Unfinished

[shaan-lien.livejournal.com]

Title: Unfinished
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: V/O
Author's Note: Apparently, I wrote this back in April. I listened to the piece Pema's Theme by Cyril Morin a hundred times while writing this. It really goes well.
Summary: Well, there is a plot, if you read the other chapters. If you just read this, not so much.


Previous Chapters



It was late, almost two o’clock in the morning. Feet tucked beneath him, he sat curled up on the couch reading gone of Viggo’s books—Gulliver’s Travels. A fire flicked in the fireplace before him, it was winter, snowing again. The fire crackled and popped, the wood wet. An hour and a half ago, Orlando had been traipsing around outside in his trainers in search of that firewood. The warmth of the fire pulsed against him. He felt drowsy, but not enough to sleep. The rest of the house was dark. Sidi was still asleep on the foot of the bed with Viggo, who had surrounded him with a different sort of glowy warmth when he put his arms around Orlando as he slept.




He turned the page, fingers grazing over the smooth paper and black ink. It had that musty book smell as though it hadn’t been read in a while. Viggo didn’t read many books twice, but he did, he wore the books out—this didn’t seem to be one of them. He appreciated the satire, he appreciated the parallelism, but this—like the other three books he had started in the past hour—wasn’t the sort of book he was in the mood for. Orlando closed the book and held it against his chest, staring into the fire, side of his face pressed against a throw pillow that smelled vaguely of Viggo. Against the hard book, he could feel the slow thud of his heart. It hurt his fingers, gripping the edges of the book—he didn’t realize he had been holding on to it that tightly yet when he did, he didn’t let go or ease his grasp.




The house was silent. No, not quite. He could just make out the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. Henry was here too, no doubt dead to the world after his flight. He had remained more grounded since college. Orlando couldn’t blame him. This was the first time he had been away from London in a long while. Being here in Idaho gave him a sense of grounding even though he was thousands of miles away from home, away from his mum and sister. This place was staring to feel more like home than London and he wasn’t sure what to make of that. In his career, he didn’t stay in one place for very long, but he found that it was here that he longed to return time and again.




He turned at a sound behind him. The firelight outlined Viggo standing in the archway of the living room and reflected in his blue eyes. He was looking straight at Orlando.




His heart skipped a beat at seeing Viggo standing there. Bare-chested, only in his pajama bottoms. Chest slightly muscled, a dusting of dark blonde hair and a trail of it down to his navel. Orlando rose, the book forgotten, slipping from his fingers, thunking to the floor, the sound not even an afterthought. All he could do, all he could think about was Viggo’s eyes and the intensity in which they burned. He found himself trembling slightly as he started around the couch, his eyes not leaving Viggo’s.




The distance between them closed. Viggo was nearing too. He must have heard the beat of Orlando’s heart—loud but strong in tune with something. Perhaps with Viggo’s heart. They were close enough now that Orlando could hear him breathe, though his nose, slow, measured, but he could hear it. Viggo was staring at him. Orlando was staring at his lips. He could feel Viggo’s eyes on him and he felt warm where his gaze bore. Hand strong against Viggo’s chest running through the curled hair, over warm, smooth skin. Viggo’s hands came up to cradle his face.




Strong hands. All he knew was darkness and Viggo’s hands. He had closed his eyes at Viggo’s touch. Callused hands on his face, strong, gentle, warm. Viggo’s. Lips on his neck and his body seemed weak. Why now after all the times before they had done this. Why now he didn’t know and wasn’t about to question. He turned against the press of Viggo’s body directing him back to the couch. He gripped Viggo’s wrists and they moved as if in a dance. Who was leading didn’t matter. Chest to chest, Viggo’s thigh sliding against his just as he stepped back. His thumbs stroked under his eye as they moved. Viggo’s chest pressed against his with every breath. The cadence of their hearts the same though Orlando though his was just a little faster.




“Look at me,” Viggo whispered against his lips.




And he did. He looked at Viggo as he took the lead now, laying the other man down on the couch. As he lowered his body on top of Viggo’s, his arms braced on either side of his lover’s head, their eyes did not stray. He stared down at Viggo, who ran his hands up and down his arms. Over curved muscle and a scar here or there. His skin darker than Viggo’s, his body different, leaner, seeming slender against Viggo’s sturdy body beneath his. Viggo breathed deeply, his chest lifting and lowering Orlando.




Lines extended from the corners of his eyes, crow’s feet. His gray eyes seemed serious. This was serious, he didn’t know when it had gotten to be, but it was. Orlando felt it too. Felt the love for this man filling his heart. It felt full already. It ached inside of his chest in a way that should not have been. It should not have welled so, he should have expressed this long ago. He kissed the corner of each eye, his brow, the cleft of his chin, that scar through his lip, then the top of his nose. A small smile passed over Viggo’s lips at that. Orlando stared down at him and slowly returned the smile.




