Sean shivered at those particular words. That Aragorn had wanted to do this to him - to Boromir - and all that had come of it was just one drunken night in New Zealand. It seemed like a waste, and yet he was back there imagining the crisp snow, the echoing sets, the sweat that clung to his skin and the way that he'd come back bone tired at night and horny as hell with nothing to do about it, and that for a certain amount of time they had actually lived in such close proximity to each other that he could have satisfied that desire without any effort at all.
And here was Viggo - an artist - playing his body like it was a guitar, calloused and dirty fingertips (he hadn't noticed that in the darkness of the bar; they were flecked with paint and there was charcoal or something under his short nails) dragging hard over sensitive skin and arched muscle, making his body jump beneath him albeit completely uncontrollably; at Viggo's whim.
But Jesus, his tongue and his dry lips and his words--all new textures, and all played out against him like it was a particularly complicated movement in music, and Sean wanted nothing less than to play harmony. He moaned, careless of the sound he made, because Viggo's words turned him on, and when it wasn't Viggo's words - his imagination building scenes of lewd and lascivious perfection on the back of his eyelids, and his compliments like ice water poured down his spine - it was his hands urging his legs up, his body rubbing so perfectly against his own, his mouth delicate and yet bristled; pleasure and pinpricks of discomfort equally, and all of it completely overwhelming.
"Always imagined you wanted t'paint me on paper, Vig. Had a few waking dreams you did, but I thought that was me imagination."
He was naked; completely naked, and Viggo hadn't removed even a single stretch of fabric, but Sean arched under him, twisted so that when he inhaled his whole torso filled, rising up toward Viggo's chest, smooth muscles writ with tiny scars (and one in particular a little larger, a bottle wound he'd obtained not so long ago compared to some of his other scars.)
"All that waiting. What'd it get you except a cold, empty bed? I've been waiting too, always expecting something perfect. But nothing's bloody perfect, Vig. You just have to take advantage of what you can get yer paws on, and hold on and never let go. Because it's so fucking fleeting. It's vain, an I can't bloody stand it half the time."
He was rambling as though someone had turned on the faucet, and his eyes showed a certain warm desperation. He had so much love to give, and he wasn't perfect; he wasn't going to be anything that people thought him to be, because that wasn't him. But he wanted to be loved for who he was--bad as much as good, and Viggo had murmured sweet nothings about the greys and silvers in his hair, and given them names, and maybe that was a good start, right?
Maybe Viggo really did love him, and love him for him, not for some...image of Sean he'd painted some time. Maybe. It was clinging to those little chances that really got him through. Like betting on the favourite rather than the longshot.
"You better get started. An' take something off, else I start worrying you got me up here for a mag shoot and nothing much else." Again amusement--he was teasing.
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And here was Viggo - an artist - playing his body like it was a guitar, calloused and dirty fingertips (he hadn't noticed that in the darkness of the bar; they were flecked with paint and there was charcoal or something under his short nails) dragging hard over sensitive skin and arched muscle, making his body jump beneath him albeit completely uncontrollably; at Viggo's whim.
But Jesus, his tongue and his dry lips and his words--all new textures, and all played out against him like it was a particularly complicated movement in music, and Sean wanted nothing less than to play harmony. He moaned, careless of the sound he made, because Viggo's words turned him on, and when it wasn't Viggo's words - his imagination building scenes of lewd and lascivious perfection on the back of his eyelids, and his compliments like ice water poured down his spine - it was his hands urging his legs up, his body rubbing so perfectly against his own, his mouth delicate and yet bristled; pleasure and pinpricks of discomfort equally, and all of it completely overwhelming.
"Always imagined you wanted t'paint me on paper, Vig. Had a few waking dreams you did, but I thought that was me imagination."
He was naked; completely naked, and Viggo hadn't removed even a single stretch of fabric, but Sean arched under him, twisted so that when he inhaled his whole torso filled, rising up toward Viggo's chest, smooth muscles writ with tiny scars (and one in particular a little larger, a bottle wound he'd obtained not so long ago compared to some of his other scars.)
"All that waiting. What'd it get you except a cold, empty bed? I've been waiting too, always expecting something perfect. But nothing's bloody perfect, Vig. You just have to take advantage of what you can get yer paws on, and hold on and never let go. Because it's so fucking fleeting. It's vain, an I can't bloody stand it half the time."
He was rambling as though someone had turned on the faucet, and his eyes showed a certain warm desperation. He had so much love to give, and he wasn't perfect; he wasn't going to be anything that people thought him to be, because that wasn't him. But he wanted to be loved for who he was--bad as much as good, and Viggo had murmured sweet nothings about the greys and silvers in his hair, and given them names, and maybe that was a good start, right?
Maybe Viggo really did love him, and love him for him, not for some...image of Sean he'd painted some time. Maybe. It was clinging to those little chances that really got him through. Like betting on the favourite rather than the longshot.
"You better get started. An' take something off, else I start worrying you got me up here for a mag shoot and nothing much else." Again amusement--he was teasing.