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August 1st, 2007

[info]chaosmanor05:49 pm

Title: The Missing Ingredient
Author: [info]chaosmanor
Rating: porny
Betaed by the lovey [info]crimson_bride

Written as part of [info]vo_xmas, for [info]zee113. Thanks to [info]lennongirl for wrangling the fic exchange.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Orlando asked, opening Viggo’s refrigerator and poking at the beer and milk, then closing the door again. “Are you absolutely certain this is how you want to spend your Sunday?”

Viggo shoved his hands into his jeans and sighed. “Yes, really. So, do you think you can help?”

“Of course I can help,” Orlando said. “But we’re going to have to go and buy ingredients, and you have to spend the day washing dishes for me.”

They both glanced over at the sinks, which were stacked with every piece of crockery in the house.

“So what does your mystery date like to eat?” Orlando asked, opening the pantry and peering in at the dust. “Apart from baked beans, which is all you seem to have.”

“I don’t actually know,” Viggo said. “This is, um, the first time. What would you suggest?”

“Fucking hell,” Orlando muttered. “So, you’ve invited some hot bird over for a meal, and you don’t know what she likes, and you want me to cook for you because, while you can paint and write poetry and presumably pick up babes, you can’t actually cook?”

Viggo winced. “That’s an essentially accurate summary of the situation.”

“There’re conditions,” Orlando said, opening the cutlery drawer and shuddering, then closing it again. “You have to learn to cook with me. I’m not spending the day slaving in your kitchen while you paint your toenails or whatever.”

Viggo nodded. “And?”

“You do what I tell you,” Orlando said, crossing his arms. “Got it?”

“No one mentioned you were a diva in the kitchen,” Viggo said, grinning. “But I agree to your conditions.”

“What did they say?” Orlando asked, abandoning his inspection of the inside of Viggo’s never-before-used oven.

“There were orgasmic sounds from Elijah about your chocolate cake, and I believe Billy thought your lasagna worthy of sexual favors,” Viggo said. “And there was something about your minimalist pasta, and how, if acting doesn’t work out for you, you’re going to be Ian’s houseboy.”

Orlando laughed, tipping his head back, showing his teeth, and Viggo had to laugh too. Even if his putative date ended badly, he was going to enjoy the day. He might even learn how to do something more sophisticated than reheating in the kitchen.

* * *

The sacks of groceries went into the back of Orlando’s car, and Viggo couldn’t resist opening the one he had put there, just to peer in at the contents.

“No snacking,” Orlando said, when Viggo reached for the pack of cooking chocolate. “If you’re good, I’ll let you lick the bowl later. C’mon, we’ve got a lot of work to do, and I need to raid my own kitchen first.”

Melted chocolate, licking, and Orlando; now there was a combination that made Viggo glad to clamber back into Orlando’s jeep and busy himself with the seatbelt.

“You must be nervous about this bird,” Orlando said, when Viggo glanced across at him.

“Guess so,” Viggo said. “Does this, along with my inability to differentiate between polenta and semolina, or radicchio and spinach, mean I’ve lost my mystique as a man of the world with you?”

“Honey, I share a trailer with you,” Orlando said. “There’s no mystique left.”

* * *

Orlando’s kitchen, with empty countertops and a shining sink, was a surprise.

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” Orlando said, opening the second drawer and taking out a dishtowel, then laying a row of glistening kitchen knives on the linen.

“To your house,” Viggo said. “But I don’t think I looked in here.”

Orlando shook his head, and rolled the cloth up, bundling the knives together. “How many saucepans do you have?” he asked, opening his pantry door.

“Um, one I think,” Viggo said, peering at the jars of spices on top of the refrigerator. “What’s nigella?”

“Two options,” Orlando said, clattering a huge, gleaming pan onto the counter and settling a smaller one inside. “Could be Nigella Lawson, fabulous cook and famous hottie, just about the only woman that could turn me straight. Or it could be kalonji, which is a kind of pepper seed that makes great savory biscuits.”

“I’m guessing the second,” Viggo said. “Since it’s on top of your refrigerator.”

Orlando chuckled, warm and amused, as he squatted down and opened the cupboard doors under his counter, his t-shirt riding up and jeans slipping down, showing an expanse of tanned skin that made Viggo’s heart thud just a little.

