rugbytackle | captivation 6: hazard

6: hazard
Arc: Captivation
Authors:

helens78
Pairing: Viggo Mortensen/Sean Bean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: More talking; Sean says more than he means to. Touching. Earning favors.
Disclaimer: Fictional. Not real.

Whew! All caught up with what's been posted on JF. Updates every morning there's a new piece from now on.

Viggo pats his lips with his napkin and makes a soft humming sound of contentment; even after being beaten within an inch of his life last night, even moving with clear difficulty around the kitchen due to his bruises, Sean makes excellent, unusual, practically gourmet meals. Breakfast, especially, is a meal Viggo has come to anticipate; always unusual, always very tasty. Lingonberry butter to go with the Swedish pancakes -- Viggo suspects his earlier "reward" to Sean for good cooking has spurred on an entire gourmet debacle, though he can't say he's unhappy about it.

That one soft hum made all the effort it's taken to walk around this morning worth it. Admittedly, Sean enjoys cooking; he enjoys having the freedom to exercise at least some small part of his creativity here. He doesn't know whether he'd have gone to this much effort if he were on his own; it's been too long since he's been on his own, and he really doesn't remember.

His approval means something to me, Sean thinks. And it bothers him that Viggo's already managed to get to him this deeply. He sets his jaw as he clears the dishes off the table. He's going to have to work on this need for approval. This is a business transaction, not a relationship; Viggo is his owner, not his lover, not his partner.

"Take off your clothes," Viggo says, despite the fact that Sean is in the midst of clearing the table. "Right now, before you finish that."

Sean immediately puts the dishes down and slides out of his clothes, holding himself fairly rigid as he gets his pants down over his arse. The bruises hurt every time he has to move. He drapes his discarded clothing over an empty chair and stands up straight, nearly at attention. He'll kneel when the order comes.

"Now finish up," Viggo murmurs, gesturing at the remaining dishes.

"Yes, Sir," Sean says; he takes the rest of the dishes into the kitchen and slides them into the sink. He glances over his shoulder for a glimpse of Viggo, but then decides if Viggo wants anything else, he'll ask. Sean starts running water for the dishes.

Viggo slides down a little in his chair, watching Sean's bruised ass as he performs the menial tasks. Damn, but he marks up well. Viggo finds himself getting hard at the thought of it, and strokes himself through his pants under the table.

The task of cleaning up after breakfast isn't nearly as pleasant as actually cooking; if Sean could safeword out of doing dishes, he would. Still, at least it's something. At least it's an order. At least it means his presence here means something. It's not quite enough to make the job pleasant, but it is enough to make it tolerable.

Viggo cocks his head a little, considering ways to show off those bruises; he settles on one at last. "When you're done there," he tells Sean, "I have something for you to do." He's still idly stroking himself.

"Yes, Sir." Sean quickly finishes up the last of the dishes, placing it in the wooden drying rack, and dries his hands off on a kitchen towel. He hangs the towel up neatly and heads back into the dining room. A wince gets him onto his knees, looking up at Viggo, waiting for instruction.

"Go get my personal phonebook and the cordless." He points in the vague direction of the little table in the living room that holds the phone.

Interesting. Sean heads over to the phone and pulls the little black book out of the drawer, and brings it and the handset back to Viggo. Kneeling again, he presents both, head lowered.

"I want to invite some like-minded friends to come take a look at you," Viggo explains. "You'll introduce yourself as my boy and tell them I've asked you to call because I want them to come by and see you."

Sean's head snaps up; it's not so much the invitation, or his role in it, as the way he's supposed to introduce himself. ...my boy... He nods once, still turning that phrase over in his head. Hello, Sir. This is Viggo's boy. He's asked me... Sean is already starting to blush red. It'll be an effort keeping his voice straight while he does this.

"Start with Bruce Evans," Viggo instructs, and pushes his chair back from the table, turning it a little bit so he's facing Sean directly. He lets his legs fall open and rests his hand lightly on the bulge between them.

Sean looks the number up and dials. The voice on the other end of the line greets him in a low drawl, and Sean gets his own voice as clear and steady as possible for the introduction.

"Hello, Sir. This is Viggo's boy. He's asked me to call you because he wants you to come by and see me."

"Oh, you must be the new one," Bruce decides; the drawl is so pronounced it borders on sounding sarcastic. "Tell your Master I'll be by, and tell him I like the sound of your voice."

Viggo watches in the quiet on Sean's end of the line, rubbing the heel of his hand slowly against his growing erection, grinding it lightly through his pants.

