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wordsontongueTitle: Detours
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
noalinnea
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Mild BDSM
Beta: Julia
Request: Domestic, kink, or action-y, au is fine if the writer prefers it
Disclaimer: It's all lies
Impatiently he blows at the strands of hair that keep falling over his eyes but to no avail. His forehead is sticky with sweat and the hair is plastered to it. With growing annoyance he wipes his hand over his face. He is hot, covered in dust and sweat to equal parts, his stomach is rumbling and there is a black cloud of flies hanging over his head, their constant buzz alone unnerving.
He casts a quick glance to the left, then to the right, neither direction providing him with any clue whatsoever as to where he is. He stifles an annoyed groan for the fifth time in the past ten minutes and spurs on his horse with a soft touch of his heel to its flank that is accompanied by a well-practised click of his tongue. They canter down the path to their left, the shadows growing longer with every minute that passes, the night advancing slowly but steadily.
He yanks at the reins in frustration when he emerges onto an all too familiar clearing, thus producing an impatient toss of his horse's head.
He is turning around in circles.
At least one thing he knows for sure.
With every breath he takes his irritation grows. And his desperation. He certainly has not planned for things to turn out like this. It should have been his secret.
But when one night in the woods turned into a second one, nimble fingers and a clever tongue enticing him to linger on their bed of moss, every appeal of reason has vanished behind clouds of lust.
And then, the next morning, his heart heavy with guilt, his stomach a tight knot, no little attentions, no caresses to spare. His growing restlessness, his anger, his voice cold and sharp in his own ears. The flash of hurt in his companion's eyes, then the defiant sparkle, his head held high when he mounted his horse and the forest swallowed him. Minutes passed before his anger has dissolved that much that he has been able to try and follow him, the dark palisades of trees surrounding him casting back his half-hearted attempts of reaching his lover's ears.
He knows how much pain his prolonged absence will inflict in the one person he has not wanted to know about all of this, he can feel it himself. His lungs contract as soon as he dares to direct his thoughts onto that path, and he can't breathe, the following minutes a desperate struggle to remain in control, waves of panic washing over him. The thought that he has tried to push away all those stolen moments in the excitingly unfamiliar embrace resurfaces expectedly, spiralling him into a bout of nausea: he should never have left.
The sun is setting in the West, and heavy rays of light are filtering through the dark branches of the trees looming above him.
He wipes his hand across his brow once more, then sets out towards sunset. One more try. The next option will be an uncomfortable night under the stars.
He ducks to avoid a couple of low hanging branches, curses softly when his tired horse stumbles over a half decayed log. On an almost overgrown path the dust of the late summer day is dancing with the rearguards of daylight. At their left the path bends sharply and disappears behind a tall pine. He digs his heels into the soft flanks of the horse, edging him on until he reluctantly falls into a slow trot that at least keeps the flies at bay. When the path opens up, the trot becomes a gallop, and he relishes in the feel of the wind against his face and bare lower arms.
Then there is an opening in the trees and when his eyes at last recognise the familiar environment a cry of joy and relief tears from his lips. In front of him the river stretches into the sunset, bathed in golden light, the reflection still blinding at this late hour.
He brings his horse to a halt and his feet meet the soft ground of the riverbank before he has been able to think twice. He winces at the first step he takes, now noticing how stiff he has become during those long hours on horse-back. For a moment he stands there and blinks into the light, trying to make up his mind. He knows he shouldn't, he should not waste another minute, should not add to the disappointment. An image of those blue eyes flickers through his mind, shining with hurt for a second before the curtain is closed and the surface is smooth once more, impenetrable. He swallows.
He has known the price all along, has known how dearly he would have to pay if found out. It's too late now, too late to repent. He will have to live with the consequences.
He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to control the fresh wave of nausea. He takes a deep breath, then bends down to secure the horse before he makes quick work of his clothes.
Five minutes. He needs to regain control over his feelings. And a bath will render him much more presentable.
The golden water swallows him whole and is pleasantly cool against his overheated skin. For a wonderfully long moment everything is quiet and he feels some tiny parts deep in his spine rearrange themselves and click into place again as he glides through the deep green floods. When he breaks through the surface again the sunlight is blinding him and he directly dives again, effortlessly making his way back to the riverbank. When his knees graze the stony ground he resurfaces, brushes back his hair and wipes the water from his eyes, then suddenly, he freezes. A dark shadow has attached itself to the side of his horse, a stallion black as the night and painfully familiar. His breath hitches in his throat, his brain refusing cooperation for a split second too long. The dimension of his mistake crashes down onto him when a steady hand takes a hold of his neck and the blade of a sword is pressed against his throat whilst his head is yanked back.
For a moment he can't breathe. His whole body turns rigid.
He risks an upwards glance and encounters that pair of blue eyes that he has longed for and dreaded at the same time, haloed by a tangle of dark hair.
"Lord Boromir." His voice is dangerously low. Hard as steel.
