All his life, Viggo realizes, he's had this thing.
Words to most people are nothing - quick, empty as the air that forms them, and the only thing that makes them different than a breath is meaning. There's no texture for those people, like there is for Viggo - they don't hear themselves, is the problem. There're textures in spoken words, tastes, different ways they feel and sound when they cross the tongue. Like yesterday he'd heard an old man, voice like gesso paint, thick and layered with heavy clinging syllables, the kind of voice that has fifty years of unfiltered cigarettes in it. Or this girl, one of the hovery shadows of the make-up crew, little and skinny but when she spoke... with her accent (Viggo'd been a moment in identifying it), it'd been like hearing oil paint, sleek, translucent, when she'd asked if he could hurry. They were behind schedule.
'S weird, thinking that words are only air shaped by echo chambers and throat, nose and tongue. But when he hears a fellow Danish speaker talking about something - and it can be about the weather or the Euro or what the hell ever - his mind latches onto the new cadences, the places where stress changes and the words are honey, thick. rich, a mixed-up and heady liquor of a language. And the same is true for Spanish, the caress of the tongue over the ns that he likes, the catch of aspiration at the back of his throat.
He's finding out the same thing about Sindarin and Quenya and Old English, all the rest of it, hearing how lenition rests in David's mouth, the way Anirne hene beriad i ch'n l'n. Ned Imladris nauthant e le beriathar aen* resonates when Hugo says this to him in Elrond's stern tones - precise, polished as ancient rock. There's not been much call yet for Old English, but Peter's told him he'll have to learn a bit or two, and he's had David recite a few lines. He can hear it, even in the scrap of The Wanderer David read to him, the formidable ancestor of the modern tongue, and thinks that Borges was right: Oft him anhaga are gebide'* - you feel it in your bones.
Maybe it's why he likes Aragorn so much, a brother polyglot. They both wander through identities, through words, finding and playing roles and putting them on like masks. There are times when he see the world a different way, or maybe times when the world sees him differently, like now, when he's just finished reading a Danish poem to Sean, and he's looking up from his book to see something in Sean's green eyes that he's never seen before, but mixed in with that un-nameable thing is the rough fire of his voice as he speaks.
"That was..." Sean shakes his head, brushing a hand across his chin, glancing down and to the side - a dialect, Viggo thinks, his own personal inflection of thoughtfulness - "I have no idea what the hell you just read," he continues after a moment, "but it sure sounded good. Like... like... Hell, I don't know."
"Like what?" Viggo asks, amused and teasing, and the exasperated roll of Sean's eyes lets him know Sean knows he's being difficult on purpose.
"Bloody well just told you I don't know," Sean grunts impatiently, shifting in his chair. Viggo can't keep himself from grinning, hearing the way Sean's irritation clips his syllables short in places, each word swift and sharp like a bullet, but with unexpected pauses, the Yorkshire distortion of his vowels. Before he knows it, his mind wanders off to linger over Sean's voice, how low it can be, not soft exactly - rough, yes, like the burn of Scotch, but with a smooth finish, and there's something now that's promising, even as Sean mutters threats of bodily injury.
Viggo feels the old wildness rising in him, stoked by Sean's voice, the way his body's tensed in the chair - they can both sense it, he knows, the place where the teasing stops and it becomes real, and the next hours will play out like a familiar dance, a well-rehearsed dialogue that, for all its familiarity is never old. In the window framing Sean's head he sees the darkness of the sky, and with the light from the floor lamp, Sean's face is a study in chiaroscuro, shadow and light brushing against the planes of his face.
Their eyes, blue and green, lock across the room, and Viggo slides off the sofa, and not even really knowing it, is spilling himself out in Danish, and the look in Sean's eyes is one of bewilderment and lust. Viggo wonders if maybe Sean does know what he says, though even to him it's incoherent, what he hears - or if the slow movement of his body, on hands and knees, eyes hot and glittering behind the fall of his hair, is language that is clear enough.