The new one, Sean thinks. He's told people about me. The idea is somehow stunning; after the way Viggo acquired him, the last thing Sean would have expected was for Viggo to tell people about him. He hangs up the phone and looks up at Viggo. "Mister Evans says he'll be by, and that he likes the sound of my voice," Sean says quietly.

That makes Viggo smile. "Good. Now call Nancy Roeper."

The name -- female -- makes Sean's stomach twist unpleasantly. He dials the number anyway.

"Yes?"

"Hello, Ma'am. This is Viggo's boy. He's asked me to call you because he wants you to come by and see me." Sean's on autopilot now, repeating the words from earlier, relieved they're not sticking in his throat.

"Ah, an invitation at last," Nancy says with some humor. "And what's your name, 'Viggo's boy'?"

"Sean, Ma'am."

"Hello, Sean. I live nearly forty minutes from Master Viggo's home. Describe yourself to me; I want to know if it's worth the time."

Sean closes his eyes. "I'm five foot eleven inches, ma'am. Blond. Medium build, muscles toned, fit."

"I can find that at my neighborhood coffee shop," she replies dryly. "What's got me running across town for you?"

"There are bruises covering my arse, Ma'am, new ones given last night." Sean's eyes spark. "He let me off easy. I barely had to beg at all."

Viggo raises an eyebrow; Nancy laughs on the other end of the line. "Oh, Sean," she warns, voice still light, "keep on like that and you won't get any more for a very long time."

"We'll see, Ma'am. Will you come by, then?"

Viggo shoots Sean a warning look even as Nancy verbalizes his concern. "You have a lot of work to do in addressing a Master or Mistress properly," she retorts, her silky voice suddenly sharp. "Actually, I suspect the trouble is just with addressing Mistresses. Am I right, Viggo's boy?"

Sean goes silent, eyes on Viggo's. After a moment, he gets his voice under control enough to speak again. "Ma'am; yes, Ma'am, you're correct, Ma'am."

"Ah," she murmurs. "Much better, Viggo's boy. Now there's something I'd like to see in person. Tell Viggo I'll be by, and I'll bring some lemon creme pie."

"Ma'am; yes, Ma'am, I will, and thank you, Ma'am." The phone clicks off in Sean's ear, and he sets his jaw again before turning to Viggo. "Miss Roeper says she'll be by, Sir, and to tell you that she'll bring lemon creme pie, Sir."

"Good," Viggo grins. "You had some trouble there."

"As you say, Sir," Sean murmurs; his jaw is still tight and his eyes are still sparking.

"Say what's on your mind," Viggo suggests, interested in Sean's reaction.

"This slave has nothing to offer, Sir. Any trouble this slave has is irrelevant, Sir."

"Even if I ask you about it?" Viggo inquires, surprised.

Trick question. Not quite up to Bale's standards, but not bad. Sean's face softens a bit. "No, Sir, not then, Sir. What do you wish to know, Sir?"

"What about that call upset you so much?"

"It's been some time since I've had to -- interact -- with a woman, Sir." Sean tightens his jaw a little further. "As I said, though, Sir, my feelings there are irrelevant."

"No, they're not," Viggo persists. "Would it bother you for her to use you?"

"Yes, Sir." Sean's jaw is clenching hard; he makes a distinct effort to let it go.

Viggo lets it go, too; that's obviously for another time. "We'd better stop at two, then. I don't want to overwhelm you."

"As you wish, Sir," Sean says. His jaw unclenches, but the angry sparks in his eyes are renewed even further. He thinks I can't manage this, whatever it is. Bastard.

"Put the stuff away," Viggo instructs, gesturing again toward the phone stand. "Then kneel in front of the couch and lean over the seat."

Sean puts the phone back in its cradle, the address book back in its drawer; he goes to the couch, kneels, and puts his forearms on the seat. His head is lowered, partly to cover the clenching of his jaw. He doesn't know whether to be furious with Viggo for whatever this entire upcoming humiliating scene is going to be, or furious with himself for allowing it to get to him. This was not what he had in mind for the day. Not at all.

Viggo follows, getting to his knees behind Sean and running light fingers over Sean's bruises, then up over his back. "Tense boy," he points out.

Sean would love to deny it, but he can't. Viggo's fingertips feel good, and that only makes the tension worse. "Yes, Sir," he mutters. He tries to unclench his jaw, and finds it very difficult.

"Angry," Viggo diagnoses. "You wish I'd beat you again right now, just for the hell of it, don't you?"

The thought actually hadn't occurred to Sean, but it certainly doesn't sound bad; he shrugs a bit. "If Sir pleases," he says. He knows he'll probably be corrected for not giving a real preference and doesn't care.

