Viggo Mortensen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
honestlyyours) wrote2011-12-27 12:40 am
honestlyyours) wrote2011-12-27 12:40 am
we are the same but our lives have moved along, and the third one between-
There's one thing Viggo is good at, and that's waiting. He waited twenty years to get a big break with his acting. He waited more than a decade for Sean. It's just- in Lord of the Rings, during the filming, he falls in love with Boromir. Aragorn didn't, not really. Aragorn is complicated, full of obligations and weight and kingship and Arwen and a completely different view of love and what love is. Aragorn belongs to the world of Tolkien entirely, and he cannot fall in love with Boromir, not like that. But Boromir has left an indelible mark on Aragorn- and on Viggo, and Viggo falls for Boromir.
He falls for his nobility, for his burdens, for his strength. He falls in love with the way that Boromir's hand shakes in Lothlorien, in the look in his eyes as he dies, in his passion and fierceness when he speaks at the Council. It's all jumbled up, completely out of chronological order, but that's filming, isn't it? Viggo thinks he falls for Boromir, but at the same time he's with Sean, and Sean isn't Boromir. He snaps out of Boromir's character so easily that Viggo is left chasing dust, but at the same time he thinks that the passion he sees, the way that the words tumble out of Boromir's throat when he's talking about something he cares about- that's all in Sean too. And he thinks he loves the way Sean's mouth looks when wrapped around a bottle of beer; loves the way his hands curl and fly when he's taking out a cigarette to smoke. He falls in love with the planes of Sean's face when he takes a drag, blue-grey smoke all around him, and Viggo takes pictures and throws them all out because none of them capture the essence of it.
And Viggo falls, very quietly, very subtly, for Sean, and he thinks it's half-Boromir, half-Sean, and it really shouldn't matter, because he's not young anymore, and there's no real rush. Then Sean goes off to Berlin to film a science fiction movie, and Viggo sees him after the Fellowship of the Ring premiere and there's something different about him. A bit of desperation, his rough edges sharpened even further, a feverish look in his eyes. He wonders what the hell happened, but it's a slow-burning fire. He keeps track of Sean throughout the years, watching his movies, loving his movies, and falls in love every single time with the way Sean's tongue curls around the words. When Troy comes, he visits the premiere ostensibly for Orlando and spends the whole of it watching Sean. It was then that he categorised the fifty-three different shades of gold in Sean's hair.
Four years ago, they met at Heathrow. A coincidence, really. He's in a whirlwind, promoting Eastern Promises, and he'd met Sean. The feverish look in Sean's eyes seem to have set up and took up residence and started requesting for permanent residency, and Sean's hand was hot in his skin. Viggo becomes Aragorn for a little while, but what they do isn't what Aragorn do, and Aragorn never wanted to fuck Boromir. That's Viggo, through and through, for Sean and Boromir both, and he knows that he's not what Sean is looking for. Sean is looking for someone who immerses even deeper, who becomes completely, who erases himself entirely. Viggo's not like that. He's too centered, too calm, to patient. Sean looks for a thunderstorm and all he finds is a smooth, gentle glade.
Now Viggo starts looking, starts listening. It's not urgent. Just off to the side. It takes a little effort, and he starts reading tabloids online- and when he does, it becomes a little clearer. He doesn't get an invitation to Sean's wedding, but he's heard of Georgina, and when Christian Bale explodes on the set, everything becomes a little sharper, a little clearer. Berlin, a science fiction movie. A beautiful face. Viggo has met Christian before, years and years ago. He has met him, but he knows nothing of him. Viggo is an artist, with a strong eye. He's a photographer. He knows masks when he sees them, and Christian has always been about masks.
It's a little disappointing, a little anti-climatic. Now he knows, so what? He can't sweep Sean up into his arms, and he doesn't want to do that. The kind of poetry he writes doesn't talk much about sweeping romances. Viggo is patient still, and he waits. He works more, and waits, and dates a little, here and there. He laughs with Henry, and he's proud of his son, and he talks to Exene. She's ill, and he helps with that too. He stays in Idaho and takes care of horses and watches Sean and Christian from across the ocean. Bits and pieces of Sean starts to appear in his poetry, in his paintings- but it's fine, really, because no one notices amidst the abstraction.
He works, and he waits. Game of Thrones come and go, and Viggo is startled at how old Sean seems, how he seems weighed down, barely able to breathe. Viggo looks into the mirror and he sees the white in his brow, and suddenly he thinks that- he's running out of time. He's patient, but he's running out of time and it's been twelve years. Twelve years of waiting, and Sean doesn't know a thing about it. Viggo traces the white in the mirror and thinks of a painting, of a blue sky that's streaked with darkness and dotted with hidden starts. But he can't not continue to wait. Sean divorces Georgina. Christian exists. He waits, but he's getting a little antsy about it.
Viggo talks about it, in the interviews. He's afraid. He's running out of time. He's getting old. But he never really says what he's afraid of- and he's glad he hadn't, when the news come out, and Christian starts to tease the press. It's not very nice of him, and Viggo knows truth when he sees it. Since Equilibrium. Since 2001. Sean brightens up, laughs more. He loses the weight he gained for Ned Stark, and loses the years he gained with it. Viggo watches him during the Scream Awards; watches him surrounded by his girls; watches him laugh in a way he hadn't in a long time. And for the first time, he wonders how he can still love this man.
