2004 Stories

Contains stories depicting real-life public figures engaged in completely fictional, false and untrue activities. Nothing in it ever happened. Nothing in it ever will happen. These stories are a work of fantasy and satire which in no way professes to express the truth about the life, thoughts, feelings, desires, opinions, beliefs, activities or sexual orientation of any person mentioned herein.

Time of Day

for sileya
by yueni

Pairing: Viggo/Orlando/Sean Bean.
Rating: PG-13
Notes: For the slasha, baby challenge and sileya, who requested romance. I'm not sure if this is what you had in mind, but I hope you like it. Beta by turning_leaf.

early morning

He loves the early mornings best, when the air is a cool thought against his skin and the sky is a velvet purple with the merest hint of orange on the cusp. It is calming and beautiful; perfect with a mug of warm blackberry tea on the side. It is the time he's claimed for himself while his two lovers are still burrowed in the rumpled sheets, snoring.

He might be the youngest member of the trio, but that doesn't mean that he's a slug-a-bed. He'd tried dragging both his lovers out in the morning to experience the quiet and the calm, but Viggo had been experimenting with lighting in the wee hours of the morning, and it should be a crime to even think about waking Sean before 10am at the earliest.

Viggo had grunted something unintelligible that might as well have been Danish, and then shuffled off to bed, bones creaking audibly in the stillness. Sean hadn't even made it that far. His only concession to the movements in and out of bed was the arm he wrapped around Viggo's waist as he crawled back into the warm cocoon of blankets and down comforter.


He prefers the golden warmth of afternoons best, when the sun is high in the sky and all the world is green and gold. He loves sitting in the little breakfast nook, painted a yellow shade of green that gleams when the rays of sunlight pierces through the dust collecting on the window pane. He finds his calm in the enfolding warmth, happiness and sunshine, looking out through the picture window on the garden that he's painstakingly plotted and planted.

Afternoons are best for walking out amongst the glad heads of his daisies and dahlias; for rubbing a callused palm against the rough bark of the apple tree that gladly offers its bounty fruitfully in the autumn. Afternoons are best to enjoy the results of your labour, because it is too hot to work unless you want to suffer from heatstroke.

He'd attempted to nudge his lovers into his bower of green once. Orlando should never come into contact with anything that grows and can't move of its own volition, and Viggo gets distracted by the light that flows through the leaves of the willow that he'd planted two years ago.

late evening

He thinks his best in the evenings, when the sun is a heavy red orb, one edge barely resting on the horizon before it drops, a coin slipping easily through a slot. The words come easily then, when he can look back on the day that is slowly passing by. He loves the evenings best when there is still some residual warmth from the day to buffer his skin from the creeping bite of the later breeze.

There is something about this time of day that acts like a balm to his artistic soul. If it were possible to distill this feeling into an essence to share it, he would have long ago. His lovers do not feel the same peace that he does. The smells and sounds that drift from the kitchen are a testament to this.

Orlando grunts from the kitchen where he is deftly preparing a chicken casserole, dish towel slung nonchalantly over one shoulder as he whisks a bowl of egg into liquid froth. Sean's attention is split, half on the tomatoes (freshly picked from the garden) that he is slicing, half on the television where his beloved Blades are playing ball.


The nights are theirs to share, where they slide out of their clothes and into open arms. They kiss, open-mouthed, tongues flicking over the curve of a shoulder, the turn of a torso, the arch of a foot. They explore each other in the dark embrace of night, callused palms over lips that exhale breaths softly. At night, they are a tableau of limbs silvered by moonlight.

Orlando loves the slightly weathered visage of Sean. Dearly beloved is the first two words in a wedding ceremony, and this face is surely that to him. He loves it best when Sean still has a slight stubble because he'd been too lazy to shave. The roughness scrapes against his inner thigh, like sandpaper, only warmer. There is too much of Viggo that isn't solid to love: his eccentric mind, his stubbornness and most of all, his quiet passion. Orlando loves the physicality of the thing, and all that is embodied in the lithe sturdy movements that Viggo has. Orlando could watch Viggo move all night long.

Sean loves the smell of Orlando, overtones of the blackberry tea he loves so much and hints of cinnamon; solidly underneath it all is the fresh green smell of youth. Sean likes it best when he buries his nose in the crook of Orlando's neck, where it meets his shoulder, and just breathes him in. It is fortifying in a very Orlando sort of way. Viggo smells of paint and early autumn squash that hangs ripe on the vine. Over it all is the scent of a very old, very fine wine. They shouldn't come together so nicely, but somehow they do, and they uniquely define Viggo in a way Sean can't put to words.

Viggo can tell who is who with his eyes closed. Sean has a solid old world feel to him, hairy and firm and warm, dry to the touch, but reminiscent of a rock. Beneath his hands, Sean carries the warm overtones of wood, firm, yet old and comforting. Orlando feels cool, like new marble fresh from the quarries. He is carved out like Michaelangelo's David before time has claimed him, smooth and beautiful. Old wood and new stone somehow fit together in Viggo's world that result in something more perfect than anything hes known.

In the night, sight, scent and feel follow so closely upon the heels of the other that there is no telling where one begins and the other ends. Sounds echo in the closeness of their bedroom; heaving pants, shuddering sighs, soft cries. They create a symphony that even Mozart himself could not write. The night is theirs to share.


Slashababy 2004 Stories