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Feb. 2nd, 2004 10:00 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rugbytackleTitle: You Can't Tell A Book By Its Cover.
Series: Proverbial
Chapter: 2/?
Rated:
Pairing: SB/VM
Disclaimer: RPS: Real Person Slash. Read it/Don't read it. Make an adult decision.
Warning:
Feedback: Nice, but not required.
Archive: No.
Overall Summary: A series, based on proverbs and featuring Sean as he goes about getting what he wants and possibly more than he bargained for.
Chapter Summary:
Author: Arden Elear
Email: rishalin@lycos.com
Live Journal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/arden_elear/
Patience is a virtue..
I'm learning humility. I'm learning that every time I think I've pinned down another layer of Viggo's personality, the bugger shifts and he's someone I don't know at all and I have to start all over again.
I'm learning patience. I'm learning not to smack a fist through the nearest wall with frustration, because it only gets you a raised eyebrow and a quiet, 'Is everything all right?' in response.
Oh, and did I mention that I'm also learning the location of every possible spot on the set where a man can have a quiet, uninterrupted wank? 'Cause I've pretty much found every fucking one of them!
This is nothing like I expected. He is nothing like I expected and it's driving me slowly and inexorably nuts!
Did I mention how intriguing the man is?
It's like, I read the bio. I read about the art and the poetry and all that stuff. And I dismissed it. I've met those wankers. I've never met the genuine article before.
I knew he was quiet. I knew he was reticent and unfathomable and all that shit.
I didn't know how multifaceted he is, or how interesting it was going to be finding out just how many layers there were. But he is and I am and while I'll admit to being frustrated it's really not that bad. Most of the time.
So when I'm not working or hanging out with Vig and talking about all these esoteric and cryptic theories and ideas of his, I'm having inner debates. I'm working them out in my mind, preparing my arguments and practicing my retorts. He makes me think! Rattles my cage and shakes the old brain cells about in new and interesting ways. And they seem to be appreciating it.
But while this all sounds very . . . illuminating and educational, it'd get to be dead boring if you had to keep it up constantly, yes? Ahh, but no. The bugger is tricky that way. He comes out of that tight little intellectual, artistic world he inhabits and enthusiastically hops into mine!
Layers, see? He's football fan. Not real football, of course, I couldn't be that lucky, but he's a soccer fan which is common ground at least. So he'll watch games with me if I can scare one up on the telly, sit there and drink beer and talk intelligently about rotten referees and pre-season matches.
He gardens, so we talk about that too, politics, world events, not to mention the manly art of whinging about ex-wives and girlfriends. Well, I whinge, he listens, Viggo never disparages anyone.
The frustration? Well, that's not without due cause. I gravitated toward him in the first place because I want him, so no surprise there. But I'm not some horny kid, trembling in the throes of impossible-to-resist hormonal surges. Honestly, I should be able to control myself better than this.
But then, he's not helping.
Walking across the car park, minding my own business, heading for where Lijah, Billy and Liv are sitting on the stairs to bum a smoke. They had to have seen him coming, the wankers, but they didn't warn me! Oh, no. Never turned a hair, any of 'em. Not by a blink or a sideways glance did they betray him.
First thing I knew, I'm flying sideways through the air and landing on the grass verge with all the breath knocked out of me and a warm, heavy weight on top. Straddling me, pinning me down and laughing his head off with his blue eyes flashing in the sunlight. Fucking rugbytackled me! Fucking Viggo!
Umm, yeah.
Anyway . . . He's on top, spread thighs across my stomach, ass in my groin.
I mean, Jesus, what am I, a saint? Nor could I get the fucker off me.
He was too well balanced and I was too bloody frantic, my hard-on growing by the second and threatening to pop up right where it's meant to pop up, between the cheeks of his arse. But not yet, right. Not fucking yet! Shit!
So now my cock's got this idea into its little head and casual touches of his hand, unintentional body contact as he slides past behind me to get to his seat or leans over my shoulder to check dialogue has it standing to attention! Disobedient little prick! Literally!