Then the spotlight angles against Sean's hair. A split-second flash, his face is out-of-focus as Viggo slams down on the pause button on the video. Fifty-three shades of gold, and now at least three shades of silver. Viggo's next painting is full of those shades, and he tries over and over to try to recreate the exact differences that he can see, but paint is a terrible mistress and he's more frustrated than not. It's alright. It's not a painting he can sell or display anyway, because it has his heart all over it, and god knows he's obvious enough.
Viggo hates the Oscars, but he has another nomination, and Sean has one. It's a little strange. Viggo's mind makes the strangest leaps. Sean is nominated for his role in David, and Viggo has David Cronenberg to thank for his nomination. Both for Supporting Actors. Sigmund Freud would probably love to have Lucas Shaw on his chair. The press is going crazy over it, what with the Rings connection. Viggo laughs and congratulates him on the phone when they talk, and he drives to LA, more than a little pensive. He hasn't seen Sean in years. Not since the Empire Awards in 2009. It's been three years.
He's running out of time. It's been thirteen years now, and Viggo wonders if he should still wait, or if he should make his move. Christian has laid his claim all over Sean in one movie, tying the two of them together. But Viggo has his mark too, even though he shares it with seven others. Nine, written on Sean's shoulder, written on his arm. It binds them together, this Fellowship.
He thinks he should meet Christian. If only as Christian Bale and Viggo Mortensen, rather than Edward Rosier and Caspar Goodwood. It'll be interesting. Viggo can already see Christian's colours, all blacks and greys and cut-ruby red, glistening and splashed across a painting. The paint has to be wet. It's worthless when it's dry, the meaning all gone, the rubies turned to blood, and that's not the point.
Viggo calls Sean, and it hits his voicemail. That's alright, and he leaves a message. He's staying at a friend's LA flat. (He wonders if Sean is living with Christian, with Christian's wife and daughter.) He wants to meet. For a drink, maybe before the Oscars, because he's missed laughing with Sean; missed being called 'filthy humans' and grouped together by Orlando. The Men of the Fellowship. Viggo-and-Sean. A bond together that they have inked into their skin. Just the two of them, like the kiss that Aragorn had laid upon Boromir's forehead, a benediction from the King to his Steward.
He wonders if Sean thinks of the same thing. If he misses the same things. If he misses New Zealand. It's 2012, Viggo thinks. Maybe it's time to stop waiting.
He wonders if Sean's hair still has the same fifty-three shades.
***
If Viggo had waited for other people's opinions to validate his work to think that what he did meant something, he would've committed suicide a long time ago.
That was a sobering thought. Rather amusing too, actually. There were still vultures outside, circling around the bar - around LA in general - waiting for the tiniest flicker, the smallest giveaway that Viggo Peter Mortensen, nominee (and loser) of the 73rd Academy Award for Best Supporting Award begrudges Sean Mark Bean, winner of the same award, his victory. Well, the vultures could continue to circle. They could keep running around in circles, because Viggo wasn't going to give them what they wanted.
Sean had won. Of course Sean had won. If anyone else had won, Viggo would have stormed out of the Oscars in a towering rage. Even if it was himself. Especially if he was himself. Freud was good, he felt good about the performance, but after what Sean had done...
Perhaps he was a damn masochist, but Viggo couldn't help himself - he watched David, and he came away nearly clawing at his own skin, feeling the dirt that Lucas had accumulated from too much exposure to David Allen stick onto himself. He could feel it along with Sean, the corruption of a good man and the way he had fallen all the way to hell. It was choking and exhilarating and Sean had barely needed to say anything for his performance to carry through with such weight and power. Every single move, every single breath. Viggo had watched Sean carry Boromir's despair and wear it as a tight-fitting cloak with just one turn of the head and one look into his eyes. He had watched with the one and only front-row seat how Sean portrayed Boromir's final acceptance of his King, and had kissed his forehead in absolution while entirely-unplanned tears had coursed down his cheeks.
Viggo couldn't give him a standing ovation during the performance because it was in a goddamn cinema, and it's a shame that no one does that anymore. But there's the Oscars, and the announcement of Sean's name, and Viggo didn't care about anyone's opinions. He stood and applauded for all that he was worth, turning to look at Sean with a blindingly bright grin because goddamn did he deserve it, and Viggo wasn't biased at all, and he knew from one glance that Christian Bale was reaching out, grabbing onto Sean's jacket and pulling him close, hugging him tight, and he was smiling in a way that he hadn't even smiled during his own win - Viggo watched that, too, because he was thorough - and he had let Sean go.
Had turned to look at Viggo through his lashes, across the rows of seats, head tilted to the side.
Because see- Viggo didn't tell Sean after all. Not during that drink one day before the show. Not during that first reunion, full of backslapping and hugs in that too-public hotel lobby, three days before the Oscars. The words had somehow gotten stuck in his throat, or perhaps they were lost, half-formed and tossed away even before he could complete then. The edges of the words were pressing against his tongue, heavy and weighted and he couldn't say anything, and it was ridiculous because he was fifty-four (one number greater than the shades of Sean's hair) and he should be an old hand with this. He should know what to do. It had been thirteen years.
He didn't. Not at all. Viggo had clapped his hands red and raw, his breath coming too fast and too hard, his head spinning from the adrenaline and the exhilaration and David and Michael had given him such odd looks, because he seemed more excited by the fact that he had lost to Sean Bean. But it was Sean, and during the commercial break Viggo had tried to explain it to David haltingly, with broken words and fragmented sentences and waving hands and stilted shoulders, and David had gotten it and grinned, giving him a little headbutt right in front of everyone and it was a little strange, thirteen years out of time. That, and the fact that David Cronenberg had watched the DVD extras for Lord of the Rings.
