Author: Lostiawen

E-mail: changeling@planetx.org

Rated: NC-17

Pairing: VM/OB

Summary: An encounter with the supernatural changes a bitter drama student´s life forever in a tale of love beyond death. 

Archive: Please ask.

Feedback: Yes, please.

Warnings: AU, romance, sap, some angst, creepiness, mild drug use. 

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, none of this really happened.  The author is not associated with or is implying anything about the sexual preferences or the lives of the people depicted within. 

Author´s Notes: Dedicated to those who have lost a loved one. 

Thanks to Linda, whose chatty Orli in "Pure Love" and "Infinite Love" was such an inspiration for my Orli.  *mwah*

Posted May 15, 2003

All right, Bloom, just grit your teeth. There´s nothing scary about an abandoned house. Only half of it is twisted and gutted. The other half is fine; it´s just been abandoned for a while. 

Ugh, it doesn´t help that the whole package is looming like a bloody great gargoyle over the surrounding area. At least there´s a full moon out, so I can see inside the charred half. 

Bollocks, why did I ever take that daft bet? 

Because you´re a 20-year old git who had to brag that _you_ weren´t afraid when this haunted house was mentioned. 

Being completely sotted probably didn´t help, either. So, of course, I let my mates talk me into spending the night here. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother to hang out with them in the first place. 

I still remember cackling as they recounted the story about this house, seeing as how it´s relatively close to Guildhall.  Apparently, a reclusive artist died in a fire here. He never finished his last painting and his ghost still haunts this house, taking its revenge on whatever poor sod comes by to stay the night. 

The last person who spent the night here, some poor bird, was discovered dead the next morning, every single bit of blood drained from her body. The ghost apparently sucked it out and used it as paint for his unfinished picture. 

It still gives me a slight shiver when I think about it, but I´m sure it´s just complete rubbish, which is why I opened my big yap. 

Yes, that´s me. Orlando Bloom, cynic extraordinaire. If you ask me, the whole world´s just going down the crapper, so why not live fast and hard? It´s not like I´ll make a bit of difference or a lasting impression. 

Okay, that´s not completely true in my case. I don´t do some of the nastier drugs, and I use condoms, but frankly, when I go, I want to go quickly, not wasting away in some hospital. Brr, just gives me the chills just thinking about it. 

Now where was I? Right, ghosts and ghost stories, a big pet peeve of mine. I get the wind up about them because I firmly believe that there is no afterlife. We become worm food when we die, and that´s the end of it. 

I also get irritated because some of them have to do with some bloke who killed himself in despair over some lost love or whatever. 

Ugh. And that´s another sticking point with me. I hate all of that romantic mushy stuff that people seem to get into. It´s all just a sham anyway, the hearts and flowers are just the warm-up motions so that you can get into someone´s knickers, so why not just cut out the middleman and go straight to shagging? It´s certainly served me well enough. 

And that´s all anyone really wants to do. Shag. Love is just a myth perpetuated by people too daft to know that all relationships will eventually fail. 

I know I sound bitter, but I realized at an early age that I only fancied blokes. I know that we supposedly live in an age of tolerance, but tell that to the teen-aged bastards who picked on anyone who acted the least bit poncy. 

I managed to hide it pretty well, going balls- out on sports and pretending to flirt with every single bird who crossed my eyesight, but the fact that I even had to do it in the first place really narked me. 

Amazing how the threat of getting your teeth kicked in because of your sexual orientation puts the damper on romance. So, I just shag away, no attachments, no regrets. 

All right, enough philosophizing, it´s making me morose. Time to get back to business. 

I find a window that leads into a not too burned out section of the house. I manage to climb in without slipping and landing on my face, which is an Olympic achievement for me, since I tend to be a bit of a klutz. I´ve broken more bones during my lifetime than I can count, except for my back, fortunately. And who knows how long it´ll be before than one goes? I swear, if I wind up paralyzed, I´m just going to end it all, because there won´t be any point to going on. 

Such cheerful thoughts. I haul my backpack and my sleeping bag in with me. 

I pick my way over to one of the rooms on the non-burnt side. Lots of unsteady floorboards creak underneath me. Damn, there are a lot of cobwebs here, too. No signs of rats, though. And it´s eerily still here. 

Fuck, maybe there´s some truth to this story after all. 

Oh Bollocks, I can´t chicken out now. I´ll have a look around, see if there´s someplace warm to stay the night. At least the moonlight is making it easy for me to see. 

