captivation 1: differences
Aug. 2nd, 2003 02:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
helens78 posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
rugbytackle1: differences
Arc: Captivation
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dragonkal and helens78
Pairing: Viggo Mortensen/Sean Bean
Rating: R
Summary: Sean's first day with his new owner. Viggo is very, very different.
Disclaimer: Fictional. Not real.
Warnings: BDSM arc; here there be aftercare for a rough, deliberate caning.
Things are different already. Sean has been lying in bed for two hours now -- two hours and five minutes, to be precise -- and Viggo hasn't come in to check on him.
Viggo. God. Sean buries his head in the pillow and lets out a breath. Sean has never particularly liked Viggo. Working with Viggo was frustrating on a number of levels Sean doesn't really care to contemplate. Being here -- Sean wonders what he could possibly have been thinking, agreeing to this. His contract still doesn't have a safeword. Still doesn't have an expiration date. But then, Bale lasted just over a month.
I have sought, and have been unable to find, the level of commitment I need in a submissive. Sean wonders what in hell that meant, and how long Viggo intends to keep him. He wonders whether Viggo even knows about the length of his contract, and what he thinks about that.
Two hours, ten minutes. Sean struggles himself out of bed and makes his way out to the back yard, seeking out his new Master.
Viggo is dozing off and on in the hammock; he catches sight of Sean through one of the windows and opens his eyes, expecting Sean to come out. He looks good in the house; Viggo thinks he'll be a good match. Hopes he'll be.
Sean spots Viggo in the hammock; he hesitates, then grits his teeth together hard and manages to go to his knees, blinking and wincing and biting back on a curse. "Good afternoon, Sir. Your new acquisition thanks you for allowing him some rest."
Viggo smiles; he likes that Sean's decided to do this all on his own, particularly considering the pain it must cause him; it tells Viggo a good deal about his state of mind. "You're welcome. You hungry?"
"No, Sir." Sean raises an eyebrow at the smile, but doesn't ask.
"Did you sleep, all that time?" Viggo sits up, swinging his legs down to the ground.
"Nearly all, Sir." Sean takes a breath, lowers his eyes. Watching Viggo is as painfully uncomfortable as he remembered; the twist of interest and the answering frustration of not wanting to feel that interest are still there at the surface, and Sean belongs to this man now. He closes his eyes, then opens them again to focus on the grass.
"D'you want a tour of the house?" Viggo gets to his feet, stretching luxuriously. "It's not that big, but it might help to know your way around."
Why not. "Yes, Sir," Sean answers, fastidiously keeping his eyes off Viggo.
"It'll be a lot easier if you get up," Viggo suggests, already headed toward the house.
Bastard. Sean pushes himself off his knees, hissing out air and trying to keep it as silent as possible. He follows two paces behind Viggo, at his left shoulder.
"Did the stuff Christian used on your stripes work pretty well?" Viggo asks, opening up the glass sliding door and holding it open for Sean.
"Yes, Sir." Sean hesitates for a moment, slightly uncomfortable with the notion that he's supposed to precede Viggo into the house; with a slight sigh, he steps through, then immediately stops, turns, and waits for Viggo to come in.
Viggo slides the door shut behind him. "I think this floor's pretty self-explanatory," he decides, pointing. "Front room, dining room through there, kitchen. My workshop's back through there. And then over here --" He leads Sean to the right, toward the staircase -- "is the bathroom, the closet, that sort of thing." He heads up the stairs, expecting Sean to follow.
More stairs. Sean winces and follows, if slowly.
"Come around here --" Viggo makes a hairpin turn around the stair's railing; the stairs come up into the middle of the hall, and another small railing surrounds the opening for safety. "Back behind the stairs here is my area. This is the master bedroom." He opens the door, holding it wide, but doesn't go in; the implication is for Sean to take a good look inside without exploring overmuch.
Sean glances in; it's much neater than he expected, for some reason. There's a queen-sized bed against the middle of the wall, a dresser -- no, actually, two large dressers and a smaller one. Sean blinks a few times, thinking that most of those drawers probably don't contain clothing. He looks back up at Viggo, trying to make sure his expression isn't a very curious one; it's a bit of a struggle.
"Later," Viggo promises, a sardonic little grin teasing his lips upward, and shuts the door, walking around the rest of the hallway tucked behind the stairway's railing. "Bath." He opens the door briefly; nothing special there, aside from a lewd and masochistic black-and-white photo framed and hung over the toilet. "Storage; empty now." He opens that door too; it's a completely empty walk-in closet devoid of everything but four bare wood walls.
Do. Not. React. Sean tells himself; he can already imagine having to spend the night in that closet, and is determined not to let that idea throw him off. He nods at everything in turn and keeps alternating between looking at the house and looking at Viggo. Looking at Viggo is disturbing, too; he finds himself unable to decide where to put his eyes, and settles for the floor again.
Viggo comes around the rails to the other side of the hall; Sean's been down here before to the guest bedroom. "Your room," Viggo points out for completion's sake. "Bath...another couple spare bedrooms." Viggo just points at those closed doors; doesn't bother showing Sean the insides. "Now I'll show you the rest," he says without a hint of what that will be, and heads downstairs again.
Still slowly, Sean follows; the house is bigger than it looked from the outside.
Viggo leads them down back behind the main-floor staircase, opening a trapdoor; more stairs, surprisingly sturdy -- Viggo rebuilt them over a boring weekend -- lead down into what so far looks like a cellar. "You make these stairs alright?" he asks Sean, concerned about the stripes.
Sean puts his hands down on the handrail and tests them for weight; they'll hold him, easily, and he nods to Viggo. "Yes, Sir." Again, it's not an easy climb, but his arms take most of it.
Viggo leads him down wordlessly, pulling the cord on the overhead light bulb, but that's only to light the stairs; once they're down completely, he flips the switch on the wall.
Fluorescent lights flicker into brightness all over the ceiling, illuminating a large rectangular room. The flooring is stone, and the walls vary depending on where they are in the structure; some stone, some wood. There are exposed weight-bearing structures here and there -- it was a cellar once, back before Viggo converted it.
Various sexual tools line the walls in neat rows on shelves; some are hung from nails and pegs, depending on the type. Two large locking storage cabinets, the sort one might find in a shed, sit at the back end of the room. The floorspace is mainly empty, though it contains a spacious bed in one corner.