He swallows against the lump in his throat and tries to halt the shiver that runs down his spine.
The grip around his neck tightens and he is dragged to his feet, unceremoniously a knee is being shoved into his back and he is steered out of the water, the sword still pressed to his throat. Cold, relentless.
When the sands grinds against his soles the sword is withdrawn slowly, daring him to make one wrong move, the fingers that he knows can be so tender painfully digging into his trapezoid muscle.
"You were expected back this morning." He does not permit for any emotions to filter into his voice.
"My King-", he tries, but is silenced immediately.
"Not another word, Lord Boromir. I should not have bestowed my trust on you."
His voice is harsh now, bitter, the words cut like razor blades. He swallows. A shiver chases over his wet skin, the sunlight not providing enough warmth against the rising chill of the night.
He turns around, against the arm that holds him, and tries to catch his eyes. For a moment they stare at each other, and all he can see is the perfect line of defence he knows only too well. He knows he can not penetrate those walls, he has tried too many times, the utter helplessness that comes with trying sickeningly familiar. The blue eyes leave his, setting out for an agonisingly slow journey over his body. He flinches under the scrutiny, his cheeks reddening with guilt.
He is standing close, so very close that he can feel the heat radiating from his body, and his unique smell, camp fire and sunlight and a rainy morning in the mountains, envelops him, knocking off a series of thoughts that cause his groin to tingle.
He swallows, his mouth suddenly very dry, while he desperately clings to the last remains of composure.
"I see you have enjoyed yourself in more than one way."
A well-known hand brushes over the finger shaped bruises on his hip. No emotion whatsoever is detectable in his voice, it's a matter-of-fact statement, but his eyes shine with something that is escaping definition.
He is painfully aware of the fingers lingering on his skin, they seem to burn into his flesh, setting every nerve end in his skin on fire. In vain he tries to control his breathing, only to find that he can't prevent its quickening.
Blue eyes lock onto his own, and now there definitely is a trace of possessiveness detectable, half a smile at the predictability of his body's reaction to his touch.
He closes his eyes for a moment, his uneasiness growing with every second passing.
"My King-", he tries again.
An impatient toss of his head. "Not another word."
All of a sudden he sounds weary, empty. He withdraws his fingers and turns away, his eyes travel out over the water into the distance.
He swallows, then takes half a step towards him, his fingers brushing hesitantly over his shoulder.
"Aragon, I-" He is silenced by a palm that connects with his cheek. He gasps in surprise, staggering backwards. Instantly there are tears in his eyes that surprise him, too, tears of anger and mortification.
"Don't you know your place, Lord Steward!" His King's eyes are blazing red hot with barely suppressed rage. Unable to maintain eye contact he casts down his eyes, blinking away the tears, his cheek burning and his mind spinning. Very well aware of what is to come he waits, breathless.
"Kneel." His voice is toneless. It's unmistakably a command that he cannot afford to disobey and his knees bend instinctively, his cheeks flaming red. Rough hands drag his arms behind his back and tie his hands together in a series of swift movements.
They have been there before, he knows what is waiting for him, and yet, he cannot seem to quell the uneasiness that grows in his stomach. Something is different today.
He licks his dry lips, trying to find his voice when suddenly there is the sound of fabric being ripped apart and then a blindfold is placed over his eyes, and he is in no position to avoid it. His heart misses a beat, a wave of panic rippling through his chest, his pulse spiking. This is new. His pride leaps and he almost voices his protest but swallows his comment just in time, well aware of the rules of engagement.
With a rough grip his chin is tilted upwards: "Any objections, Lord Boromir?"
He shakes his head.
"I didn't think so." The knots are being tested for their strength and when he speaks again his breath is hot against his ear, causing the hair at the base of his neck to stand upright.
"We will see if you still remember his caresses when I am finished with you."
He shivers at the coldness in his voice. This is wrong. This is not- he bites his lip, swallowing down the words that are bubbling to the surface. It's not what he has expected. He has been aware of the fact that there would be punishment and maybe this knowledge has been part of his motif all along, maybe has been what he has been longing for.
But this is not. There is something to it today that unsettles him, scares him, if he dares to be honest.
He closes his eyes beneath the blindfold and tries to relax, tries to focus on his touches alone, on the small sounds he makes. He knows it's a matter of concentration, of his will to accept the thought of submission. He knows he can enjoy those moments. It is always a tightrope walk but he has never had the feeling that he might fall.
Today he does. Maybe his straying has shifted the scales, maybe it is not safe. Not today.
He knows there is only one way out of this now, and that seems out of the question, when there is the soft rustle of fabric and a second later he encounters a familiar smell, musky, and hot flesh is pressed against his lips, parting them impatiently.
Familiar territory, he realises with relief while he envelops his cock with his lips, trying to control his breathing and trying to control his gag reflex.
His thrusts are fierce, urgent, no wonder, it has been a while, and when he struggles to stay upright he grabs a fistful of his hair, maybe a tiny bit rougher than usual, and steadies him, pushing in even deeper. There is not a sound to be heard from him, apart from the quickening of his breath, he is fucking his mouth in determined silence.
