There is nothing in this life that is out of reach for John Dawson. He’s got everyone exactly where he wants them, the coppers, the newspaper men, the bleeding politicians. And if they step wrong, he’s got a solution for that as well. It’s not that big of a challenge, corrupt as they all are, greedy as they all are. Money goes all the way, especially in these times -- everyone can be bought.
Everything is under his complete control. Even his wife -- unpredictable factor though she is -- he keeps her safe and secure from the world with its predators. It is unfortunate how she is so much like a child now. They live in separate worlds and only infrequently reside on the same plane. He has his share of women, whether attracted to his power or afraid of his retribution; but his wife is his alone. She’s not like him, but burdened by ghosts and guilt and grief. He takes his responsibility for her mental state and keeps her with him, provided for and looked after.
Dawson lights one of his cigars and takes his single malt with him to the window. Everything is under his complete control, but for one thing. He looks at the land that is to the west of his panorama view. His land. He can see it -- images of the ‘shopping mall’ that was designed for him by the cream of the crop of architects, images he superimposes on the land in his line of sight. The ultimate centre of consumerism. Even in this time of recession, people will flock to it like the sheep they are.
He looks at the land and sees it for what it is now. It looks like a carnival for all the tents, trailers, caravans on it… all the fucking filth they carry -- the pykies, the gypos that have claimed it as their own. There will be no shopping centre if he doesn’t get rid of every last one of the thieving buggers. He pulls on his cigar and squints slightly, thinking of the inevitable consequence of his request, made earlier today to DCS Molloy. He washes the thought away with the rich taste of the scotch, and waits.
This apartment is for him to use as he likes, and it is furnished sparingly, just enough so he can be comfortable if he stays overnight. He doesn’t mind waiting, he could always do something about it if he grows impatient or tired of it; but for now, he is content to look out the window at the bleak landscape that holds so much potential.
The door opens slowly. An exotic scent reaches his nose and the air feels charged with electricity. His lips curve up in a grin. Exotic. He would never have thought that just weeks ago; he would have turned up his nose at the cheap smell of incense. But it has grown on him, has become so interwoven with pleasant visits, that he welcomes the strong smell now. Someone is approaching, and he experiences a surge of… anticipation? Nerves? Or maybe it’s just power, and he doesn’t need to admit that there’s something that has found its way under his skin.
He feels the body heat before a chest presses against his back, and then a nose rubs against his nape. The gypo is cocky.
Well, he has grounds.
“You were waiting for me?” the gypo murmurs.
“You took care not to be seen,” Dawson says, unnecessarily.
“I always do.” The gypo brushes his lips against sensitive skin.
Dawson turns, leaving the seductive manner unpunished for now, and puts his glass down. “Viggo. You do try my patience.” He cups the back of the gypo’s neck and rubs his thumb over his cheek.
“Do I? Would you like to discipline me for it?” Viggo bats his eyelashes.
Dawson chuckles. “You would enjoy it too much.” He traces the lines next to Viggo’s eye, lines caused by age and many years of laughing, even through adversity. Something he can admire without thinking further on it.
Viggo walks him over to the sofa, pushes him onto it and straddles his lap. He takes Dawson’s cigar and puts it in the ashtray on the sidetable. Dawson closes his eyes and lets the feeling of peace permeate his being.
“You are quiet with me,” Viggo observes, while he discards his jacket and raises his shirt over his head. “Why is that?”
Dawson opens his eyes and lets them wander over Viggo’s torso. He puts his hands on Viggo’s shoulders and lets them drop, slowly, tracing patterns along the way as if Viggo is a sculpted piece of art, and not a scarred, tattooed, hairy, dirty man at all. “Why do you think it is?” Dawson watches as muscles twitch in response to his touch.
“Maybe you don’t want me for conversation.” Viggo grins.
Dawson smiles. “Maybe.”
Viggo pushes Dawson’s arms back and leans forward, nips at his earlobe. His voice is low, close to Dawson’s ear. “Maybe you intended something, but then I put you under my spell instead.” He rears himself back up.
Dawson looks at him. “You know nowt about me.” There is no force behind the statement, there is no need. Whatever it is that gets to him with Viggo, it won’t matter soon enough.
Viggo opens the buttons on Dawson’s shirt and pushes it over his shoulders. Viggo slides forward a little more and tilts his hips.
Dawson hums softly. There are many things appealing about Viggo. Most originate from how wrong it is to be with him -- a gypo, a degenerate, a man. But a man more limber than any woman Dawson has been with. And with a touch skilled as only a man’s can be.
Viggo chuckles in triumph as he grinds against him.
“Shut it,” Dawson murmurs and closes his eyes.
~
The first time he sees the camp up close, the sheer filth of it -- not just the garbage and the smell, but the nerve of the pykies -- makes his nostrils flare. They act like they belong there, mothers hanging washing, children playing in the dirt. Men drinking and being a nuisance. His eyes land on one man, with sleek sandy brown hair blowing around his face in the breeze. Grinning like a madman.