Bits of broken furniture, lots of cobwebs, and...Ah! An undamaged section of floor. 

Picking my way across, I wander into the non-dodgy section of the house. The doors are rusted open, and I pick the first one that leads into a non-drafty room. 

Hmm, it´s a bit dark in here, but there´s still some moonlight pouring in through a small window. I see that this room is relatively bare and a fine layer of dust is covering everything. 

And there´s dust and cobwebs everywhere in this pile in the corner. Hullo? There´s something else underneath here. Looks like a canvas sheet. 

Smart one there, Orlando. It is a canvas sheet, and it´s covering something. Oh god, maybe there´s part of a dead body here. 

Now I´m being paranoid. There´s no rotten smell, and the shape looks awfully flat. Probably some furniture. Remember, challenge your fears: don´t let them get the better of you. 

Still, I can´t help holding my breath as I pull the canvas off. 

Nope, not a dead body. Worse. An unfinished painting on an easel. Christ. This is not happening, this is not happening...

I shut my eyes and take a few deep breaths. It´s just a painting, you silly bugger, no need to get the wind up about it. Relax. It´s not going to eat you. 

After a few moments, I get the courage to open my eyes and look at it. The tension in my back eases when nothing happens. I start studying the canvas. 

It´s not a bad piece of art. It looks like someone was doing a picture of some bloke in a reclining position. Hmmm...curly hair, brown eyes. And it´s a nude. Now I have to move it into the moonlight to see the rest. Wonder how well this guy´s hung... 

Shit. ShitshitSHIT! 

My heart is going like a jackhammer again. The picture is unfinished, but half of the face has been filled in. 

And it´s mine. Same eyes, same cheekbones, everything. 

Okay, don´t panic...breathe...that´s it. Must be a rational explanation, remember, you don´t believe any of this supernatural crap...

Oh, wait a minute, Bloom, is there any reason why your friends couldn´t have this done ahead of time? They´re actors, after all, they know other creative types. 

Cheeky bastards. That´s it. They planted this here to scare me. There´s no blood on the canvas, which is a big cock-up on their part. They should have added it if they wanted to frighten me enough to welsh on the bet. 

Well, I´ll show them. I happily roll out my sleeping bag, whistling to myself. 

As I settle in, I blow a kiss to my portrait and say, "Good night, you handsome devil, you," before I try to sleep. Emphasis on the try. 

I wind up tossing and turning a lot. Small noises keep me awake because I´m completely amped. I eventually give up and look at my watch. 

Bugger, 3am in the morning. 

Alright, time for some help. Pull the vodka out of the pack and have a good swig or three...ah. Now to light up the joint...mmm, niiiice...much better... put the joint out before you get too woozy...good... feeling very light now...drifting...

***

Hmmm. I must be dreaming now. I remember fading out, and now I´m standing out in the middle of the field. And I´m not stoned. I don´t recognize this area, but hey, that´s dreaming for you. 

And it´s perfectly sunny and the birds are even bloody singing. Gah. Can I get any more twee? 

Oi, it looks like there´s someone a distance away. Well, I can´t very stand here with my thumb up my arse, so I may as well go to greet him. Christ, it´s hard to walk in this dream world. I feel like I´m trying to made headway through a bunch of molasses. 

The figure is getting clearer now. It´s a bloke, I can´t see his face because his back is to me, but it´s definitely a bloke. 

He looks to be about my height, broad shoulders. He´s wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and wow, those forearms are nicely sculpted. Mmm, and those trousers are cupping a fairly nice arse. 

And he´s studying something on a canvas. Figures. I wonder how many picture-related themes will be popping into this dream? Wow, Mr. Nice Arse has got amazing hands. Strong and powerful looking. Mmmm, I like this. Been a while since I had a great wet dream, and this one is warming up nicely. 

Okay, time to get closer. Christ, this is difficult. It seems to take forever before I´m practically right behind him. He´s still looking at the picture, and he´s completely oblivious to my presence. That´s fine, though, I can get some quality ogling of that smashing bum. Now that I´ve had a chance to really study it, I have second thoughts. It´s not a nice arse, it´s a _damn sexy as hell_ arse. Now I _have_ to cop a feel. 

Bugger, snails can move faster than this. Well, I might as well look over his shoulder while I´m trying to move and get a gander at...

Oh, fuck me. He´s looking at the same painting I saw before I fell asleep. 

I must have made a noise, because he turns around... and, oh, wow...

