What he does, every day is this: He takes a deep breath, his shoulders straightening as he does so, lungs filling with air. Then his hands find the familiar plain of his keyboard, his fingerprints rest lightly on the smallest fragments of consciousness, letters that wait patiently to be assembled into mindfulness. His eyes follow the words that appear on screen, almost as fast as he’s thinking, thoughts shape themselves, worlds unfold on their own and he’s in midst it all. The sound of unspoken anaphors and alliterations curls soft in his ears as he hears nothing else, sees nothing else but things that don’t really exist. He’s god and it’s not blasphemy, he’s slave without limitations.
He closes his eyes, something warm against his skin, sunshine sneaking in between the shades. He listens to his own breathing that might just as well have stopped during the day, he isn’t sure. When he looks up the sunrise has changed into dusk and who is to decide who did it – if he doesn’t live the day, has it really happened? Slowly he gets up but still feels a little dizzy, his brain stutters at the unexpected task of moving something else but thoughts.
The first touch startles him, but some part of him is dimly aware that it always does. He knows he’s lying in bed, knows how he got here, but still can’t feel the mattress, the sheets, the weight of his own body. The hand is warm and heavy on his stomach, it glides up his chest, fingers trace his collar bone and he consists of that; belly, chest, collarbone, cock – an unfinished torso until the gentle caress continues to explore him, to discover him, to recreate him. Lips against his and they are moist, as are his own, nose against his and it’s cold, as is his own.
He surrounds himself with words all day. Unrelenting children crowding around his knees, kings touching his shoulder with a blunt sword or striking him down with it. Joy, despair, pain, hope, he dissects them, strips them of their abstractness until one can feel, can taste them. It’s what he does. It’s who he is, who he would be – taxidermist, puppet master - if it weren’t for that hand, for that mouth, for that body. That weights him down, that presses against him, sweat and saliva and semen. He could dissect that as well, could interpret the cock breaching his guardian muscle, could find words to embellish the imperfect teeth in his pectoralis.
What he does, every evening, every night, always, is this: He buries his fingers in soft hair, he laps nicotin stained lips, he digs his heels into strained thighs between his own. He is the one that breaks the silence with groans, he is the one that spills hot tears and drops of precome, he is the one that sucks in air harshly when the last brutal thrust is followed by heat, slickness, shudders, first his lover’s then his own.
This is who he is.
Summary: What he does, every day
Rated: R
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 522 Read: 819
Published: 29 Jul 2009 Updated: 29 Jul 2009