"Ved du, at din stemme g'r mig afhangig, Sean? Jeg hörer den i mit hoved og den forvirrer mig, sö jeg ikke kan tënke klart, som om jeg er stenet eller fuld... og jeg er afhängig af den.."
"Vig," Sean breathes, and Viggo is there, kneeling between Sean's knees, hands running slowly up his thighs. There are cuts and scrapes all over his hands, - bruises, the white crisscrosses of older scars, the pink of the new. The calluses on his fingers rasp over the fabric of Sean's jeans, and the whisper of sound makes him shiver.
"...og jeg kan ikke fä dig ud af hovedet," Viggo mutters, and he's nearly nonsensical now, but he can't stop, watching his hands circle on Sean's thighs, feeling the shaking muscle beneath them. Sean's hands are on Viggo's shoulders now, massaging, caressing, lacing behind his neck, splayed over his cheekbones, his jaw, to frame Viggo's face. "...jeg vil ikke slö dig ud af hovedet..."*
He stops talking now, because it's too difficult to speak with Sean's fingers tilting his face up, with Sean bending over him and their breath mixing for a moment before Sean's mouth closes over his. Sean's lips are moist where he's licked them, firm, aggressive; they push into the kiss, imperative, and Viggo's breath catches a second, needing a moment to catch up with his heart, which has started beating double-time. Sean's tongue is in his mouth, licking, exploring the texture, exploring Viggo it damn near seems like, and all at once it's incredibly dirty and heady and fucking beautiful, having his mouth being taken like this.
After a moment they break apart, and Sean's breath is scented with Viggo now, hot and heavy, wet with promise. His hair, a little longer now than when they first met, is disheveled and in the light of the floor lamp is very gold, and although the rest of his face is shadowed, his green eyes burn fiercely.
"Christ, Vig," Sean whispers. His accent is stronger now, as it always is when lust thickens it. "You could be sayin' anything... tellin' me t' do anythin'... but as long as you'd say it like that, I'd do it. Fuck. What were you sayin'?"
Viggo straightens, leaning into Sean, pushing him back. The tight jeans Sean's wearing can't hide the obvious fact of his arousal, and Viggo sees this, grins, and his hands move closer. Sean gasps, head tilting back - the fine blond strands fall away from his face, and the lamplight shines on sweaty flesh. Viggo wonders briefly if they'll make it to the bed, delay gratification - hold themselves over with touches, kisses, pushes and shoves down the hall - or just do it here, because there's no waiting, only wanting. Both are possibilities.
"I was sayin'," he whispers, fingers creeping closer to the fly of Sean's jeans, "that you're a drug... you've got in my system, in my head..." Closer, closer, and Sean's arching up, lifting his hips, and his arms are braced on the chair, the tendons standing out in relief. "I want you in me," and the words are breathed nearly against Sean's chest, an inch away from quivering muscle that heaves just beneath his lips, "don't ever want you out."
Sean's pressing into him now, and his face is buried in Viggo's neck, mouth on the vein, and Viggo's hair is falling over his, gold on gold. It's an awkward position, and Viggo's fingers are frozen, just at the place where hip and thigh run into torso. There's the pressure of Sean's hand as it slides over his ribs to his back, pushing him and the throbbing flesh between his legs into the chair, a pressure that makes Viggo gasp and very nearly come. There are hot lips on his neck, teeth testing the skin, biting down, and then a tongue over the bitemark, breath in his ear.
And Sean's hands are working lower - he's bent almost double in the chair - and now he's got Viggo's ass clasped in them, drawing him up. Ah, it's a command, an order, and flesh is compliant; they stand on shaky legs, nearly falling over untangling themselves, but Sean's hands don't move. Viggo stretches against Sean, delighting in the way one body moves against the other, in the play of his own muscles under his skin, the low, hard thrum of desire that makes each motion different, suffuses them with its own meaning. It's a different language, what the body speaks - it's clear, imperative, instinctual, what bodies speak to each other.
