FIC: SB/VM 'THIS TIME, FOR VARIETY'
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rugbytackleTITLE: 'THIS TIME, FOR VARIETY'
PAIRING SB/VM
WARNING: Unfinished, but will be completed soon in a manner involving melodrama, hostile hobbits, Orli and much bad temper.
DISCLAIMER: Entirely invented.
FEEDBACK: Yes, please.
Can be read alone, but is also part of the sequence of stories beginning with 'Boiling Point', all here.
THIS TIME, FOR VARIETY
‘AND, ACTION – ’
Sean’s feet jar through the opening steps of this bastard particular bit of orc fight, scuffle belatedly into the proper rhythm, then flail on, as he kids himself with the promise that this is, must be, absolutely the last time he will have to do this. Sword-fighting is a fiddly business – it calls for concentration and a weirdly precise kind of strength, both of which he patently lacks today.
In fact, he and the Chamber of Mazarbul fight sequences haven’t been getting on in several hours.
My Errol Flynn phase. Slightly too late in life, ha ha.
He can feel wet trickling down his hairline, which is either sweat or cerebro-spinal fluid escaping.
I could be doing a nice Oscar-winning film where I’m a paraplegic, but instead I am here having more middle-aged Action Man fun.
Somewhere on the edge of his peripheral vision, the hobbits are slugging away gamely, and Viggo is dispatching orcs, slicing, hair flying. Sean likes when he can watch properly, not like this, when Viggo makes moves that’ll let Sean watch every long-boned angle of him, tensed.
He looks so good, though, fighting.
And even though Aragorn, Heir of Gondor, is very definitely not Viggo – is taller and more coherent, for a start, and probably doesn’t talk dirty in bed – Sean can feel an interest circling round him as he moves, steps, swipes.
Which is why it is bad that he has no more spit. His breath is hacking, kicking, thick in his throat, and his hips are beating with gravely aches. My bastard, bastard feet. My ankle bones have bloody worked out through my heels, it’s the only possible explanation for this particular pain. Jesus, shite.
He rebalances his weight, slashes at his orc and connects, slams into the cave wall, and rolls to the floor.
‘CUT – ’
The dead orc winks at him. This is the seventh time Sean’s had to fall in exactly the same way, for continuity, but this time, just for variety, he’s also ground the skin off the knuckles on his sword-hand.
Fuck. You stupid fucker. This, of course, is what happens when you do not concentrate, an unhelpful contact between hand and wall. Isn’t fighting meant to make you focus and not think? So, naturally, you do the exact opposite.
He sits up, pushes up on the sweaty hilt of his sword, the lights wheeling as he squints around.
A draught from somewhere briefly licks his sweat cool.
‘Having some trouble, huh?’ There’s the arrival of Viggo’s particular, undeniable notes of heat. When Sean lets himself look, there’s feathered lines at the corners of his eyes, a lock of hair stuck to his dirty cheek. He’s come to know all the different ways Viggo masters his Aragorn hair, pushing it behind his ears, shovelling it off his face with his forearm, jamming it under a hat off set.
At once Sean feels some of the day’s heaviness easing out from his spine, replaced by a nice flicker of anxiety between the shoulder blades. ‘Today I have the fucking fighting ability of a, a – ‘
‘Frodo,’ supplies Dom, wig askew, failing to dodge as Astin jabs him hard in the ribs. ‘Ow, fucker –‘
Lijah looks on, neat and pleased. He’s spent half the afternoon lying down, playing dead, while the rest of them fight to save his sorry little hide from an imaginary cave troll. ‘Have a bitch fight, you guys. Make me feel special.’
‘You gonna put out for the winner, Ringbearer?’
‘I’ve still got carpet burn on my ass.’
‘Easy, Mister Frodo –‘ Astin in his Samwise voice and a leer.
Sean groans. His left hip throbs into unpleasant life. Nothing like a scene with the hobbits to remind you that humans are close cousins to shit-flinging shrieker monkeys. ‘Jesus Christ, can’t they be stopped? Can’t we put something in the water?’