Sean has no reaction to offer; if this room was meant to shock him, it doesn't quite manage it. Admittedly, he wouldn't have assumed Viggo was the type of person to have an entire cellar devoted to S&M explorations upon first meeting him, but now is different; Viggo was willing to buy his contract -- was interested in buying his contract -- due to Sean's level of commitment to being owned. Sean has no illusions about Viggo's own dedication; this doesn't seem out of place at all.
Viggo turns around and is pleased by the expression he finds on Sean's face; they understand one another, then. He nods at Sean and then tilts his head toward the stairs. "That's the tour."
"Thank you, Sir," Sean murmurs. He heads back up the stairs again, hoping he won't have to be up and down too many more sets of stairs before the day's over.
Viggo follows slowly, watching Sean's gait. "I have more of that salve. You're looking like you could use it."
"Yes, Sir," Sean nods. There's no point in turning down Viggo's care; the sooner he heals from his stripes, the easier things like navigating staircases will be.
...and the sooner he'll be able to hurt me again, Sean thinks, not quite able to help himself. He wonders where Viggo's talents and interests lie.
"Where do you want to lie down?" Viggo asks as they ascend the stairs.
"Wherever you like, Sir," Sean replies. He reaches the top of the stairs and steps aside, waiting for Viggo to come up.
"The stuff's in my bedroom, but I don't want to make you go up the stairs if you don't want to. You can sprawl out on the couch, if you want." He points toward a cozy overstuffed item in the living room. "Or if you're more comfortable up there..." Viggo shrugs.
"Your new acquisition appreciates the thoughtfulness, Sir, and would be grateful for the offer of the couch, Sir," Sean says immediately. There's no shame, he thinks, in being relieved about not having to go up and down more stairs; Viggo is making the offer, and it would be stupid to allow pride to get in the way of taking it. Pride is unbecoming in a slave anyway, Sean thinks, although the idea itches at him a bit.
Viggo nods. "Go get comfortable," he suggests as he heads up the stairs.
Sean sighs and heads to the couch. He takes his shirt off, folds it neatly, and puts it on the floor beside the couch; takes his pants off and does the same with them. He is slow and careful with his boxers, getting them down over the stripes without letting the elastic touch the welts, and then folds those, too, and drapes himself over the couch. It is comfortable. He is surprised by how comfortable he is here, and wonders how he'd be feeling now if he hadn't spent the last month in Bale's home -- if he'd come here directly after four years with Pierce.
Viggo returns and kneels at the side of the couch, examining the welts carefully. "One hell of a beating," he compliments, impressed that Sean can do much of anything this bruised, this welted, this cut.
For a very brief moment, Sean allows himself a trace of nostalgia. "Yes, Sir, it was," he agrees quietly.
Viggo carefully begins to swab salve over the wounds. "Ice would do you good, too, if you can stand the indecency of putting your ass on ice," Viggo suggests.
"Your new acquisition appreciates your care, Sir, and is not bothered by the indecency of putting his arse on ice."
Viggo chuckles a little at that. "Alright. I'll bring you some when I'm done here."
Humor. This is interesting; Sean doesn't think he remembers Bale laughing at all in their month together, or at least not out of amusement -- maybe out of sarcasm or irony. "Thank you, Sir," Sean says. He's relaxing, and finding it easy to relax here, and that should bother him much, much more than it does. I miss him, he thinks, suddenly, and his eyes twitch, closing harder. This is about Bale, he realizes; his ability to relax here is all about what he learned from belonging to Bale. His chest aches.
"You okay?" Viggo asks quietly, feeling the way Sean tenses up; he runs his dry hand up over Sean's back lightly, as if calming a skittish horse.
"Yes, Sir," Sean whispers. He shivers from the touch on his back; the sensation is far from unpleasant, and his eyes close a bit harder. This is not going to be easy, he thinks, and he's glad for it.
Viggo turns the touch into a light massage, just enough to let the stress come away from Sean's muscles if he's inclined to allow it. "You have a lot to work through," he tells Sean softly. "Not just physically."
God -- another Master fascinated by the process, looking to push Sean through to -- what? Sean lets out a breath and tries to let himself relax. "Quite possibly, Sir," he murmurs. He takes another breath and lets it out. "Have you read my contract, Sir?" he asks.
"Is there something particular in it I should know about?" Viggo asks.
"You have a good deal of time to watch me work through things, Sir," Sean says very softly. "It doesn't expire."
"I know," Viggo murmurs, and puts the lid on the salve; wordlessly, he gets up to fetch the ice pack.
Sean stops himself from asking for a ballpark guess about when Viggo is going to grow tired of him; he sighs and lets himself relax into the couch. Things are going to be different here; he simply doesn't know how yet. And he wonders if this is what he needs in order to be content, or if he's ever going to find whatever it is he's looking for.
Viggo returns with two ice packs and a thin towel, which he drapes carefully over the welts; the salve should cushion the scratch well enough, and Sean's skin needs the protection from the surface chill of the packs. Carefully, he settles the packs on the towel, watching Sean to make sure he can bear it.
Sean clenches his teeth and grunts softly; he doesn't tense, though, and he imagines the ice will do him good in the end. He lets out a long breath. "Thank you, Sir."
"You're welcome. Now the bad news is, you've got to lie there for twenty minutes."
"Yes, Sir." Sean draws his arms under his head and settles in, idly counting seconds as he does.
Viggo settles down in an armchair a few feet from Sean's head; he feels like sticking around, if only to see if Sean will take advantage of his presence to speak or if he will prefer to be silent. He gazes at Sean's body for a moment; he's well-muscled and nicely toned. Even the welts are healing quickly; he's a fine, healthy boy, with far more interior damage than exterior.
The minutes tick by, one after another, and Sean finds he has nothing he really wants to say to Viggo. He has idle curiosities, wonders how long Viggo has been at this, how Viggo knows Bale, but nothing worth speaking up about. He finds himself wishing Viggo were still touching him; he still doesn't know his place here, and merely being observed is somehow far less comfortable than all the various forms of rough treatment he got at Bale's hands his first few days there.
