amfiguree | (no subject)

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hmm. it's certainly been a while. gacked from

xoverau. and hey, spread the news.

If you comment to this post with the first paragraph of a fic, I'll answer each comment with a second paragraph that continues said fic, and so on. If other people than the original writer want to continue from the paragraph I write in response, feel free--we'll each just go off into parallel threads.

I would be competent to continue fics in these fandoms:

Popslash (including BSB, Nsync, sparkly girls, blue, Eminem?)
Harry Potter
Lotrips
Lotrfps
X-men
Smallville (probably)
Charmed (fourth or fifth season?)
School Of Rock! (heh)
Moulin Rouge
American Idol (*snerk* season 2)
MuLan (don't ask... come to think of it, i can do most disney movies. *cheesy grin*)

and also? feel free to throw original characters in the mix.

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(huh, well for some reason, the comment isn't showing. but! i got it in the mail, so. if you deleted it, because you changed your mind, just leave this comment alone. :))

The thing is... Orlando's absentminded ability to trip over his own two feet didn't mean that he was stupid. Conversely, he was in tune enough with Viggo's feelings that he knew that Viggo really wasn't getting the signals at all.

(Yeah I was spazzing earlier. Sorry I deleted my earlier post. I'm reposting my first part, yours, and then I added.)

Orlando had these endearing idiosyncrasies. He would do things like color his thumb nail with a marker, then absently insert his finger into his mouth ten seconds later. His tongue would turn black or purple, and there would be those few moments in which he was sure he was dying...

The thing is... Orlando's absentminded ability to trip over his own two feet didn't mean that he was stupid. Conversely, he was in tune enough with Viggo's feelings that he knew that Viggo really wasn't getting the signals at all.

Orlando was waving every flag and gesticulation he knew of; standing on his head and practically screaming it from the roof tops. Where exactly had it gotten him? Oh, precisely 4.2 miles short of nowhere. For the brilliant man that he was, Viggo was playing obtuse pretty fucking well. And this is exactly why Orlando had come to the conclusion that Tuesday night was the perfect night to get smashed, ridding himself of his demons once and for all.

(no problem, i'm actually glad you decided to take this up again. :))

Of course, once and for all was pretty subjective from Orlando's point of view. But that was tomorrow's problem, and it could wait.

Or at least, that's what he'd hoped, tilll he spotted Viggo at the far end of the bar. Orlando cursed, alcohol-induced slur and all, and tried to hide behind his empty beer bottle.

He was poised to congratulate himself the ingenuity of his hiding place, when he felt a hand at the back of his neck.

“Orli?”

Orlando swirled in his chair, over calculating, which resulted in planting himself on the sticky wooden floor. He peered upwards, blurry eyed, at the towering man before him.

Viggo offered his hand, and with more effort than it should’ve taken, pulled Orlando to a semi-standing position. Orlando managed to quell the spinning for about a millisecond before he was stepping on toes and achieving point to point contact with an amused looking Viggo. As he looped his hands around Viggo’s neck and told himself it was strictly for balance.

"Hiiiiiiii?" he offers, with a sloppy smile, one that slides over his lips and off it, completely out of his control. "'M dink--dring--rink--"

Orlando lifts the bottle too quickly, all but socks Viggo in the eye, and promptly collapses into a fit of giggles. Oh, he's going to be in for it in the morning; the world's already nicely tilted on its axis.

"He's with me," Viggo says, as calmly as he can muster, with the added attention on top of the attention he's normally accustomed to.

Viggo smiles as he leans in and scoops up a now incoherently mumbling Orlando, leaving a few bills atop the bar as he turns. “Who would rescue you had I not just happened to stop here for a whiskey tonight?” Orlando swerves his head around to look Viggo in the eyes.

He manages what could have been an "erm" before realizing he's forgotten the question. Assuming of course, there was one.

“Alright, let's get you home,” Viggo offers, almost sadly.

Viggo all but carries Orlando out into the brisk night air. He looks up and down the damp rain slicked street, and with no sign of a cab, decides upon walking. Orlando secures his arm around Viggo's neck, takes a deep breath.

“Vig?” he sounds curiously less weighted by alcohol all of the sudden.

“Orli... as much as I love you, your 3 a.m. drunken philosophy has never been predominantly inspiring.”

Orlando blinks. He knows he should understand, because Viggo's 'r's are rolling off his tongue, almost like a purr, and he never asks difficult questions when he's talking like that.

Orlando has to congratulate himself, amidst the beginning of a pounding headache, on being able to remember that.