Suddenly there are tears in his eyes and he is thankful for the blindfold. Something is wrong but he can't name it. He swallows around him, struggling to maintain rhythm and speed.
There is an impatient little groan and he is lowered onto the grass and placed onto his side, rough hands moulding his body into position.
He licks his very dry lips. Fingers, not too careful spread themselves over bruises acquired under similar circumstances and a hot body wraps itself around him. A heartbeat later he is painfully stretched, then invaded in one determined thrust. No probing fingers, no preparation. He is retaking possession and he is not sure if he can reproach him for that. He grinds his teeth and stifles a groan of pain, exhaling shakily and trying to relax when suddenly sharp teeth graze his shoulder while he slams into him, once, twice, and he looses control, a sob tearing from his lips.
Cheeks burning with embarrassment he waits, wishing to be some place else when strong arms wrap around him, pulling him close and instead of teeth there are familiar lips pressing a soft kiss to the spot where the skin is unmistakably broken and warm fingers find him. The sudden tenderness startles him, almost alarms him, a violent shudder running through him, and he does not dare to move, fresh tears looming behind eyelids squeezed shut.
A line of kisses is trailed down his shoulder, gentle reassurance, and he has stilled his hips, giving him time to adjust, his hand around his cock never ceasing to move. He takes a deep breath, trying to focus on the feeling of skin moving against skin, slowly feeling the familiar heat rise in his groin.
Without taking his hand off him he unties his wrists in one motion, then withdraws, and gently directs him to stand on all fours. A teasing hand travels over his body while the other expertly maintains its rhythm, desire slowly transforming into raw need. He growls impatiently and is rewarded by a finger that is slipped into him, and curled, causing his breath to hitch in his throat and his hips to buck. When the finger is withdrawn and once more replaced by the object of his desire he is prepared, a wave of lust rippling through him.
He throws back his head, a low moan tearing from his throat when a slow, steady rhythm is established. He has had a lot of men but no one has ever been such a perfect fit. He arches his back and meets every thrust with one of his hip, welcoming him over and over again, his breathing becoming more and more laboured. One of his hands comes up to curl around himself, matching the rhythm.
When his thrusts become more urgent, he needs both hands to brace himself against his force. "Touch me", he croaks and does not encounter resistance.
He is close now, very close, he can tell because there is not a sound to be heard from him and his thrusts seemingly double in force before he stills completely, spending with a drawn-out howl, his fingers tightening around him. He exhales slowly, then finishes what he has started. An explosion, white hot despite the blindfold, and he hears his own loud groan before they sink onto the grass, still joined at the hips. Gently a hand brushes over his face and the blindfold is removed. His eyes remain firmly closed for a moment before he blinks carefully, trying to bring his surroundings back into focus before he turns around.
He is sprawled out on his back, his eyes closed but even in the dim light the traces of tears are visible on his cheeks, too. Rolling over he reaches out and brushes his fingers over his lover's forehead.
"Vig, are you okay?" His voice is hoarse.
For a long moment he is silent and just lies there, not moving a muscle. He waits patiently, a feeling of uneasiness building up in his chest again. When he finally opens his eyes they are hazy, glistening with fresh tears. He rolls onto his side and reaches for Sean's hand.
Pressing a soft kiss to his palm before he searches his eyes and says softly:
"You were scared."
He has to force himself not to look away although he knows that he already knows. Of course he does. He always knows. Despite various attempts at trying to conceal his thoughts, Viggo has been able to see straight into his mind from day one. And to speak straight to his heart.
Viggo's eyes scan his features closely, his expression grave now. He nods wordlessly and Sean sees him swallow.
"And you had every right to be so. I almost lost it."
His mind is reeling but he is not in any position to reach out for one of the thoughts flashing past, the panic flaring up in his chest again.
"What are you talking about?"
Viggo smiles wistfully and lets go of his hand to sit up. His eyes fly out over the river once more as he appeals to the horizon for guidance. Slowly Sean pushes himself up into a sitting position, too. He stares at Viggo's profile, at his bare shoulders and back, his arms longing to curl around him, to pull him close, to draw comfort from him as so many times before.
But he doesn't dare to, his place in Viggo's heart all of a sudden not certain anymore.
Viggo is silent for a long moment and Sean waits as patiently as he can, knowing that it has to be on his terms. He shivers, part from over-excited nerves, part from cold, and reaches for the pile of clothes next to him for anything to shield him from the wind. His hands encounter Aragorn's cape and he pulls it around himself, and, after a moment's hesitation moves to wrap up Viggo, too. He comes to sit in between his legs, his back cool against his chest, and when his arms reach around him he can feel goosebumps under his fingertips.
With a sigh Viggo leans against him, covering Sean's arms with his own, but the tension never leaves his body. Sean rests his chin on his shoulder and tries not to fidget, suppressing the urge to blurt out weak explanations.