Things—packets and jars and boxes—began to pile up on the counter as Orlando sorted through his cabinets.

“I’m thinking minimalist pasta, because it reduced Ian to a trembling wreck,” Orlando said, his head in a cupboard. “No anchovies, since some poor souls don’t appreciate the delicious bite of salt. We’ve got basil and parsley in the car, but we’ll need some olive oil. Any thoughts about dessert?”

He looked up at Viggo, who was examining a scooped-out chopping board and the curved blade that fitted it. “Well?” Orlando demanded. “What do you want for dessert?”

With Orlando kneeling on the floor, the choice seemed pretty obvious to Viggo, but the more elaborate the culinary plans became, the more his nerve was leaving him, so he shrugged. “I really don’t know.”

Orlando stood up, one sinuous movement, and grabbed the front of Viggo’s shirt. “For fuck’s sake, mate,” Orlando said. “I can’t do the whole thing for you.”

Up close and personal, Viggo could smell the peach that Orlando had eaten in the car. “What’s your favorite dessert?” Viggo asked.

Orlando smiled and let go of Viggo’s shirt, patting his cheek affectionately. “Let’s make granita,” he said. “Low effort, looks classy, not too messy if you wind up fucking her across your dining table, and the peaches we bought are gorgeous.”

“I’m putty in your hands,” Viggo said, and Orlando’s smile widened.

“You wait until I make you rewash the dishes because they’re not clean enough,” Orlando said. “You might not love me quite so much then.”

* * *

Orlando sat on Viggo’s counter, eating peaches and chatting, while Viggo plowed through the dirty dishes. It was a pleasant way to spend a Sunday, listening to outrageous gossip, his hands in warm water, concentrating on getting grease off plates.

“Well?” Orlando said, breaking into Viggo’s reverie. “What do you think Elijah’s chances are?”

“At what?” Viggo asked, turning to face Orlando, froth dripping down his forearms.

Orlando sighed theatrically. “How do you expect to stay up-to-date on all the news if you don’t pay attention? Are those dishes done?”

Viggo groped around in the sink, checking under the water. “That’s it,” he said. “What happens now?”

“Boil the kettle,” Orlando said. “You’re going to peel and pulp peaches while I make a sugar syrup.”

* * *

By late afternoon, Viggo’s feet were killing him, his calves ached and his thighs burned. He’d peeled, chopped, rolled, sliced, and stirred a bewildering array of foods. He’d washed every fucking dish he owned several times and he’d burned his hand twice, all while Orlando twisted and turned and ducked around him in the kitchen, shifting saucepans and bowls, teaching him how to handle the food.

The couch was bliss, and Viggo fell back onto it, arms over his head and eyes half-closed, while Orlando slouched into the big easy chair, looking nowhere near as beat as Viggo felt.

They sat in silence, the smell of garlic wafting temptingly from the kitchen as the pasta dressing simmered, until Orlando said, “You’d better go and have a shower, before your bird gets here.”

“Not a woman,” Viggo said. “And you’re right.”

He left Orlando sitting in the darkened living room, staring at one of Viggo’s paintings and frowning, and headed for the shower. He had pasta dough in his hair and peach juice in his beard; he needed a wash desperately.

When he turned the shower taps off and opened the cubicle door, Orlando held a towel out for him.

“Well,” Orlando said. “Talk about dropping something on me. Why the big secret? It’s not like you’re working in a hostile environment.”

Viggo took the towel and wrapped it around his hips, then wiped the water from his eyes. “It’s not always easy,” Viggo said. “And I’ve not been with a man for a damned long time.”

“Wish I’d known,” Orlando said. “I would have told you to fuck off when you asked for my help.”

Standing there, with water dripping into his eyes, naked apart from a towel, was like something from a nightmare. “I’m sorry,” Viggo said. “I’m being hopelessly inept here, but it’s been twenty years, and I’m just floundering. I didn’t intend to mess you around, but what had seemed like a good idea last week just dug me in deeper and deeper…”

Orlando had been propped against the sink, but he stood up again, and in the tiny bathroom, there was no room to move.

“So… were you just going to hand me a plate at some stage?” Orlando asked, and there was a smile curling around his words.

“That’s one option that hadn’t occurred to me,” Viggo admitted. “Would you like to stay to dinner?”

