vigorli

Title: Jack the Ripper
Author: blurblely
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Rating: NC-17? At least R to be on the safe side
Disclaimer: It's all made up. Don't know them, it's fiction, etc.
Feedback: Tell me what you think?
Warnings: Angsty. This chapter gets rather dark. Oh, and rampant comma abuse.
Summary: Viggo is still obsessed. Orlando's depressed. A dysfunctional sexual encounter ensues.
Notes: Sequel to "Pocket full of promises". About halfway through writing this (and after deciding on the title "Jack the Ripper") I remembered there was a Smiths song of the same name, so I put it on. I wrote the second half of this with it playing so you might notice some influences. Anyway, if you have access to the song, it goes well with the story, I think.

Bruises engulf him, his hair is an angry mob and it only takes a blink before he collapses into me. I don’t know what ghosts drove him to me in the middle of the night, but I’m not stupid enough to question good fortune. I hold him silently for a time, allowing the scar on his back to magnetize my fingertips through the soft rasp of his t-shirt. He gasps, and the shudder down his spine echoes inside the walls of my chest.

He rolls to look at me, to read my thoughts, his expression a square peg, it’s so wrong. I press my lips to his distrustful eyes, and they come back wet and salty, but he doesn’t stop me. I nip at the soft spot behind his ear, the line of his jaw, the hollow of his neck and his pulse is jumping so madly he’s become like a wild rabbit waiting for a predator to rip out the flesh of his throat.

He starts tearing at my clothes, whatever concerns he had apparently becoming dwarfed by lust. His eyes are leaking steadily now, and I’m Hitler, I’m Jack the Ripper, I’m Satan himself because I can’t bring myself to care. All I want are the moans that are spilling from his lips as our cocks slip-slide together; his steady whining as I rock him back into warmth of the carpet, the only sustenance I need.

And suddenly something inside me snaps, because I want him to feel the pain that is evident in the scattered whimpers that are escaping his mouth, want him to feel the torture of having the one thing he wants be off-limits. So I pull back and just watch. Watch his slack, gaping jaw begin to set, watch his frantic eyes rage, watch as his whole body shakes with the unfairness of it all. For a moment I think he’s going to deck me, scream at me, cuss me at least, but he stays silent.

And somehow that’s worse.

The demons flee me faster than their possession took hold and I wilt, but it’s too late because he’s already at the door. With a final sob goodbye, and the snick of a door, I’m reminded that I’m not fit to be dog shit on the bottom of his shoe. Fuck, all he wanted was comfort, and he came to me. But he’s out of my lap, out of my house and he may as well be in another galaxy entirely because he’s not where he belongs. He’s not in my arms.