After a long moment of silence Viggo finds back his voice.
"You know this was the last time, do you?" he asks softly, and Sean feels as if he has been stabbed in the back.
"Vig, I-", he stammers, the pain that flashes through him severing linguistic coherence.
Viggo tightens his grip on his arms.
"I thought- I really thought that with you I would be able to move back from lovers to friends without complications, just as smoothly as I moved from friendship to love. But after being with you today and being without you this weekend I-"
He pauses and absent-mindedly trails his fingers down Sean's arms.
"I value our friendship above anything else, Sean. I cannot risk losing it. We had a great time and amazing sex, let's just leave it at that."
He cannot form a single clear thought, the pain overwhelming. If his brain would work properly he would protest, explain, beg. Beg him to stay. But on what grounds? He has just returned from a weekend shagging Karl, what does he have to offer?
"I-", he clears his throat, blinking away the tears that weigh down his lashes. "Don't- please."
Viggo's voice is warm when he interlaces their fingers and leans back into Sean's embrace.
"I won't be going anywhere, Sean. I am going to be there."
"But-"
"But next to you, not inside of you."
Despite the situation Sean smiles and Viggo pulls his hand to his lips and administers a soft kiss. "Don't be afraid, we are going to be just fine."
He has anticipated that it would hurt to cut through his bond to Sean but he has not expected such a blast. He has been dazed all week, numb, his face seems to have forgotten how to smile. Sean has been very careful around him, confusion and insecurity clear in his every look, and on several occasions he has had to make a run for it, unexpected tears in his eyes.
He has escaped from his own pacing onto the patio, his heart bleeding, his fingers rolling a cigarette, a weak substitute for another untouched dinner. He stares out into the darkness, trying to get a hold on his restlessness, a steady companion during the days since their evening at the river. It doesn't help that every time he recalls those moments he seems to be able to feel Sean's skin against his own, his warmth enveloping him, the feeling of safety that he provides encompassing him.
Absorbed off his thoughts he does not hear his steps approaching and starts when his eye catches a movement next to him and Sean sinks down at his side.
For a moment he can't move. He has thought it would be easier by then but Sean's close proximity does not fail to knock him off balance.
"Hi," Sean offers.
"Hi," he echoes, not trusting his voice with more syllables yet.
"Sleepless night?"
He shrugs. "I'll live, I guess."
He can sense Sean's nod rather than see it. They sit in silence for a moment before Sean says:
"I ended things with Karl."
He drops his cigarette, only noticing it when it burns through the thin fabric of his slacks.
He doesn't have to ask the question that immediately has leapt to his mind.
"Because I can't lose you."
Breathing becomes a straining task for a couple of moments while he tries to form a thought, then a question. A question that demands an answer.
"Why Karl?" he asks, and after a moment's thought adds: "Apart from the obvious."
Sean is silent for a moment, and one of his feet is drawing half circles on the planks of the patio floor. When he finally decides to speak Viggo can feel his eyes on his albeit not see them.
"Because I realised that we were past casual sex", he says quietly, then pauses, doubtlessly in order to look for the rest of what he has wanted to say in the depths of his heart, leaving the words hanging between them. Neither of them seems to be breathing for a moment that stretches into eternity.
When Sean continues his voice is even softer than before:
"When I realised that I had grown rather fond of you-" He halts, and Viggo can tell shakes his head in frustration and he feels his lips curl into a smile. He sighs.
"When I realised that I had feelings for you- I thought that- I thought that maybe I was just overwhelmed by your attentions after being alone for quiet a while, and I thought- if I slept with Karl I would be distracted."
He takes a deep breath.
"But I wasn't."
Viggo needs every ounce of self-restraint he possesses to not simply drag him into his arms. His prolonged silence apparently makes Sean uncomfortable and he adds apologetically: "I'm sorry, this does not sound very romantic."
Viggo is sure that his grin is obvious in his voice. He searches for Sean's hand in the darkness and squeezes it gently before he says:
"It's not Shakespeare. But I would make a lousy Juliet anyway, the beard, the accent, the sword..."
He can hear Sean exhale shakily.
"Damn, Vig, I almost wet my pants in fear that you might tell me to go jump in a lake."
He chuckles and slides over the bench all the way towards Sean, halting only inches away from him. His brings up his fingers to trail them over Sean's cheek, relishing in the feeling of Sean leaning into his touch without hesitation.
"Only if you promise not to wear any trunks", he teases and Sean huffs indignantly before suddenly grabbing him and using the moment of surprise to pull him onto his lap. He rests his forehead against Viggo's, his arms drawing him close.
"What do you say?" he asks, his voice as careful as a cat's feet in pursuit of a bird.
Under his palms that rest on Sean's broad chest he can feel the rapid pace of his heart, easily even outracing his own which he has thought to be impossible. With a smile playing around his lips he leans into Sean for a slow, welcoming kiss and a proposal:
"Let's find a way to make this work, my love."