Orlando leaned forward, so his cheek brushed against Viggo’s, just a flutter of movement against Viggo’s damp skin, and he whispered, “There is no way I’m letting that meal go to waste, so you’d better get dressed, while I go and boil some pasta.”

The bathroom door closed after Orlando, and Viggo let out the breath he’d been holding and steadied himself against the towel rail. Dressed. He needed to find clothes.

Viggo dug out a pair of jeans out of the pile of clothes in the bedroom and dragged them on over his damp skin, then retrieved a long-sleeved t-shirt from the heap too. His bed… fuck it, if he thought about them getting as far as the bed, he’d never manage to walk back out to the kitchen.

Orlando had cleared one end of Viggo’s dining table, and when Viggo walked into the kitchen, fresh from dressing, Orlando looked up from where he was straining the pasta, and nodded towards the table with his chin.

“Go and sit down,” he said. “Or the pasta will be cooked to a pulp.”

Viggo sat down at the table and took a deep breath in. The smells wafting out of the kitchen were amazing: sweet garlic, sharp cheese, herbs like new-cut grass.

“Pour some wine,” Orlando called out. “I need a drink!”

There was a bottle of Merlot breathing on the table, and two remarkably clean wine goblets that Viggo hadn’t remembered that he owned until he got to the end of washing the dishes. He poured them both glasses of the intensely maroon wine.

Orlando walked in behind him and slid a plate of pasta and sauce in front of Viggo, then sat down with his own.

“Eat,” Orlando said, picking up a fork. “Then we can talk.”

Despite having mixed and rolled the pasta, despite Orlando’s careful instruction in balancing flavors, Viggo still wasn’t prepared for the first mouthful. The pasta itself was nutty, substantial and textured. The basil in the topping was sweet, the garlic full and mellow behind it, the Romano cheese was piquant and salty, and beneath it all was the fruit of the olive oil. The combination made Viggo close his eyes briefly and groan around the mouthful of food.

“Good?” Orlando asked.

“Amazing,” Viggo said, reaching across to touch fingertips to the back of Orlando’s hand, because maybe it was all going to be okay, and because the whisper of contact in the bathroom had left him desperately hungry for more.

Viggo loaded his fork up with slippery pasta, dripping olive oil and strands of cheese, then leaned across the table and offered it to Orlando.

Orlando leaned forward, opening his mouth around the fork, then closing his lips over the pasta and taking it from the fork, and it was just about the hottest thing Viggo had ever seen, feeding Orlando and watching him chew the food, then swallow.

Orlando held out a forkful of food for Viggo in turn, and however good it had tasted before, it was a thousand times better now, with each mouthful lingered over, free hands entwined, reading amusement and pleasure in Orlando’s eyes, in the creases around his mouth, in the way he sipped his wine.

The fork clattered on Viggo’s empty plate, loud and sudden, and they moved simultaneously, Viggo pushing his chair away from the table, Orlando melting across to sit astride him.

They stayed like that for a moment, long enough for Viggo’s cock to get even harder, jutting up against his jeans in a way that could have left absolutely no doubt in Orlando’s mind about his intentions, if Orlando had looked down.

But he didn’t; his eyes stayed on Viggo’s face, moving from his lips to meet Viggo’s gaze, and then back again. His hand, ever so slightly slippery with olive oil, touched Viggo’s cheek, above his beard.

Viggo could have counted the heartbeats it took before Orlando leaned forward, closing the distance between them, pressing his mouth against Viggo’s, tasting of basil and wine.

The touch, sweetest kiss, roused Viggo, so he lifted both of his hands and laid them carefully on Orlando, one at the base of his spine, holding him secure on Viggo’s lap, the other across his shoulder, drawing him closer.

Their tongues touched, flickering, then Viggo nipped at Orlando’s lip. They were both breathing hard, the chair creaked alarmingly under their combined weight, and the next kiss, full and deep, just about blew Viggo’s mind.

None of his fraught fantasies, none of his shaking, trembling dreams, had come close to the reality. He couldn’t have known in advance that Orlando would moan so deliciously, that his hands would be so firm and smooth, that he’d wind them around Viggo’s neck so determinedly, that he’d be so fucking eager.

Orlando wrenched his mouth off Viggo’s with a gasp, and said, “Do you want to go to bed?”

