1
It’s not like he’d ever be able to explain it. To the outside world, Orlando Bloom was still a person and no different, in this respect, from any other person out there. But he knew better. It was clear enough to him, from the very first time Viggo had laid his hand against the sun that was tattooed onto him, trying to place one finger against each ray drawn outwards from the ink circle, but giving up the attempt in favor of making full skin on skin contact with his palm. Viggo touched him and Orlando knew. From this day on, he belonged to someone else. A lot of things were good in his life, but none felt as true as the hours they could steal together in order to show in body, what the spirit has long accepted.

When they were apart, he could swear that his body was aching from not being filled by his lover, repeatedly. Lying in foreign hotel beds at night, the sort of beds so foreign that one only lies on them and never truly in them, hovering zero inches above the sheets, Orlando learns in great, obscene detail the past’s memories and the present’s fantasies, soon to be the future’s plans. He knows only what he wants Viggo to do to him in these moments, and nothing more. There are organs he longs to touch when these thoughts begin flowing by themselves, through his slipping consciousness.

“No,” he could still chant to himself, even in these half-asleep states, when temptation arose to lead him. “No. Viggo’s.” And he wouldn’t touch, arousal growing outwards like tattooed rays of sun, like a tower being raised to the skies by the will power of simple men and women, longing to see their god, only to fall from the height of aspirations into chaos, confusion and misunderstandings.

2
But God is everywhere, even in fields splayed with the bodies of people who fell from those great heights, broken by their desire to touch perfection. Orlando knows this instinctively, in the same way he knows to anticipate Viggo in his every move, to meet each thrust, hip to scrotum.

And while God has mercy, even for these prodigal children, Orlando never set out to find knowledge or seize power. Whatever reason set him on his course, he finds he reaches it when he gives his flesh to Viggo, over and over again; when his granting is shown to have been received through the care that his better half puts into milking peaks of pleasure out of him.

There’s no hotel room he’s been to in which he has not fallen asleep to such images. If thoughts could leave their mark, he knows the fact of his possession by Viggo would be clear to the world. As things are, he feels like a child, playing around with grown ups, hiding in corners whose existence they cannot perceive due to their different body size. There’s a thrill in hiding. There’s a thrill in the possibility of getting caught. Orlando’s deeply asleep by now, and in his dreams, the marks of his love are as visible as Viggo’s fingertips, bruising his skin from behind.

3
He dreams about that defining night. Again.

He was lying on his bed and Viggo had just touched his sun tattoo with the hands of a sculptor, about to create a master piece.

Orlando wanted to cry with the sudden, overwhelming sense of being fully engulfed in love and appreciation. But he didn’t. Instead, he tilted Viggo’s head up towards his own and poured his wonder, disbelief and pain over the reality of miracles, into a kiss as deep, as wild, as restless as his abandonment of belonging to himself.

Viggo kissed him back. No, Viggo charged into him. Albeit, not blindly. He took charge of the kiss and rammed it into the walls of Orlando’s mouth, into the tingling arousal of unexplored oral flesh, into rendering Orlando unable to keep up. When Viggo slowly charted his way down the neck to the bare chest, Orlando whimpered at the dedicated tongue practically burrowing into him. Instinctively, he clung to Viggo, as a drowning man would.

His course of action was met by a devoted exploration of his arm, from his chest, just over an armpit, to the interior of his elbow, up the wrist and all the way to a searing kiss his palm succumbed to. He couldn’t tell, between one willing moan and another, when exactly it happened that Vig started lifting himself and Orlando’s carefully studied arm from the bed, but a handcuff clicking around his wrist, chaining him to a bed post, made Viggo’s actions real at once. Orlando’s head snapped almost as quickly to the direction of the sound, of the sudden coolness around his tender skin, from where it smoothly flowed into looking at the man who owned him and further into staring at his one free arm. He raised it to the same level. Another handcuff closed on him.

A blindfold followed. Viggo’s smile was the last thing Orlando carried with him into a realm of sensory darkness and enlightenment.

Candle wax and chocolate sauce, only Viggo could think of such a combination to cover his body with and only his Vig could make it just right. He was taunted at length, for what might have been hours, never knowing what his skin could expect next – the scorching heat that sensitized him, the cool sauce that smoothed over him or the tongue that mixed the whole world into one long begging, emphasized by the occasional spreading of legs and upward thrust of hips.

By the time Viggo penetrated him, it’s possible that he was already less than conscious and the pain brought him back. Only for a few moments, but it felt like being taken for the first time all over again, no, like he didn’t know what the meaning of a first versus other times was, and if Orlando hadn’t bitten into Viggo’s shoulder at that moment… No. There was no chance he could abstain from that.

It only served to make Viggo’s withdrawal and the next, immediate invasion into his body more demanding. Pain subsided as he quickly got accustomed to the rhythm and though it didn’t disappear completely, it only served to highlight the delight Orlando drew from having everything in him stirred.

As though he was a man singing only half a verse, but knowing he must reach some melodic height before that, Viggo drove in and out of his body at a maddening pace. In and out, a hand on Orlando’s cock, possibly stroking or possibly rocking with the rest of the massive body fucking him, in and out, in and a brush against his prostate, out when Orlando was already coming too hard to remain awake for Viggo’s subsequent orgasm.

But he still felt it in his body when he woke up the next morning, his limbs entangled with Viggo's, his wrists and his eyes free, his mind still full of Viggo’s smile. The one which adorned his face right before he placed the blindfold, the one which told to what an extent he belonged to Orlando as well.