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Summary: Variations on a theme. Introducing three unrelated stories revolving around the same subject, which can stand together or apart. Pairing: The Viggorli. One track mind, you know? Disclaimer: To the best of my knowledge, only the quote is real. Would love to hear otherwise, but you'd have to tell me. Author's notes: This quote is inspirational. I suggest we all read it at least once a day. But sadly, only one of the stories will be crack. These stories are dedicated: To the sweetest Cream_and_sugar, who surely knew she’s making me do it when she pointed me in the direction of this quote, to Dazzamre, Sharon and Esso, for their bravery as well as their general wonderfulness, and to the beautiful Soar38 who is the most underpaid, but definitely not under-appreciated beta out there. Banners and icon: Are the amazing Dazzamre’s talent and special squishes go out to Silvan_lady, she knows why...
Q: When did you start painting, poetry and photography? He lies back and thinks of England. It's been so long since he had to think of LA as his home destination, even though it doesn't feel like home at all. He thinks of their trips, when he was a kid, from Canterbury to Leeds, to visit Grandma. He loved looking at the tall trees, their stretched out palms shaken by the wind with their pent up longing for a road they could never travel, the one down which he was moving quickly and he took their waving as a farewell blessing while he wished for the tranquility implied in their stable stance. He thinks of the many shades of green, brown and orange they passed along the road, of the saturated heaviness with which the air clung to the skies, the same way that he was sometimes clinging to his mother while slipping a bit off her lap, her watching the news and him too lazily content to re-position himself in his initial, more comfortable posture. He still feels the same way at times, especially when Viggo kisses his skin, purposefully sloppy and slow, marking his path along Orlando's geography with those hungry, wet marks of a wave drawn back to its cradle, the sea. Then Orlando purrs happily at the knowledge that in the face of time and other earthly limitations, this was their private, pleasurable way to defeat mortality. At other times, he can't think of England or of anything at all. His mind is a race through nothingness, Viggo's touch too furious not to be gasped at, thrust into or begged at for completion, no, for more thorough fucking, Viggo, please, faster, harder! And Viggo's merciful then, granting whichever request Orlando manages to utter. He does this so well, with that special thrust of his hips which he reserves for the climax or with that final flick of the tongue under Orlando's erection, immediately rushing to catch the semen into an unrelenting, cleaning suction that lets the vibrations around the spasming organ last a little while longer. He lies back again and thinks of Viggo in one-syllable words. Like, home.
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