There is a part of him that is tempted to just punch Viggo in the face, to make him bleed, to make him feel what it is that he, Orlando, is feeling. To make him really really know that it is not that fucking easy, mate, it's not like you can just start over because you've said the words.
There are no magic words.
Viggo should know that.
There is a part of him, the bigger part, that clings tight and presses his nose harder and harder against the sweaty musty crease of Viggo's neck and shoulder, the part that makes his breathing come shallow and his heart pound slow and fierce. It's the part that's been driving this last week, since his birthday, since the morning he woke up and realised that he couldn't live without this stupid punter in his arms.
"Better, gatito, eh?" Viggo says, and his hands come up, comb through Orlando's hair. He butts his face against Viggo's shoulder.
"Better, better," he answers, and a chuckle escapes. He raises his head, kisses Viggo's lower lip with a swipe of tongue. "I am so fucking angry with you, I am so... fucking in love with you, so if you promise, if you say you promise, then I promise too."
Viggo nods, he brings his hands forward to cup Orlando's face, and MOTHERFUCK.
White light, white light.
Heh. Orlando groans in an entirely different kind of distress and Viggo can tell from the feverish fish-scale gleam of his shocked eyes that Big Trouble is coming, unless. Unless Viggo starts licking the red flush spreading across Orlando's face. Unless he starts moving his right thumb in rough circles around one of Orlando's nipples and his left thumb in and out of Orlando's quaking navel. Unless... yeah, Orlando's belly-up anger turns to something sweeter, just those kind of short breaths, that's nice.
"You bastard," Orlando hisses, the corners of his mouth wet and upturning. Viggo moves to make those bits of smile part of his own, and soon they are happy, both just happy and fused and sweaty and red, black, and blue.
Viggo thumbs the soft skin by Orlando's hairline and mouths the blunt curve of bone above his eyes. It must be some sort of primordial instinct that whispers to cover as much of Orlando as he can with spit, lips, and nips, but he's not fighting it. In fact, he's going down. Before he knows it he's facing the shallow hollows above Orlando's groin, his incisors the only teeth it feels like he has left.
He looks up Orlando's torso and reaches to stroke along his sternum. Eventually Orlando looks down, a pale purple bruise already starting to form over the bridge of his nose. Brute pride surges in Viggo's throat (me, mine), and he keeps their eyes locked as he slowly, slowly takes a chunk of Orlando's inner thigh between his teeth and licks, just licks.
This is the lightning, the white light right before it all goes beautifully black.
Orlando shifts from pain to rage to want to need in about twenty seconds, fast, too fast, and it makes his head spin, makes the ringing in his ears kick up to a pounding, fucking fat guy with Viking horns and a kettle drum in the back corner of his brain. He moans.
He doesn't even know how Viggo got his pyjama bottoms off. Blimey.
Viggo bites down a little harder, his tongue soothing the sharpness, and Orlando finds his hands clutching at Viggo's head, feels his back arching up into what he hopes will happen next.
Viggo always loved to suck cock. Viggo would hold him down and suck him for what felt like hours, suck him until he came howling and then lick him back up hard and start all over. Orlando moans again, just from the memory, and again because--
"Yeah," he gasps. Viggo's hand flexes around Orlando's cock, his teeth still set in the soft skin of Orlando's thigh. Yeah yeah yeah, "Please..."
Not too bloody proud to beg is Orlando Bloom.
Viggo slides his teeth off Orlando's leg and drapes his arms over quivering thighs, rests his hands on twitching hips. He hovers just like that. Orlando is thumping his head against the bed, sighing and fighting for a little more feeling, anything at all. Viggo waits. He leans forward inch by inch till he can fucking smell it, yeah, what he's missed for so long. This isn't the smell of Orlando an ocean away, dishwashing detergent and chopped vegetables and the kitchen floor. This is the smell of Orlando—Orlando—red wine and plaid shirts and sweat that bites the back of Viggo's throat as he—yeah—takes it. Takes it all in, makes it his own.
This is his. This smell, this taste, this tender knee and that squared shoulder, everything. And it doesn't matter if Orlando has his girlfriends and Viggo has his women, it doesn't matter if they lie about it to everyone else and never see each other outside of closed doors, because this is real. It is no less intense for belonging only to them. This is It.
Viggo's teeth feel supersensitive around Orlando. Like always, he wants to sink them in. He wants to take a bite, but it is so much better not to, to choose not to. Just to, yes, swallow like that, push his tongue up against that vein till there's no more give. Because this belongs to him, Orlando is his right now, and Viggo will take care of him, take him anyway he can get him.
Viggo's jaw is about to fall off but he could do this to Orlando forever. And maybe (finally, thankfully) he can.