Viggo shakes his head slightly, though Sean can't see it; he can see, quite suddenly and vividly, exactly how Sean and Bale came to the point of no return. Bale would have hated this sort of response; he never knew how to handle it. "Does it bother you," Viggo asks almost conversationally, "to like things here?"

Oddly, the question makes it a little easier for Sean to relax. Only a little, but that's still something. His jaw was beginning to ache; this helps. "Yes, Sir," he admits.

"And your reason for that is?" Viggo's stopped touching Sean altogether now; he's squatting back on his heels, watching the muscles play in Sean's back.

"A number of reasons, Sir," Sean says quietly. "I feel disloyal. And I feel as if I have no reason to trust you, and am giving you devotion all the same. And..." The third reason sticks in his throat. He can't bring it out. Viggo's going to press him for it, and he still won't be able to bring it out.

"And?" Viggo presses, sure enough.

God, this is going to be difficult. "And I want you," Sean murmurs, "and I don't know what to make of it."

Viggo is quiet a moment, considering all of those answers. "Feeling disloyal happens to anyone switching masters, whether it's by their own desire or not. And you don't have any reason to trust me; you just have faith. And wanting me...that's what we're here for, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Sean asks softly. "I want what you can do for me, yes. And that's what we're here for; I agree on that."

"I want what you can do for me," Viggo admits freely. "That's the point. The rest of it...that's the emotional stuff you have to get over before you can get to the point."

"You sound like Pierce," Sean says, before he can think about it.

Viggo smiles at that. "Was it good advice when Pierce gave it to you?"

Blast. Now Sean has to think about it. No choice. The advice came barely six months into the contract, when Sean had fallen hard for his Master; Pierce told him emotions merely got in the way of what they were trying to accomplish, and Sean... Sean had spent the next three and some years bored to tears.

Then Bale. And while emotions had gotten in the way, Sean can't help wondering what might have happened had he returned Bale's feelings even halfway. That thought is terrifying; Sean pushes it aside before he can reflect on it too far, and goes back to focusing on the four years of boredom with Pierce, thinking things were as good then as they were ever going to get.

"I think not, Sir," Sean says quietly.

"Personally," Viggo murmurs, "I think emotion is required in this kind of play. Your only choice is what kind. Things like disloyalty and lack of trust have to go. Have to become other things. Here's what I think: it's hardly disloyalty when it's him that's given you to me, and while I haven't given you a reason to trust me, I haven't given you a reason not to trust me."

This conversation hurts. It hurts more than breaking the night before did; it hurts a hell of a lot more than the bruises could. There's a very small part of Sean that is beginning to regret his decision to come here. He wants, needs, this conversation to end. "As you please, Sir," he murmurs, throat constricting.

Too fast, Viggo thinks. "Move back from the couch about a foot and kneel up straight," he instructs.

Sean crawls backward gratefully. When he kneels up straight, his expression relaxes further still, until he almost feels back in one piece again. His eyes remain closed, though; his throat is still tight, but at least his jaw doesn't have a death grip on itself anymore.

Viggo sits down on the couch in front of Sean and unzips his pants, pulling out his cock, half-hard.

The sound of the zipper gets Sean's attention; his eyes come open and he looks up at Viggo. I want you, he thinks, flinching.

Viggo strokes a hand over his cock, slowly, knowing the erection will come soon enough; the way Sean looks at him ensures that.

I want you. God, I want you. It hurts even more, now, thinking about Bale's offer that night -- sex out of role, just for once. He turned it down, tried to safeword, did everything he could to keep it from happening, and now... God. Sean looks away, swallowing.

Viggo's erection hardens; he strokes a little faster now, with purpose, spreading his legs a little further, occasionally glancing up at Sean, mostly watching himself.

Sean can't watch. He's hard himself now; can't help that. But he can't look. It hurts like hell. Wanting Viggo has always hurt like hell, from the bitter assumption that Viggo would brush off the interest to the stripes Pierce laid down, one by one, when he visited the set and noticed how Sean's eyes followed Viggo. Being here is a mistake, and he's stuck here. And Sean knows he's not going to be able to lean on Viggo the way he leaned on Bale. Viggo's tougher, somehow. More detached, which is what Sean needed. Someone who isn't going to break. Someone who can break him. Maybe beyond recovery this time.

Christ, being here is dangerous.

It doesn't matter to Viggo whether Sean looks or not; all that matters to him is Sean's understanding that Viggo is touching himself, pleasuring himself, and Sean's not invited. How he takes it, what he decides to make of it, whether he wants to watch or ignore, is Sean's business.

"I don't think either of us is going to get what we expected here," Sean murmurs, still looking away.