Viggo slides a grin, gives his little one-shouldered shrug, something Sean now finds himself doing from time to time. ‘Look at it this way, I have to do two more movies with them after you get killed off.’
‘Demand danger money.’ The rub of their arms produces a brief, hot stammer in Sean’s blood.
‘He needs to get in touch with his inner Care Bear,’ Dom tells Viggo.
Billy gives his small, happy laugh. ‘More like his inner Darth Vader.’
Lijah, with his sweetest Shirley Temple smile, grabs Dom by one arm and Astin by the other. ‘Beanie, your problem is you just need to get the Horn of Gondor blown.’ And the four of them are skidding off through the set at a run, making hooting noises, sparky with hobbit group solidarity.
Fucking Viggo has obviously given him patience. Look, God, no one died. No little hobbit arse is so much as wearing the print of my shoe.
Quite often, though, at least several times a day, Sean thinks it’s a terrible pity the hobbits ever stopped being shit-scared of him. It would of course, also be easier, all things concerned, if Viggo wasn’t silently alongside him, having clearly laughed a little, his attention amusedly edging round him, like a hand’s touch.
‘Don’t even say it,‘ Sean says.
For a minute they don’t say anything, just stand shoulder to shoulder.
‘Any chance we’re all done here?’ Viggo says eventually. He has one arm folded high across his chest, the wrist wrapping round at the back of his neck and pushing his whole head forwards. He looks at Sean up and sideways, smiling slightly. A new line of angry-looking bruising is nicked across his knuckles.
‘Not a hope.’ Sean glowers down at his own filthy hands.
‘WE’RE GOING AGAIN. PLACES, EVERYONE, PLEASE – ‘
Sean hefts his sword and looks away to where the hobbits are venturing back, then finds himself facing the leisurely line of Viggo’s body, waiting.
He clears his throat. Twice he feels ready to speak and then can’t quite catch the rhythm, the dodge and press of tension between them. ‘Well, you know – ‘
‘I know where to come.’ Viggo treats Sean to a little, slipping look of complicity.
You do.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘That’s – good.’
Under the comfort comes an easy prickle of something else.
‘Sure, I know where to come.’ Viggo looks at his booted feet, marks a line on the floor. ‘But if the hobbits are all busy, I can always drop by your trailer.’
‘Well –‘ Sean’s voice sounds like he’s smiling far too noticeably, so he’s trying for something more bullish, a manly deadpan. ‘— if there’s nothing on the box, I might even let you in.’
‘PLACES –‘
By the time he’s collected the sight of Viggo’s sliding grin, the angle of his head as he turns, Sean considers himself to be dangerously contented. It’s been so long since he’s really felt this way, he suspects his condition may actually be something far less pleasant, like the onset of some terminal disease.
He’s beginning to panic in earnest.
----
The rain is thickening, sealing in the last of the daylight, by the time shooting ends for the day. There’s the sour smell of old leaves underfoot, the parking lot lights blurry in the wet.
Sean’s shoulders are aching in a way that makes his arms feel twice their normal weight. Plus he’s bitten a chunk out of the inside of his cheek, and his mouth is full of the wet, metallic taste of injury.
Folding his hands under his armpits against the mounting cold, and looking neither right nor left, he heads for his trailer under cover of the hobbits, who are fighting dirty to get under the shelter of Orli’s big golf umbrella. It’s like they keep Sean insulated. He often has the need to step in tight alongside the little buggers, like he might be incorrectly wired in some way and pose a potential risk.
Dom’s teeth are audibly chattering. ‘Anyone for a quick, warming shag?’
‘Nah, freezing my tits off.’
‘Not even a blowjob?’
‘I’m getting a cold, I’d suffocate.’ Billy, adenoidal, looking at Dom through his lashes.