He´s got chiseled, beautifully rugged features framed by longish, sandy brown hair. But it´s his eyes that capture my attention. Intense, cobalt blue eyes that drill right through me. 

He looks like he´s in his late thirties, but that doesn´t turn me off at all, which is surprising for me, since I tend to prefer blokes closer to my own age. 

He smiles gently at me and my heart does several flip-flops. Fuck, I´m behaving like a giggling schoolgirl, get a hold of yourself, Bloom! 

"I´ve been waiting for you," he purrs. 

Bollocks, that low voice...so achingly sexy and husky... it´s making my cock hard just listening to it, and my heart flip-flop again. Shit, why am I having trouble breathing? 

He reaches out with his left hand to stroke my cheek. Fuck! I feel like I´ve just stepped on a live wire. Even my hair´s tingling. 

Argh, I think my knees have gone weak. C´mon, Bloom, stop that right now! 

I´m saved from further embarrassment when he pushes down on my shoulders. Taking his cue, I sit down on the grass, and he starts stripping me. Oi, I can actually feel him touching me. Alright! I love tactile wet dreams. About fucking time that we get to the hardcore stuff...Oh yeah, baby, that´s right, strip my jeans off and check me out, look at how I´m ready for you... Now grab my cock...Hey! 

Instead of paying attention to me, my dream man moves my limbs around so that I´m in a reclining position and stands over my stomach. 

Okay...I´m confused. I can´t really shag or blow him from this position. Maybe he just wants to jerk off on me? 

I´m not in the mood to get splattered on, so I try to pull him down on top of me. Bollocks, did I mention how bloody difficult it is to move around here? Gah. I bet Sisyphus had an easier time than I´m having. 

He stops me with a "Hold still," in that come-hither voice of his. Damn, the huskiness of it is making my cock stir some more. Hell, he could probably read a grocery list in that lethal purr, and I´d probably come from listening to him. Hmm, I can just hear him saying "whipped cream," wrapping that throaty voice around each syllable. Yummy. 

But I´m on familiar territory now. Lust good. I´m content to stay in this position if I can get a shag out of him, or hey, even a nice blowjob. Mmmm, blowjob. 

And hey, if I have to just lie here to get it, that´s fine, too. I usually have to do all of the work, so this is a nice break. Besides, sooner or later the multitude of really hot, hung, and horny men with rope, whipped cream, and ice cubes will pop by, and I can have a proper wet dream. Did I just alliterate? I´m so clever...

Surprisingly, all that happens next is that my dream man swings the easel around so that he can paint me. How utterly dull. And now he´s squeezing some paint from a tube onto a palette. 

Bollocks, we need some more hardcore action here. I open my yap to protest when he looks at me. Oh god, those ice blue eyes. I can´t stop looking deep into them. I feel like I´m getting pulled in. 

Fuck me, but the way he´s looking at my face is just...wow. Those intense eyes...not just studying me, but it feels like they´re drilling straight into me. 

Usually when I get stared at, I get sized up like a piece of meat. But this is different. I feel like I´m the only thing that exists for him right now. Hmmm, getting a nice warm feeling inside. Ugh, hearts and flowers time again. Slap yourself again, Orlando. 

Shit, tell me I´m not blushing. Oh no, I _am_ blushing. Someone shoot me now. Damnit. Come on, Orlando...breathe, get control of the situation. Don´t want him taking advantage of you getting soft in the head. 

But bugger, this _is_ a dream. Why not let myself go for once? Hell, it gets tiring fighting against the entire world, so why not? Hmm, kinda nice to not have to worry about anything. 

Christ, never thought I could stay in one place for this long, but I can´t get enough of the way he´s looking at me. 

Eventually, he stops and says quietly, "Come here." 

I stand up and walk sluggishly towards him. When I´m close, he cups my face and strokes my cheek with a paint-spattered finger, leaving a streak of brown pigment. He´s looking at me with so longingly that I feel butterflies flapping in my stomach. Oh god...oi, what´s with the sad expression on his face? Does my breath stink? 

He whispers, "We don´t have much time," before he leans in and captures my lips. 

Christ, I´ve never been kissed like this before. Every nerve comes alive as he wraps his tongue around mine and slowly explores my mouth. The blood rushes to my head, and I feel like I´m getting sucked out through his mouth. I feel myself surging into a complete, dick-dancing, buzzing high. 

But he´s slow and teasing, too, drawing me out, melting me into a nice warm puddle inside. Oh my god, I feel dizzy now, and...wow...forget about breathing, forget about everything except those lips...