Viggo is unconcerned by the silence; time to contemplate quietly is always welcome. When twenty minutes have elapsed, Viggo gets to his feet and painstakingly removes the ice packs and towel. "That should be much easier on you now," he decides. "We'll do it again before you go to bed so you can sleep."
"Yes, Sir," Sean murmurs. He was nearly lulled into sleep here, just by the silence and the steady rhythm of his counting. "Thank you, Sir."
"You're welcome. You feel well enough to help with dinner?"
"Certainly, if Sir wishes it." Sean shifts up onto his elbows, and looks up at Viggo, eyes still a bit fuzzy; he blinks a few times, trying to clear them.
"What I want most," Viggo explains, "is you better as soon as possible. If you don't think helping with dinner will get in the way of that, I'd be glad to have your help."
"No, Sir; I'd be happy to, Sir." Sean half-rolls, half-pushes himself off the couch and hisses a bit as he gets to his feet. He can look Viggo in the eyes from here, and does, completely unselfconscious about his nudity, his injuries, the fact that Viggo's voice has him half-hard.
"Does it feel better?" Viggo asks, his eyes on Sean's; he hasn't glanced downward once.
"Yes, Sir; quite a bit, Sir," Sean answers honestly. Moving still won't be easy, but he thinks it will be much more possible.
"Good. We'll put you at the stovetop, then. You can keep an eye on things." Viggo heads into the kitchen, smiling a little smile he quickly schools away as Sean follows.
Sean follows Viggo into the kitchen, not asking about his clothes; he stands in the doorway, watching Viggo opening cabinet doors and pulling out various items, wondering if he should offer to help with any of this.
One cupboard yields an apron; Viggo tosses it to Sean. "Wouldn't want to put you through getting your pants on again, but you're gonna burn something I wanna play with later if you don't cover up," he points out. "Special dietary requirements?"
Sean takes the apron, determined not to roll his eyes at this; "naked chef" would make his resume, if he had one, true, but there's still something absurd about wearing an apron and nothing else. He drapes it over his neck and ties it in back, aiming the actual knot as high up his back as he can manage and tucking the ends of the string up so they don't simply hang against his welts.
"Dietary requirements?" Viggo presses when no answer is forthcoming, pausing in his hunt for ingredients.
"None, Sir," Sean says, shaking his head, a little rattled at having failed to answer the first time. "Your new acquisition apologizes for his lapse in concentration, Sir."
Viggo merely waves it off, handing Sean a frying pan and a large container of diced chicken. "Sauté."
"Yes, Sir--" Sean takes the implements and heads to the stove. "Oil or butter, Sir?" he asks, looking through various drawers until he finds a spatula.
"Oil. Little bit." He points to the appropriate cupboard, and when Sean reaches slightly overhead to get it, softly murmurs, "You look damn good from behind, Sean."
Sean tightens his grip on the olive oil and sets it down, very gently, on the counter. He's glad the flush doesn't usually spread up his shoulders when he blushes; glad he's facing away from Viggo, because the nervous arousal that's been threatening him all afternoon is suddenly turning into something a good deal more tangible. And visible. He opens the oil and pours a little into the frying pan, turning on the stove to let the oil heat up.
Viggo nods, though Sean can't see it; Sean knows what he's doing in the kitchen, and that's very handy. Viggo sets to chopping up the various vegetables for later stages of cooking, setting up his cutting board beside the stovetop so he and Sean are standing nearly hip to hip, and says nothing as he goes through the preparations.
Viggo is entirely too close to him now. Sean adds the chicken to the oil, and stirs it around, making sure the pieces are nicely covered but not drowning.
Viggo completes the chopping -- quite a lot of it, really -- and leaves the large bowl at Sean's left for his use when he deems the pan ready. Now it's time to prepare the rice, and as Viggo turns away to get it started, he bites Sean very deliberately at the fleshy point of his shoulder, hungrily, momentarily before sliding past him.
Oh, God. Sean freezes for a moment; he swallows, and closes his eyes, and lets out a breath. He watches the chicken, waiting until it looks like the time is right to add vegetables, and then reaches out for them, dropping them into the pan and stirring, not letting any elements of the dinner fall in an uncontrolled fashion.
Viggo prepares the rice; he's being decadent tonight, and preparing it in a mushroom sauce that will complement the stir-fry well. He supposes it could be taken as an effort to impress his 'new acquisition'; he's decided that's alright. He glances across the kitchen, watching the marks of his teeth fade slowly, and smiles.
The feel of Viggo's eyes on him is making Sean wish he could twitch. He is efficient with his movements, controlled, as deliberate as possible, and he keeps his teeth from clenching. He's not angry; he's just rattled. Master, he thinks, again, then, no, just Christian, and remembers how angry he got with Bale when Bale managed to rattle him. It was never very useful; he exhales softly and lets the anger and the very slight trace of wistfulness go.
Soon enough, the food is nearly ready; "Do you want to put on some clothes before we eat?" Viggo asks Sean, frowning slightly.
"Not particularly, no, Sir," Sean replies, "although your new acquisition will dress if Sir prefers."
"No, that's fine. Go take that to the table. What do you want to drink?" Viggo opens up the fridge, peering inside.
"Water will do fine, Sir," Sean answers; he finds a large bowl for the stir-fry, and a large spoon for it, and takes it over to the table. He waits there, still standing, and looks over to Viggo; after a moment, he takes his apron off and folds it over the back of one of the chairs.
The removal of the apron earns only a quick glance from Viggo; he brings Sean a glass of water and himself a tall bottle of beer, settling into his chair with a happy sigh. "Looks good," he comments of the food.
Sean doesn't comment; he merely remains standing, wondering whether he's supposed to sit or stand or kneel.
Viggo gestures to the chair across from him. "C'mon, time to eat," he urges, beginning to dish himself up generous portions.
"Yes, Sir," Sean says. He pulls his chair out and eases himself into it, taking moderate portions of everything.
"I know you're used to being micromanaged," Viggo allows. "I don't do that. Don't be afraid to do things. If they're wrong, you won't be punished."
Curiosity finally wins out. "What do you do, Sir?" Sean asks.
Viggo tilts his head. "I keep slaves."
"Plural, Sir?" Sean asks, clarifying, "at once?"
"Sometimes. But that's not really what you're trying to get out of me, is it?"
Sean shrugs. "You have me until you grow tired of me, Sir; I'm content to ask one question at a time until I have enough figured out."