(Keira and Michael didn't get it, but Vincent did, and texted him about it. It was a marvellous example of how things had gone every single time, with this movie.)
He had texted Sean after the show, the first moment he could. Told him the bar, told him he would be here, and here he was. He wasn't waiting for a reply. There might be messages, there might be not. Viggo didn't want to know, not from a machine. He wanted to hope because he would see Sean's figure at the door. He wanted to feel the sharp disappointment and the tiny flare of unquenchable hope if he didn't. Viggo had nothing else to do tonight. All he would be doing would be waiting for Sean.
And that, he had enough practice. Thirteen years' worth.
He falls for his nobility, for his burdens, for his strength. He falls in love with the way that Boromir's hand shakes in Lothlorien, in the look in his eyes as he dies, in his passion and fierceness when he speaks at the Council. It's all jumbled up, completely out of chronological order, but that's filming, isn't it? Viggo thinks he falls for Boromir, but at the same time he's with Sean, and Sean isn't Boromir. He snaps out of Boromir's character so easily that Viggo is left chasing dust, but at the same time he thinks that the passion he sees, the way that the words tumble out of Boromir's throat when he's talking about something he cares about- that's all in Sean too. And he thinks he loves the way Sean's mouth looks when wrapped around a bottle of beer; loves the way his hands curl and fly when he's taking out a cigarette to smoke. He falls in love with the planes of Sean's face when he takes a drag, blue-grey smoke all around him, and Viggo takes pictures and throws them all out because none of them capture the essence of it.
And Viggo falls, very quietly, very subtly, for Sean, and he thinks it's half-Boromir, half-Sean, and it really shouldn't matter, because he's not young anymore, and there's no real rush. Then Sean goes off to Berlin to film a science fiction movie, and Viggo sees him after the Fellowship of the Ring premiere and there's something different about him. A bit of desperation, his rough edges sharpened even further, a feverish look in his eyes. He wonders what the hell happened, but it's a slow-burning fire. He keeps track of Sean throughout the years, watching his movies, loving his movies, and falls in love every single time with the way Sean's tongue curls around the words. When Troy comes, he visits the premiere ostensibly for Orlando and spends the whole of it watching Sean. It was then that he categorised the fifty-three different shades of gold in Sean's hair.
Four years ago, they met at Heathrow. A coincidence, really. He's in a whirlwind, promoting Eastern Promises, and he'd met Sean. The feverish look in Sean's eyes seem to have set up and took up residence and started requesting for permanent residency, and Sean's hand was hot in his skin. Viggo becomes Aragorn for a little while, but what they do isn't what Aragorn do, and Aragorn never wanted to fuck Boromir. That's Viggo, through and through, for Sean and Boromir both, and he knows that he's not what Sean is looking for. Sean is looking for someone who immerses even deeper, who becomes completely, who erases himself entirely. Viggo's not like that. He's too centered, too calm, to patient. Sean looks for a thunderstorm and all he finds is a smooth, gentle glade.
Now Viggo starts looking, starts listening. It's not urgent. Just off to the side. It takes a little effort, and he starts reading tabloids online- and when he does, it becomes a little clearer. He doesn't get an invitation to Sean's wedding, but he's heard of Georgina, and when Christian Bale explodes on the set, everything becomes a little sharper, a little clearer. Berlin, a science fiction movie. A beautiful face. Viggo has met Christian before, years and years ago. He has met him, but he knows nothing of him. Viggo is an artist, with a strong eye. He's a photographer. He knows masks when he sees them, and Christian has always been about masks.
It's a little disappointing, a little anti-climatic. Now he knows, so what? He can't sweep Sean up into his arms, and he doesn't want to do that. The kind of poetry he writes doesn't talk much about sweeping romances. Viggo is patient still, and he waits. He works more, and waits, and dates a little, here and there. He laughs with Henry, and he's proud of his son, and he talks to Exene. She's ill, and he helps with that too. He stays in Idaho and takes care of horses and watches Sean and Christian from across the ocean. Bits and pieces of Sean starts to appear in his poetry, in his paintings- but it's fine, really, because no one notices amidst the abstraction.
He works, and he waits. Game of Thrones come and go, and Viggo is startled at how old Sean seems, how he seems weighed down, barely able to breathe. Viggo looks into the mirror and he sees the white in his brow, and suddenly he thinks that- he's running out of time. He's patient, but he's running out of time and it's been twelve years. Twelve years of waiting, and Sean doesn't know a thing about it. Viggo traces the white in the mirror and thinks of a painting, of a blue sky that's streaked with darkness and dotted with hidden starts. But he can't not continue to wait. Sean divorces Georgina. Christian exists. He waits, but he's getting a little antsy about it.
Viggo talks about it, in the interviews. He's afraid. He's running out of time. He's getting old. But he never really says what he's afraid of- and he's glad he hadn't, when the news come out, and Christian starts to tease the press. It's not very nice of him, and Viggo knows truth when he sees it. Since Equilibrium. Since 2001. Sean brightens up, laughs more. He loses the weight he gained for Ned Stark, and loses the years he gained with it. Viggo watches him during the Scream Awards; watches him surrounded by his girls; watches him laugh in a way he hadn't in a long time. And for the first time, he wonders how he can still love this man.