The rain, or possibly the hobbit banter, is kicking up a gnawing pressure on Sean’s sinuses. This is just the game they’re playing, this is just a bout of sparring, a proof they’re safe with each other, whatever. They’re basically good – that’s a lot of what makes them such irritating little shits.
‘Orli?’ Dom, operatic with disappointment.
Orli’s dank blonde wig is dripping water onto his coat, woebegone. ‘The Elf doesn’t give head.’
Dom and Billy pause to enjoy a mutual smile, a mutual appreciation. ‘Shoulda known elves don’t put out.’
‘The nuns of Middle Earth, really.’
Sean can feel himself flinch, like there’s too much personality in the air, with the way the hobbits happily put their inside on their outsides and pat them about with ridiculous personal confidence and a kind of kind of dopey happiness.
Miracles happen. Yeah, right.
Sean has the brief and sickening impression that his mind is something like a bony goldfish bowl, nothing in it will grip. Words float past in ugly clusters behind his eyes.
So shut up and enjoy it. I mean, things are going fine, finer than they’ve been in forever. Since back when you were getting your prick into just enough arses to miss it. Be reasonable, man.
And then, frictionless, irresistible, came the questions under the questions.
Why, for fuck sake? Nothing else is reasonable, so why me?
Footsteps fall in beside him, quiet in the raggedy drizzle hitting the asphalt. The rain is firming, settling in for the night.
Viggo’s hair is sleek and flat on his skull, huddled into the collar of an old parka. He lights a cigarette off his own, hungry-mouthed, and hands it over without asking. ‘Thank Christ that’s done.’
Sean shelters the cigarette in his fist, cradles the small warmth. ‘Is that the He-Man of the Fellowship speaking?’
‘Lay off, I’m off duty.’ Viggo’s eyes are narrow and colourless, lashes stuck with wet, tired. The scar is showing the way it does when he’s exhausted, and all the narrow bones of his face are sharp.
Sean’s aware that they’re getting substantially wet. ‘You look like shite, Vig.’
Viggo sips a narrow trace of smoke, shrugs in a small way. ‘Long day.’ He starts them walking again, their sides nudging together, easily.
Sean notices vaguely how stiffened and tender his muscles have grown already. Men of his age are not intended to fight imaginary cave trolls. He can feel Viggo sagging against him, a warm, tired line of heat, and wants to console him. He wants to attend to the whole long weight of him, from the salt and dirt of his throat to the buckle of his knees, and to be sure he’s all defended and safe.
‘You should eat.’
‘I’d rather a cigarette and a good fuck, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Okay.’
Sean’s suddenly anxious to pull out even one unwieldy expression of tenderness, or something, out of the collection he seems to be keeping in pointless storage. He keeps his head down, reaches for Viggo’s hand, rubs his thumb across the root of his fingers, and into the fold of skin behind the knuckles, inside his closed fist.
An emotion resembling fear prickles at the small of his back, threatens and withdraws again.
After a minute, this isn’t enough and, his stomach giving a nauseous wink, he leans in and kisses him, harder than he’d intended, as if the inches between him and Viggo’s mouth have suddenly been stolen.
Viggo tastes of tired sweat and tobacco and this makes Sean’s cock and nipples reluctantly, painfully hard.
---
Inside the trailer, Viggo shrugs out of his coat, toes off his boots. In the merciless yellow glare, Sean feels himself start to frown, even blush.
He lifts off his wig and runs his hands through his damp hair, recognises the look he sees in the big lighted wall mirror, the look of a man fighting a scorching appetite and probably losing.
When he’s acting it’s all right, the part’s pulled up over him, so you can’t see through. But otherwise, Jesus. The constant fluster in his eyes, scratching behind an ear, digging in his pockets for unspecified stuff he never found, small change, a key ring - the reliable evidence of physical clumsiness and discontent.
‘Your knots have knots.’ Viggo’s roughened hands fasten on his shoulders, dig in.