Viggo nods, as if everyone said things like that, and continues to eat.
For a few more moments, Sean follows suit; finally, though, he takes a long drink of water and contemplates Viggo again. I keep slaves. Sean raises an eyebrow. "How long do your contracts normally last, Sir?" he asks.
"There's no set standard."
"Your shortest one?" Sean tries.
Viggo meets his eyes calmly. "Two days."
The corner of Sean's mouth twitches up at that. "Your longest one?"
Viggo goes quiet at that, taking a sip of beer before he answers. "Six years."
Sean is prodding for certain now. "Did you end it, or did he?"
"We agreed."
"Ah."
Viggo goes quiet again, unwilling to continue the topic unless Sean actively pursues it. Sean remains quiet himself, uncertain whether to offer anything from his own past in return.
As the silence stretches, Viggo realizes Sean won't continue, and he relaxes, finishing his meal in peace with a good pull off the beer.
Viggo's silences bother Sean. He probably would have leaned hard on Bale if he'd been pressing in on a topic that was clearly making Bale uncomfortable; with Viggo, Sean feels a need to stop. It's not a matter of respect, precisely; it's a matter of not knowing where the limits are, and not being quite ready to find out how far he can push Viggo yet.
Viggo sits at the table, comfortably quiet, to let digestion do its work; after a few minutes have passed, he gets to his feet to bring the dishes into the kitchen, still silent.
Sean waits, not moving; he folds his arms over on the table and leans on them, looking down, wondering when he'll be called on for more than this.
Viggo clears the table entirely and then begins to wash the dishes by hand, quiet, unconcerned that he's left Sean directionless.
Sooner or later, Sean figures; he's beginning to think this is a test, and he stays quiet, determined not to let his impatience show at all.
Viggo finishes the dishes and wipes his hands on a towel, satisfied. "Want a nightcap?" he asks Sean.
Want, Sean thinks. Yes. No. He sighs inwardly. "Yes, Sir," he says quietly.
"What would you like?"
"What's on the menu, Sir?" Sean asks, raising an eyebrow.
Viggo shrugs. "I'm pretty well stocked. Scotch, vodka, rum, brandy, beer...plenty of mixers if you like."
Sean had considered asking whether Viggo's offer was a euphemism; he wishes, now, that he'd gone ahead and done it. "I'd be happier with a cup of tea, Sir," Sean says, "unless you'd prefer it if I had something else."
Viggo nods, unbothered. "What kind?"
It seems Viggo won't be satisfied unless Sean expresses a preference for something; "Mint?" Sean asks, with some hope.
"Sure," Viggo agrees, putting the electric kettle on. "Sounds good to me too, actually."
Sean waits while the water warms up, still not moving. It takes a great deal of effort not to fidget. It's a waiting game, he reminds himself, and he thinks he's going to lose.
Viggo pours two cups of hot water and adds teabags to both, bringing them to the table. He settles himself across from Sean again and asks quietly, "Does the place suit you?"
"I don't know yet, Sir," Sean answers honestly; he thinks of the cellar, though, and nods a bit. "Probably, Sir," he murmurs.
Viggo nods. "I know. We haven't gotten into anything yet. But the house, your room -- it's all right?"
"Yes, Sir. It's fine, Sir." Sean dunks his teabag a few times, mostly just to give himself something to do, and lifts the cup to his lips. It's too hot, still, but he takes a sip anyway, wincing as the tea hits his tongue.
"Good." Viggo goes quiet for a few moments, then says, "I think when we're done with our tea, I'll ice you down again, and then you can head back up to bed. You need your rest."
Disappointment flickers in Sean's eyes for a moment before he catches himself. "Yes, Sir," he murmurs.
"Your healing takes priority," Viggo says quietly, and lets Sean come to his own conclusions about priority over what, exactly.
"I appreciate that, Sir," Sean replies, dropping the 'your new acquisition' bit, finally.
Viggo nods. "Good. I'm glad to hear it."
Sean has no response for that; he goes back to his tea, silent again.
When they are finished, Viggo once again does up the dishes, giving Sean a little gesture indicating he ought to lie down on the couch again.
Getting up and moving is easier now than it was, if only barely; Sean goes to the couch and stretches out, folding his arms and resting his head on them. He lets out a long breath. This would be easier if there were some sense of anticipation; the sharp bite in the kitchen, the compliment, are enough to make him nervous and interested, but he has no idea of knowing what more, if anything, might be coming. Something, he hopes, and doesn't grimace at himself for the hope; he didn't come here hoping Viggo was never going to touch him.
Viggo enters with the salve, towel, and ice packs as before; his touch is light and doesn't linger with the salve, and soon the ice packs are steadied on top of the towel once more.
He's good at this, Sean thinks, at taking care of people who are injured. "Thank you," he whispers.
Surprised, Viggo lets his hand trail up Sean's back lightly. "You're welcome," he murmurs, still knelt on the floor.
Sean's breath comes out a little unsteadily at the feel of Viggo's hand on his back. He doesn't move, doesn't arch; he does take a deeper, longer breath, and lets it out just as unevenly.
Viggo pats his shoulder lightly. "Think you can put the ice packs away when your twenty minutes is up?"
Another slight pang of disappointment; Sean nods. "Yes, Sir." He realizes he hasn't been counting, and starts now, estimating about a minute and a half has gone since Viggo put the ice packs on him. The counting is a welcome distraction.
"Go on and put them away when it's time, and then go to bed. Alright?" Viggo asks, rising to his feet.
Sean's voice is very soft now. "Yes, Sir," he manages. Two minutes, ten. Two minutes, eleven. Two minutes, twelve...
Viggo nods, and slowly climbs the stairs to the bedrooms.
Sean has more than enough time to think while he's alone, and he doesn't want that time; his thoughts are of Bale, wondering if he could have stayed with him if Bale hadn't fallen for him -- of Viggo, wondering if this sense of near-abandonment is coming from Viggo's lack of attention or from having just lost Bale. His eyes slide closed. I wonder if I want to be here as much as it feels like at the moment, or if it's only because I don't want all this to be over. Four years and some is a long time to be a slave; Sean has never quite found what he's looking for, he knows, and leaving here, if it ever happens, will probably be the end of his search.