Then the spotlight angles against Sean's hair. A split-second flash, his face is out-of-focus as Viggo slams down on the pause button on the video. Fifty-three shades of gold, and now at least three shades of silver. Viggo's next painting is full of those shades, and he tries over and over to try to recreate the exact differences that he can see, but paint is a terrible mistress and he's more frustrated than not. It's alright. It's not a painting he can sell or display anyway, because it has his heart all over it, and god knows he's obvious enough.
Viggo hates the Oscars, but he has another nomination, and Sean has one. It's a little strange. Viggo's mind makes the strangest leaps. Sean is nominated for his role in David, and Viggo has David Cronenberg to thank for his nomination. Both for Supporting Actors. Sigmund Freud would probably love to have Lucas Shaw on his chair. The press is going crazy over it, what with the Rings connection. Viggo laughs and congratulates him on the phone when they talk, and he drives to LA, more than a little pensive. He hasn't seen Sean in years. Not since the Empire Awards in 2009. It's been three years.
He's running out of time. It's been thirteen years now, and Viggo wonders if he should still wait, or if he should make his move. Christian has laid his claim all over Sean in one movie, tying the two of them together. But Viggo has his mark too, even though he shares it with seven others. Nine, written on Sean's shoulder, written on his arm. It binds them together, this Fellowship.
He thinks he should meet Christian. If only as Christian Bale and Viggo Mortensen, rather than Edward Rosier and Caspar Goodwood. It'll be interesting. Viggo can already see Christian's colours, all blacks and greys and cut-ruby red, glistening and splashed across a painting. The paint has to be wet. It's worthless when it's dry, the meaning all gone, the rubies turned to blood, and that's not the point.
Viggo calls Sean, and it hits his voicemail. That's alright, and he leaves a message. He's staying at a friend's LA flat. (He wonders if Sean is living with Christian, with Christian's wife and daughter.) He wants to meet. For a drink, maybe before the Oscars, because he's missed laughing with Sean; missed being called 'filthy humans' and grouped together by Orlando. The Men of the Fellowship. Viggo-and-Sean. A bond together that they have inked into their skin. Just the two of them, like the kiss that Aragorn had laid upon Boromir's forehead, a benediction from the King to his Steward.
He wonders if Sean thinks of the same thing. If he misses the same things. If he misses New Zealand. It's 2012, Viggo thinks. Maybe it's time to stop waiting.
He wonders if Sean's hair still has the same fifty-three shades.
***
If Viggo had waited for other people's opinions to validate his work to think that what he did meant something, he would've committed suicide a long time ago.
That was a sobering thought. Rather amusing too, actually. There were still vultures outside, circling around the bar - around LA in general - waiting for the tiniest flicker, the smallest giveaway that Viggo Peter Mortensen, nominee (and loser) of the 73rd Academy Award for Best Supporting Award begrudges Sean Mark Bean, winner of the same award, his victory. Well, the vultures could continue to circle. They could keep running around in circles, because Viggo wasn't going to give them what they wanted.
Sean had won. Of course Sean had won. If anyone else had won, Viggo would have stormed out of the Oscars in a towering rage. Even if it was himself. Especially if he was himself. Freud was good, he felt good about the performance, but after what Sean had done...
Perhaps he was a damn masochist, but Viggo couldn't help himself - he watched David, and he came away nearly clawing at his own skin, feeling the dirt that Lucas had accumulated from too much exposure to David Allen stick onto himself. He could feel it along with Sean, the corruption of a good man and the way he had fallen all the way to hell. It was choking and exhilarating and Sean had barely needed to say anything for his performance to carry through with such weight and power. Every single move, every single breath. Viggo had watched Sean carry Boromir's despair and wear it as a tight-fitting cloak with just one turn of the head and one look into his eyes. He had watched with the one and only front-row seat how Sean portrayed Boromir's final acceptance of his King, and had kissed his forehead in absolution while entirely-unplanned tears had coursed down his cheeks.
Viggo couldn't give him a standing ovation during the performance because it was in a goddamn cinema, and it's a shame that no one does that anymore. But there's the Oscars, and the announcement of Sean's name, and Viggo didn't care about anyone's opinions. He stood and applauded for all that he was worth, turning to look at Sean with a blindingly bright grin because goddamn did he deserve it, and Viggo wasn't biased at all, and he knew from one glance that Christian Bale was reaching out, grabbing onto Sean's jacket and pulling him close, hugging him tight, and he was smiling in a way that he hadn't even smiled during his own win - Viggo watched that, too, because he was thorough - and he had let Sean go.
Had turned to look at Viggo through his lashes, across the rows of seats, head tilted to the side.
Because see- Viggo didn't tell Sean after all. Not during that drink one day before the show. Not during that first reunion, full of backslapping and hugs in that too-public hotel lobby, three days before the Oscars. The words had somehow gotten stuck in his throat, or perhaps they were lost, half-formed and tossed away even before he could complete then. The edges of the words were pressing against his tongue, heavy and weighted and he couldn't say anything, and it was ridiculous because he was fifty-four (one number greater than the shades of Sean's hair) and he should be an old hand with this. He should know what to do. It had been thirteen years.
He didn't. Not at all. Viggo had clapped his hands red and raw, his breath coming too fast and too hard, his head spinning from the adrenaline and the exhilaration and David and Michael had given him such odd looks, because he seemed more excited by the fact that he had lost to Sean Bean. But it was Sean, and during the commercial break Viggo had tried to explain it to David haltingly, with broken words and fragmented sentences and waving hands and stilted shoulders, and David had gotten it and grinned, giving him a little headbutt right in front of everyone and it was a little strange, thirteen years out of time. That, and the fact that David Cronenberg had watched the DVD extras for Lord of the Rings.