"--home," he looks up just in time to hear -- see -- Viggo say, and then blinks when he realizes they're at his doorstep.

"Stay," Orlando whispers at a volume so low, he could later claim the word never even permeated the air between them; should that need arise.

Orlando's arms are encircling Viggo on their own accord, before he even processes what he is doing. He clenches his muscles tightly around Viggo's midsection, trying to expel any air that might hold the word 'no.'

Orlando can hear the little funny gurglebubble of Viggo's stomach with his face pressed so close. It's soothing, and he hardly notices Viggo's arms sliding right back around him.

"Where's your key?" Viggo asks finally; it's a clever question, one that could mean everything that Orlando's suddenly too afraid to hope for, or nothing at all.

Orlando's not risking it, though, and as Viggo reaches into his pocket, Orlando doubles over, spewing beer and the contents of his grubby dinner all over Viggo's shoes.

It's only as he's congratulating himself, amidst his gagging, that he realizes Viggo might not be as thrilled by this idea as he is.

Viggo's laugh is a low, raspy, almost self-deprecating sound slicing through the air as he shakes his shoes.

"Oh Orli," he sighs and crouches down, soothingly stroking his hand across the hunched figure's back. "What am I going to do with you?"

Orlando wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, sobering.

"Sorry man," whooshes out of bitter lips.

"Shh," Viggo hums, as he continues his ministrations up and down Orlando's protruding spine.

Viggo is a man of hoarded words. Only the absolutely necessary words on full employment, otherwise, Viggo seemed to be more of a bargain shopper in the 'revealing things about yourself' department. He dropped only enough of these things to satiate. The only times Orlando could recall glimpses of his inner dialogue, were those when Viggo seemingly mumbled to himself; thinking the company surrounding him too drunk, or distracted to notice. Words cowered within Viggo, clung to his interior walls, reticent to ever leave. (Really though, Orlando didn't blame them for wanting to stay).

"What about wanting to stay?" Viggo smiled.

"Shit did I say all that out loud?"

"Depends on what 'all that' is, Orli." Viggo's smile is gentle, if slightly tinged with amused.

Orlando's head pounds so loudly in his ears that he can hardly make out what Viggo means. He tips forward, slightly, feeling sick all over again, and is only slightly appeased when he realizes Viggo's arms are already around him again.

Hunched over, Orlando inspects a line of ants marching through a crack; escaping, however unwanted. If he were less intoxicated, he's sure there would be some symbolism in that.

"Stay," he repeats for what could be the three hundredth time this evening. "Stay with me. Please?" Arms around Viggo's neck again, Orlando looks at him pleadingly.

Viggo simply reaches and retrieves Orlando's key, showing no sign of acknowledgment. One arm still around him, Viggo somehow manages to scoot them both so he can battle the lock and Orlando's swaying motions simultaneously.

Orlando is still mumbling under his breath, sometimes at a volume and clarity almost intelligible. Viggo maneuver's Orlando to his bed, sets him down, and proceeds to removes his shoes, socks and is looking increasingly like he might go for the trousers.

"Stay Stay Stay Stay Stay," Orlando singsongs.

Viggo looks tired when Orlando gets to see his face properly, like someone who's been on the carousel too long for it to still hold the slightest degree of amusement.

Orlando's silenced by a look, although it tickles him to think Viggo might practice that look on Henry, sometimes. So many parallels can be drawn from that, and Orlando thinks every single one can be damned to hell, because Viggo's right here, in his house, helping him with his clothes and--

"Fuck, Orli, you're wasted," Viggo mutters this into Orlando's neck, his arms fighting to break Orlando's grip where his fingers are curled around Viggo's neck. Viggo's fingers lack even more conviction than his voice.

What Viggo tells himself started as a move to extricate himself from Orlando's surprisingly strong grasp on his neck, ends with the two if them clasping hands at Viggo's hairline, and one or both of them leaning further in.

Viggo lightly rests his lips on Orlando's for a moment, feeling the intake of breath there. Orlando arches up and throws a leg around Viggo's waist and draws him nearer. A sudden flush at the contact, and the bandit steals Viggo's breath this time. He has the fleeting thought that he may be entirely too sober for this.

All further contemplation is squelched by circular undulated electricity flowing through Orlando's tongue, to Viggo's teeth, downward along his spine, settling somewhere at the base with a faint almost visible glow.

"My god," Orlando doesn't recognize this tone as one he's used before. He pulls away only the absolute necessary distance for oxygen, and shivers.

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Re: Orlando's Opps and Viggo

Orlando's Opps and Viggo's Mirror

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