|And the sun should always set this way
||[Mar. 29th, 2004|09:18 pm]
not yet day
They hold each other in near silence for several minutes, close but not closenough out of habitual reluctance. They'll have to talk about This, about the unvoiced sentiment that compelled Viggo to travel thousands of miles on a seeming whim, just for This. But not yet. Not even soon. |
They've said enough for now.
Viggo presses his nose behind Orlando's ear. The soft skin there still smells strongly sweet, a kind of burnt sugar scent that Viggo remembers achingly well. It used to make him toss at night whenever Orlando was near. He'd dream of cold mornings in New York, of bakeries and street vendors that sold candied nuts starting at dawn, of something rich and just a little unexpected that early in the day. It's a good smell, and on Orlando it always makes him crazy to fuck.
"You," Orlando mouths into the crook of Viggo's neck, and the almost admission makes Viggo all the crazier. He smiles madly into Orlando's hair.
Yeah, you is all Viggo can think, tired and sweaty and hard against an unfamiliar door frame in a small Spanish town, thank you for closed eyes with long lashes that tickle his chin, for thin hips that press so tightly against his own, for full body acceptance and answering lust, thank you thank you for you you you.
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.