(Keira and Michael didn't get it, but Vincent did, and texted him about it. It was a marvellous example of how things had gone every single time, with this movie.)
He had texted Sean after the show, the first moment he could. Told him the bar, told him he would be here, and here he was. He wasn't waiting for a reply. There might be messages, there might be not. Viggo didn't want to know, not from a machine. He wanted to hope because he would see Sean's figure at the door. He wanted to feel the sharp disappointment and the tiny flare of unquenchable hope if he didn't. Viggo had nothing else to do tonight. All he would be doing would be waiting for Sean.
And that, he had enough practice. Thirteen years' worth.
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He hadn't realised this would be as hard as it was, and yet here he was, sitting on his heels, staring into blackness as Viggo shuffled and clicked around him. He trembled, straining to listen, unsure where Viggo's photographs were wandering.
When he was touched, again, it was a shock and a delight, just a single long touch against his leg, Viggo's thumb close to his arousal, and he tried his best not to jump up. His chest raised toward the phantom touch, but Viggo was always gone, moved away, clicking at him again, clicking and clicking, and his breath was heavy, his head tipped back, then forward, wiping his wet cheerk against his shoulder, curling his fingers into fists then slowly opening them again, relaxing them once more.
"Jesus, Viggo--" The words were overwhelming, and Viggo's hand was in his hair, and he moaned softly. He just wanted to be touched, stroked. He wantd Viggo to fuck him like he said he would, he wanted... "I thought I could do this. I can't. I need you to touch me. I need you... I want to taste you." He leanted up, up and toward him, toward Viggo's throat, though it meant his hair was pulled and he came up short, biting at air.
"Take another photo," he ordered. "But don't take long. I can't wait forever." He shifted back again, sat back on his heels. "I want you... I want you to paint me. Paint me. Or better yet give me the damn paints, and I'll do it blind." He shivered, tilted his head up again, searching Viggo's eyes even though he couldn't see them. He was still bound, but the idea had settled in now.
And then when Viggo fucked him there would be paint everywhere, paint smudged on both of them, painted over the floorboards, in his hair.
"Come on," he breathed. "About time I was the one making all the mess, don't you think?"
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He pulled away slowly, leaving a trail of saliva still connecting their mouths. His head was pressed against Sean's, staring at him- and for the briefest of moments he regretted the blindfold that covered his eyes, because he had always loved the look of Sean's eyes in desire. The colour always changed according to the light, and it had literally been years but Viggo still had not managed to categorise each one.
He didn't think he ever would. He didn't think he ever wanted to.
Stroking a hand through Sean's hair again, he breathed his words against his mouth, "I still don't know how I managed to convince you that I deserve you." His breath was shaky, and he let dirty blond strands fall through his hands. "You're a work of art, you know that? Pure artistry, from inside and out," the hand moved downwards, stroking against the stroke, built chest and brushing slightly against the nipples. "And you're asking me if you can make art."
Viggo started pulling again, taking a step back, then another, until he left Sean kneeling there again. "I'll hand you the paints for you to do anything you want with. Paint me. Paint yourself. We'll make the floor a canvas that I will take photographs of later, and I will never wipe it off because every time I work in my studio I want to be reminded of it. Of you. Of this."
He reached the table containing his paints, and he chose a few colours - dark yellow with a metallic sheen, night-blue, dirt-brown, black, pure white, rust-brown-red and blood red. Tiny little tins that he balanced on his hands before he went on his knees and placed them in front of Sean, reaching out behind the man to tug the cloth binding his hands loose. He took both of Sean's hands in his, raising them to his lips and kissing the back, gently.
Then guided them down, fingers against the paints.
"Here."
no subject
"You don't think you deserve me?" he breathed. "You're an idiot, you know that?"
It might have spoiled the mood, but Sean made up for it by leaning forward, flicking his tongue briefly against Viggo's lower lip before he could escape, arching into his touches just briefly--but Viggo was pulling away from him, leaving him alone in his darkness on his knees.
He licked his lips, sitting back on his heels once more, looking over toward the sound of Viggo at his paint table. It didn't seem to take him long, but it felt for forever until the tins were put down in front of him, and just for a moment Sean hoped they were water based rather than oil based, so that he could actually wash them off when this was all done.
He was in no hurry. With his hands on the paints, Sean began to take off the lids, one at a time, dipping his fingers into one at random.
"I can't hear you taking any pictures Viggo," he chided, and he lifted the paint pot up toward his chest at the same time, drawing his fingers out. The paint dropped off the tip of his fingers, spatting against his already ruined trousers, and Sean brought his hand to his ear, circled his wet fingers around the shell, catching his hair, while a thin line of paint ran its way down his arm and dripped from his elbow onto the floor.
The wet hand ran down his throat, painting a line across his collarbone and half way to his nipple before he drew his fingers away. He rubbed his hand carelessly against his trousers, leaving a handshaped mark there, and put the paint down, knocking it over accidentally as he reached blindly for another pot.
The next pot he left where it was, but with his fingers splashed he simply ran his hand all the way up his inside leg, arching his hips slightly as he - shamelessly, and firmly - stroked his arousal, full handed. He tipped his head back and moaned--an illustration for Viggo alone, the paint soaking through, and his lips broke into a laugh afterwards, too pleased with himself.
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."
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He was panting by the time the lube bottle snapped, arched up against Viggo's chest, the effort of staying knelt in place nearly overwhelming. Licking his lips, he caught his breath, but it was more a gasp of shock than anything else, as cold fingers suddenly caught him underneath, making him buck away from them. Insistent, Viggo followed through, slick fingers pressing inside him, and Sean moaned, closing his eyes under the blindfold, arching into Viggo's shoulder.