"Bed," Sean rasps into the curve of Viggo's neck. His fingers knead the muscle of Viggo's lower back, the pressure of them close to pain. They're beneath his shirt, pressed like brands into Viggo's skin. "Fuck, you're hot when you do that..."
So Viggo stretches again, and Sean laughs, a delicious rumble against Viggo's chest, looks up and grins, moist breath across Viggo's cheek. And then Viggo moves backward, still in the circle of Sean's arms, but he's leading, yes, pressing swift, hard kisses against Sean's lips, his jaw, leading Sean with his mouth, pulling him with heat. And Sean follows, and their legs tangle together a moment before they sort themselves out. Back and back they go, negotiating their way around another chair, the kitchen table, trying to undress each other as they go along.
Somehow Sean's pulled Viggo's shirt off in the space of a few steps, a moment of blindness and a pause for him to throw it somewhere, and then it's Sean's turn. Somehow they get turned around while Sean struggles out of his shirt, fabric catching on sweaty skin, the hook of his elbows. But then Viggo works him loose and the shirt falls to the floor, forgotten, because what's before him is a sight Viggo never tires of - the broad expanse of Sean's chest, sweat-filmed, his nipples dark against paler skin, the line of muscle, rib that tapers down to his waist, the eloquent line of torso and hip, that place where one runs into the other.
He hooks his fingers in the waist of Sean's jeans and pulls him along, pulls him closer so hot flesh presses against hot flesh, and they're kissing again, blind leading the blind as they shuffle closer to the bedroom.
They're in Viggo's apartment, so there are photos taped to the wall in the hallway - to every available surface almost - and as they bump gracelessly down the hall to Viggo's bedroom a few Polaroids get stuck to Sean's back, Viggo's shoulder. They flutter free like leaves; when Viggo reaches over his shoulder to pull one off it meets a crumpled, messy end as Sean takes advantage of the movement to trap Viggo hard against the wall, pressing a thigh between his legs, thrusting up into him.
Viggo wonders hazily if they could fuck right there in the hall, if he could ride the hard, muscled length of Sean's thigh to completion. He could, he realizes, feeling his cock throb hard against his jeans, the sudden tightening in his gut. He whispers this to Sean, the words formed of low, harsh whispers - I could come seeing you like this, with your thigh pressed against me like this...
"I could," Sean gasps, lips on Viggo's chest. There's a bruise there on Viggo's skin where his mouth hovers, memorial of the day's shooting; the pain is pleasant when the pressure of Sean's mouth is on it, when he licks it, mutters commands to Fuckin' touch me, Vig against purpling flesh.
And Viggo does. His fingers are anxious on the snap of Sean's jeans, fumbling with it. He thinks, absurdly, that he's supposed to be good with his hands, and here they are, stumbling, stuttering, inarticulate. But Sean's body responds eloquently as Viggo manages finally to get the first button open and then the others (slowly, one, two, three - finally he's managed the damn things.) Sean's cock is hard, slick in his hand as he strokes it gently. Calluses rasp over smooth, hard flesh, sweet and abrasive; Sean shudders hard against him, and the fingers of one hand close almost frantically around Viggo's wrist, and a moan works its way up from Sean's chest - Viggo can feel the vibration against him, the echo in his body - and is spent against Viggo's throat.
"Oh, Viggo," Sean says, and Viggo smiles at hearing his name, tasting his name, breathed from Sean's mouth. His arm is around Sean's neck to brace himself; he feels the insistent ache of his erection in denim confines, the deeper ache of need, sees in Sean's darkened eyes the same quiet awareness of that need, even as his cock throbs against Viggo's body. There is a stillness, a silence about them, shaped by hot breaths and the slide of sweaty flesh against flesh.