And somehow, my eyes have become attached to my libido; some tenuous connection has been made that I can't sever no matter what I try. Not even picturing my grandmother naked works! It's hell!
I look at him and it's like my eyeballs are trying to suck him in!
I find myself endlessly fascinated by the way his hair constantly falls across his face. I calculate the number of different shades of blue his eyes can display over the course of a day. And, to my eternal torment, I find myself trying to work out what each separate color indicates on the emotional spectrum!
My eyes get glued to his hands when they're swinging a sword or wielding a pen, holding a fork, and I can't wrench them away.
I smile fondly at his non-existent fashion sense, his penchant for forgetting footwear on stony ground and I get absolutely frozen to the spot when he tips his head up to enjoy the sunshine and it plays across those cut-glass cheekbones and traces the contour of his lips and outlines the cut of his jaw, the perfect cleft of his chin.
I'm even at the sorry point where I'm racing to get back to the trailer after work, on the off-chance that I'll get to see him changing into his street clothes. How sad is that? Christ! I've seen how many blokes with their shirts off in my lifetime? Hundreds? And not just shirts either. But this connection between my eyes and my dick doesn't want to remember that.
It wants to feast on the expanse of sleek muscled chest, the golden glint of hair. It wants a glimpse of dark nipples and the play of muscle across his shoulders. So much so that, if I do succeed in getting a peek at the Promised Land, I have trouble getting into the car afterwards, being that my erection doesn't like it when I fold it that way.
I lay the blame for all this disturbing behavior firmly on Viggo's doorstep, of course.
The man never should have rugbytackled me.
I'm an adult for fuck's sake!
I'm supposed to be the one in control here.
Damned if I know what's going on!
Series: Proverbial
Chapter: 2/?
Rated:
Pairing: SB/VM
Disclaimer: RPS: Real Person Slash. Read it/Don't read it. Make an adult decision.
Warning:
Feedback: Nice, but not required.
Archive: No.
Overall Summary: A series, based on proverbs and featuring Sean as he goes about getting what he wants and possibly more than he bargained for.
Chapter Summary:
Author: Arden Elear
Email: rishalin@lycos.com
Live Journal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/arden_elear/
Patience is a virtue..
I'm learning humility. I'm learning that every time I think I've pinned down another layer of Viggo's personality, the bugger shifts and he's someone I don't know at all and I have to start all over again.
I'm learning patience. I'm learning not to smack a fist through the nearest wall with frustration, because it only gets you a raised eyebrow and a quiet, 'Is everything all right?' in response.
Oh, and did I mention that I'm also learning the location of every possible spot on the set where a man can have a quiet, uninterrupted wank? 'Cause I've pretty much found every fucking one of them!
This is nothing like I expected. He is nothing like I expected and it's driving me slowly and inexorably nuts!
Did I mention how intriguing the man is?
It's like, I read the bio. I read about the art and the poetry and all that stuff. And I dismissed it. I've met those wankers. I've never met the genuine article before.
I knew he was quiet. I knew he was reticent and unfathomable and all that shit.
I didn't know how multifaceted he is, or how interesting it was going to be finding out just how many layers there were. But he is and I am and while I'll admit to being frustrated it's really not that bad. Most of the time.
So when I'm not working or hanging out with Vig and talking about all these esoteric and cryptic theories and ideas of his, I'm having inner debates. I'm working them out in my mind, preparing my arguments and practicing my retorts. He makes me think! Rattles my cage and shakes the old brain cells about in new and interesting ways. And they seem to be appreciating it.
But while this all sounds very . . . illuminating and educational, it'd get to be dead boring if you had to keep it up constantly, yes? Ahh, but no. The bugger is tricky that way. He comes out of that tight little intellectual, artistic world he inhabits and enthusiastically hops into mine!
