Fic: Cry Me A River
E-mail: the_smooth_one910@hotmail.com
Rating: PG-13ish to R.
Warning: Sex and language. Implied boy on boy. You know, the usual.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Pairings: Read to see.
Summary: None of it feels right, none of it at all.
Notes: YES, it was inspired by Cry Me A River by JT. YES, I know. Shut up.


Every fiber of your being, every insignificant part of you knows this is absolutely, completely wrong. Shamefully wrong, in fact. This doesn’t feel right, this doesn’t feel normal.

It doesn’t feel right, you remember him saying. It’s all he murmurs in your ear. “This isn’t right. This isn’t right,” he whispers over and over, his breath invading your ear as he grinds his hips into yours regardless.

You remember you told him to shut the fuck up. You let him grind away as you adjusted the camcorder in your hands, making sure that it was capturing the full extent of everything that was going on below your waist.

“It’s time,” he says, and he lays you down, flat on your back, and he’s looming above you, and this is the part that means the most, the part that must be done right, or otherwise the entire idea would have been lost. You say nothing when he balances his weight on one hand and uses his other to control the camera in your hand. “This is it,” he says, the camera angled just right.

This is when he slams into you, literally slams, and you close your eyes as you feel him direct the camera back up to your face. And as each thrust becomes harder and faster, and you lose more and more control, you aren’t even aware that he’s the one moving the camcorder, he’s the one directing this video now.

And he had been right; it didn’t feel right. But that was okay, because none of this is right at all. You’re just trying to make it even.

After it’s over with, and he’s getting dressed, you look over the tape once to make sure it’s perfect. And it is, so you leave it sitting on top of the TV, and you make sure it reads Viggo’s name. And neither of you say anything as you leave the house, and you don’t say anything to Liv as she drives you home.

“Are you sure about this? We can still go back and grab the tape,” she asks you.

“He has to see it,” you answer, and that’s the last thing you say to her that night.

He sees it, of course. You half expect him to admire the beauty behind it, but when he calls you, and he doesn’t say anything after you say hello, you realize that he’s genuinely upset.

“How could you do this?” he asks you. You don’t answer. “I love you. You know that, Mir.” You don’t say anything still. “And to fucking TAPE it…”

You still say nothing; you can’t bring yourself to care much. And he’s babbling now, about how much he trusted you, and how much he loved you, and how you shouldn’t have used him. “Orli’s just a kid,” he tells you. “And you used him.”

“No,” you finally say. “You used us both. How does it feel?”

“Miranda-“

“Cry me a fucking river, Viggo,”

You hang up, and it still doesn’t feel right. But then again, nothing ever does.


How many hobbits can we fit in a bed?
This ain't floating my boat!
Home, Jones!


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