Fandom: Celebrity RPS
Summary: Viggo did not touch Orlando, but Orlando really wanted him to.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone you recognize. I know nothing about their social lives or sexual activities, more's the pity. This is fiction, period. It is done as a labor of love and I make no money from it.
Note: This is a sequel to my earlier story, Heat. It'll make much more sense if you read that one first.
crush crush crush crush crush
The footsteps receded and Orlando's eyes snapped open.
So close! He'd been sure it was going to happen, finally, that Viggo would do... something. Kiss him, touch him, something.
Orlando had been so tempted to move, to open his eyes, to shift just the tiniest bit that it would've taken to bring them into contact -- a tilt of his cheek, a shift of his shoulder, a curl of his fingers. But something had stopped him, some barrier between them, hot and tense and invisible and because of that, impenetrable. A physical wall could be torn, broken, pierced, but this thing between them was a construct of their own, real only to them, unspoken and avoided.
The direct approach he'd always used before wouldn't work here; he knew that. If he wanted to achieve anything at all, the barrier would have to be breached from both sides at once.
It was a little over two weeks later before Orlando got any results. Not that he'd had all the time in the world to lay out or anything so he wasn't exactly surprised but it was still frustrating. Finally, though, they were all there in the Cuntebago one morning when Sarah paused, makeup sponge in one hand, and asked, "What the heck is this streak? Have you been tanning under a pole or something?"
Viggo, Beanie and their makeup people all stopped and turned or leaned to stare at the finally visible strip of lighter skin against his darker tan. It started up on the left side of his face and ran down his cheek, over his jaw and the side of his neck, out to his shoulder and all the way down his arm.
Orlando shrugged and said, "Dunno. It is kind of weird, isn't it?"
Sarah fussed and got out a darker base to cover Orlando's pale streak. He had to stay still but he kept a covert eye on Viggo's reflection in the mirror. His face was blank and Orlando would swear the ear he could see was flushed. He relaxed back into his makeup chair and smiled.
Another week and Orlando's "streak" was obvious to everyone who came within ten yards of him. He got questioned and teased and stared at, and people came up and ran a finger down his cheek or his arm, which was annoying only because the one person he really wanted to stroke him, didn't.
They still messed around, of course -- Orlando got just as many back-pats and crushing hugs and head-butts and arse-slaps from Viggo, but none of it meant any more than it ever had. He knew there was something in there, something he really wanted to see (and feel and hold and roll around in) but Viggo was a good enough actor and then some to keep it locked away out of sight, even when he wasn't channeling the ranger.
But once or twice he caught Viggo staring, those ice-blue eyes running slowly down his cheek, throat, shoulder, arm, not-touching the pale streak that never tanned no matter how often Orlando bared it to the sun.
The following Sunday, Orlando was laid out on the beach behind his house. He sprawled on a blanket in the sun, his ice chest nearby and his sunglasses casually discarded. He heard a crush crush crush crush crush sound approaching. It stopped and he opened his eyes, squinting into the sun at the figure standing over him.
"You look like you could use some shade," Viggo said. His voice was low and was trying to sound casual but Orlando could hear a thread of tension in it.
"I'd love some," he said simply. "Are you offering?"
Viggo just stared down at him for a few moments, then stepped forward and knelt, one knee planted between Orlando's thighs. Another pause, then he leaned over and cupped Orlando's cheek in one hand, lightly, gently, a barely-there touch. The warm hand glided down his cheek and throat, caressed out to his shoulder and down his arm, pausing to rub the soft skin on the inside of Orlando's elbow, then slid down his forearm to his palm.
Orlando closed his fingers around the hand and tugged, and Viggo leaned forward and kissed him.
It was long and warm and easy and when it ended Viggo stayed hovering over him. He didn't pull back and Orlando gave him a lazy smile. "Perfect," he whispered.
And it was. He wasn't squinting anymore, because Viggo was there, shading him from the sun.