Layers, see? He's football fan. Not real football, of course, I couldn't be that lucky, but he's a soccer fan which is common ground at least. So he'll watch games with me if I can scare one up on the telly, sit there and drink beer and talk intelligently about rotten referees and pre-season matches.
He gardens, so we talk about that too, politics, world events, not to mention the manly art of whinging about ex-wives and girlfriends. Well, I whinge, he listens, Viggo never disparages anyone.
The frustration? Well, that's not without due cause. I gravitated toward him in the first place because I want him, so no surprise there. But I'm not some horny kid, trembling in the throes of impossible-to-resist hormonal surges. Honestly, I should be able to control myself better than this.
But then, he's not helping.
Walking across the car park, minding my own business, heading for where Lijah, Billy and Liv are sitting on the stairs to bum a smoke. They had to have seen him coming, the wankers, but they didn't warn me! Oh, no. Never turned a hair, any of 'em. Not by a blink or a sideways glance did they betray him.
First thing I knew, I'm flying sideways through the air and landing on the grass verge with all the breath knocked out of me and a warm, heavy weight on top. Straddling me, pinning me down and laughing his head off with his blue eyes flashing in the sunlight. Fucking rugbytackled me! Fucking Viggo!
Umm, yeah.
Anyway . . . He's on top, spread thighs across my stomach, ass in my groin.
I mean, Jesus, what am I, a saint? Nor could I get the fucker off me.
He was too well balanced and I was too bloody frantic, my hard-on growing by the second and threatening to pop up right where it's meant to pop up, between the cheeks of his arse. But not yet, right. Not fucking yet! Shit!
So now my cock's got this idea into its little head and casual touches of his hand, unintentional body contact as he slides past behind me to get to his seat or leans over my shoulder to check dialogue has it standing to attention! Disobedient little prick! Literally!
And somehow, my eyes have become attached to my libido; some tenuous connection has been made that I can't sever no matter what I try. Not even picturing my grandmother naked works! It's hell!
I look at him and it's like my eyeballs are trying to suck him in!
I find myself endlessly fascinated by the way his hair constantly falls across his face. I calculate the number of different shades of blue his eyes can display over the course of a day. And, to my eternal torment, I find myself trying to work out what each separate color indicates on the emotional spectrum!
My eyes get glued to his hands when they're swinging a sword or wielding a pen, holding a fork, and I can't wrench them away.
I smile fondly at his non-existent fashion sense, his penchant for forgetting footwear on stony ground and I get absolutely frozen to the spot when he tips his head up to enjoy the sunshine and it plays across those cut-glass cheekbones and traces the contour of his lips and outlines the cut of his jaw, the perfect cleft of his chin.
I'm even at the sorry point where I'm racing to get back to the trailer after work, on the off-chance that I'll get to see him changing into his street clothes. How sad is that? Christ! I've seen how many blokes with their shirts off in my lifetime? Hundreds? And not just shirts either. But this connection between my eyes and my dick doesn't want to remember that.
It wants to feast on the expanse of sleek muscled chest, the golden glint of hair. It wants a glimpse of dark nipples and the play of muscle across his shoulders. So much so that, if I do succeed in getting a peek at the Promised Land, I have trouble getting into the car afterwards, being that my erection doesn't like it when I fold it that way.
I lay the blame for all this disturbing behavior firmly on Viggo's doorstep, of course.
The man never should have rugbytackled me.
I'm an adult for fuck's sake!
I'm supposed to be the one in control here.
Damned if I know what's going on!
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no subject
Date: 2004-02-01 11:20 pm (UTC)*gurgles helplessly*
Feckin' brilliant. Love this.
*runs off to find chapter 1*
no subject
Date: 2004-02-02 12:56 am (UTC)Love the 'inside Sean's head' perspective of this!
Promised Land
BWAHAHAHA! I LOVE that!
no subject
Date: 2004-02-02 05:22 pm (UTC)*lol*
Wouldn't mind walking in on that. And the idea of Viggo's hands.. *drool*