rugbytackle | (no subject)

I've never posted here before, so please forgive me if I mess this up completely.

Title: The Physics of Distance, Light and Sound
Author: Linda3M
Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Rating: NC-17
Archive: Sure. Why not?
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Never happened. I don't know these men. I was nowhere near the place. You're looking for two other guys. To the best of my ability, I am unable to recollect the events of the night in question.

Modern technology is an amazing thing really. Forty-eight thousand odd miles between them, and the call sounded as clear as if London were just down the road. No crackling static or electronic hum, just Sean's rich accent, warm in his ear.

Viggo lay on the sofa in his studio, head hanging off the edge, one long leg draped over the back, viewing the world upside down and remembering New Zealand, where water circled down drains the wrong way.

“Keeping busy, are you?”

And Viggo nodded, although Sean couldn't see it from where he sat, in another city, in another country, on another continent. He looked down at the pale splatters of gray paint on his bare feet. “Yeah, started a new canvas. You?”

“Just watching the matches and wanking off.”

“Really?” Viggo popped his head up and asked without thinking. Sean responded with sharp laughter, reminding Viggo of the boys who once taunted him at school, reminding him of how he could be impulsive and why he never spoke without thinking.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

Viggo's head fell back against the sofa cushions. “Yeah,” he confessed quietly.

“I usually hold off till after we talk.”

Sean's voice was low, the shiver that skittered along Viggo's forearms and made the fine hairs stand could have been just the vibrations cause by his deep pitch. But this time Viggo didn't respond, held his tongue and thought about whether this was Sean's own confession or just more taunting.

“I could take care of it now if you like. If you'll join me.”

Viggo closed his eyes and hoped the laughter still ringing across the line didn't mean that this was just more of Sean's British sixth form teasing. He swallowed and sighed, “All right.”

Sean's laughter trickled down to fading chuckles and then to silence. Viggo shifted on the sofa, stretching out and settling comfortably into the cushions and the anticipation.

“I'm betting it's warm there.”

And it was. The mid-day light filtered in through the studio windows, too harsh for painting - he'd already caught the earliest sun for that, but deep and warming so he felt like a cat on a windowsill.

“You've got on those faded jeans, don't you? No shirt. Bare feet. Just the jeans.”

Sean was right, of course. He had enough Sundays to know. Sundays in New Zealand. In London. LA. And now, Sundays on the phone. Their Sundays. Viggo knew that Sean could close his eyes and see him there, bare and paint speckled in the spotlight warmth of the sun. And spotlights aren't always flattering.

But Viggo could close his eyes and see Sean too, smiling at him on the sofa in the parlor in the gathering English dusk. “You've got a fire going, don't you?” Viggo asked and Sean's sigh answered.

“It's a bit damp and chill here.”

Viggo would have liked to capture the golden orange-red of Sean's hair in firelight. Firelight looked good on Sean.

“Hang on.”

“Ok.” Viggo could hear the soft rustle of cloth in the background as Sean shifted something around before returning to the line.

“Sorry. Had to get rid of my sweater.”

“So, now we're even?”

“Not quite. I am wearing trainers. I'm not one of you damn Colonials.”

Viggo laughed with Sean this time and rubbed the instep of one foot with the toes of the other. Last time he did a hands and feet study had been in New Zealand. He'd filled a Strathmore pad with charcoals of hands - long, slender, elegant fingers, short, square palms, big, calloused paws - and only one set of feet. No one liked to have their feet drawn. Hands – sure, but feet, the suggestion seemed vaguely obscene. Aside from a box of hobbit prosthetics that appeared on the steps of his trailer, only Sean had volunteered to sit and have his feet sketched. And all the while Viggo sat, barefoot and tailor fashion, pad in his lap and fingers smudged, sketching Sean's pale, well-arched feet, Sean had been watching his. And Viggo understood the intimacy.

The purr of a zipper and a quiet hum brought Viggo's attention back to the phone. Sean was asking him a question.