‘Relaxation isn’t my strong point.’ There’s a stocky tick of blood in his ears, and the push and heat of Viggo’s breathing on Sean’s neck. He’s queasy with want.
‘Shh.’ Viggo buckles his arms around him from the back, constricting his breathing, hungry.
The ugly, vulnerable lip is reflected, the slithering forelock which will start drying from nearly black to lighter, sticky, with dirty gold lights in it.
Sean’s not sure if it’s possible for him to be touching Viggo, fucking Viggo, and not change him for the worse.
On the window, there’s the small, harmless impacts of water on glass.
It’s around this time that he starts shaking. Not just the odd nervous jiggle, but an unmistakable permanent tremor. He doesn’t notice it too much at the time because his mind is on other things. Later on he thinks it’s his body’s way of trying to tell him something. Some people get rashes or fainting fits; he shakes.
‘Not idly do the leaves of Lorien fall,’ Viggo says, brow furrowed with concentration, his dirty fingers struggling with the cloak brooch at Sean’s throat.
‘You’re daft, you are.’ Sean’s too tired to be doing this and too tired to resist.
He twists around in Viggo’s arms and they come together, fitted, heavy as a lock.
The sweat and acid taste of Viggo grits through his teeth. There’s a lot of cumbersome metal and weight about them that needs to be dealt with, the buckled sleeves, belts, clasps, chain mail, but they’ve done this before, sober, tired, fucking half-dressed in the trailer, ending up with each other’s come on their hands and clothes before Costumes comes knocking.
Sean puts his hands on Viggo’s chest and pushes his open surcoat back off his shoulders, over the ebb and surge of his ribs. Then he tugs out his shirt at the waist, yanks down his breeches, frees his cock and balls. The darkened sweat stain on Viggo’s undershirt sticks to the channel of his back.
Sean rubs Viggo’s cock in his fist, then gets down on his knees, weights it on his tongue, feels the blunt snout against the roof of his mouth, angling into his throat. The sound that Viggo makes is completely pleased and at the same time desperate.
Sean wants to be nothing but hungry and he is.
Then Viggo is pulling him up, turning him, and getting his breeches down and his legs apart so he can lean him over the back of the couch, because he likes that, Viggo does, likes just plain hard fucking with no talking, when they’ve both been thinking about it all day, and when Sean’s still wet and salty and tired from the set. In the mirror he can see Viggo’s mouth gone slack with pleasure, and if he looks down, beyond where his breeches are stretched between his thighs, there’s Viggo’s dirty bare feet keeping his legs spread.
The thing is, the stuff he remembers is too strong, it slides away from him under its own steam, showing where it might lead next. It’s wiser to forget about it till they’re together again. By which time the sex comes and takes charge. He always finds the sex a great relief.
Afterwards, in the shower, Viggo, impossibly, gets him hard again. The steam lisps and paws at them, and the water slaps rhythmically against the shower wall, in time with Viggo’s calloused fist pumping slowly.
Sean sets his teeth in the bared arch of Viggo’s neck, so that Viggo’s roughened breath gusts on his bare shoulder. One of his long-toed, dirty-soled feet braces them against the tiles, so Sean can lean all his weight on Viggo, feeling the rasp and soap-slip of him, until he comes in a kind of gasping blur.
He’d love now to be hosed, scrubbed, until there is nothing to see of himself. He’d like very much to be washed away.
TBC
PAIRING SB/VM
WARNING: Unfinished, but will be completed soon in a manner involving melodrama, hostile hobbits, Orli and much bad temper.
DISCLAIMER: Entirely invented.
FEEDBACK: Yes, please.
Can be read alone, but is also part of the sequence of stories beginning with 'Boiling Point', all here.
THIS TIME, FOR VARIETY
‘AND, ACTION – ’
Sean’s feet jar through the opening steps of this bastard particular bit of orc fight, scuffle belatedly into the proper rhythm, then flail on, as he kids himself with the promise that this is, must be, absolutely the last time he will have to do this. Sword-fighting is a fiddly business – it calls for concentration and a weirdly precise kind of strength, both of which he patently lacks today.