Author:
noalinneaRating: NC-17
Warnings: Mild BDSM
Beta: Julia
Request: Domestic, kink, or action-y, au is fine if the writer prefers it
Disclaimer: It's all lies
Impatiently he blows at the strands of hair that keep falling over his eyes but to no avail. His forehead is sticky with sweat and the hair is plastered to it. With growing annoyance he wipes his hand over his face. He is hot, covered in dust and sweat to equal parts, his stomach is rumbling and there is a black cloud of flies hanging over his head, their constant buzz alone unnerving.
He casts a quick glance to the left, then to the right, neither direction providing him with any clue whatsoever as to where he is. He stifles an annoyed groan for the fifth time in the past ten minutes and spurs on his horse with a soft touch of his heel to its flank that is accompanied by a well-practised click of his tongue. They canter down the path to their left, the shadows growing longer with every minute that passes, the night advancing slowly but steadily.
He yanks at the reins in frustration when he emerges onto an all too familiar clearing, thus producing an impatient toss of his horse's head.
He is turning around in circles.
At least one thing he knows for sure.
With every breath he takes his irritation grows. And his desperation. He certainly has not planned for things to turn out like this. It should have been his secret.
But when one night in the woods turned into a second one, nimble fingers and a clever tongue enticing him to linger on their bed of moss, every appeal of reason has vanished behind clouds of lust.
And then, the next morning, his heart heavy with guilt, his stomach a tight knot, no little attentions, no caresses to spare. His growing restlessness, his anger, his voice cold and sharp in his own ears. The flash of hurt in his companion's eyes, then the defiant sparkle, his head held high when he mounted his horse and the forest swallowed him. Minutes passed before his anger has dissolved that much that he has been able to try and follow him, the dark palisades of trees surrounding him casting back his half-hearted attempts of reaching his lover's ears.
He knows how much pain his prolonged absence will inflict in the one person he has not wanted to know about all of this, he can feel it himself. His lungs contract as soon as he dares to direct his thoughts onto that path, and he can't breathe, the following minutes a desperate struggle to remain in control, waves of panic washing over him. The thought that he has tried to push away all those stolen moments in the excitingly unfamiliar embrace resurfaces expectedly, spiralling him into a bout of nausea: he should never have left.
The sun is setting in the West, and heavy rays of light are filtering through the dark branches of the trees looming above him.
He wipes his hand across his brow once more, then sets out towards sunset. One more try. The next option will be an uncomfortable night under the stars.
He ducks to avoid a couple of low hanging branches, curses softly when his tired horse stumbles over a half decayed log. On an almost overgrown path the dust of the late summer day is dancing with the rearguards of daylight. At their left the path bends sharply and disappears behind a tall pine. He digs his heels into the soft flanks of the horse, edging him on until he reluctantly falls into a slow trot that at least keeps the flies at bay. When the path opens up, the trot becomes a gallop, and he relishes in the feel of the wind against his face and bare lower arms.
Then there is an opening in the trees and when his eyes at last recognise the familiar environment a cry of joy and relief tears from his lips. In front of him the river stretches into the sunset, bathed in golden light, the reflection still blinding at this late hour.
He brings his horse to a halt and his feet meet the soft ground of the riverbank before he has been able to think twice. He winces at the first step he takes, now noticing how stiff he has become during those long hours on horse-back. For a moment he stands there and blinks into the light, trying to make up his mind. He knows he shouldn't, he should not waste another minute, should not add to the disappointment. An image of those blue eyes flickers through his mind, shining with hurt for a second before the curtain is closed and the surface is smooth once more, impenetrable. He swallows.
He has known the price all along, has known how dearly he would have to pay if found out. It's too late now, too late to repent. He will have to live with the consequences.
He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to control the fresh wave of nausea. He takes a deep breath, then bends down to secure the horse before he makes quick work of his clothes.
Five minutes. He needs to regain control over his feelings. And a bath will render him much more presentable.
The golden water swallows him whole and is pleasantly cool against his overheated skin. For a wonderfully long moment everything is quiet and he feels some tiny parts deep in his spine rearrange themselves and click into place again as he glides through the deep green floods. When he breaks through the surface again the sunlight is blinding him and he directly dives again, effortlessly making his way back to the riverbank. When his knees graze the stony ground he resurfaces, brushes back his hair and wipes the water from his eyes, then suddenly, he freezes. A dark shadow has attached itself to the side of his horse, a stallion black as the night and painfully familiar. His breath hitches in his throat, his brain refusing cooperation for a split second too long. The dimension of his mistake crashes down onto him when a steady hand takes a hold of his neck and the blade of a sword is pressed against his throat whilst his head is yanked back.
For a moment he can't breathe. His whole body turns rigid.
He risks an upwards glance and encounters that pair of blue eyes that he has longed for and dreaded at the same time, haloed by a tangle of dark hair.
"Lord Boromir." His voice is dangerously low. Hard as steel.