"Come on," Sean says, and his voice - oh, fucking God, his beautiful voice - filters through the stillness, becomes a part of it. But still they move, Viggo gasping as the pressure is removed from his cock, and he wants to fall into it, against it, find that wonderful hot, assertive touch again. Sean grins, and Viggo can't help the vexed growl at Sean's mirth, follows like a great stalking cat, chasing him backwards to the bed.
The bed is messy, of course - Viggo's firm belief is, if you're just going to sleep or fuck in it again, there's no point in making it - and they fall into it without ceremony, Viggo on top, arms and legs bracketing Sean's body. Sean's grin is still plastered on, his green eyes on fire, but Viggo goes very still above him and his smile fades. The fire, however, remains.
Viggo does this too, goes from zero to serious in a heartbeat, and where there was laughter there is now solemn regard, and part of him is plotting out Sean's body, absorbing the planes of muscle and texture of skin.
"He ido marcando con cruces de fuego el atlas blanco de tu cuerpo,*" he murmurs, remembering the old poetry, and he feels Sean's gaze, a different fire, on his skin, burning into his face, and he can't look away - can only draw closer, lower himself to press against the hot flesh beneath him, pulled by the need to feel the heat of Sean's body, to mark it with his mouth and fingers. Crosses, runes, a nonsense alphabet. Cantar, arder.*
The skin beneath his lips is salty, hot with arousal, his Viggo realizes suddenly, offered up to him as Sean arches beneath his touch. And with his fingers he does begin to trace designs, with fingertips, the edge of a broken nail, with palms and with lips and tongue. Circles, shapes with no name in the world, trailing stream-of-conscious over Sean's chest, his abdomen, lower still. Whatever it is he writes, Sean understands it; his fingers lace a reply in Viggo's hair, tangling in the fine strands, and the shaking body beneath Viggo's demands more, to drink its fill of touch.
He wonders when it was they realized they spoke each other's language - not English,, but the interplay of words and mind and body, a conversation of flesh and spirit. There's real urgency in Sean now; he can feel it in the sudden tensing of the powerful sweat-soaked form, the warning gasp that tells Viggo he's coming close. Sean's hips are straining upward, and his shoulders press into the mattress. Tousled sheets frame his face, his fingers tangle in the folds.
Heavy denim catches on flesh as Viggo works Sean's jeans past his hips and down his legs. Like before, he thinks he could come just by looking now, at Sean naked and aroused, at how the flushed skin stands in blazing contrast to pale sheets. His hand wanders down to his jeans - just touching the fly nearly makes him sob, the pressure's killing him, and he nearly yanks the buttons loose getting them undone. Sweat and saliva glitter on Sean's body where the golden light of the bedside lamp touches his skin; there are rivulets on his arms, droplets caught like diamonds on the hair of his chest.
"C'mere," Sean grunts, shifting on the mattress. And Viggo sinks down into Sean's offered arms, is turned over so now he's the one beneath, and his cock is trapped between his abdomen and Sean's - he's hallucinating, he thinks, because Sean's moans and growls have shapes and swim before his eyes, coloring the air. He can feel Sean's fingers everywhere, working down his sides, pressing against his hips and pulling his lower body off the bed so Sean can drag his jeans off the rest of the way.
And then they're both naked, bodies sliding, twined together. There's the familiar, unimportant sound of the drawer opening and Sean's hand rummaging around with the lube, but he's kissing Viggo, tongue buried in his mouth and not watching what he's doing. Viggo sucks on Sean's tongue, and though it's awkward gets his hands between them to write some more nonsense signs on Sean's skin, teasing his nipples. Under his right hand he can feel the thundering of Sean's heart, feels his own heart pounding in the same rhythm. Sean breaks the kiss, runs his mouth down Viggo's jaw, his neck - he can feel his pulse throb under the pressure of Sean's mouth - and his mouth is on Viggo's left nipple, licking and sucking, hair splayed over Viggo's collarbone. It's another sign, he knows, and sure enough Sean's hot, slick fingers are pressed against him. Viggo's falling open, breath caught in his chest as a finger works inside him. He shivers, can feel the slow, the achingly slow exploration, each movement inside him. Sean's muttering something against Viggo's chest, about heat and tightness and Fuck, Vig, you're bloody marvelous, voice like liquid sex sliding over him. The second finger says just as much, pressing down and stretching, preparing him, and with two fingers inside him now Viggo begins to grind his hips slowly, seeking for calm beneath the storm of lust, wanting to draw this out, fucking himself on Sean's fingers.