He ends up blinking back tears, and then deciding the hell with it, and letting them come, quietly, while he marks time.
Arc: Captivation
Authors:
dragonkal and helens78Pairing: Viggo Mortensen/Sean Bean
Rating: R
Summary: Sean's first day with his new owner. Viggo is very, very different.
Disclaimer: Fictional. Not real.
Warnings: BDSM arc; here there be aftercare for a rough, deliberate caning.
Things are different already. Sean has been lying in bed for two hours now -- two hours and five minutes, to be precise -- and Viggo hasn't come in to check on him.
Viggo. God. Sean buries his head in the pillow and lets out a breath. Sean has never particularly liked Viggo. Working with Viggo was frustrating on a number of levels Sean doesn't really care to contemplate. Being here -- Sean wonders what he could possibly have been thinking, agreeing to this. His contract still doesn't have a safeword. Still doesn't have an expiration date. But then, Bale lasted just over a month.
I have sought, and have been unable to find, the level of commitment I need in a submissive. Sean wonders what in hell that meant, and how long Viggo intends to keep him. He wonders whether Viggo even knows about the length of his contract, and what he thinks about that.
Two hours, ten minutes. Sean struggles himself out of bed and makes his way out to the back yard, seeking out his new Master.
Viggo is dozing off and on in the hammock; he catches sight of Sean through one of the windows and opens his eyes, expecting Sean to come out. He looks good in the house; Viggo thinks he'll be a good match. Hopes he'll be.
Sean spots Viggo in the hammock; he hesitates, then grits his teeth together hard and manages to go to his knees, blinking and wincing and biting back on a curse. "Good afternoon, Sir. Your new acquisition thanks you for allowing him some rest."
Viggo smiles; he likes that Sean's decided to do this all on his own, particularly considering the pain it must cause him; it tells Viggo a good deal about his state of mind. "You're welcome. You hungry?"
"No, Sir." Sean raises an eyebrow at the smile, but doesn't ask.
"Did you sleep, all that time?" Viggo sits up, swinging his legs down to the ground.
"Nearly all, Sir." Sean takes a breath, lowers his eyes. Watching Viggo is as painfully uncomfortable as he remembered; the twist of interest and the answering frustration of not wanting to feel that interest are still there at the surface, and Sean belongs to this man now. He closes his eyes, then opens them again to focus on the grass.
"D'you want a tour of the house?" Viggo gets to his feet, stretching luxuriously. "It's not that big, but it might help to know your way around."
Why not. "Yes, Sir," Sean answers, fastidiously keeping his eyes off Viggo.
"It'll be a lot easier if you get up," Viggo suggests, already headed toward the house.
Bastard. Sean pushes himself off his knees, hissing out air and trying to keep it as silent as possible. He follows two paces behind Viggo, at his left shoulder.
"Did the stuff Christian used on your stripes work pretty well?" Viggo asks, opening up the glass sliding door and holding it open for Sean.
"Yes, Sir." Sean hesitates for a moment, slightly uncomfortable with the notion that he's supposed to precede Viggo into the house; with a slight sigh, he steps through, then immediately stops, turns, and waits for Viggo to come in.
Viggo slides the door shut behind him. "I think this floor's pretty self-explanatory," he decides, pointing. "Front room, dining room through there, kitchen. My workshop's back through there. And then over here --" He leads Sean to the right, toward the staircase -- "is the bathroom, the closet, that sort of thing." He heads up the stairs, expecting Sean to follow.
More stairs. Sean winces and follows, if slowly.
"Come around here --" Viggo makes a hairpin turn around the stair's railing; the stairs come up into the middle of the hall, and another small railing surrounds the opening for safety. "Back behind the stairs here is my area. This is the master bedroom." He opens the door, holding it wide, but doesn't go in; the implication is for Sean to take a good look inside without exploring overmuch.
Sean glances in; it's much neater than he expected, for some reason. There's a queen-sized bed against the middle of the wall, a dresser -- no, actually, two large dressers and a smaller one. Sean blinks a few times, thinking that most of those drawers probably don't contain clothing. He looks back up at Viggo, trying to make sure his expression isn't a very curious one; it's a bit of a struggle.
"Later," Viggo promises, a sardonic little grin teasing his lips upward, and shuts the door, walking around the rest of the hallway tucked behind the stairway's railing. "Bath." He opens the door briefly; nothing special there, aside from a lewd and masochistic black-and-white photo framed and hung over the toilet. "Storage; empty now." He opens that door too; it's a completely empty walk-in closet devoid of everything but four bare wood walls.
Do. Not. React. Sean tells himself; he can already imagine having to spend the night in that closet, and is determined not to let that idea throw him off. He nods at everything in turn and keeps alternating between looking at the house and looking at Viggo. Looking at Viggo is disturbing, too; he finds himself unable to decide where to put his eyes, and settles for the floor again.
Viggo comes around the rails to the other side of the hall; Sean's been down here before to the guest bedroom. "Your room," Viggo points out for completion's sake. "Bath...another couple spare bedrooms." Viggo just points at those closed doors; doesn't bother showing Sean the insides. "Now I'll show you the rest," he says without a hint of what that will be, and heads downstairs again.
Still slowly, Sean follows; the house is bigger than it looked from the outside.
Viggo leads them down back behind the main-floor staircase, opening a trapdoor; more stairs, surprisingly sturdy -- Viggo rebuilt them over a boring weekend -- lead down into what so far looks like a cellar. "You make these stairs alright?" he asks Sean, concerned about the stripes.
Sean puts his hands down on the handrail and tests them for weight; they'll hold him, easily, and he nods to Viggo. "Yes, Sir." Again, it's not an easy climb, but his arms take most of it.
Viggo leads him down wordlessly, pulling the cord on the overhead light bulb, but that's only to light the stairs; once they're down completely, he flips the switch on the wall.
Fluorescent lights flicker into brightness all over the ceiling, illuminating a large rectangular room. The flooring is stone, and the walls vary depending on where they are in the structure; some stone, some wood. There are exposed weight-bearing structures here and there -- it was a cellar once, back before Viggo converted it.
Various sexual tools line the walls in neat rows on shelves; some are hung from nails and pegs, depending on the type. Two large locking storage cabinets, the sort one might find in a shed, sit at the back end of the room. The floorspace is mainly empty, though it contains a spacious bed in one corner.