He swallows against the lump in his throat and tries to halt the shiver that runs down his spine.
The grip around his neck tightens and he is dragged to his feet, unceremoniously a knee is being shoved into his back and he is steered out of the water, the sword still pressed to his throat. Cold, relentless.
When the sands grinds against his soles the sword is withdrawn slowly, daring him to make one wrong move, the fingers that he knows can be so tender painfully digging into his trapezoid muscle.
"You were expected back this morning." He does not permit for any emotions to filter into his voice.
"My King-", he tries, but is silenced immediately.
"Not another word, Lord Boromir. I should not have bestowed my trust on you."
His voice is harsh now, bitter, the words cut like razor blades. He swallows. A shiver chases over his wet skin, the sunlight not providing enough warmth against the rising chill of the night.
He turns around, against the arm that holds him, and tries to catch his eyes. For a moment they stare at each other, and all he can see is the perfect line of defence he knows only too well. He knows he can not penetrate those walls, he has tried too many times, the utter helplessness that comes with trying sickeningly familiar. The blue eyes leave his, setting out for an agonisingly slow journey over his body. He flinches under the scrutiny, his cheeks reddening with guilt.
He is standing close, so very close that he can feel the heat radiating from his body, and his unique smell, camp fire and sunlight and a rainy morning in the mountains, envelops him, knocking off a series of thoughts that cause his groin to tingle.
He swallows, his mouth suddenly very dry, while he desperately clings to the last remains of composure.
"I see you have enjoyed yourself in more than one way."
A well-known hand brushes over the finger shaped bruises on his hip. No emotion whatsoever is detectable in his voice, it's a matter-of-fact statement, but his eyes shine with something that is escaping definition.
He is painfully aware of the fingers lingering on his skin, they seem to burn into his flesh, setting every nerve end in his skin on fire. In vain he tries to control his breathing, only to find that he can't prevent its quickening.
Blue eyes lock onto his own, and now there definitely is a trace of possessiveness detectable, half a smile at the predictability of his body's reaction to his touch.
He closes his eyes for a moment, his uneasiness growing with every second passing.
"My King-", he tries again.
An impatient toss of his head. "Not another word."
All of a sudden he sounds weary, empty. He withdraws his fingers and turns away, his eyes travel out over the water into the distance.
He swallows, then takes half a step towards him, his fingers brushing hesitantly over his shoulder.
"Aragon, I-" He is silenced by a palm that connects with his cheek. He gasps in surprise, staggering backwards. Instantly there are tears in his eyes that surprise him, too, tears of anger and mortification.
"Don't you know your place, Lord Steward!" His King's eyes are blazing red hot with barely suppressed rage. Unable to maintain eye contact he casts down his eyes, blinking away the tears, his cheek burning and his mind spinning. Very well aware of what is to come he waits, breathless.
"Kneel." His voice is toneless. It's unmistakably a command that he cannot afford to disobey and his knees bend instinctively, his cheeks flaming red. Rough hands drag his arms behind his back and tie his hands together in a series of swift movements.
They have been there before, he knows what is waiting for him, and yet, he cannot seem to quell the uneasiness that grows in his stomach. Something is different today.
He licks his dry lips, trying to find his voice when suddenly there is the sound of fabric being ripped apart and then a blindfold is placed over his eyes, and he is in no position to avoid it. His heart misses a beat, a wave of panic rippling through his chest, his pulse spiking. This is new. His pride leaps and he almost voices his protest but swallows his comment just in time, well aware of the rules of engagement.
With a rough grip his chin is tilted upwards: "Any objections, Lord Boromir?"
He shakes his head.
"I didn't think so." The knots are being tested for their strength and when he speaks again his breath is hot against his ear, causing the hair at the base of his neck to stand upright.
"We will see if you still remember his caresses when I am finished with you."
He shivers at the coldness in his voice. This is wrong. This is not- he bites his lip, swallowing down the words that are bubbling to the surface. It's not what he has expected. He has been aware of the fact that there would be punishment and maybe this knowledge has been part of his motif all along, maybe has been what he has been longing for.
But this is not. There is something to it today that unsettles him, scares him, if he dares to be honest.
He closes his eyes beneath the blindfold and tries to relax, tries to focus on his touches alone, on the small sounds he makes. He knows it's a matter of concentration, of his will to accept the thought of submission. He knows he can enjoy those moments. It is always a tightrope walk but he has never had the feeling that he might fall.
Today he does. Maybe his straying has shifted the scales, maybe it is not safe. Not today.
He knows there is only one way out of this now, and that seems out of the question, when there is the soft rustle of fabric and a second later he encounters a familiar smell, musky, and hot flesh is pressed against his lips, parting them impatiently.
Familiar territory, he realises with relief while he envelops his cock with his lips, trying to control his breathing and trying to control his gag reflex.
His thrusts are fierce, urgent, no wonder, it has been a while, and when he struggles to stay upright he grabs a fistful of his hair, maybe a tiny bit rougher than usual, and steadies him, pushing in even deeper. There is not a sound to be heard from him, apart from the quickening of his breath, he is fucking his mouth in determined silence.