In fact, he and the Chamber of Mazarbul fight sequences haven’t been getting on in several hours.
My Errol Flynn phase. Slightly too late in life, ha ha.
He can feel wet trickling down his hairline, which is either sweat or cerebro-spinal fluid escaping.
I could be doing a nice Oscar-winning film where I’m a paraplegic, but instead I am here having more middle-aged Action Man fun.
Somewhere on the edge of his peripheral vision, the hobbits are slugging away gamely, and Viggo is dispatching orcs, slicing, hair flying. Sean likes when he can watch properly, not like this, when Viggo makes moves that’ll let Sean watch every long-boned angle of him, tensed.
He looks so good, though, fighting.
And even though Aragorn, Heir of Gondor, is very definitely not Viggo – is taller and more coherent, for a start, and probably doesn’t talk dirty in bed – Sean can feel an interest circling round him as he moves, steps, swipes.
Which is why it is bad that he has no more spit. His breath is hacking, kicking, thick in his throat, and his hips are beating with gravely aches. My bastard, bastard feet. My ankle bones have bloody worked out through my heels, it’s the only possible explanation for this particular pain. Jesus, shite.
He rebalances his weight, slashes at his orc and connects, slams into the cave wall, and rolls to the floor.
‘CUT – ’
The dead orc winks at him. This is the seventh time Sean’s had to fall in exactly the same way, for continuity, but this time, just for variety, he’s also ground the skin off the knuckles on his sword-hand.
Fuck. You stupid fucker. This, of course, is what happens when you do not concentrate, an unhelpful contact between hand and wall. Isn’t fighting meant to make you focus and not think? So, naturally, you do the exact opposite.
He sits up, pushes up on the sweaty hilt of his sword, the lights wheeling as he squints around.
A draught from somewhere briefly licks his sweat cool.
‘Having some trouble, huh?’ There’s the arrival of Viggo’s particular, undeniable notes of heat. When Sean lets himself look, there’s feathered lines at the corners of his eyes, a lock of hair stuck to his dirty cheek. He’s come to know all the different ways Viggo masters his Aragorn hair, pushing it behind his ears, shovelling it off his face with his forearm, jamming it under a hat off set.
At once Sean feels some of the day’s heaviness easing out from his spine, replaced by a nice flicker of anxiety between the shoulder blades. ‘Today I have the fucking fighting ability of a, a – ‘
‘Frodo,’ supplies Dom, wig askew, failing to dodge as Astin jabs him hard in the ribs. ‘Ow, fucker –‘
Lijah looks on, neat and pleased. He’s spent half the afternoon lying down, playing dead, while the rest of them fight to save his sorry little hide from an imaginary cave troll. ‘Have a bitch fight, you guys. Make me feel special.’
‘You gonna put out for the winner, Ringbearer?’
‘I’ve still got carpet burn on my ass.’
‘Easy, Mister Frodo –‘ Astin in his Samwise voice and a leer.
Sean groans. His left hip throbs into unpleasant life. Nothing like a scene with the hobbits to remind you that humans are close cousins to shit-flinging shrieker monkeys. ‘Jesus Christ, can’t they be stopped? Can’t we put something in the water?’
Viggo slides a grin, gives his little one-shouldered shrug, something Sean now finds himself doing from time to time. ‘Look at it this way, I have to do two more movies with them after you get killed off.’
‘Demand danger money.’ The rub of their arms produces a brief, hot stammer in Sean’s blood.
‘He needs to get in touch with his inner Care Bear,’ Dom tells Viggo.
Billy gives his small, happy laugh. ‘More like his inner Darth Vader.’
Lijah, with his sweetest Shirley Temple smile, grabs Dom by one arm and Astin by the other. ‘Beanie, your problem is you just need to get the Horn of Gondor blown.’ And the four of them are skidding off through the set at a run, making hooting noises, sparky with hobbit group solidarity.
