He could taste the bedsheet and the pain muffled by it. He could taste them and his own aching of emptiness when the strap landed with harsh lashes, but he knew he’d heal. And soon he’d be healed enough to search for the pain again, just to remember what it felt like to be clutched completely by lust, just to take himself away from the yearning that could never be fulfilled.
They didn’t call him Nutter Viggo for no reason, if he say that it hurt from inside and out, yet he still wanted it, needed it desperately. He could feel every single strike distinctly, black leather bringing marks down the small of his back all the way to the back of his thighs. Taut skin painted with pink streaks, soon turned into crimson burns that made him squirm hard against the stack of pillows.
There was no means for him to hinder the pain building up on his body, not that he really wanted to. He actually preferred his wrists bounded like this, so that the stupid self-protect mechanism wouldn’t kick in too fast, wouldn’t stop him from ravishing the tension and sorrow. Razor, lighter, cane, crop, whatever he tried or had tried before, strangely enough they brought more solace than he originally thought.
He’s much more comfortable dealing with the physical pain than to deal with the misery inside.
He’s strong, he could take more, and the wounds healed quickly anyway, maybe a bit too quickly to his liking. But the physical pain allowed him to push away the grief of losing someone, losing someone important, someone he loved, someone he thought that would love him back.
Now Sean—Sean was never like this.
Sean was fierce and vibrant, but never savage to put him in such deep agony, other than leaving him at the end. He couldn’t blame Sean though, they were still fucking good friends. He had waved his goodbye in a tender smile, kissed the Brit on the cheek softly. The kiss lingered like for a second longer on Sean’s skin, now it lingered like a ghost haunted him in all his dreams.
Sean was ever so tender holding Viggo in his arms, kissing him, worshiping him, loving him in a way he had never felt before. Sean could be rough in times, but only if he desired it and asked nicely, begged nicely. And he would never cause him pain in bed, not really, not more than he wanted him to.
Sharp strikes cut through cold air onto his back, leaving him shaking violently and unbelievably hard. He had lost count of the lashes, not that he needed the number, he knew the record kept going up each time he did this anyway. It wasn’t good enough to stop the yearning though, he wanted Sean, he wanted Sean back, he wanted Sean for himself and had wanted him since the first time their eyes met. And if he couldn’t get what he wanted, maybe he’d find a way to weaken the hurt in his left chest. The burning sore on his ass was taking his breath away, but he wouldn’t cry, he couldn’t. He had spent all his tears in other late night occasions, those ones where he was alone in his studio, staring into blank canvas or old photo albums, where he had no other means to wash the sorrow out.
Slick liquid slid down his small back, the coolness against heating skin almost made him jump. The liquid was more of a warning sign to grasp his attention back than as actual lube. The man behind entered him with a brutal thrust, and God it fucking hurt—restless hip smacking his already throbbing backside, hard shaft reaching so deep that it felt like he was being ripped open. It fucking hurt but he wanted the other hurt to go away, so he bucked back to meet each and every thrust, to feel the pain and the lust.
He was strong enough to take a ruthless fuck, strong enough to see his blood dripping down his own skin, but never strong enough to pick up the God damn phone, to call Sean and confess his love and suffering.
He came screaming this name, out loud and deep at the bottom of his heart.
Then he shivered under the man, who finished in a dozen more rapid thrusts and pulled out of him at once. Heavy panting floated in the room, the man moved to the side and finally stopped torturing his abused ass. The bond around his wrists was cut loose, then he felt a gentle hand rubbing his backside with smooth salve.
“Don’t,” his voice trembled slightly, holding himself up with shaking elbows, “I want it—to last.”
The man let out a low “hum” and helped him moving to a less messy spot in bed. Kindly enough, he handed him a cigarette while lying down next to Viggo. “You know, it's kind of fucked up, right? Even for a pretty thing like you?” The man smiled as he lazily exhaled a puff of smoke, thick British accent flowing free.
He gave a hoarse laugh, still belly down and breathing in the mint cigarette like a lifeline. “Yeah, they said that about me a lot.”
“What, the fucked up part or the pretty part?” The man joked lightly, eyes fell on the angry welts on his backside. He allowed a short pause before continued, “Whoever this Sean person is, man, is he really worthy for you to do all this?”
Maybe that was a question he couldn’t answer, or he knew the answer all along. Maybe he’d find the courage to call at the end, when the wounds and welts fully healed. Maybe he’d convince himself before the other pain emerged once more, or at least to try again. The smoke tasted so bitter in his mouth, just like his own tears. Maybe the London rain had the same taste, too.