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Jan. 14th, 2007 10:04 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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vigorliTitle: La Brea
Author: blurblely
Rating: R/NC-17
Disclaimer: It's just fiction. Not even close to reality.
Warnings: Angst
Summary: It's Viggo's turn to get denied.
Note: Sequel to Pocket Full of Promises and Jack the Ripper
The grey fog is just lifting as I see him, his back arched into the warm pulse of the music. I watch him, scintillating in the hazy center of the club, but when our gazes lock I can actually see his glimmer fading, like someone turned the dimmer switch on his high voltage smile. He looks haggard and wrung out, his face full of creases that weren’t there a moment ago.
The bees are swarming again, all dying to be the one to sting him tonight, but I can’t let that happen this time. His heart already holds too many welts for one lifetime.
So I go to him, my arms twined around his waist, my humid breath in his ear the only apologies I know how to offer. And much to my shock, I am not shoved to the ground with a look of disgust. He leans back into the sway of my chest, and for a minute we just allow ourselves to be in the same space without thought, without malice.
But time passes faster than a cat can bounce off of a trampoline, and my hands have an agenda of their own. My arms tighten around him, my fingers scraping a harsh red tattoo just under his waistband. He should have spent every second of every night loving me, screaming his passion into my burning ears, and I hate him for every second he’s wasted on those fucking sycophants.
When my hand finally reaches his cock, the sound he makes causes the colors swirling around me to sing, a hymn or a dirge, I can’t quite tell. I don’t quite care. The only music worth hearing is the ragged thumping of his heart against my palm, the shrill rasping of his breath, the frenetic rhythm of his cock pulsing against my fingertips as I ruthlessly stroke him.
The harsh stillness as he pulls my fingers away, the silent cacophony as he kisses each one and pushes me gently back are the sounds of my undoing. The fog is back and it brought its ugly older cousin darkness along for the ride.
His eyes are the La Brea tar pits as he turns to face me, and I can’t look at him or I’ll get stuck. I try to block him out, but burying my face in his shoulder does nothing to stop his image piercing through. I roar out my frustration, a growing lion in a shrinking cage.
“Who are you trying to punish, Viggo?”
The voice floats past my ears and I’m not sure who has spoken, I’m so lost. There are four of him now, and they all look concerned, but that doesn’t make sense because he’s not supposed to care about me.
Hate, he’s supposed to hate.
Author: blurblely
Rating: R/NC-17
Disclaimer: It's just fiction. Not even close to reality.
Warnings: Angst
Summary: It's Viggo's turn to get denied.
Note: Sequel to Pocket Full of Promises and Jack the Ripper
The grey fog is just lifting as I see him, his back arched into the warm pulse of the music. I watch him, scintillating in the hazy center of the club, but when our gazes lock I can actually see his glimmer fading, like someone turned the dimmer switch on his high voltage smile. He looks haggard and wrung out, his face full of creases that weren’t there a moment ago.
The bees are swarming again, all dying to be the one to sting him tonight, but I can’t let that happen this time. His heart already holds too many welts for one lifetime.
So I go to him, my arms twined around his waist, my humid breath in his ear the only apologies I know how to offer. And much to my shock, I am not shoved to the ground with a look of disgust. He leans back into the sway of my chest, and for a minute we just allow ourselves to be in the same space without thought, without malice.
But time passes faster than a cat can bounce off of a trampoline, and my hands have an agenda of their own. My arms tighten around him, my fingers scraping a harsh red tattoo just under his waistband. He should have spent every second of every night loving me, screaming his passion into my burning ears, and I hate him for every second he’s wasted on those fucking sycophants.
When my hand finally reaches his cock, the sound he makes causes the colors swirling around me to sing, a hymn or a dirge, I can’t quite tell. I don’t quite care. The only music worth hearing is the ragged thumping of his heart against my palm, the shrill rasping of his breath, the frenetic rhythm of his cock pulsing against my fingertips as I ruthlessly stroke him.
The harsh stillness as he pulls my fingers away, the silent cacophony as he kisses each one and pushes me gently back are the sounds of my undoing. The fog is back and it brought its ugly older cousin darkness along for the ride.
His eyes are the La Brea tar pits as he turns to face me, and I can’t look at him or I’ll get stuck. I try to block him out, but burying my face in his shoulder does nothing to stop his image piercing through. I roar out my frustration, a growing lion in a shrinking cage.
“Who are you trying to punish, Viggo?”
The voice floats past my ears and I’m not sure who has spoken, I’m so lost. There are four of him now, and they all look concerned, but that doesn’t make sense because he’s not supposed to care about me.
Hate, he’s supposed to hate.
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Date: 2007-01-15 03:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-15 05:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-16 12:14 am (UTC)