Fucking Viggo has obviously given him patience. Look, God, no one died. No little hobbit arse is so much as wearing the print of my shoe.
Quite often, though, at least several times a day, Sean thinks it’s a terrible pity the hobbits ever stopped being shit-scared of him. It would of course, also be easier, all things concerned, if Viggo wasn’t silently alongside him, having clearly laughed a little, his attention amusedly edging round him, like a hand’s touch.
‘Don’t even say it,‘ Sean says.
For a minute they don’t say anything, just stand shoulder to shoulder.
‘Any chance we’re all done here?’ Viggo says eventually. He has one arm folded high across his chest, the wrist wrapping round at the back of his neck and pushing his whole head forwards. He looks at Sean up and sideways, smiling slightly. A new line of angry-looking bruising is nicked across his knuckles.
‘Not a hope.’ Sean glowers down at his own filthy hands.
‘WE’RE GOING AGAIN. PLACES, EVERYONE, PLEASE – ‘
Sean hefts his sword and looks away to where the hobbits are venturing back, then finds himself facing the leisurely line of Viggo’s body, waiting.
He clears his throat. Twice he feels ready to speak and then can’t quite catch the rhythm, the dodge and press of tension between them. ‘Well, you know – ‘
‘I know where to come.’ Viggo treats Sean to a little, slipping look of complicity.
You do.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘That’s – good.’
Under the comfort comes an easy prickle of something else.
‘Sure, I know where to come.’ Viggo looks at his booted feet, marks a line on the floor. ‘But if the hobbits are all busy, I can always drop by your trailer.’
‘Well –‘ Sean’s voice sounds like he’s smiling far too noticeably, so he’s trying for something more bullish, a manly deadpan. ‘— if there’s nothing on the box, I might even let you in.’
‘PLACES –‘
By the time he’s collected the sight of Viggo’s sliding grin, the angle of his head as he turns, Sean considers himself to be dangerously contented. It’s been so long since he’s really felt this way, he suspects his condition may actually be something far less pleasant, like the onset of some terminal disease.
He’s beginning to panic in earnest.
----
The rain is thickening, sealing in the last of the daylight, by the time shooting ends for the day. There’s the sour smell of old leaves underfoot, the parking lot lights blurry in the wet.
Sean’s shoulders are aching in a way that makes his arms feel twice their normal weight. Plus he’s bitten a chunk out of the inside of his cheek, and his mouth is full of the wet, metallic taste of injury.
Folding his hands under his armpits against the mounting cold, and looking neither right nor left, he heads for his trailer under cover of the hobbits, who are fighting dirty to get under the shelter of Orli’s big golf umbrella. It’s like they keep Sean insulated. He often has the need to step in tight alongside the little buggers, like he might be incorrectly wired in some way and pose a potential risk.
Dom’s teeth are audibly chattering. ‘Anyone for a quick, warming shag?’
‘Nah, freezing my tits off.’
‘Not even a blowjob?’
‘I’m getting a cold, I’d suffocate.’ Billy, adenoidal, looking at Dom through his lashes.
The rain, or possibly the hobbit banter, is kicking up a gnawing pressure on Sean’s sinuses. This is just the game they’re playing, this is just a bout of sparring, a proof they’re safe with each other, whatever. They’re basically good – that’s a lot of what makes them such irritating little shits.
‘Orli?’ Dom, operatic with disappointment.
Orli’s dank blonde wig is dripping water onto his coat, woebegone. ‘The Elf doesn’t give head.’
Dom and Billy pause to enjoy a mutual smile, a mutual appreciation. ‘Shoulda known elves don’t put out.’
‘The nuns of Middle Earth, really.’
Sean can feel himself flinch, like there’s too much personality in the air, with the way the hobbits happily put their inside on their outsides and pat them about with ridiculous personal confidence and a kind of kind of dopey happiness.
Miracles happen. Yeah, right.
