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 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.