"No one else," he agreed, in a breath, rolling his shoulders back, then shifting forward, a knee crawl that was almost impossible with Viggo's hand inside because it sent shivers of pleasure arcing through him like electric shocks. He crawled into Viggo's lap, ruining him with paint but caring very little, his hands still bound behind him, his knees to either side of Viggo's ass as he knelt over him, rocking down hard against the other man's arousal--the arousal he knew was there but couldn't see. Paint from his own clothes was probably going everywhere, but he was doing this all blind, and it made the thrill of it even more brilliant. Every touch - every touch - was felt in a way that he never had before.
He licked his lips again, but this time it was as though he was tasting the air, finding Viggo's face from where he was, in the darkness, then leaning down, slightly to the right, kissing the other man's throat, then back, his nose in Viggo's hair, kissing higher, kissing to his ear, grazing it with his teeth. Another moan.
"What are you waiting for, Vig?"
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Then, slowly, he slipped his fingers out. He wanted so badly to just move in and fuck Sean until he was screaming out loud, so loud that the neighbours a couple of miles away could here. But- not yet. Not yet, and Viggo took a shaky breath and calmed his instincts and desires, instead running the tip of his fingers around Sea's entrance. Pressing in, then pulling out, and circling again. Gently, lowly- teasing him. Shallowly fucking him with two fingers, barely moving. Rocking his hips forward against Sean's cock, sliding them together.
"I wish you can see yourself," Viggo whispered, and his voice was heavy and thick with desire. The smell of sex had filled the studio, and Viggo vaguely wondered how on earth would he be able to work here again. "Look at the black blindfold against your eyes. Your sweaty-hair, in thick, tangled strands all over the black expanse. These two high spots of colour on your cheeks," he kissed against them, "your lips so red, red as a whore's, so red that I'm tempted to force open your mouth and shove my cock in between them."
His own lips had moved, and he as now nuzzling against Sea'ns uniform, tasting as it made the cloth wet, pressing against his own skin. He flattened his tongue against it, and licked just as he pressed his fingers even further in. In, in to the second knuckles before he pulled them out entirely.
"You're sucking me in," he commented, almost idly. His voice was quiet, dark and low, whispered directly into Sean's ear. "Hot, and tight and wanting. Begging to be fucked without words- oh, no, you never really needed words to tell people what you want, do you?" His lips had curved into a smirk, and he licked against Sean's neck again.
Hands moving down until they clenched around Sean's hips. He shifted them, pulling them up, positioning himself with his hips and one hand, trusting Sean to hold himself up with his knees and hands. Then, he placed both hands on Sean's hips, clenching tight enough to leave bruises.
"Scream for me, Sean," and he slammed in. Hard, right to the hilt, stopping there- and waiting.
"Tell me-" he drew out a little, and rocked back in, hard- "tell the world-" short, sharp little thrusts, pressing right against Sean's prostate- "that you belong to me." Pull out, out, until only the head remained inside the heat-
"Scream," he whispered, and this time, he pushed back inside slowly. Savouring every single inch.
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He coiled in on himself, pushed down again, barely managing to stay upright because his thighs were trembling, his eyelashes fluttering low, each breath husky and heavy, longing.
When Viggo wanted to, he could set him on fire with only a few words. He was - strangely enough - a dirtier talker than both Sean and Christian put together, and it was perecisely because when he said 'fuck', it melted down into your very soul as though you'd been shot in the heart precisely with an arrow, Viggo's aim never faltering. His words, such beautiful words, were always a construct of a talented mind, his actions much the same, planned, even if it was impossible to predict. It came together now, with just words - because he couldn't see - just words that made his breath so heavy that he couldn't hear what Viggo was doing or saying any more, could only feel the touches, and feel the words, and feeling them was more than enough.
Sean groaned, a long, loud, low moan, as Viggo slammed into him. He'd meant to scream, but his open mouth had betrayed him, and now he leant back on Viggo's shoulder, panting, trembling.
Each and every little thrust melted his poor brain, thrusts against his prostrate that even though he opened his mouth to say exactly what Viggo was asking him to say, caused him to falter and fail completely.
"A-ah... Viggo. Jesus, Viggo... Viggo."
The next wail was one of dejection, of emptiness, and he whimpered, rolling his hips back, letting Viggo bury himself slowly, so very slowly all the way to the hilt. It wasn't a screaming angle--it really wasn't, but he wanted it to be, jerked his hips to try and force it, and then let out a characteristic laugh at his own inability.
"Fuck me," he whispered, coming forward onto his hands and knees, his arms shaking, but taking his weight. "Scratch your nails down my back. Pull my hair. Make it hard, and rough. Make me scream, Viggo. I want to, but you have to make it happen."
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He reached forward, his hand curling into a fist to press it against Sean's stomach. The muscles jumped at his touch, and Viggo smiled to himself, a little too sharp. It was truly a shame that Sean couldn't see his face; couldn't see the way that he was smiling, all teeth, all set to conquer. Sean was so tight around him that it was driving him insane.
And he knew that it wasn't true, but he couldn't help but start to chant in his own head. Mine, mine, mine, Sean was his. His in every way. His in every form. What everyone else got were just pieces- pieces that Viggo gave to them. That he deigned to let them see. They wouldn't be able to have a single glimpse of Sean if not for him. Because Sean was his. His, his, his. His to want, his to paint, his to hold, his to blindfold. His to fuck. His to love. His to do everything he liked and reduce Sean to a trembling mess, screaming his name. Until all Sean knew was his name. No one else's.