Dawson’s anger abates as he finds himself curiously drawn. The man nods to him, as if it’s not obvious that they are on opposite sides. Dawson lights a cigar while his eyes linger. An old woman walks up to the man and he puts an arm around her, bending his neck so she can confide something to his ear. Then he nods and kisses her hair, and she walks away.
He looks back at Dawson, smiling. Then he goes into one of the trailers, without looking behind.
Dawson doesn’t feel threatened, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t satisfy his curiosity at least, so he follows. When he goes in, the other man is already undressed from the waist up and in the shaded light of lamps and candles, his skin has a glow and colour that Dawson can’t help but admire.
“Would you like a drink?” the gypo asks.
Dawson doesn’t speak; but his watchful gaze should cause some discomfort to any recipient. When after a moment the gypo, unbothered, pours a drink for himself, Dawson looks around the trailer properly. The smell is strong, of incense and herbs and smoke, and shiny trinkets hang from every possible surface -- the lamp shade, the cloth covering the table, the door. The tiny space is overstuffed with things. As Dawson takes another step, his foot nearly slips on a toy.
The gypo cackles as the toy squeaks in protest, and comes closer to pick it up.
“Yours?” Dawson raises an eyebrow and puffs on his cigar.
“Children walk in and out all the time.” The toy squeaks again as it lands in the corner, and immediately after, the gypo’s hands are on Dawson’s chest.
“Do you know who I am?” Dawson’s expression is still curious, though slightly more edgy at the man’s forwardness.
“No? Should I?”
Dawson allows some more of the slow, exploring touches, but the tingle it causes makes him uncomfortable. He cups the back of the gypo’s head and grabs a fistful of hair. The gypo grins and bites his lip; his eyes are bright, obviously looking forward to what comes next. Dawson applies some pressure, and the gypo easily slides to his knees.
Dawson’s trousers are opened swiftly. A firm hand grips the base of his shaft, and soon after, soft, lush lips put featherlight kisses on his cock. The contrast throws Dawson a little and he moans. The gypo circles his tongue around the head before he sucks it into the hot cavern of his mouth, and Dawson doesn’t even need to pull his hair to bury himself further, it’s like the gypo can’t get it quickly enough, hard enough, as he pushes forward vigorously. Still, Dawson tugs the gypo’s hair hard when he comes down his throat, a little surprised by how much the gypo seems to want it. Panting, he takes a step back and sits on the sofa, taking a moment to collect himself and bringing his cigar back to his mouth.
The gypo hums happily, as if he had just been sated himself, and he moves forward to do up Dawson’s trousers. Dawson looks at him. “I suppose you want pay for your services.” He feels no disinclination to give it -- such enthusiasm he’s never experienced before.
The gypo pouts and it makes Dawson chuckle. “I want more,” he says.
Dawson ponders this. More could be good, if this is just the start. He takes his pen and his card out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and scribbles something on the back of the card. “Meet me there tomorrow night.” He hands over the card and the gypo reads the front of it.
“John Dawson.” He smiles. “Pleasure to meet you, John. My name is Viggo.”
~
Viggo moans with the full length of Dawson’s cock inside him. He brushes his thumb over Dawson’s sensitive nipple, and Dawson gasps. Viggo takes too many liberties, like always, but this time, Dawson doesn’t stop him. He watches as Viggo touches himself with his free hand, while his body writhes and moves against Dawson so pleasantly. Viggo clenches and Dawson puts his hands on Viggo’s thighs, gaining leverage to thrust hard. The whimper that comes in response makes Dawson’s cock leap and for once, when Viggo stops stroking himself to grab hold of the couch and keep his balance, Dawson replaces the hand with his own. Viggo cries out with his release, but he keeps moving until Dawson reaches his, and it doesn’t take long before he groans, bruises Viggo’s hip and goes lax.
Viggo collapses on top of him and nuzzles his neck. It should bother Dawson, but it doesn’t now. Viggo whispers his satisfaction, and lazily suckles on the skin. Dawson brushes a hand through Viggo’s hair and rests.
When Viggo raises his head and looks at him in wonderment, there is another pang that makes Dawson’s eye twitch. “You should go,” he still says.
Viggo nods, and hesitates. He presses his lips to Dawson’s slowly. Their first kiss, and a kiss goodbye. Dawson allows it. He commits it to memory. Then he watches as Viggo gets dressed and looks back once before he slips out the door. In that one look, Dawson thinks he can see something. He wishes it hadn’t been the last thing he saw in Viggo’s eyes.
Dawson wakes up to the phone ringing. He gets up from the couch and groans as his muscles protest.
“Hello?” His voice sounds too weak. He clears his throat. “Hello.”
“It’s done.” It is all that is said before the connection is broken.
Dawson puts down the phone and walks to the window. He looks at his land, ablaze in fire and smoke. He pours a glass of single malt scotch, takes a moment and squints slightly. Then he drains the glass and gets dressed.
Busy day ahead.
Summary: Dawson quotes: ”I’ve got me weaknesses, lad” and “Private weakness. Fucking hell, I’m no angel” -- Dawson has weaknesses. But he makes sure they remain private.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Crossovers Pairing: John Dawson/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 2092 Read: 686
Published: 13 May 2010 Updated: 13 May 2010