Surprised by Sean's words -- there is no rule forbidding him to speak, but until now he's mainly stuck to speaking when spoken to -- Viggo slows his strokes. "Expectation's overrated," he says simply.

"You are not what I was hoping for in a Master," Sean replies -- without malice, without any attempt at pushing Viggo. It's a statement of fact, and if anything, Sean's tone is touched with melancholy.

Viggo stops stroking altogether. "What were you hoping for?"

"A situation where there was no risk of entanglement. Someone who'd hurt me and break me, and who I'd feel nothing for. I don't know whether I'm going to love you or hate you by the time this is all over." And then Sean stops cold; this, he realizes, is precisely his problem. He's only detached now because he doesn't know which way he's going to tip, and he doesn't know how broken he'll be once he falls to one side or the other. Every time the weight moves to one side or the other, he feels off-balance and out-of-step.

And it gets worse. He's thought, often, that someday this will all be "over"; for all that his contract doesn't have an expiration date on it, he's seen two unlimited contracts end so far. A third didn't seem out of the question.

But he's here because Viggo wanted someone with Sean's level of commitment. Because Viggo has that level of commitment himself. Viggo is not going to let him go. Even if Sean falls, and breaks, and ends up hating him.

Being here is very dangerous.

Viggo blinks wordlessly for a few moments, watching Sean. "Do you think it's possible to be hurt and broken without feeling something?"

"It's where I've been so far," Sean whispers.

"Let me ask you something else, then. Do you think it's possible to get very far in this game without trust and loyalty?"

Sean shakes his head. "No, Sir," he says.

"I don't think it is, either. I don't think it's quite fair to complain about my ownership when you still feel disloyal and untrusting." The words are said calmly, without emotion; they're simply a statement.

Sean wants to grit his teeth in frustration; he holds his posture and takes in a deep breath. "I wasn't offering a complaint. I was trying to explain that this is not the situation I'd hoped for. You asked if it bothered me that I'm beginning to like it here. And it does. That's all."

"I'm just saying that you came into this with a lot of baggage, and you probably can't see what the situation even is yet." There's that, and then there's the fact that Viggo's been holding back. Part of that stems from an interest in schooling his behavior to make it obviously unemotional to Sean; part of it's Viggo's unwillingness to give Sean so much that he can safely hide beneath the guise of slave without ever really coming to terms with it. But Viggo's not prepared to explain any of that just yet.

"No; you're likely right about that. I don't know what the situation is yet. But I do know what I hoped for when I watched you and counted off four minutes and forty-five seconds, and I know that's not what's in front of me. What I think you're getting at is that what I hoped for and what I need may be separate entities..." Sean takes in a breath; the idea has him nearly lightheaded with nervousness and fear and anticipation. "And it's your job to know that, isn't it." Not a question.

Another deep breath. Sean leans forward and lowers himself to the ground on his forearms and knees. He crawls forward and rubs his cheek against the inside of Viggo's ankle. "Your slave apologizes for his hesitancy, Master. And his confusion."

Viggo allows himself a full breath before responding; he hadn't expected Sean to let him see that much of his thought process. He leans forward, enough to rest his hand on Sean's head and stroke Sean's hair gently. "You need to understand that I expect the commitment I talked about from every part of you. Not just your body." He leaves it at that; he knows Sean will understand what that infers, and there's no need to lean on it further. He knows his gentle touch probably confuses Sean even more; that, too, infers something, though Sean might not so readily grasp it.

"Yes, Master," Sean murmurs. And he closes his eyes and breathes, very deeply and very quietly, for a few moments.

Viggo rests there with Sean, stroking his hair, till he feels Sean seems to have settled somewhat. "Boy?" he asks softly.

"Yes, Master?"

"I think I'd like to use you to come."

"Master, your slave is here for your use," Sean murmurs, wondering if hearing that will get under Viggo's skin at all, after this entire conversation.

"Use your hands," Viggo says, his voice offering nothing for Sean to read. "Just your hands," and unfolds himself a little so Sean can get to his cock, still somewhat swollen against his opened trousers.

Sean comes up on his knees again, and wraps one hand around Viggo's cock, the other one cupping his balls and rolling them gently in his palm. The hand on Viggo's cock makes slow, steady strokes, working up and down as Sean's face lights with concentration and warm, aroused pleasure.

Viggo gives a small hum in the back of his throat; this is difficult, this precarious balance of talking to Sean and then putting it away in favor of the more obvious ways to play. Difficult, but damn pleasurable, particularly considering Sean's skill at working cock and balls all at once.