(Christian Bale could fuck right off, at this moment. So could Sean's fans. So could the rest of the world.)
Reaching out, he pulled his arm around Sean's waist. Thrust forward until he was seated in completely, buried to the hilt- and he hissed out a breath to control himself. He counted to three in his own head.
Then he shoved back. Dropped himself back until his ass hit the hardwood floors, legs spreading wide. Sean's back was pressed to his chest, and Viggo reached forward, spreading his legs wider so he didn't have to take his weight; so that all of his weight was concentrated on his ass, sending him further down, impaling him fully on Viggo's cock. It sent him even deeper than before, Sean completely swallowing him up, and Viggo muffled his gasp against Sean's neck and shoulder, his teeth nipping against the skin.
"You asked," he murmured, straight into Sean's ear. He licked against the curve, tipping his head up. At the same time, his hand cupped Sean's ass, the other around his hip. Lifted him slowly- then slammed upwards, back inside.
Then he did it again. Again and again and again, thrusting into Sean hard and fast and rough like he had asked, fucking into Sean like he was a doll. Using him even as he angled his own hips to stroke against the prostate with every single thrust.
And he waited. Waited for what Sean promised.
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He was all in the moment, and that was just fine with him.
Viggo was shifting him now, changing his weight, curling his hand into a fist just above the tortured head of his arousal, untouched, oversensitised, a single splash of paint-colour blurred against it. Viggo unbalanced him, pulling him back off his hands, dragging him back so that he plunged down, filled to the brim, stabbed through with pleasure and pain and Viggo. He roared, rocking backwards, his head arching across Viggo's shoulder, and he panted for a moment, getting used to the sensation, before Viggo was pushing up again, rising to meet him.
It took maybe three thrusts to make him scream, and he didn't hesitate. He screamed Viggo's name as loud as he could, screamed until his throat warbled and his head spun because he couldn't breathe, and he brought one trembling hand up, barely even touching his own erection before he came, overwhelmed and overworked, his muscles acheing, dripping with sweat.
He didn't know which way was up, but it didn't seem to matter. Viggo was behind him, against him, and that was all that he needed. He had come; come hard, and now he was still moving, still pushing down with each thrust, though there was a building ache in him to stop, to stay fucking still, to not try as hard as he was. But it was that feeling he craved; that feeling, and what came after, and he breathed out soft and slurred and barely audible, a prompt to Viggo that he could go on no longer.
"Should'a left the bloody camera on a timer, Vig."
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Perhaps Sean was right and he should have left the camera running. Should have taken a video. Or they should have fucked in front of a mirror, so Viggo would know how Sean looked like as he screamed his lungs out, his eyes still blindfolded and his entire body sending him back down to be fucked on Viggo's cock. Viggo took a sharp breath, and Sean was still moving on him, tight and hot and so giving that his breath choked on his throat.
"No," he murmured, leaning his head up to lick against Sean's ear, his thrusts getting sharp and erratic, pumping hard into Sean in an effort to reach that edge. "No, I wouldn't want anyone else to see you like this. Not when you're screaming my name."
Viggo was almost there, almost there- and he knew Sean couldn't take much more. But he needed something more. He closed his eyes and kissed Sean's cheeks before he reached back, pulling Sean off of him before gently moving him to his back, laying him flat against the hardwood floor. Hands spread Sean's thighs open, and Viggo stared at him. At the vision he made, golden skin flushed and his lips bitten, sweat coating every inch of him, his skin clean and shaven and smelling of sex. Viggo dragged his fingers across the drops of come on Sean's stomach.
Then they reached down, curling inside the puffy, swollen entrance, stroking Sean gently just once inside and out. Shoving Sean's own come inside him before he pulled them out, flattening his palm against Sean's thigh and lifting it for a small kiss. A moment, two, then Viggo lined himself up and thrust inside again, leaning over Sean until their chests were plastered together before he kissed him.
"I want to see you," every word of his was punctuated with a sharp thrust, driving himself inside. Knowing that he was probably driving Sean over the edge of pain and pleasure, with how oversensitive he would be after orgasm. "I can't- I can't come until I do."
Reaching up, he pulled the blindfold off, his thrusts getting more frantic, the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh loud and sharp around them. But the moment- the very moment- Sean opened his eyes, Viggo would let go. Let go and let orgasm wash over him, branding the image of those eyes into his mind.
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Sean was already on the edge, already groaning, when Viggo turned him over on the floor, rolling him into the wet paint. He hadn't seen it coming, and he made a little oof sound as he went over, arching just a little under the fading sunlight.
God, he was exhausted. He just wanted to sleep; to pull Viggo's head down against his chest - he could, with his superior strength - and hold him there and stroke him through his orgasm and just fall asleep in the process, but he wanted more than that. He wanted to feel Viggo's come inside him, not just his own. Sean squirmed under Viggo's fingers, arched a little back, breathless, and found himself filled up again, Viggo leaning close over him, Viggo's breath on his own, Viggo's hands on his shoulders.
"Fuck." It was all he could breathe out. He was trembling now, a deep ache soaking into his muscles, the sound of every movement totally overwhelming. Viggo sounded like a galloping train, roaring up to catch him, and the blindfold came off. At once, Sean drew his legs up, closed them about Viggo's back and squeezed every muscle in his thighs and legs and arse, snapping shut on him.