Viggo gripped Orlando, sliding him forward across Viggo’s thighs, so he was straddling Viggo’s groin, dragging Viggo’s jeans across his cock, scratching and scraping. “Does that answer your question?”

They stayed like that for a moment, and it hurt and felt so fucking good, then Orlando whispered, “Fucking hell.”

Viggo had to hold Orlando steady when he’d clambered off his lap, hold him steady down the hall and into the bedroom, and it didn’t matter one bit that the sheets were rumpled and gritty when they both tumbled onto the bed.

“Exactly how unprepared for this are you?” Orlando asked, pushing hands underneath the hem of Viggo’s t-shirt, scratching his nails across Viggo’s ribs, working the material up.

Viggo grabbed his t-shirt and dragged it over his head, then propped himself up on one elbow, so he could see Orlando properly.

“Do I have condoms and lube? Yes,” Viggo said. “Have I done any prep?” He shook his head.

Orlando slid a hand behind Viggo’s neck, pulling him forward, so that their mouths met and his body sprawled across Orlando’s, so he could feel Orlando’s cock, straining against his clothes.

“As long as you’ve got supplies,” Orlando said, between kisses. “And I was hoping you’d want to fuck me.”

Orlando pulled his own shirt off, and he was smooth and beautiful, lying back on the bed so Viggo could trail kisses across his chest, down his belly, his stomach muscles twitching with each brush of Viggo’s beard.

The buttons of Orlando’s fly slid open easily, and the smell of his body, so male and hot, almost undid Viggo before they were even both naked.

Orlando was wearing boxers, ridiculous orange and purple checks, so that Viggo had to work not to laugh as he bit gently at the fabric, mouthing Orlando’s cock.

Then he eased the waistband of the boxers down, pushing the fabric across Orlando’s lean hips, freeing his gorgeous cock, running first fingers, then the tip of his tongue down the length of it, so that Orlando clutched at his back, groaning.

“Please,” Orlando breathed, so Viggo took the head into his mouth, worked his mouth down the shaft, and Orlando gasped and jerked his hips. Viggo’s technique must have been rusty, but Orlando groaned and writhed in a most satisfying way, until he’d worked himself around on the bed so he could reach Viggo’s fly too.

Viggo’s jeans had failed to contain his cock; at some stage they’d ridden down so the head of his cock was freed. Orlando’s mouth latched onto the head, sucking delicately, while his fingers fumbled with the button fly, a frustrating combination of maddening licks and cold metal connecting with sensitive skin.

Then Viggo’s cock was in Orlando’s mouth, or a good deal of it anyway, enough to make Viggo groan and swallow as much of Orlando as he could manage, so that movement and sensation short-circuited in his head, and he was riding the waves of coming, trying not to choke or bite, his yells muted by the sweet, hot taste of Orlando coming too.

Orlando fell back on the bed, laughing, and Viggo crawled across the mattress to flop down beside him, laughing too.

They kissed, and the thrill of tasting himself in someone else’s—Orlando’s—mouth was enough to make Viggo’s balls ache all over again.

With both of them naked, their clothes lost on the floor, Viggo slid one leg across Orlando’s, hooked it behind his knee, and guided him over on top. Orlando’s cock hadn’t softened, and the feel of it grinding against his own was enough to make Viggo gasp, and his body respond.

“I want you to fuck me,” Orlando whispered, bumping his face against Viggo’s neck. “Fuck until neither of us can move.”

“Does it feel like I’m fighting you off?” Viggo asked, rocking his hips, sliding their cocks together.

“No,” Orlando said, sliding a hand between their bodies and wrapping his fingers around both of their cocks. “Do you want me to roll over?”

With a pillow shoved under his hips, one leg hitched up, and his eyes closed, Orlando was unbelievably beautiful. Orlando let out a long breath when Viggo kissed the top of his spine, his shoulders settling into the bunched-up blankets, hands splayed across the sheet.

Orlando smelled of olive oil and soap, and of himself, as Viggo moved his mouth slowly across his back, down his spine and across his ribs, taking each breath in and treasuring each lick. Now he’d come, now he’d got past the idea that it was actually happening, a calmness had settled over Viggo. There was no rush, they had hours and hours ahead of them. He didn’t let himself look at the idea there might be more than this once; there would be time enough for that later.

Right then, listening to Orlando whimper as Viggo’s hand smoothed across his buttock, feeling the tiny rocking motions of his hips, and his own need growing with each moment, were more than enough.

