Days Without Wives
Pairing: All of the LOTR Cast at some stage or another
Rating: PG13-NC17
Summary: Please read the AN below.
Warnings: Bad language, stereotypes, bad jokes etc. Angst in this one, so handkies ready
Author's Notes: A daytime soap opera mission/quest/thing. Being the day-to-day story of ordinary movie star folk in their run-of-the-mill luxury men only complex in LA. "Hamlet: The Musical" does not exist as far as I know.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No profit is made nor offence intended.
Episode Nine
The One Where Viggo Is Stiff
Scene: Viggo's penthouse apartment
Viggo, sitting at his writing desk, remembers waking up in Elijah's bed for the very first time, only two days ago. The morning after the night before is always a strange time and for a moment the big man had been disorientated. And uncomfortable. It hadn't helped that the bed was so small. Viggo's bed, in his penthouse apartment, is huge - twelve feet by twelve feet - big enough to accommodate a large man laid at any angle. And it had, on many occasions. Elijah's little bed, with its cute headboard and crisply ironed linens, had been torture.
Good thing they had hardly slept in it. It would have to go. Or they would have to spend most of their time at Viggo's. He wanted Elijah in that big bed; the bendy boy would be swallowed up in it, and he would be swallowed up in Elijah.
Viggo had looked down at his sleeping lover with an ache in his heart. That hair, so tousled and dampened with sweat, that skin so pale and blemish-free, those long lashes... that humungous great love bite on Elijah's white neck. Uh ho. A green jelly baby had found its way into the bed, too, and was now lodged on Elijah's left nipple. With infinite care, not wishing to waken the exhausted sleeper, Viggo had leaned down and sucked it clean off the perfect rosy nub and into his mouth. It had tasted of jelly and powdery sugar and Elijah, who had barely stirred.
Viggo had never felt happier.
He suddenly had felt an urge to paint. He would finish his painting of Elijah, only this time with the real thing as his model!
All his creative juices were brimming as he had slipped carefully out of the miniature bed. He stretched to bring life back into cramped muscles and made his way stiffly to the bathroom. It was so Elijah, he could have cried. Smiling at the various lotions and aftershaves and barely used razor in its little crystal jar, Viggo had noticed something glinting, something that had been lodged between the pretty raffia towel hamper and the wall. He bent down and moved the hamper an inch or two to free the object, expecting perhaps a Star Wars action figure or some such thing. When he straightened up again, he was no longer smiling.
In his hand he held a small leather pouch with a glistening silver clasp. The pouch had a tartan band stitched right round it. He knew immediately what it was. A custom made condom pouch. He opened it up and his suspicions were immediately confirmed by the sight of several foil wrapped condoms. Even as he recognised the initials, "BB", on the inside, he noted also with deep satisfaction that the contents were only medium sized. However, three slots, accusing and mocking in their emptiness, made his blood run icy cold, but he determined to keep calm - that was the past.
Viggo opened up the rubbish bin and threw the pouch inside. As he did so he caught his reflection in the mirror. There could be no more reminders of Mr. Billy Boyd for Elijah. None.
And the Braveheart commemorative toilet roll holder would have to go, too.
_________\o/_________
Orlando Bloom has been sculpting again. His mini break in Acapulco had been great - Harry had worn him out with his demands. Orlando's only complaint was that the thong he had worn on the beach had ridden right up and trapped sand in a very awkward place. Even now, two days and several showers later, he is finding it very uncomfortable sitting on the high stool, creating.
The young Brit delves with nimble fingers into the wet clay. As he shapes the medium, he thinks of Harry. The New Zealander with the soft eyes and hard cock had been a revelation! And it wasn't just the sex, though that was volcanic in its intensity; no, it was in the little things. Harry insisting on paying for everything; he really was the perfect gentleman - opening doors, buying him flowers... Dreamily, Orlando recollects a perfect day in Acapulco. ..
Orlando had gone over on his ankle on one of their rare walks outside, on a rather quiet side street. Quick as a flash, Harry had picked him up and insisted on giving him a piggyback to the nearest taxi stand. As he clung onto Harry, his olive arms wrapped securely round the older man's neck, Orlando had felt the most erotic charge - his cock rubbing up and down Harry's solid, sinuous back. Harry's big hands supporting Orlando's legs, his fingers clasped together to keep his hands from slipping on Orlando's thighs, had mesmerised the Brit from his perch.
A family of Mexicans, at least four generations worth, including three tiny girls in frothy white dresses, had passed them in the opposite direction.
From the looks on their faces, Orlando guessed they were impressed by Harry's dedication to the job in hand and happy for the happiness of lovers in this romantic, hot blooded place...
"¡Homosexuales americanos! ¡No los mire, niños!" Hissed the elderly matriarch, as they passed. Orli and Harry smiled, oblivious.
Harry hoisted Orlando a little higher on his back, adjusting the angle of Orlando's now rigid cock until it was scraping the Kiwi's vertebra through his t-shirt quite nicely.
"Am I heavy, Harry? You can put me down if you want," Orlando gasped, wondering if Harry would be awfully mad at him if he spurted hot and hard through his cotton shorts...
"I can manage, Orli. You're not heavy, honest," replied Harry, though Orlando thought he sounded slightly breathless. For a little while they made their way along the dusty road in companionable silence.
Then Orlando had to speak.
"Harry..." he whispered against the strong neck, stirring the hairs with his hot breath. Harry marvelled at how easily Orlando could turn him into a melting, moist volcano, how his skin would begin to warm as if of its own volition..
"Yes?" he replied, twisting said neck slightly to look into those midnight eyes. God, Orli was beautiful. Strangely similar to Marton and yet so very different. "What is it, pretty one?"
Orlando licked his lips, sheepishly.
"Did you really, really like your t-shirt?"
_________\o/_________
"Marton is here. He knows about you and Orlando. Come round to my place at 8pm and come alone. Bring beer. You two need to talk this through."
And so he had gone, after first assuring Orlando that it was he, Orlando, who had claim to his heart, and not his fellow New Zealander.
Orlando doesn't mind being alone. He wants to work. He has finished the sculpture and has set it down on the floor of the studio with the others. There are now seven of them. Seven very similar works. Similar, but not the same. Some are a little bigger than others for a start, there are differences in texture and finishing. All are exquisite, however, fashioned from memory and all born of love.