Sean's strokes are a bit rougher than the ones he'd use on himself; he works Viggo's cock hard, speeding up a bit as he hears Viggo's noises. He sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth, giving his tongue and teeth something to play with as he keeps going, keeps moving his hands, watching the way Viggo's cock darkens and begins nearly jumping in his hands.

Viggo presses his hips upward a little, enjoying the rough friction of Sean's hand; it's good, and yet there's opportunity for it to be better. Viggo closes his hand around Sean's, guiding the strokes, showing Sean what he likes; slightly longer strokes, slightly tighter but not necessarily rougher.

The guidance makes Sean's breath pick up; he moans softly, losing his grip on his lower lip, tongue flicking out over it to soothe the bite there, hands picking up the new rhythm eagerly.

Viggo's eyes slide closed for a moment, his face tilting upward; Sean's a quick learner, and something about the sensation of the strokes just the way he likes them only given by someone else's hand is unbelievably arousing. He finds himself nodding slightly, letting Sean's hand go. "Like that," he breathes. "Just like that."

"Yes, Master," Sean whispers, but the emphasis is heavy on the yes -- yes, I want you, yes, let me give this to you, please, please... -- and his hands keep going, learning, enjoying every single stroke as he gives them to his Master, enjoying every reaction he coaxes out of Viggo. He'd beg if he could figure out the words to do it -- beg Viggo to allow him to give him pleasure, beg Viggo to come all over his hands... God.

Viggo rests a hand on Sean's shoulder, squeezing it lightly, balancing a little of his weight on it to compensate for the way he's somehow become tilted forward a little. A soft, warning grunt escapes his lips, which open and pull back a little in a small grimace.

"Please, Master," Sean whispers, fiercely, eyes closing, wanting to concentrate on the sensation of Viggo's cock under his hands, wanting to feel it, let his skin taste it, absorb it. Viggo could be inside him now, and Sean would still feel as if he wasn't close enough; as if he wasn't giving enough. It's good. God, it's good.

Viggo sucks in a sharp breath, then lets it out in a cross between a whine and a moan, eyes squeezing shut and hand clamping hard on Sean's shoulder as the come leaps out of him, hotly intense. Shuddering, oversensitized breaths stutter out of him as the sensation crests and then dissipates; he finds himself bent slightly over Sean's hand, panting, lightheaded.

Sean's hands are sticky with come, now, and he gives Viggo's cock one last, soft stroke, eyes finally opening to look at Viggo's cock, his own hands, Viggo's face. Sean is overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude, and it flushes through him, leaving him smiling just a little and very, very winded.

Viggo finally manages to pull in a full breath and lean back against the couch, utterly spent. He watches Sean, though there's nothing particularly serious about it; it's just where his eyes rest, communicating with the look instead of trying to find words.

"Master... your slave wishes a favor, please," Sean murmurs. He's still looking from his hands to Viggo, spellbound.

Viggo blinks drowsily, trying to come back to a place where he can be useful, and suddenly comes back to full alertness; your slave. Well. That's new. "What kind of favor?" he asks, choosing not to accentuate Sean's choice of words. Not yet.

"Your slave wishes to lick his Master's come from his hands, please, Master," Sean responds, quietly.

Viggo is quiet for long moments; it's a mixture of watching Sean with interest and trying to get his breath under control. "Go ahead," he murmurs.

"Thank you, Master," Sean says, grinning now, and he brings his hands up, one at a time, taking Viggo's come off them in slow, teasing licks, the sort of thing that's a tease for so many reasons his head could spin from it. He cleans up slowly, carefully, humming as he tastes Viggo all over him, darting his tongue into the webs between his fingers, biting there, gently, because he's been given leave. He's making love to his own fingers, tasting not shame on his skin but glowing, pleasant, submissive pride -- pride at having pleased his Master, at having done something well, at having earned this favor, and God, pride at being able to enjoy what he's doing. He's proud enough and pleased enough that he can meet Viggo's eyes while he does it, without blushing, without thinking that later he'll be sorry for this whole display.

No. He definitely won't be sorry later. He'll be warm and aroused and he'll stroke himself, holding himself back from orgasm but keeping arousal at its fullest for as long as he can stand it.

Viggo runs a hand over Sean's hair again, the faintest hint of approval coloring the move. Finally, he allows it: "Good boy," he praises.

Sean's eyes are very warm; he's still smiling, just a bit. "Does Master require anything else?" he asks.

"Not right now," Viggo decides, and allows himself a small but genuine smile.

Breathing in contentment, Sean pulls back and goes back to his forearms and knees. He rests his head lightly on the ground and then nuzzles at Viggo's ankle again, humming very quietly. It could almost be a purr.

Viggo just smiles; he could sit like this for quite a while, he reasons, and sees no reason not to do just that.