Suddenly there are tears in his eyes and he is thankful for the blindfold. Something is wrong but he can't name it. He swallows around him, struggling to maintain rhythm and speed.
There is an impatient little groan and he is lowered onto the grass and placed onto his side, rough hands moulding his body into position.
He licks his very dry lips. Fingers, not too careful spread themselves over bruises acquired under similar circumstances and a hot body wraps itself around him. A heartbeat later he is painfully stretched, then invaded in one determined thrust. No probing fingers, no preparation. He is retaking possession and he is not sure if he can reproach him for that. He grinds his teeth and stifles a groan of pain, exhaling shakily and trying to relax when suddenly sharp teeth graze his shoulder while he slams into him, once, twice, and he looses control, a sob tearing from his lips.
Cheeks burning with embarrassment he waits, wishing to be some place else when strong arms wrap around him, pulling him close and instead of teeth there are familiar lips pressing a soft kiss to the spot where the skin is unmistakably broken and warm fingers find him. The sudden tenderness startles him, almost alarms him, a violent shudder running through him, and he does not dare to move, fresh tears looming behind eyelids squeezed shut.
A line of kisses is trailed down his shoulder, gentle reassurance, and he has stilled his hips, giving him time to adjust, his hand around his cock never ceasing to move. He takes a deep breath, trying to focus on the feeling of skin moving against skin, slowly feeling the familiar heat rise in his groin.
Without taking his hand off him he unties his wrists in one motion, then withdraws, and gently directs him to stand on all fours. A teasing hand travels over his body while the other expertly maintains its rhythm, desire slowly transforming into raw need. He growls impatiently and is rewarded by a finger that is slipped into him, and curled, causing his breath to hitch in his throat and his hips to buck. When the finger is withdrawn and once more replaced by the object of his desire he is prepared, a wave of lust rippling through him.
He throws back his head, a low moan tearing from his throat when a slow, steady rhythm is established. He has had a lot of men but no one has ever been such a perfect fit. He arches his back and meets every thrust with one of his hip, welcoming him over and over again, his breathing becoming more and more laboured. One of his hands comes up to curl around himself, matching the rhythm.
When his thrusts become more urgent, he needs both hands to brace himself against his force. "Touch me", he croaks and does not encounter resistance.
He is close now, very close, he can tell because there is not a sound to be heard from him and his thrusts seemingly double in force before he stills completely, spending with a drawn-out howl, his fingers tightening around him. He exhales slowly, then finishes what he has started. An explosion, white hot despite the blindfold, and he hears his own loud groan before they sink onto the grass, still joined at the hips. Gently a hand brushes over his face and the blindfold is removed. His eyes remain firmly closed for a moment before he blinks carefully, trying to bring his surroundings back into focus before he turns around.
He is sprawled out on his back, his eyes closed but even in the dim light the traces of tears are visible on his cheeks, too. Rolling over he reaches out and brushes his fingers over his lover's forehead.
"Vig, are you okay?" His voice is hoarse.
For a long moment he is silent and just lies there, not moving a muscle. He waits patiently, a feeling of uneasiness building up in his chest again. When he finally opens his eyes they are hazy, glistening with fresh tears. He rolls onto his side and reaches for Sean's hand.
Pressing a soft kiss to his palm before he searches his eyes and says softly:
"You were scared."
He has to force himself not to look away although he knows that he already knows. Of course he does. He always knows. Despite various attempts at trying to conceal his thoughts, Viggo has been able to see straight into his mind from day one. And to speak straight to his heart.
Viggo's eyes scan his features closely, his expression grave now. He nods wordlessly and Sean sees him swallow.
"And you had every right to be so. I almost lost it."
His mind is reeling but he is not in any position to reach out for one of the thoughts flashing past, the panic flaring up in his chest again.
"What are you talking about?"
Viggo smiles wistfully and lets go of his hand to sit up. His eyes fly out over the river once more as he appeals to the horizon for guidance. Slowly Sean pushes himself up into a sitting position, too. He stares at Viggo's profile, at his bare shoulders and back, his arms longing to curl around him, to pull him close, to draw comfort from him as so many times before.
But he doesn't dare to, his place in Viggo's heart all of a sudden not certain anymore.
Viggo is silent for a long moment and Sean waits as patiently as he can, knowing that it has to be on his terms. He shivers, part from over-excited nerves, part from cold, and reaches for the pile of clothes next to him for anything to shield him from the wind. His hands encounter Aragorn's cape and he pulls it around himself, and, after a moment's hesitation moves to wrap up Viggo, too. He comes to sit in between his legs, his back cool against his chest, and when his arms reach around him he can feel goosebumps under his fingertips.
With a sigh Viggo leans against him, covering Sean's arms with his own, but the tension never leaves his body. Sean rests his chin on his shoulder and tries not to fidget, suppressing the urge to blurt out weak explanations.