Sean has no reaction to offer; if this room was meant to shock him, it doesn't quite manage it. Admittedly, he wouldn't have assumed Viggo was the type of person to have an entire cellar devoted to S&M explorations upon first meeting him, but now is different; Viggo was willing to buy his contract -- was interested in buying his contract -- due to Sean's level of commitment to being owned. Sean has no illusions about Viggo's own dedication; this doesn't seem out of place at all.
Viggo turns around and is pleased by the expression he finds on Sean's face; they understand one another, then. He nods at Sean and then tilts his head toward the stairs. "That's the tour."
"Thank you, Sir," Sean murmurs. He heads back up the stairs again, hoping he won't have to be up and down too many more sets of stairs before the day's over.
Viggo follows slowly, watching Sean's gait. "I have more of that salve. You're looking like you could use it."
"Yes, Sir," Sean nods. There's no point in turning down Viggo's care; the sooner he heals from his stripes, the easier things like navigating staircases will be.
...and the sooner he'll be able to hurt me again, Sean thinks, not quite able to help himself. He wonders where Viggo's talents and interests lie.
"Where do you want to lie down?" Viggo asks as they ascend the stairs.
"Wherever you like, Sir," Sean replies. He reaches the top of the stairs and steps aside, waiting for Viggo to come up.
"The stuff's in my bedroom, but I don't want to make you go up the stairs if you don't want to. You can sprawl out on the couch, if you want." He points toward a cozy overstuffed item in the living room. "Or if you're more comfortable up there..." Viggo shrugs.
"Your new acquisition appreciates the thoughtfulness, Sir, and would be grateful for the offer of the couch, Sir," Sean says immediately. There's no shame, he thinks, in being relieved about not having to go up and down more stairs; Viggo is making the offer, and it would be stupid to allow pride to get in the way of taking it. Pride is unbecoming in a slave anyway, Sean thinks, although the idea itches at him a bit.
Viggo nods. "Go get comfortable," he suggests as he heads up the stairs.
Sean sighs and heads to the couch. He takes his shirt off, folds it neatly, and puts it on the floor beside the couch; takes his pants off and does the same with them. He is slow and careful with his boxers, getting them down over the stripes without letting the elastic touch the welts, and then folds those, too, and drapes himself over the couch. It is comfortable. He is surprised by how comfortable he is here, and wonders how he'd be feeling now if he hadn't spent the last month in Bale's home -- if he'd come here directly after four years with Pierce.
Viggo returns and kneels at the side of the couch, examining the welts carefully. "One hell of a beating," he compliments, impressed that Sean can do much of anything this bruised, this welted, this cut.
For a very brief moment, Sean allows himself a trace of nostalgia. "Yes, Sir, it was," he agrees quietly.
Viggo carefully begins to swab salve over the wounds. "Ice would do you good, too, if you can stand the indecency of putting your ass on ice," Viggo suggests.
"Your new acquisition appreciates your care, Sir, and is not bothered by the indecency of putting his arse on ice."
Viggo chuckles a little at that. "Alright. I'll bring you some when I'm done here."
Humor. This is interesting; Sean doesn't think he remembers Bale laughing at all in their month together, or at least not out of amusement -- maybe out of sarcasm or irony. "Thank you, Sir," Sean says. He's relaxing, and finding it easy to relax here, and that should bother him much, much more than it does. I miss him, he thinks, suddenly, and his eyes twitch, closing harder. This is about Bale, he realizes; his ability to relax here is all about what he learned from belonging to Bale. His chest aches.
"You okay?" Viggo asks quietly, feeling the way Sean tenses up; he runs his dry hand up over Sean's back lightly, as if calming a skittish horse.
"Yes, Sir," Sean whispers. He shivers from the touch on his back; the sensation is far from unpleasant, and his eyes close a bit harder. This is not going to be easy, he thinks, and he's glad for it.
Viggo turns the touch into a light massage, just enough to let the stress come away from Sean's muscles if he's inclined to allow it. "You have a lot to work through," he tells Sean softly. "Not just physically."
God -- another Master fascinated by the process, looking to push Sean through to -- what? Sean lets out a breath and tries to let himself relax. "Quite possibly, Sir," he murmurs. He takes another breath and lets it out. "Have you read my contract, Sir?" he asks.
"Is there something particular in it I should know about?" Viggo asks.
"You have a good deal of time to watch me work through things, Sir," Sean says very softly. "It doesn't expire."
"I know," Viggo murmurs, and puts the lid on the salve; wordlessly, he gets up to fetch the ice pack.
Sean stops himself from asking for a ballpark guess about when Viggo is going to grow tired of him; he sighs and lets himself relax into the couch. Things are going to be different here; he simply doesn't know how yet. And he wonders if this is what he needs in order to be content, or if he's ever going to find whatever it is he's looking for.
Viggo returns with two ice packs and a thin towel, which he drapes carefully over the welts; the salve should cushion the scratch well enough, and Sean's skin needs the protection from the surface chill of the packs. Carefully, he settles the packs on the towel, watching Sean to make sure he can bear it.
Sean clenches his teeth and grunts softly; he doesn't tense, though, and he imagines the ice will do him good in the end. He lets out a long breath. "Thank you, Sir."
"You're welcome. Now the bad news is, you've got to lie there for twenty minutes."
"Yes, Sir." Sean draws his arms under his head and settles in, idly counting seconds as he does.
Viggo settles down in an armchair a few feet from Sean's head; he feels like sticking around, if only to see if Sean will take advantage of his presence to speak or if he will prefer to be silent. He gazes at Sean's body for a moment; he's well-muscled and nicely toned. Even the welts are healing quickly; he's a fine, healthy boy, with far more interior damage than exterior.
The minutes tick by, one after another, and Sean finds he has nothing he really wants to say to Viggo. He has idle curiosities, wonders how long Viggo has been at this, how Viggo knows Bale, but nothing worth speaking up about. He finds himself wishing Viggo were still touching him; he still doesn't know his place here, and merely being observed is somehow far less comfortable than all the various forms of rough treatment he got at Bale's hands his first few days there.
Viggo is unconcerned by the silence; time to contemplate quietly is always welcome. When twenty minutes have elapsed, Viggo gets to his feet and painstakingly removes the ice packs and towel. "That should be much easier on you now," he decides. "We'll do it again before you go to bed so you can sleep."
