He looked sort of lost, or maybe defeated, with his shoulders bunched up as though to protect his head, his hands buried deep in his pockets. Then he said something that Sean considered punching him for, even if he understood it. I wondered if it was Boromir or if it was you. Sodding Boromir. The half of the world that didn't know him as Sharpe only knew him as sodding Boromir.
"Looked worse than it was," he said, warily. But it was true. He was old in Game of Thrones. Old in real life, too.
He hung back, listening, watching, and then he stepped forward, reached for the hand at Viggo's side and whirled him away from the wall the way he knew how; the way he did it with Christian, bending him all the way over, curling his hand in his belt to keep them hip to hip, taking utter command over the position.
It was only a matter of leaning close enough to kiss him then, tightening his grip slightly and pressing his lips against Viggo's, kissing him hard, but not at all for long. He was passionate, yes, but it was different than his kisses for Christian. There wasn't heat like there was between them. They weren't rutting, and there wasn't a battle of tongues. The domination ended at the position, at the kiss, but it wasn't a part of it.
When he drew back, it was with a sigh, and he drew back, brought Viggo back to his feet and brushed his shoulders, patted them, smoothed back the hair from his eyes.
"Alright. Just wanted to get that out of the way now so you know where I stand. Better to regret what you have done an' all that, eh?"
He swallowed hard - anxious - and drew away, licking the taste of Viggo from his lips and half tripping over a rug as he excused himself back to one of the seats, sinking down on the edge of it, putting some space between them.
no subject
"Looked worse than it was," he said, warily. But it was true. He was old in Game of Thrones. Old in real life, too.
He hung back, listening, watching, and then he stepped forward, reached for the hand at Viggo's side and whirled him away from the wall the way he knew how; the way he did it with Christian, bending him all the way over, curling his hand in his belt to keep them hip to hip, taking utter command over the position.
It was only a matter of leaning close enough to kiss him then, tightening his grip slightly and pressing his lips against Viggo's, kissing him hard, but not at all for long. He was passionate, yes, but it was different than his kisses for Christian. There wasn't heat like there was between them. They weren't rutting, and there wasn't a battle of tongues. The domination ended at the position, at the kiss, but it wasn't a part of it.
When he drew back, it was with a sigh, and he drew back, brought Viggo back to his feet and brushed his shoulders, patted them, smoothed back the hair from his eyes.
"Alright. Just wanted to get that out of the way now so you know where I stand. Better to regret what you have done an' all that, eh?"
He swallowed hard - anxious - and drew away, licking the taste of Viggo from his lips and half tripping over a rug as he excused himself back to one of the seats, sinking down on the edge of it, putting some space between them.
"Feeling better?"