The reminder made him raise his hands, but they were shaking again, his breath caught in his throat by the sheer eroticism of what Sean was doing. There would be people who would say that it was pornographic, the way that he was touching himself, his fingers full of multi-coloured paints that streaked all over his own skin. But to Viggo it was just- beauty in its purest form, undiluted, refusing to be judged by conventional standards, and his mouth was so dry that he couldn't even think to speak.
But he steadied his hands and took the pictures. One- Sean's fingers against his ear, his head tilted slightly to the side. A hint of jaw, a smaller hint of stubble, the paint that slipped down his arm and Viggo followed that line, down, down, until he captured the tip of Sean's elbow, the droplet of paint hanging off of it in frozen motion, contrasting sharply against the pure cleanness of his chest. Shining. Tempting to be ruined,to be painted.
Followed the wet hand down. Fingers curling around a nipple, throwing into sharp contrast the way Sean's back was arching towards his own hand. Wanting, desire- if he let anyone else see these photographs he would have to kill them. Viggo didn't share well; one Christian Bale was more than enough to test his possessiveness. He stopped his hands from shaking as he looked at Sean, biting down on his own lip, and stopped the urge to kiss him. To lick the paints - the non-edible, possibly poisonous paints - off of his chest.
(It wouldn't be the first time he ate some of those things.)
The next one was- even Sean's carelessness and artlessness was pure beauty. Viggo's next series of pictures were simple, barely requiring any composition: Sean's fingers, stained with paints, against his own white pants, and at the edge of the photograph was his opened fly. The sun glinted off the metal of his fly in a few of them, scattering the shadows on Sean's fingers in sharp contrast, and Viggo breathed in through his teeth and took some more.
He ignored the knocked down pot, though he took pictures of that took. There might be artistry to be found there; there was in everything Sean did this entire afternoon. But his attentions was immediately caught by the way Sean stroked his own cock, streaking reds and yellows and whites all over it. It should look dirty, it should look ridiculous, with the way the colours blended into a light orange with Sean's few touches- but it didn't. It simply didn't, and Viggo took pictures of the motion. Of Sean's hands. Of the fingernails that were peeking through the paints to clash with the swollen redness of Sean's erection.
A moment, two, his eyes transfixed upon Sean's cock- then Viggo jerked his camera up and took a photograph of Sean's moan. His head thrown back, lips wet, the blindfold across his eyes- the very image of temptation. If Lucifer had offered this to Viggo, he would have gladly sold his soul.
Slowly, he put down his camera. Turned and shoved open a drawer to take the lube and condoms, bringing them over. He crashed on his knees down beside Sean, taking his hands in his own before pulling them up then back, behind Sean's back, and he kissed him hard as he held them there with one hand and used the other to try to pull Sean's pants off.
"I have given the public enough of you, I think," he said, his voice hoarse and low and rough against Sean's ear. He nipped against the lobe, one of the few clean places, and wished he had used edible paints instead. "Now I'm going to take what's mine. I'm going to fuck you here, with your eyes still blindfolded, your body covered with my paints. My works of art." He tugged away the stained trousers, and impatiently ripped Sean's underwear off.
The snap of the lube bottle's cap was loud, and Viggo poured a bunch into his hand, slicking up his fingers. Then he reached under Sean's cock, between those spread knees, and pressed two inside, insistently.
"I'm going to fuck you here, just like this, and that's something no one else will never have.
no subject
But he steadied his hands and took the pictures. One- Sean's fingers against his ear, his head tilted slightly to the side. A hint of jaw, a smaller hint of stubble, the paint that slipped down his arm and Viggo followed that line, down, down, until he captured the tip of Sean's elbow, the droplet of paint hanging off of it in frozen motion, contrasting sharply against the pure cleanness of his chest. Shining. Tempting to be ruined,to be painted.
Followed the wet hand down. Fingers curling around a nipple, throwing into sharp contrast the way Sean's back was arching towards his own hand. Wanting, desire- if he let anyone else see these photographs he would have to kill them. Viggo didn't share well; one Christian Bale was more than enough to test his possessiveness. He stopped his hands from shaking as he looked at Sean, biting down on his own lip, and stopped the urge to kiss him. To lick the paints - the non-edible, possibly poisonous paints - off of his chest.
(It wouldn't be the first time he ate some of those things.)
The next one was- even Sean's carelessness and artlessness was pure beauty. Viggo's next series of pictures were simple, barely requiring any composition: Sean's fingers, stained with paints, against his own white pants, and at the edge of the photograph was his opened fly. The sun glinted off the metal of his fly in a few of them, scattering the shadows on Sean's fingers in sharp contrast, and Viggo breathed in through his teeth and took some more.
He ignored the knocked down pot, though he took pictures of that took. There might be artistry to be found there; there was in everything Sean did this entire afternoon. But his attentions was immediately caught by the way Sean stroked his own cock, streaking reds and yellows and whites all over it. It should look dirty, it should look ridiculous, with the way the colours blended into a light orange with Sean's few touches- but it didn't. It simply didn't, and Viggo took pictures of the motion. Of Sean's hands. Of the fingernails that were peeking through the paints to clash with the swollen redness of Sean's erection.
A moment, two, his eyes transfixed upon Sean's cock- then Viggo jerked his camera up and took a photograph of Sean's moan. His head thrown back, lips wet, the blindfold across his eyes- the very image of temptation. If Lucifer had offered this to Viggo, he would have gladly sold his soul.
Slowly, he put down his camera. Turned and shoved open a drawer to take the lube and condoms, bringing them over. He crashed on his knees down beside Sean, taking his hands in his own before pulling them up then back, behind Sean's back, and he kissed him hard as he held them there with one hand and used the other to try to pull Sean's pants off.
"I have given the public enough of you, I think," he said, his voice hoarse and low and rough against Sean's ear. He nipped against the lobe, one of the few clean places, and wished he had used edible paints instead. "Now I'm going to take what's mine. I'm going to fuck you here, with your eyes still blindfolded, your body covered with my paints. My works of art." He tugged away the stained trousers, and impatiently ripped Sean's underwear off.
The snap of the lube bottle's cap was loud, and Viggo poured a bunch into his hand, slicking up his fingers. Then he reached under Sean's cock, between those spread knees, and pressed two inside, insistently.
"I'm going to fuck you here, just like this, and that's something no one else will never have.
"No one else."