"Yes, Sir," Sean murmurs. He was nearly lulled into sleep here, just by the silence and the steady rhythm of his counting. "Thank you, Sir."
"You're welcome. You feel well enough to help with dinner?"
"Certainly, if Sir wishes it." Sean shifts up onto his elbows, and looks up at Viggo, eyes still a bit fuzzy; he blinks a few times, trying to clear them.
"What I want most," Viggo explains, "is you better as soon as possible. If you don't think helping with dinner will get in the way of that, I'd be glad to have your help."
"No, Sir; I'd be happy to, Sir." Sean half-rolls, half-pushes himself off the couch and hisses a bit as he gets to his feet. He can look Viggo in the eyes from here, and does, completely unselfconscious about his nudity, his injuries, the fact that Viggo's voice has him half-hard.
"Does it feel better?" Viggo asks, his eyes on Sean's; he hasn't glanced downward once.
"Yes, Sir; quite a bit, Sir," Sean answers honestly. Moving still won't be easy, but he thinks it will be much more possible.
"Good. We'll put you at the stovetop, then. You can keep an eye on things." Viggo heads into the kitchen, smiling a little smile he quickly schools away as Sean follows.
Sean follows Viggo into the kitchen, not asking about his clothes; he stands in the doorway, watching Viggo opening cabinet doors and pulling out various items, wondering if he should offer to help with any of this.
One cupboard yields an apron; Viggo tosses it to Sean. "Wouldn't want to put you through getting your pants on again, but you're gonna burn something I wanna play with later if you don't cover up," he points out. "Special dietary requirements?"
Sean takes the apron, determined not to roll his eyes at this; "naked chef" would make his resume, if he had one, true, but there's still something absurd about wearing an apron and nothing else. He drapes it over his neck and ties it in back, aiming the actual knot as high up his back as he can manage and tucking the ends of the string up so they don't simply hang against his welts.
"Dietary requirements?" Viggo presses when no answer is forthcoming, pausing in his hunt for ingredients.
"None, Sir," Sean says, shaking his head, a little rattled at having failed to answer the first time. "Your new acquisition apologizes for his lapse in concentration, Sir."
Viggo merely waves it off, handing Sean a frying pan and a large container of diced chicken. "Sauté."
"Yes, Sir--" Sean takes the implements and heads to the stove. "Oil or butter, Sir?" he asks, looking through various drawers until he finds a spatula.
"Oil. Little bit." He points to the appropriate cupboard, and when Sean reaches slightly overhead to get it, softly murmurs, "You look damn good from behind, Sean."
Sean tightens his grip on the olive oil and sets it down, very gently, on the counter. He's glad the flush doesn't usually spread up his shoulders when he blushes; glad he's facing away from Viggo, because the nervous arousal that's been threatening him all afternoon is suddenly turning into something a good deal more tangible. And visible. He opens the oil and pours a little into the frying pan, turning on the stove to let the oil heat up.
Viggo nods, though Sean can't see it; Sean knows what he's doing in the kitchen, and that's very handy. Viggo sets to chopping up the various vegetables for later stages of cooking, setting up his cutting board beside the stovetop so he and Sean are standing nearly hip to hip, and says nothing as he goes through the preparations.
Viggo is entirely too close to him now. Sean adds the chicken to the oil, and stirs it around, making sure the pieces are nicely covered but not drowning.
Viggo completes the chopping -- quite a lot of it, really -- and leaves the large bowl at Sean's left for his use when he deems the pan ready. Now it's time to prepare the rice, and as Viggo turns away to get it started, he bites Sean very deliberately at the fleshy point of his shoulder, hungrily, momentarily before sliding past him.
Oh, God. Sean freezes for a moment; he swallows, and closes his eyes, and lets out a breath. He watches the chicken, waiting until it looks like the time is right to add vegetables, and then reaches out for them, dropping them into the pan and stirring, not letting any elements of the dinner fall in an uncontrolled fashion.
Viggo prepares the rice; he's being decadent tonight, and preparing it in a mushroom sauce that will complement the stir-fry well. He supposes it could be taken as an effort to impress his 'new acquisition'; he's decided that's alright. He glances across the kitchen, watching the marks of his teeth fade slowly, and smiles.
The feel of Viggo's eyes on him is making Sean wish he could twitch. He is efficient with his movements, controlled, as deliberate as possible, and he keeps his teeth from clenching. He's not angry; he's just rattled. Master, he thinks, again, then, no, just Christian, and remembers how angry he got with Bale when Bale managed to rattle him. It was never very useful; he exhales softly and lets the anger and the very slight trace of wistfulness go.
Soon enough, the food is nearly ready; "Do you want to put on some clothes before we eat?" Viggo asks Sean, frowning slightly.
"Not particularly, no, Sir," Sean replies, "although your new acquisition will dress if Sir prefers."
"No, that's fine. Go take that to the table. What do you want to drink?" Viggo opens up the fridge, peering inside.
"Water will do fine, Sir," Sean answers; he finds a large bowl for the stir-fry, and a large spoon for it, and takes it over to the table. He waits there, still standing, and looks over to Viggo; after a moment, he takes his apron off and folds it over the back of one of the chairs.
The removal of the apron earns only a quick glance from Viggo; he brings Sean a glass of water and himself a tall bottle of beer, settling into his chair with a happy sigh. "Looks good," he comments of the food.
Sean doesn't comment; he merely remains standing, wondering whether he's supposed to sit or stand or kneel.
Viggo gestures to the chair across from him. "C'mon, time to eat," he urges, beginning to dish himself up generous portions.
"Yes, Sir," Sean says. He pulls his chair out and eases himself into it, taking moderate portions of everything.
"I know you're used to being micromanaged," Viggo allows. "I don't do that. Don't be afraid to do things. If they're wrong, you won't be punished."
Curiosity finally wins out. "What do you do, Sir?" Sean asks.
Viggo tilts his head. "I keep slaves."
"Plural, Sir?" Sean asks, clarifying, "at once?"
"Sometimes. But that's not really what you're trying to get out of me, is it?"
Sean shrugs. "You have me until you grow tired of me, Sir; I'm content to ask one question at a time until I have enough figured out."
Viggo nods, as if everyone said things like that, and continues to eat.