Sean has other plans, however, and that's fine with Viggo, though his body tries to follow Sean's fingers as he removes them. One of Sean's hands catches his hip, the other grips the sheets close by Viggo's face, to steady himself. (Viggo can't help it; he turns his head to lick the soft skin, to taste the salt, feel the line of tendon and vein.) And then he's pressing the head of his cock against Viggo, mouth falling open as if in surprise as tight muscle gives way to take him in and Viggo twists beneath him.
Slowly, slowly they move together as Sean works himself deeper still, until Viggo can't wait anymore and rears up, crying out as Sean very nearly falls into him. And he knows Sean wants to wait, to make sure it's okay, but he doesn't, and wordlessly he lets Sean know this, and Sean responds. The first time is unexpected, the second as Sean withdraws and drives in again, delicious, a jolt of electricity up Viggo's spine.
They're both beyond words, now. Danish, Spanish, Sindarin, English - Old and New, American and Sheffield - are gone. There's only the language you speak without words, that's all thrust and doubled, clenching muscles, fingers grappling body to body. Sean's mouth is fire, everywhere he can reach as he pounds inside him, hot steel. A litany of cries tumbles from Sean's lips, falls over Viggo's skin, and then they're kissing again, breathing in the scent of sex and of each other, open-mouthed, eyes wide with the wonder of it.
Viggo feels his climax stirring deep in his gut, in the tension of his body. He feels pulled tight, taut and straining as Sean works him with growing urgency, cock pressing hard and deep inside him. He can't form words to tell Sean this, to tell him hurry hurry or no please let it last, but Sean knows they're both gone, tipped over the edge, falling and too late to catch their balance. Both their hands close around Viggo's cock, and he can't help it; he thrusts up into the encircling fingers, sharp and hard, needing the friction, the feeling of skin on skin.
His mind dissolves in a haze of Sean and sweat even as his body strives upward, and he feels Sean's face buried against his neck, the huff of a sob and a hoarse, "Come on, Vig."
Then Viggo's gone, and so is Sean, and when Viggo comes it's almost violent, muscles locking around Sean's cock, a sweep of fire over his abdomen. His hands are on Sean's hips, legs twined high around him, keeping him buried inside until Sean comes a moment later, spending himself in fierce, desperate thrusts. There are paintings behind Viggo's closed eyelids, swirls of red and gold against the black that move like fresh oil.
Sean collapses against him, breathless, supporting his weight on his forearms. They kiss, mouths open and breathless, before Sean slides out of and away from Viggo to lie down beside him. Viggo knows he's grinning, can see it reflected in Sean's eyes, and his entire body feels loose and sated, sprawled long-limbed and lazy over the covers.
"That was..." Sean shakes his head as if to clear it, frowns. "Hell if I can find the words... I can't think straight with you, Viggo." He grins now, with the expression that lets Viggo know he's feeling slightly foolish, but Viggo's too caught up in turning over the new sounds passion brings to Sean's voice, how it seems rougher, deeper, but with a hesitancy to it, as if he can't quite believe what happened.
All his life, Viggo realizes, he's had this thing.
"Say it again," he whispers, sliding a hand over Sean's chest. "Say anything. I love your voice."
Summary: All his life, Viggo's had this thing.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 3846 Read: 770
Published: 06 Aug 2009 Updated: 06 Aug 2009