Orlando’s ass… Viggo trailed one fingertip across the paler skin of his buttocks, then slid the finger down the crack of his ass, and Orlando’s hips jerked perceptibly at the touch.

Lube, he needed lube.

The lube and condoms, still in the paper bag from the pharmacy, were under Viggo’s bed, not too hard to find when Viggo leaned over the edge and fumbled around. The cap on the tube of lube came off, but there was a plastic seal underneath it, and Viggo was about to attempt to wrench it off with his teeth when Orlando reached around and took it out of his hand.

“Where’s the cap?” Orlando asked, and Viggo retrieved it from a fold of blanket.

“Like this,” Orlando said, inverting the cap and using the notch in the top to prize the seal open, then handing it back.

The lube dripped a little, and Orlando groaned loudly at the first cold, wet touch of Viggo’s fingers. “Please,” Orlando gasped, and Viggo eased a fingertip inside him.

Orlando’s muscles twitched, then let go, and he was tight as sin, hot and tempting.

“That’s all I need,” Orlando said, twisting around Viggo’s finger, lifting his hips, urging him in deeper. “Just fuck me.”

When Viggo glanced at Orlando’s face, he was flushed and rumpled, and why would Viggo argue with him?

Condom rolled on smoothly, lube spread across latex, more on Orlando, then Viggo knelt up and lowered himself down, holding his weight on one elbow, fumbling a little with lining his cock up because his hand was shaking.

Fuck, he was stone-hard, despite having come once already. The feeling of pushing in, the resistance then letting go, the mind-blowing heat, and more than anything, the noise Orlando was making and the way he was shaking the bed, were overwhelming.

Sweat trickled down Viggo’s face, streaking his belly, pooling between them, so that each thrust made a slapping noise as their skin collided and stuck momentarily. Viggo’s knees ached and his back twinged, but there was no way he was stopping, not with the fire raging through his body—belly, groin, balls and cock.

And Orlando was showing no sign of stopping either, banging the mattress with his fists, shouting, digging his knees in and lifting his hips up to meet each thrust. It was wild, raw and desperate and a little scary, so intense that Viggo could barely breathe, barely do anything except groan and yell and drive his cock into Orlando’s ass as hard as he could, over and over.

Time suspended, the world shrank, smaller and smaller, to be just the two of them: Orlando flailing wildly beneath him, coming so that it spread right through Viggo’s body too, washing him away.

Viggo’s breath rasped loudly in his throat, and Orlando drew deep breaths in, loud and rough, his shoulders and ribs moving against Viggo’s body, at least until Viggo found the coordination to roll sideways, arms wrapped around Orlando, taking him with him.

The skin on Orlando’s shoulder was slick with sweat, salty when Viggo kissed him there, his appreciative murmurs enough to make Viggo close his eyes in bliss.

Orlando moved, rolling in Viggo’s arms, rubbing the stubbly side of his head against Viggo’s cheek briefly, then settling with an arm thrown across Viggo, and one leg draped across Viggo’s thighs.

“Well?” Orlando asked, and Viggo kissed his forehead.

“Well what?” Viggo asked. He was too relaxed to deal with one of Orlando’s circumlocutious conversations, but he should obviously make some kind of effort to speak.

“Did you like dinner?”

“I did, but I especially liked the bit after dinner,” Viggo said, sliding his hand down Orlando’s side, then across to his ass.

“We haven’t had dessert yet,” Orlando said. “There’s still the peach granita.”

“Can’t move, can’t eat it,” Viggo said, closing his eyes contentedly.

“Later,” Orlando said.

* * *

They ate the peach granita directly from the container it had been frozen in, sitting on the couch wrapped in towels and still dripping from the shower, sharing a spoon. The peach was fragrant and delicate, the ice crystals crunched, and then melted in Viggo’s mouth, but none of it was as good as watching Orlando’s face while he ate it.

Orlando moaned, he closed his eyes, he waved his hands in the air, shivering restlessly.

“You look like you do when you’re coming,” Viggo said, spooning another dollop of peach ice into Orlando’s mouth.

“Why do you think I made the stuff? I was hoping to at least watch you taste it,” Orlando said indistinctly, around the ice.

Viggo handed Orlando the spoon, and he had to smile. “You can do that,” he said.


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