know what to do about that, because it’s true – you would give up your entire universe for that one glance, that one smile, that one small ray of hope. You can’t even lie about it, even though you’ve probably graduated with honors for lying-through-your-teeth, because your feelings are so strong, you know it would show.
So when he looks at you, small smirk in place, you force a smile in reply, and watch in morbid fascination as he returns it, even though those cruel laughing lines by his eyes grow deeper as he does do. What can you possibly hope to offer him? How could you have thought of him as anything other than a friend in the first place?
You close your eyes, blocking out all sight and forcing down waves upon waves of compelling nausea.
“Orlando?”
You start at the sound, and blink, losing yourself in eyes that appear suddenly in front of your own. You could drown in those eyes, you think, but then lips close over your own, moist and sweet and warm, and you believe this is what Heaven is made out of – whispers of skin on skin and rich, vivid *taste*.
You open your eyes, again, not even realizing you had them closed, as he pulls away. He’s still smiling, joy and laughter etched in his soulful eyes. And you can’t help wondering, as he claims your lips once again, if you’ve been reading the emotion in those eyes wrongly from the very beginning.
-fin-
Looking
He has gorgeous eyes. Perhaps that was the first thing that drew you to him. The way his eyes sparkled with passion, filled you with warmth, and sent a jolt of electricity down your spine whenever he looked at you, the way that intellectual gaze seemed to look right into and through you, as if he was exploring every corner, every dark and hidden fissure of your mind, your soul. It was the way his eyes expressed everything he was feeling, without him saying a word, the way his intense gaze left you weak, helpless with inexplicable desire for more. It was the way they left you choked with emotion, gasping for breath under the assault of those powerful sensations all at once. It was the way you seemed to drink in every wordless declaration of those impossibly blue eyes.
You would stare, obvious yearning in your own eyes, you were sure, and he would glance over at you, and smile, before turning back to Sean and sharing a private joke that was meant for their ears only. That smile sent you into a daze, and you spent the next hour or so grinning like an idiot, not caring that Peter was yelling for you to wipe the smile off your face, because Legolas never smiled, and you were ruining the whole scene.
At the end of the day, he would walk up to you, and laugh, shaking his head, and ask you what the good news was. You would look at him, blankly, before inhaling deeply, his scent coursing through your veins, sending your senses reeling. It was a mixture of sweat and heat, sensual and intoxicating, sexy and inviting all at once, and you would shrug, smile, and walk away, before you lost control of yourself, wondering what he would smell like out of costume, a fusion of aftershave and soap, refreshing and breathtaking at once.
Then, later, at whichever bar the hobbits were crazy enough to want to try out, you would sit in a corner for a few minutes, watching him sip his beer, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and wonder what it would feel like to lick the column of his throat, wonder if he would make any sound of approval, wonder if he would slip his hand into your hair and pull you closer, before meeting your lips with his own, a clash of saccharine goodness and potent, moist, heat. Addictive and alluring; the incredible sensations pulling you closer to the hell gates of desire. You would shake your head, quickly, destroying further illusions, and slide off your seat to join the dance crowd. You’d feel his eyes on you every time, just as you joined the swarming mass of bodies, but when you spun around, his gaze would already be averted, and you would blend into the crowd, just another nameless face on a lonely night out.
The next morning, your phone would ring, and you’d open your eyes, your mind hazy with the familiar I-hate-waking-up glaze, reach out to grab the receiver off the hook – just to shut the damn thing up, if nothing else – and groan into the phone to let him know you were awake. He was always the one who called – Elijah had rung you up once, and then been summoned to his room, before going around looking subdued the rest of the day; no one else had ever given you the wake up call aside from him after that. He would chuckle, and your mind would clear, almost instantly, when he started to speak. “Rise and shine, sugar.” He had a beautiful voice. Soft and mysterious, much like his character, and it seemed to rumble through your ears, both soothing and sexy. And then you would groan one more time as you got out of bed – out of need rather than weariness this time, though he didn’t need to know that, and probably never would – and hop into the shower, hoping to ease the swollen ache, hidden by your boxers.
At breakfast, you would brush past him, mumble a good morning, and never once dare to look him in the eyes, because you just know you’d start blushing, after the images in the shower. And he would smile, and kiss your cheek, and ask if you slept well. You’d always smile back, because he was so sweet and concerned and you just couldn’t help it; you love his smile. His fingers would skim your back as he led you to the table – ever the gentleman, you would tease – and nod with a little lopsided grin, and he would slide his hand to meet yours, give it a little squeeze, and then disappear. You always felt as though your whole world had come alive with colour and you would sit, for a few moments, till you regained your senses and it didn’t feel as if your skin was burning from his touch.
You still look at him all the time. You still wonder. You still go to bed at night wishing you were in his room. You think you’ve probably learnt his every emotion by now, and it’s still the eyes that captivate you the most – you’ve probably stared at him longer than you have at your own reflection – and you can recognize, you think, any emotion that could possibly appear there.
And you knew, you always knew, that he was laughing at you – he had that glint in his eyes that was impossible to miss, especially now that you *knew* those eyes. His face was clean of emotion, as always, but his eyes… you felt sick enough to throw up everything you’ve possible eaten in your entire life. He was laughing at his shadow, you knew, at the way your lovesick gaze followed his every movement, how a practical teenager – in his eyes – was infatuated with him, how you were pathetic enough to lick up every single second he deigned to spend with you. But you don’t know what to do about that, because it’s true – you would give up your entire universe for that one glance, that one smile, that one small ray of hope. You can’t even lie about it, even though you’ve probably graduated with honors for lying-through-your-teeth, because your feelings are so strong, you know it would show.
So when he looks at you, small smirk in place, you force a smile in reply, and watch in morbid fascination as he returns it, even though those cruel laughing lines by his eyes grow deeper as he does do. What can you possibly hope to offer him? How could you have thought of him as anything other than a friend in the first place?
You close your eyes, blocking out all sight and forcing down waves upon waves of compelling nausea.
“Orlando?”
You start at the sound, and blink, losing yourself in eyes that appear suddenly in front of your own. You could drown in those eyes, you think, but then lips close over your own, moist and sweet and warm, and you believe this is what Heaven is made out of – whispers of skin on skin and rich, vivid *taste*.
You open your eyes, again, not even realizing you had them closed, as he pulls away. He’s still smiling, joy and laughter etched in his soulful eyes. And you can’t help wondering, as he claims your lips once again, if you’ve been reading the emotion in those eyes wrongly from the very beginning.
-fin-
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no subject
Date: 2009-06-29 01:22 am (UTC)I was digging through your index post, catching up on your cookleta fic when I scrolled down and found these V/O fics. I literally jumped off my chair LOL oh boy, I haven't read LOTR fics in, like, forever! weeeee~
This is soooo cute!! My confession is I recently compared Cookie to Viggo because of those gorgeous eyes! So I couldn't stop myself from commenting after reading your opening line~ xD
ps. I super love your writings! ♥
no subject
Date: 2009-06-29 04:23 am (UTC)