Fingers traced over lips, traced that smile with the tips of his fingers. Curves and lines he should have memorized long ago. The kiss was strong, hard and passionate. Rough hands on his back, rough and familiar. Not in the least did he mind that roughness against him, over the long muscles of his back. Over his shoulder blades, up to his neck and back down again. A deliberate, gentle slide. As his tongue licked against Viggo’s mouth, he pressed his hips, his groin into Viggo’s—the only part of them not touching before. His own thrust was met by Viggo’s hips lifting beneath him to press up hard. Hands sliding down the back of his trousers now, gripping him firmly as if to hold him in place while Viggo ground up again. Holding him as if he was going anywhere. As if he wanted to be any other place in the world.




If this was a dance, he had lost the lead when Viggo’s lips left his mouth to find his neck. All he could do was tip his head back and let hands and lips have their way with him. Hands still stroking up and down his back, one thumb always managing to trace the path of his scar. The scar. Kisses went lower, to his chest, to his heart, and he sat back, hands finding Viggo’s bent knees so he could give Viggo access to everything he wanted. And Viggo was hard beneath him and all he could do was move slightly against his erection that was pressed proudly against him. As much as Orlando ached for more, he wanted this too. Wanted the press of lips against his chest, against his nipple, against the dip of his navel, against the hair of his groin, against the crest of his hip.




Hands tightened on his shoulder blades, fingertips pressed into his skin. Orlando could not help but to tighten his grip on Viggo’s knees when those kisses fell to the base of his own erection kept restrained by his trousers. Thighs shaking, his hands bravely left their purchase to find Viggo’s hair, his face. To tilt his face back so Orlando might kiss him again and again. Once more, he lay Viggo back, their lips scarcely parting even for breath, his hands sliding down the smooth stomach to find a greater warmth, arched away from Viggo’s groin slightly. He fisted it and Viggo pressed into his hand as they kissed as they moved, somehow Orlando ending up under Viggo now.




Lips locked, tongues searching as Viggo’s hands slid down his body to push away his trousers. Viggo broke the kiss for a moment, but Orlando did not cease his kisses. Almost reverently he kissed Viggo’s collarbone. Reverent of his man who loved him so. Then their mouths were back together, a hand between his legs, a wetted finger against his entrance. The burn wasn’t ignorable. The burn and the rub of Viggo’s cock against his—back and forth, a slow drag. Slow. A new ache now. A burn too in his groin from his throbbing cock and balls that were pressed against Viggo’s forearm as the older man stroked him from within.




Unhurried. All of it. All of it measured. All of it in time. A slow burn, building and building. Yet the yearning, the passion between them was unquestioned, he felt it like he felt the sweat on his skin. He spread his legs wider, but Viggo’s own thigh and the edge of the couch confined him. Each thrust of Viggo’s tongue in his mouth sent another pulse of want through his penis, not to mention the finger inside that was still now, just pressing. Pressing against that spot inside him that made him anything but still, but he could not move with Viggo pressed against him. They could only push just slightly, slide just barely against each other.




Now Viggo’s lips left his as his lover guided himself to the entrance of Orlando’s body. His leg crooked over Viggo’s hip, he felt Viggo’s cock between his cheeks then nudge against his entrance. Their fingers interlaced next to Orlando’s head and their eyes found each other’s again. Slowly, unhurriedly Viggo pressed inside. His grip tightened on Viggo’s hand. His eyes closed and Viggo paused until he opened them again. Then he canted his hips and did not stop until their bodies were flush.




Orlando cried out, both hands in Viggo’s now, who rested his forehead against Orlando’s and continued to thrust into him. Long strokes as if seeking his very core then withdrawing equally as slowly. Viggo’s hips against the inside of his thighs, his head against the armrest and Viggo’s brow, now his lips met. His toes curled and his knuckles were white. Breathing he nearly forgot, his heart was anything but unhurried as it pounded in his chest thudded in no rhythm at all. A sharp contrast to the slow thrust of Viggo’s hot slick cock into his body. Spearing him, filling him, burning him. His cock leaked against his stomach.




All the way in such that Orlando arched his back, that he cried out. He could not stop himself. Then again when Viggo’s cock pulled back all the way out this time and he did not know if he should be relieved or not. No . . . his hole ached in the anticipation, clenched and he pushed against Viggo to get it back inside of him. Viggo did not release his hands, his cock settled against his hole but Viggo made no move other than slight pressure. Orlando could only increase the pressure, he could no make the older man penetrate him.




His eyes found Viggo’s. He didn’t realize he had lost focus on the man whose eyes were barely an inch from his. Then Viggo pressed forward hard. Entered and seated himself fully in one forceful thrust. Orlando cried out and came, his entrance clenching around Viggo’s unmoving cock. He came hard between their bodies and this time it was Viggo who was holding on tightly to him, who closed his eyes, and gasped, whose thigh quivered. He didn’t hold back. Orlando felt him spill deep in his body over and over.




Then he could hear just their heavy breathing, their hearts pounding, the grandfather clock ticking. Viggo’s head rested beside his, pressing kisses to his shoulder.