For a few more moments, Sean follows suit; finally, though, he takes a long drink of water and contemplates Viggo again. I keep slaves. Sean raises an eyebrow. "How long do your contracts normally last, Sir?" he asks.
"There's no set standard."
"Your shortest one?" Sean tries.
Viggo meets his eyes calmly. "Two days."
The corner of Sean's mouth twitches up at that. "Your longest one?"
Viggo goes quiet at that, taking a sip of beer before he answers. "Six years."
Sean is prodding for certain now. "Did you end it, or did he?"
"We agreed."
"Ah."
Viggo goes quiet again, unwilling to continue the topic unless Sean actively pursues it. Sean remains quiet himself, uncertain whether to offer anything from his own past in return.
As the silence stretches, Viggo realizes Sean won't continue, and he relaxes, finishing his meal in peace with a good pull off the beer.
Viggo's silences bother Sean. He probably would have leaned hard on Bale if he'd been pressing in on a topic that was clearly making Bale uncomfortable; with Viggo, Sean feels a need to stop. It's not a matter of respect, precisely; it's a matter of not knowing where the limits are, and not being quite ready to find out how far he can push Viggo yet.
Viggo sits at the table, comfortably quiet, to let digestion do its work; after a few minutes have passed, he gets to his feet to bring the dishes into the kitchen, still silent.
Sean waits, not moving; he folds his arms over on the table and leans on them, looking down, wondering when he'll be called on for more than this.
Viggo clears the table entirely and then begins to wash the dishes by hand, quiet, unconcerned that he's left Sean directionless.
Sooner or later, Sean figures; he's beginning to think this is a test, and he stays quiet, determined not to let his impatience show at all.
Viggo finishes the dishes and wipes his hands on a towel, satisfied. "Want a nightcap?" he asks Sean.
Want, Sean thinks. Yes. No. He sighs inwardly. "Yes, Sir," he says quietly.
"What would you like?"
"What's on the menu, Sir?" Sean asks, raising an eyebrow.
Viggo shrugs. "I'm pretty well stocked. Scotch, vodka, rum, brandy, beer...plenty of mixers if you like."
Sean had considered asking whether Viggo's offer was a euphemism; he wishes, now, that he'd gone ahead and done it. "I'd be happier with a cup of tea, Sir," Sean says, "unless you'd prefer it if I had something else."
Viggo nods, unbothered. "What kind?"
It seems Viggo won't be satisfied unless Sean expresses a preference for something; "Mint?" Sean asks, with some hope.
"Sure," Viggo agrees, putting the electric kettle on. "Sounds good to me too, actually."
Sean waits while the water warms up, still not moving. It takes a great deal of effort not to fidget. It's a waiting game, he reminds himself, and he thinks he's going to lose.
Viggo pours two cups of hot water and adds teabags to both, bringing them to the table. He settles himself across from Sean again and asks quietly, "Does the place suit you?"
"I don't know yet, Sir," Sean answers honestly; he thinks of the cellar, though, and nods a bit. "Probably, Sir," he murmurs.
Viggo nods. "I know. We haven't gotten into anything yet. But the house, your room -- it's all right?"
"Yes, Sir. It's fine, Sir." Sean dunks his teabag a few times, mostly just to give himself something to do, and lifts the cup to his lips. It's too hot, still, but he takes a sip anyway, wincing as the tea hits his tongue.
"Good." Viggo goes quiet for a few moments, then says, "I think when we're done with our tea, I'll ice you down again, and then you can head back up to bed. You need your rest."
Disappointment flickers in Sean's eyes for a moment before he catches himself. "Yes, Sir," he murmurs.
"Your healing takes priority," Viggo says quietly, and lets Sean come to his own conclusions about priority over what, exactly.
"I appreciate that, Sir," Sean replies, dropping the 'your new acquisition' bit, finally.
Viggo nods. "Good. I'm glad to hear it."
Sean has no response for that; he goes back to his tea, silent again.
When they are finished, Viggo once again does up the dishes, giving Sean a little gesture indicating he ought to lie down on the couch again.
Getting up and moving is easier now than it was, if only barely; Sean goes to the couch and stretches out, folding his arms and resting his head on them. He lets out a long breath. This would be easier if there were some sense of anticipation; the sharp bite in the kitchen, the compliment, are enough to make him nervous and interested, but he has no idea of knowing what more, if anything, might be coming. Something, he hopes, and doesn't grimace at himself for the hope; he didn't come here hoping Viggo was never going to touch him.
Viggo enters with the salve, towel, and ice packs as before; his touch is light and doesn't linger with the salve, and soon the ice packs are steadied on top of the towel once more.
He's good at this, Sean thinks, at taking care of people who are injured. "Thank you," he whispers.
Surprised, Viggo lets his hand trail up Sean's back lightly. "You're welcome," he murmurs, still knelt on the floor.
Sean's breath comes out a little unsteadily at the feel of Viggo's hand on his back. He doesn't move, doesn't arch; he does take a deeper, longer breath, and lets it out just as unevenly.
Viggo pats his shoulder lightly. "Think you can put the ice packs away when your twenty minutes is up?"
Another slight pang of disappointment; Sean nods. "Yes, Sir." He realizes he hasn't been counting, and starts now, estimating about a minute and a half has gone since Viggo put the ice packs on him. The counting is a welcome distraction.
"Go on and put them away when it's time, and then go to bed. Alright?" Viggo asks, rising to his feet.
Sean's voice is very soft now. "Yes, Sir," he manages. Two minutes, ten. Two minutes, eleven. Two minutes, twelve...
Viggo nods, and slowly climbs the stairs to the bedrooms.
Sean has more than enough time to think while he's alone, and he doesn't want that time; his thoughts are of Bale, wondering if he could have stayed with him if Bale hadn't fallen for him -- of Viggo, wondering if this sense of near-abandonment is coming from Viggo's lack of attention or from having just lost Bale. His eyes slide closed. I wonder if I want to be here as much as it feels like at the moment, or if it's only because I don't want all this to be over. Four years and some is a long time to be a slave; Sean has never quite found what he's looking for, he knows, and leaving here, if it ever happens, will probably be the end of his search.
He ends up blinking back tears, and then deciding the hell with it, and letting them come, quietly, while he marks time.