Sean has the brief and sickening impression that his mind is something like a bony goldfish bowl, nothing in it will grip. Words float past in ugly clusters behind his eyes.
So shut up and enjoy it. I mean, things are going fine, finer than they’ve been in forever. Since back when you were getting your prick into just enough arses to miss it. Be reasonable, man.
And then, frictionless, irresistible, came the questions under the questions.
Why, for fuck sake? Nothing else is reasonable, so why me?
Footsteps fall in beside him, quiet in the raggedy drizzle hitting the asphalt. The rain is firming, settling in for the night.
Viggo’s hair is sleek and flat on his skull, huddled into the collar of an old parka. He lights a cigarette off his own, hungry-mouthed, and hands it over without asking. ‘Thank Christ that’s done.’
Sean shelters the cigarette in his fist, cradles the small warmth. ‘Is that the He-Man of the Fellowship speaking?’
‘Lay off, I’m off duty.’ Viggo’s eyes are narrow and colourless, lashes stuck with wet, tired. The scar is showing the way it does when he’s exhausted, and all the narrow bones of his face are sharp.
Sean’s aware that they’re getting substantially wet. ‘You look like shite, Vig.’
Viggo sips a narrow trace of smoke, shrugs in a small way. ‘Long day.’ He starts them walking again, their sides nudging together, easily.
Sean notices vaguely how stiffened and tender his muscles have grown already. Men of his age are not intended to fight imaginary cave trolls. He can feel Viggo sagging against him, a warm, tired line of heat, and wants to console him. He wants to attend to the whole long weight of him, from the salt and dirt of his throat to the buckle of his knees, and to be sure he’s all defended and safe.
‘You should eat.’
‘I’d rather a cigarette and a good fuck, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Okay.’
Sean’s suddenly anxious to pull out even one unwieldy expression of tenderness, or something, out of the collection he seems to be keeping in pointless storage. He keeps his head down, reaches for Viggo’s hand, rubs his thumb across the root of his fingers, and into the fold of skin behind the knuckles, inside his closed fist.
An emotion resembling fear prickles at the small of his back, threatens and withdraws again.
After a minute, this isn’t enough and, his stomach giving a nauseous wink, he leans in and kisses him, harder than he’d intended, as if the inches between him and Viggo’s mouth have suddenly been stolen.
Viggo tastes of tired sweat and tobacco and this makes Sean’s cock and nipples reluctantly, painfully hard.
---
Inside the trailer, Viggo shrugs out of his coat, toes off his boots. In the merciless yellow glare, Sean feels himself start to frown, even blush.
He lifts off his wig and runs his hands through his damp hair, recognises the look he sees in the big lighted wall mirror, the look of a man fighting a scorching appetite and probably losing.
When he’s acting it’s all right, the part’s pulled up over him, so you can’t see through. But otherwise, Jesus. The constant fluster in his eyes, scratching behind an ear, digging in his pockets for unspecified stuff he never found, small change, a key ring - the reliable evidence of physical clumsiness and discontent.
‘Your knots have knots.’ Viggo’s roughened hands fasten on his shoulders, dig in.
‘Relaxation isn’t my strong point.’ There’s a stocky tick of blood in his ears, and the push and heat of Viggo’s breathing on Sean’s neck. He’s queasy with want.
‘Shh.’ Viggo buckles his arms around him from the back, constricting his breathing, hungry.
The ugly, vulnerable lip is reflected, the slithering forelock which will start drying from nearly black to lighter, sticky, with dirty gold lights in it.
Sean’s not sure if it’s possible for him to be touching Viggo, fucking Viggo, and not change him for the worse.
On the window, there’s the small, harmless impacts of water on glass.
It’s around this time that he starts shaking. Not just the odd nervous jiggle, but an unmistakable permanent tremor. He doesn’t notice it too much at the time because his mind is on other things. Later on he thinks it’s his body’s way of trying to tell him something. Some people get rashes or fainting fits; he shakes.