“What are you doing over there?”

“Thinking, “ Viggo admitted, knowing it wasn't the right answer.

“Sort of missing the point here, hmmm?”

“Sorry.”

“Your brain is a marvel, Viggo.”

“Huh?”

“You're either concentrating so intensely or drifting off in space.”

“Sorry.” Viggo flushed, feeling as if the sunlight had turned him translucent.

“S'alright. Just let me have the concentrating one, eh?”

“Ok.”

“Where are your hands?”

“Where are yours?” Viggo blurted out, then closed his eyes and shook his head. His illusion of cool was slipping, but Sean was well passed seeing through all that. Sean knew Viggo's inner art fag and loved him all the same.

Sean laughed again and Viggo wondered if he'd remember this call as the funniest conversation they'd ever had. Funnier even, than the drunken argument over the rules for hobbit bowling.

“All right then. Let's go at this a different way, shall we? I have my trousers open. My hand's inside my pants. I'm just holding on for now. Waiting. Everything's still all warm and dry. I wish it were your fingers wrapped around me. You know? Your hand on my cock.”

Sean's voice was low and dark, his words, slow and thick. They drizzled over Viggo like warm syrup. Viggo's sigh broke and shuddered. He pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder so he could feel Sean's voice vibrate against his cheek the way it did when he rested his head on Sean's smooth chest. He reached for his fly.

“Not yet.”

Viggo's hands halted at Sean's command, forgetting to wonder how he knew.

“Touch your chest first. Right. Stroke yourself like I would if I were there. Pinch your nipples for me, Viggo. Hard. Like if I were there to bite them.”

Viggo's hands stroked across his sun-warmed skin, following in the shadow of Sean's words. He ruffled through his own sparse chest hair. He rolled and pinched his tightened nipples harder than he'd usually do for himself. As hard as Sean would do for him. He groaned and arched as the sharp twinge of pleasure knotted in his belly and jerked along his cock.

“That's good, Viggo. Not too rough. Lick your fingers now. That's it. Think about my tongue. Pet them, like I would if I could lick you.”

Viggo licked his fingers, his own tongue wet and rough against the pads. He circled them, cool and slick around his nipples, soothing the sting and whimpering for the tip of Sean's tongue.

“There, now you can open your zipper. Slow. I know you've got nothing underneath, right?”

Viggo moaned as his hands skimmed down his stomach. His nipples felt cold, wet, stiff and abandoned, but the ache in his cock and the heat of Sean's liquid voice compelled him.

“Right?”

“What?”

“Viggo, try and stay with me. No pants on under those jeans. Right?”

“Oh. Right.” Soft, comfortable denim, well-worn and broken-in in all the right places, so they fit and moved and gave. No need for underwear. No reason to even think about it until Sean made him think about it and now he was starkly aware of the decadent drag of heavy cotton hugging the curve of his ass, cupping his balls, pressing against his cock. Making him feel indecent.

“Press your palm down on your cock. Hold it there for me. How does it feel, Vig? Tell me.”

Viggo pressed the palm of his hand down over the hard ridge distending his zipper. He jumped and gasped at the weight of his own hand trapping his cock.

“Well? Tell me. How does it feel?”

“Hot,” Viggo murmured. And it was hot. So hot. He clutched himself through denim, his hand not even on his flesh and he could feel the heat. Alarmingly, feverishly hot.

“Yeah, you do feel like that. All hot in my hand. I miss the way your cock feels, Viggo. It's been too long.”

“Sean...” Viggo pleaded, all artifice gone.

“It's ok, go on. I'm here. I'll talk you through. I'm waiting. I won't start till you're with me.”

Viggo pressed his hand down, hard against his cock, shivering at the ache, the tightening in his balls, the wet warmth that squeezed from the tip. Viggo trusted his hands, His hands were competent, serving him faithfully with brushes and pens and prop swords. But now they trembled, fluttering spasmodically at the end of his wrists, ineptly fumbling with button and zipper as he pictured Sean's large, steady hand, wrapped around his flushed cock, red and leaking and strumming and waiting for him.