After a long moment of silence Viggo finds back his voice.
"You know this was the last time, do you?" he asks softly, and Sean feels as if he has been stabbed in the back.
"Vig, I-", he stammers, the pain that flashes through him severing linguistic coherence.
Viggo tightens his grip on his arms.
"I thought- I really thought that with you I would be able to move back from lovers to friends without complications, just as smoothly as I moved from friendship to love. But after being with you today and being without you this weekend I-"
He pauses and absent-mindedly trails his fingers down Sean's arms.
"I value our friendship above anything else, Sean. I cannot risk losing it. We had a great time and amazing sex, let's just leave it at that."
He cannot form a single clear thought, the pain overwhelming. If his brain would work properly he would protest, explain, beg. Beg him to stay. But on what grounds? He has just returned from a weekend shagging Karl, what does he have to offer?
"I-", he clears his throat, blinking away the tears that weigh down his lashes. "Don't- please."
Viggo's voice is warm when he interlaces their fingers and leans back into Sean's embrace.
"I won't be going anywhere, Sean. I am going to be there."
"But-"
"But next to you, not inside of you."
Despite the situation Sean smiles and Viggo pulls his hand to his lips and administers a soft kiss. "Don't be afraid, we are going to be just fine."
He has anticipated that it would hurt to cut through his bond to Sean but he has not expected such a blast. He has been dazed all week, numb, his face seems to have forgotten how to smile. Sean has been very careful around him, confusion and insecurity clear in his every look, and on several occasions he has had to make a run for it, unexpected tears in his eyes.
He has escaped from his own pacing onto the patio, his heart bleeding, his fingers rolling a cigarette, a weak substitute for another untouched dinner. He stares out into the darkness, trying to get a hold on his restlessness, a steady companion during the days since their evening at the river. It doesn't help that every time he recalls those moments he seems to be able to feel Sean's skin against his own, his warmth enveloping him, the feeling of safety that he provides encompassing him.
Absorbed off his thoughts he does not hear his steps approaching and starts when his eye catches a movement next to him and Sean sinks down at his side.
For a moment he can't move. He has thought it would be easier by then but Sean's close proximity does not fail to knock him off balance.
"Hi," Sean offers.
"Hi," he echoes, not trusting his voice with more syllables yet.
"Sleepless night?"
He shrugs. "I'll live, I guess."
He can sense Sean's nod rather than see it. They sit in silence for a moment before Sean says:
"I ended things with Karl."
He drops his cigarette, only noticing it when it burns through the thin fabric of his slacks.
He doesn't have to ask the question that immediately has leapt to his mind.
"Because I can't lose you."
Breathing becomes a straining task for a couple of moments while he tries to form a thought, then a question. A question that demands an answer.
"Why Karl?" he asks, and after a moment's thought adds: "Apart from the obvious."
Sean is silent for a moment, and one of his feet is drawing half circles on the planks of the patio floor. When he finally decides to speak Viggo can feel his eyes on his albeit not see them.
"Because I realised that we were past casual sex", he says quietly, then pauses, doubtlessly in order to look for the rest of what he has wanted to say in the depths of his heart, leaving the words hanging between them. Neither of them seems to be breathing for a moment that stretches into eternity.
When Sean continues his voice is even softer than before:
"When I realised that I had grown rather fond of you-" He halts, and Viggo can tell shakes his head in frustration and he feels his lips curl into a smile. He sighs.
"When I realised that I had feelings for you- I thought that- I thought that maybe I was just overwhelmed by your attentions after being alone for quiet a while, and I thought- if I slept with Karl I would be distracted."
He takes a deep breath.
"But I wasn't."
Viggo needs every ounce of self-restraint he possesses to not simply drag him into his arms. His prolonged silence apparently makes Sean uncomfortable and he adds apologetically: "I'm sorry, this does not sound very romantic."
Viggo is sure that his grin is obvious in his voice. He searches for Sean's hand in the darkness and squeezes it gently before he says:
"It's not Shakespeare. But I would make a lousy Juliet anyway, the beard, the accent, the sword..."
He can hear Sean exhale shakily.
"Damn, Vig, I almost wet my pants in fear that you might tell me to go jump in a lake."
He chuckles and slides over the bench all the way towards Sean, halting only inches away from him. His brings up his fingers to trail them over Sean's cheek, relishing in the feeling of Sean leaning into his touch without hesitation.
"Only if you promise not to wear any trunks", he teases and Sean huffs indignantly before suddenly grabbing him and using the moment of surprise to pull him onto his lap. He rests his forehead against Viggo's, his arms drawing him close.
"What do you say?" he asks, his voice as careful as a cat's feet in pursuit of a bird.
Under his palms that rest on Sean's broad chest he can feel the rapid pace of his heart, easily even outracing his own which he has thought to be impossible. With a smile playing around his lips he leans into Sean for a slow, welcoming kiss and a proposal:
"Let's find a way to make this work, my love."
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