He opened his eyes.
There was pain there; pain and determination, but pleasure too, and for the first time since they'd started he could see Viggo above him, wet with sweat and wide eyes, his own spent and limp erection, and beneath it Viggo was shoving into him hard, the whole length of him purple, his own body swallowing him up gratefully. Viggo came, and Sean felt it--felt it all, a hot splash of heat scouring his insides, something that should be uncomfortable and yet was, in fact, so entirely satisfying, a completion.
"Jesus, fuck--Viggo."
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Slowly, he opened his eyes. Looked into Sean and slanted his mouth, kissing him deeply, darting his tongue inside and tasting every single corner of him. Viggo's hand stroked downwards, dancing against the indents of the ribs, moving inwards in a sweeping motion until his hand was placed above Sean's heart. He could feel the thundering roar that didn't seem to slow down at all, and slowly his own heartbeat started to synchronise with Sean's.
He pulled out, hissing quietly before falling to his side. But he refused to let go of Sean, tugging him over until they were facing each other again, and Viggo carded a hand through Sean's hair. He didn't know what it was with it, but every strand felt like new-spun silk, warm and cascading through his fingers.
It must be the new shampoo. Sean was the one who bought it this time.
"In the dimly lit room," he began, and his voice was low and hoarse and soft. He clear his throat, and started again.
In the dimly lit room
I had a brief glimpse of bliss:
sight of your naked body
like a god reclining.
That was all.
"While I shuddered," he whispered, skipping lines, uncaring about the poet's intent as his own words started to whirl in his mind. "Like the earth, split open like lightning."
Viggo leaned in, and kissed against Sean's temple. "My Odin and my Baldr, my Apollo and my Erato, my Cú Chulainn and my Lancelot. When with you I always wonder why I bother with acting, because it means that I have to leave you, and being with you gives me more ideas than I can ever write down in one lifetime."
He curled his hand, and stroked against Sean's cheek, gently.
"Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
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"You ain't the one split open, Vig," he kissed again, and sighed. "Besides which, if the two of us weren't bloody actors, I figure there's such thing as too much of good times. Me and you. We'd shag each other to an early heart attack."
His lips curled, to show that it was a joke, and he dropped his head back down, looking up at Viggo like a satisfied virgin, misty love in his eyes, endless affection for the man in front of him, albeit love he didn't have the strength left in him to lend toward a fresh assault.
Sean closed his eyes, thinking hard and long, his sleepy mind not quite as sharp as it might be if he wasn't quite so exhausted, and he dropped his hand down to Viggo's neck as he opened them again, rewarding him with the reality that he wasn't quite asleep - not quite beaten - yet.
Two could play a game of poetry.
"I lay meself to sated sleep,
In contemplation made complete
To rest beneath your outstretched wing
And feel yer breath upon me skin.
I think I might be happiest
With you asleep upon me breast;
But when I wake to see yer eyes
It's clear I'm more than just unwise.
I see yer eyes, and you see mine,
Me head spins--yet I drank no wine,
And then out loud you speak me name
You whisper love, an' stake yer claim.
Aye, I'm happy now - happy as may be -
With you lying here aside of me."
His smile was mischievious, but warm, sated, sleepy. He'd probably remember but a line of the poem in the morning--a shame, since he thought it was pretty good. But the morning wasn't the point. One last smile from Viggo was what he actually wanted.
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And oh. Oh, Sean might not remember the words, but Viggo would. He would remember every single line; every single rhyming line because goddamn this man and his talent and everything about him. There was little ego in Viggo, and he had never thought that what he did would be invalidated by anyone else- and when he heard that poem and knew it was for him, he couldn't help the swelling of his heart. He couldn't help but lean in further, his nose and mouth against Sean's hair, kissing his hair then his temple and nuzzling against him, burying his face into the scent of Sean and inhaling.
His ears were filled with Sean's voice, his nose with his scent. His skin felt Sean all along his body, and his eyes were filled with him and nothing else. He darted his tongue out, tasting Sean's sweat, feeling the salt gather on his tongue even as Sean's words whirled and whirled around his head, sinking their claws into his mind and making sure that he would never forget.
Viggo had gone right past smiling into grinning. Grinning at the irony, because Sean had just spoken about being split open, and here Viggo was. Here he was, completely invaded by this man, every thing about him taken over until he could barely see anything else, much less think of them. There was no artistry in him at the moment; no real urge to create. There was just Sean. Just this man, who was a perfect work of art in himself, and who had the hands and bright mind to create- and who had chosen him.
There was pride in him now; a pride that he knew he shouldn't have and had avoided most of his life having. It was a pride that served to mock the world, to point fingers at them and tell them that- here, here, this was what they didn't have. He was chosen by a man like this; a man with so much talent that Viggo knew that his own looked barely substantial beside him. Who was utterly beautiful inside and out, and even though he had his flaws, Viggo couldn't help loving those as well.
He had no words for this. There were no words in any language that could possible encompass all that he felt. Viggo closed his eyes, moving down a little and pressing their lips together. It was just a small, gentle kiss, with dry lips, before he pulled back. Their foreheads were pressed against each other, and Viggo could feel Sean's breath on his skin. Another mark. Invisible, but never forgotten.
His finger stroked against Sean's cheek. "You amazed me with every breath," he murmured quietly, and carded his fingers through his hair slowly. "I love you, Sean. I don't think I will ever stop."
It was fine if Sean didn't answer. Viggo just wanted him to know: this was forever, and he would never let Sean go. Not ever.