His big hands tangle in my hair, and he continues to steal my breath away. I feel empty when he reluctantly pulls away. Empty? This is definitely not Orlando-ish. 

Then I feel his hard body pressing against mine, almost as if he´s trying to merge with me. Now a familiar ache goes through me. Yes, that´s good. Hormone crazed lust good. Much better than that weird puddly feeling. 

Oh yes, press up against me, babe, need to feel your hot body...mmm, he´s hard as a rock, and impressively so. Oh god, is that whimpering coming from me? I don´t care. I want to get him starkers and sink into him, _now_. Wish I could say something, but my voice won´t work for some reason. Bugger it all. So I grind against him, hoping he´ll get the hint. 

He smiles and leans in for another kiss, but I feel faint, and it looks like he´s far away now. This is not fair, I don´t want it to end so soon! 

I cry out, "Who are you?"  Guess I found my voice. Damnit. 

He begins to fade from view quickly, and I hear him whisper softly, "Come back to me, I´ll be waiting."  Everything then goes black. 

I come gradually back to consciousness, it´s light out, the sleeping bag´s completely open, I´m lying on it without a stitch of clothing on, and I´m already wanking my raging hard-on. Christ, need to come so badly... 

Those full lips, yes...Oh god, I bet they would look wonderful, wrapped around my cock and sucking the life out of me. And I´d love to fuck that tight little arse of his, love to hear that sexy as hell voice of his screaming my name as I ram into him over and over...yessss, oh I´m close now, so...YES! 

Oh, man...good thing I´m lying down, because I´m really dizzy now. Christ, what a dream, and what a mess. Damn, looks like I shot on my chest and I actually hit my face. Time to call Guinness. Mmm, maybe I should spend more nights in haunted houses -- that was one of the best wanks in my life. 

I´m vaguely disappointed at the lack of sex, though. My wet dreams usually have something more graphic happening. But that look of his...I feel tingly again, but it´s not the same tingle I feel whenever I´m horny. It makes me feel warm all over and a bit wobbly. 

Ugh, I must still be knackered. I´m actually contemplating mush. Give yourself another mental slap, Orlando. Remember it´s all rot...*whack*...ah, much better. All I need are several stiff drinks and a good shag with some delectable, sexy men, and I´ll be my old self again. 

I pull out some tissues out of my pack to wipe myself off. Tissues have become a permanent fixture on me, since I´ve got a libido that won´t stop. Wonder what that says about the women who always seem to carry tissues in their handbags...hmm, didn´t know that I couldn´t strip myself so efficiently in my sleep, could be a useful skill, that. Wonder if I could sleep-shag, too. 

As I finish cleaning up I notice that the picture has been added to. 

Shit. 

No, you´re hallucinating. Right. Or are you? Only one way to find out...

I´m shaking as I touch the newly added spot. Wet paint comes off on my fingertips. 

Impossible. The boys just went over the top with this prank. I´m sure of it. Breathe. Focus. Okay, wipe the pigment off on another handy tissue. Now dress and pack up. Your mates are just having you on, that´s the ticket. There are no such things as ghosts. 

Okay, time to scramble out of the window and get back to Robert´s flat. Make that _run_ back to his flat. I´m sure Robert´s the wanker who set me up. His girlfriend is quite the artist. He also enjoys seeing me make a fool of myself. Prig. 

I run to his door and hammer on it. Comeoncomeoncomeon, answer it. 

Robert finally opens the door, far too slowly for my taste. I bust in past him. 

"Bloom!"  he says, his eyes are still vaguely woozy from probably having too many pints last night. "How went your night?" 

Oh right. Like he doesn´t know. 

"You should know, you git. Amazing job with the artwork, but Julie should really get my good side next time." 

"Wha´?"  he looks completely stunned. Smashing acting job, I must admit, better than his usual work. "What are you talking about, Orli?" 

All right, I´ve had enough. "Stop taking the piss with me, Robert. You planted that painting in that haunted house to frighten me. Well, it didn´t work, mate. Pay up." 

"I didn´t do any such thing. And neither did anyone else."  His eyes finally focus. "What´s that on your face?" 

What? No, he´s seeing things. Bugger, where´s a mirror? I have to look. There´s one, look at it, don´t panic... Shit! This can´t be happening...you´re high, you´re hung over, you´re...

"Orli, why is there a streak of brown paint on your cheek?" 

---
end part 1

chapter 2
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