Viggo dug his heels into the cushions, lifting his ass so he could push down his jeans, over his hips and out of the way. Pushed them down as low as he could reach, leaving him panting and bare to the knees. He was sweating now, in the heat of the sun. Long, lank strands of damp hair clung to his face. Moisture pricked at his armpits and the crease of his thighs. His body felt taut and tight, humming with tuning fork vibrations. He cupped one hand around his balls and tightened a fist around his begging cock, giving it one rough jerk that made him shudder and whine.

“Hey, ease up over there. Slow down. We're just getting going now.”

Sean's voice admonished him from across the world and Viggo obeyed as if he lay only a pillow's width away. His head rolled back and he sucked in deep breaths of air, exhaling the tension in his arms and chest, relaxing his grip and waiting.

“Love, you ok? Still with me?”

“Mmm,” Viggo nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good then.”

Viggo could hear Sean's breathe falter. “Are you...?”

“Am I what?”

Viggo could feel his quickening pulse reverberate through his erection. “Are you stroking your cock?”

“Mmm, yeah. I'm stroking my cock. Stroking it slow, the way you do when you feel like torturing me. Stroking it and thinking about your hand on me.”

Viggo closed his eyes and pictured Sean's sure, solid hand moving in measured strokes along the hard length of his cock. He squeezed his own shaft, holding on to anchor himself against the image, grounding himself in aching need.

“I'm...oh god...leaking now, Viggo. Christ, I wish you were here to lick me clean.”

“Sean,” Viggo gasped, wet beads forming on the head of his cock in sympathy. He slid his thumb through the clear, slick drops, spreading warm pleasure and the chill of damp air across his cock head, the way Sean's tongue did when he licked him.

“That's right, Vig. C'mon. Do it with me.”

Viggo whimpered and thrust up into his palm, squeezing and stroking, sliding his cock through his fist, pumping into his own hand and pressing his head hard against the receiver to catch the sound of Sean's labored breath huffing in his ear.

“Sean,” Viggo pleaded. He tightened his fist around his cock, mirroring the tightening in his stomach that radiated up to his throat, down to his balls, cutting off all feeling but the pleasure that was barely enough. Pleasure that would be so much better if the fist were Sean's, tightening that cut off Viggo's ability to speak anything but his name. “Sean.”

“That's right. Go on. Squeeze your balls for me. Do it.”

Sean's voice, rough and breathless, directed his actions. He squeezed and tugged, pulling a fierceness that bordered on pain through his cock and balls, giving himself what Sean would give him whenever he needed something more. He sobbed and shook, sucking his own wet lips and groaning into the receiver, pressing his head against the phone as if he could push his way through to where Sean lay panting in his ear.

“Right. C'mon, Viggo. Come for me. ”

He could hear the strain in Sean's voice, could squeeze his eyes closed tight and see the throb of Sean's throat, feel his fair skin flush hot and red.

“Christ! Viggo!”

Sean's shout burst in his ear and his shallow, shuddering gasps shook through Viggo, shook him the way Sean's body shook when he heaved and shuddered in Viggo's arms.

A few more fluttery strokes, a shaky-handed slide and squeeze and Viggo shuddered, bowing up with a sob and a cough as thick heat ran down his knuckles and dripped from his hand. Another spastic shudder and then Viggo collapsed back, turning on his side and bringing his hand up to smear the receiver and curl around the phone.

“Viggo? Love?”

“Yeah.” Viggo's head swam back home, through streams of consciousness images of Sean and rainy nights and shared afterglow, to return to a cluttered studio filled with work and light but empty.

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you.”

“Sean, I...this sucks.”

“I know, Viggo. Soon, love. Soon.”

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From: (Anonymous)

That was wonderful!!! More? Please?

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