‘Not idly do the leaves of Lorien fall,’ Viggo says, brow furrowed with concentration, his dirty fingers struggling with the cloak brooch at Sean’s throat.
‘You’re daft, you are.’ Sean’s too tired to be doing this and too tired to resist.
He twists around in Viggo’s arms and they come together, fitted, heavy as a lock.
The sweat and acid taste of Viggo grits through his teeth. There’s a lot of cumbersome metal and weight about them that needs to be dealt with, the buckled sleeves, belts, clasps, chain mail, but they’ve done this before, sober, tired, fucking half-dressed in the trailer, ending up with each other’s come on their hands and clothes before Costumes comes knocking.
Sean puts his hands on Viggo’s chest and pushes his open surcoat back off his shoulders, over the ebb and surge of his ribs. Then he tugs out his shirt at the waist, yanks down his breeches, frees his cock and balls. The darkened sweat stain on Viggo’s undershirt sticks to the channel of his back.
Sean rubs Viggo’s cock in his fist, then gets down on his knees, weights it on his tongue, feels the blunt snout against the roof of his mouth, angling into his throat. The sound that Viggo makes is completely pleased and at the same time desperate.
Sean wants to be nothing but hungry and he is.
Then Viggo is pulling him up, turning him, and getting his breeches down and his legs apart so he can lean him over the back of the couch, because he likes that, Viggo does, likes just plain hard fucking with no talking, when they’ve both been thinking about it all day, and when Sean’s still wet and salty and tired from the set. In the mirror he can see Viggo’s mouth gone slack with pleasure, and if he looks down, beyond where his breeches are stretched between his thighs, there’s Viggo’s dirty bare feet keeping his legs spread.
The thing is, the stuff he remembers is too strong, it slides away from him under its own steam, showing where it might lead next. It’s wiser to forget about it till they’re together again. By which time the sex comes and takes charge. He always finds the sex a great relief.
Afterwards, in the shower, Viggo, impossibly, gets him hard again. The steam lisps and paws at them, and the water slaps rhythmically against the shower wall, in time with Viggo’s calloused fist pumping slowly.
Sean sets his teeth in the bared arch of Viggo’s neck, so that Viggo’s roughened breath gusts on his bare shoulder. One of his long-toed, dirty-soled feet braces them against the tiles, so Sean can lean all his weight on Viggo, feeling the rasp and soap-slip of him, until he comes in a kind of gasping blur.
He’d love now to be hosed, scrubbed, until there is nothing to see of himself. He’d like very much to be washed away.
TBC
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Date: 2005-04-06 06:34 pm (UTC)I don't know what to say... just utterly beautiful writing and a very strong Sean voice this story gets me completely! Thank you!
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Date: 2005-04-08 10:35 am (UTC)Oh excellent
Date: 2005-04-06 07:30 pm (UTC)Re: Oh excellent
Date: 2005-04-08 10:36 am (UTC)*blushes slightly*
Re: Oh excellent
Date: 2005-04-08 04:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-07 07:06 am (UTC)I've read your ficks so many times they're engraved permanently on my mind, just the way I like them....
Just to see a VigBean post...and then one of yours...*guh*
*breaks into wild gyrating grungy old rock type dance* I am so loving your series and am ecstatic on your latest posting!!! :)~
May I friend you please? I don't want to miss anything you write (which you write so well)!!!
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Date: 2005-04-08 10:38 am (UTC)Feel free to friend!
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Date: 2005-04-08 02:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-07 10:20 am (UTC)Under the comfort comes an easy prickle of something else. *sighs* sublime.
Please finish this!
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Date: 2005-04-08 10:38 am (UTC)Excellent!
Date: 2005-04-08 01:50 am (UTC)Re: Excellent!
Date: 2005-04-08 10:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-08 02:22 am (UTC)And darkly funny.
Thanks!
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Date: 2005-04-08 10:40 am (UTC)