Sean really didn't doubt that promise, misconstrued as his words were, and he didn't have much energy to really complain about it; not when Viggo kept it up, kissing at his tender, oversensitised skin, a finger inside, twisting, the slick, darting tongue that was otherwise so very dangerous--Viggo was incorrigible. And it was amazing. He didn't have words for it, or even sounds for it, but he knew that all his moans and trembled murmurs and the way he fucked midair only to push back onto Viggo's fingers conveyed everything he could possibly want to tell him in those moments.
He didn't know if - if it were him - he'd have had the control to eek this out as much as Viggo was doing. He thought he'd have lost it by now, pulled out and fucked him hard and fast without seeing, and he knew all at once that Viggo wasn't going to do that--that even if his base urges wanted to, Viggo wanted more for it to be special, for it to be something memorable and lasting, to leave his invisible marks on Sean just the same way as Christian did visible ones.
"Viggo," he breathed, and then he tried it in Spanish, drawing on decades old memories of the language. Guido. The Gui was easy to hang on, but it was the gg in Viggo that Sean preferred in the end, because he could draw it out as long as he liked, through any touch, through every stroke of Viggo's fingers and tongue, inside and out, and he never had to finish if he didn't have the breath to pronounce the 'o', which was more often than not. Every touch to his prostrate felt like a shotgun blast through his pleasure centres, and his voice caught totally in his throat every time. He didn't stop.
Sean knew the power of a name. He knew how terrifying it was to imagine being overhead; he knew how dazzling it was to hear it cried and cried in passion and ecstasy. He couldn't think of anything better than that, than giving that, because it was a gift that was free, and yet meant so much.
When Viggo actually touched his erection, it was such a shock that he cried out loud, let go of his hold on the bed and bolted clean upright, curled around into almost a fetal position against the pillow beneath him, catching Viggo's shoulders in both hands and squeezing so hard he knew he'd leave bruises. He could see him now, really look down at him where his head bobbed, every finger curled against him somehow, filthy and perfect with his sweat-beaded hair clinging to his face and his eyes closed and his long fingers wrapped around his cock--his own come on Viggo's fingers. Sean released one narrow shoulder to reach for that hand, and pulled it up to his mouth and half bit half licked the fingers, depending on whether or not Viggo's finger was knotted into his prostrate or not at the time, sucking the precome from his fingertips.
He never said anything except "Viggo."
And soon enough even that turned into a note of warning; he couldn't take much more of it.
no subject
He didn't know if - if it were him - he'd have had the control to eek this out as much as Viggo was doing. He thought he'd have lost it by now, pulled out and fucked him hard and fast without seeing, and he knew all at once that Viggo wasn't going to do that--that even if his base urges wanted to, Viggo wanted more for it to be special, for it to be something memorable and lasting, to leave his invisible marks on Sean just the same way as Christian did visible ones.
"Viggo," he breathed, and then he tried it in Spanish, drawing on decades old memories of the language. Guido. The Gui was easy to hang on, but it was the gg in Viggo that Sean preferred in the end, because he could draw it out as long as he liked, through any touch, through every stroke of Viggo's fingers and tongue, inside and out, and he never had to finish if he didn't have the breath to pronounce the 'o', which was more often than not. Every touch to his prostrate felt like a shotgun blast through his pleasure centres, and his voice caught totally in his throat every time. He didn't stop.
Sean knew the power of a name. He knew how terrifying it was to imagine being overhead; he knew how dazzling it was to hear it cried and cried in passion and ecstasy. He couldn't think of anything better than that, than giving that, because it was a gift that was free, and yet meant so much.
When Viggo actually touched his erection, it was such a shock that he cried out loud, let go of his hold on the bed and bolted clean upright, curled around into almost a fetal position against the pillow beneath him, catching Viggo's shoulders in both hands and squeezing so hard he knew he'd leave bruises. He could see him now, really look down at him where his head bobbed, every finger curled against him somehow, filthy and perfect with his sweat-beaded hair clinging to his face and his eyes closed and his long fingers wrapped around his cock--his own come on Viggo's fingers. Sean released one narrow shoulder to reach for that hand, and pulled it up to his mouth and half bit half licked the fingers, depending on whether or not Viggo's finger was knotted into his prostrate or not at the time, sucking the precome from his fingertips.
He never said anything except "Viggo."
And soon enough even that turned into a note of warning; he couldn't take much more of it.