It's really too hot to be doing much of anything, except napping.

Viggo loves napping.

He loves napping in this big, comfortable bed, the fan on the ceiling slowly revolving, just enough to keep the stifling air at bay, though not enough to ward off the heat effectively.

He rolls over and the sheets, made damp by humidity, cling to his skin as he moves, sticking to his thighs, his ass; never mind that, it doesn't bother him. He can't sleep just now, so he's set himself a goal to reach.

Sean's watching him, lazily, through half-slitted eyes: light green glittering under lowered eyelids, the shade of a smirk on his lips. A bead of sweat rests in the sweet curve of Sean's upper lip, and Viggo can't help it, lets himself be hijacked, detoured -- just for a little while -- from his intended goal: he leans up to taste it under his tongue, licking slowly over Sean's upper lip, catching Sean's slow moan in his mouth, then licking the bottom lip, nibbling, working it between his own lips, stubble scratching on it, making Sean's mouth that perfect, glistening, debauched red that Viggo so loves.

He licks Sean's tongue, sucking Sean's sigh inside his own mouth, greedy; then he finally gets back to his intended route, sweat-slick skin sliding over sweat-slick skin, travelling a path of ghosting touches and feather-like kisses over Sean's collarbone, his chest... just a little rest stop to taste how saltysweet Sean's nipples are in the overwhelming heat, all puckered and then, under Viggo's eager tongue and teeth, all tight... then Sean's abdomen, stretched taut under Viggo's hands, heaving with short little breaths that should've been too much of an effort in the hot, still air; Sean's belly...

Viggo rubs his cheek in the matting of dark blond curls, made darker by the sweat pooling in the hollow of Sean's lap, and Sean moans again -- a lazy, sleepy, needy sound -- and spreads his legs for him, easily, happy to oblige.

Viggo places a kiss just above the curls, still staying away from Sean's lovely red cock, from where it's resting darkly against Sean's belly, lazily rising by the minute. He moves lower instead, the friction of cotton on his own hardening cock just this side of pleasurable, and cups Sean's ass in his hands, thumbs splaying inward, to caress him just behind his balls, teasing a new moan out of Sean.

He can never get enough of this: so much he could do, so much Sean would let him do. Choosing is difficult. Sean's ass fits perfectly in his hands, as if it's made to be cupped, kneaded, caressed, loved... by Viggo. He lets out a moan of his own, his cock hardening a little more. He loves Sean's ass. Loves what Sean will let him do with it -- and how much Sean'll enjoy what Viggo does.

He squeezes a little, and Sean's eyes grow darker, his breathing more ragged; Viggo smiles -- Oh, yes. Yes, of course -- and decides.

He'll spank Sean. Later -- after dinner, maybe. Sean had been reluctant to do it or have it done, the first few times; and Viggo knows that while Sean still doesn't get the appeal of doing it himself, he'd found that he loves the indignity of crawling over Viggo's lap, of Viggo warming his ass with his bare hand -- it's that, more than the pain, that makes Sean so hot. The shameful, shocking intimacy of it.

Sometimes Sean would go all quiet during his spanking, face hidden in the pillows or in the curve of his arms, his body pliant and almost boneless; and those times he wanted to be fucked, slow and long and gently, and to be held, afterward. Other times it'd make him wild, he'd scream and curse and fight, and then he'd pin Viggo down to the mattress and fuck him raw, hard and rough and fast, until they both screamed from it.

Viggo loves spanking Sean.

Not now, though: it's too hot, and besides, it's better at night, just before bed, so Viggo can go to sleep draped over Sean's back, feel Sean's hot ass cushion his sated cock, feel Sean squirm all night against him, moaning sometimes, never shifting away; and the mornings after a spanking are always good. So incredibly good.

Sean's smirk is still firmly in place, he seems to know perfectly well what Viggo's thinking; Viggo looks at him with a smirk of his own, leans down to place a soft bite on the inside of Sean's thigh, like a promise, and Sean's smirk turns into this happy, contented smile that makes Viggo's heart and stomach flutter, even though it almost feels too damn hot even for that.

Sean reaches down with a hand, tangles his fingers through Viggo's hair. "Look so good down there," he murmurs, voice rough in his throat, vowels rolling out thick and broad on his tongue, and Viggo, not for the first time, wishes he could paint them -- maybe he will, later, Sean's come as his paint and his own body the canvas, something to be drawn on again and again, never finished, always changing, every time something new, something beautiful to be had, to be added to the whole picture...

"Look good from here," Viggo says, quietly, his thumbs nudging Sean's cheeks apart, his nose nuzzling playfully the side of Sean's dark, fat cock, tongue darting out to lick his sac lazily, teasingly, then moves lower, a broad swipe from Sean's balls to his hole, and back again.

"Fuck," Sean says, the syllable no more than an explosive exhalation, his thigh trembling against the side of Viggo's head. "Too hot to fuck around," he pleads, and Viggo smiles against Sean's cock, one of his thumb massaging just the right spot behind Sean's balls, the other pressing upon Sean's opening, not entering. Sean's cock twitches against Viggo's closed lips.

Sean moans again, manages to nudge Viggo's head with his thigh. "Vi-ggo," he drawls, shortening the second syllable of the name as he always does when close to impatience; there's no real urgency, though: Viggo's still pleasantly sore from earlier, and possibly Sean's throat still is, too. Viggo's cock stiffens a little more at the still-vivid memory: how Sean had pushed him back onto the bed, still half-clothed, and how carefully he'd prepared him; how hard he'd taken him, devouring Viggo's whimpers and cries with his mouth.

And how blissfully happy Sean had looked afterward, kneeling at the foot of the bed for Viggo, swallowing him whole as though he could never get enough, his long fingers pressing hard into Viggo's hips, bruising, possessive...

Viggo exhales softly, shivering. Bliss, yes: and they have time for everything. This, right now, is just the time for playing, growling at each other, building things up for later.

Time for napping.

"I'm gonna take you out for dinner this evening," Viggo says, lips still resting over Sean's cock, licking a little between one word and the other, inhaling, breathing Sean in. "Later, when it's cooler."

"Mm," Sean says, closing his eyes, resting his head back on the pillows. His hand's still on Viggo's head, caressing it -- broad, slow, loving motions of his fingers through Viggo's sweaty hair. "Sounds nice," he murmurs, and Viggo knows Sean could go back to sleep like this, these simple stimulations just enough to make everything better.

"And then I'll take you home," Viggo says, fingers moving lightly over Sean's opening, "undress you bit by bit," he brushes a kiss on the underside of Sean's cock, "let you get all nice and comfy over my lap," he hums softly against it, "and spank you for a while."

Sean's cock jumps at that, and Viggo kisses it again. "For as long as you can take it," he adds, and smiles, smugly, when he feels Sean's cheeks flex under his hands, Sean's hips rocking upward, just a little. "What do you say?"

"Sounds... brilliant," Sean breathes. "Wicked," he says, and he's suddenly breathless, his eyes dark and wide, fixed on Viggo's, and he licks his lips. Viggo obediently goes up when Sean tugs gently at his hair; he travels back over Sean's hips, belly, chest, until he's chest to chest with Sean, his hips cradled between Sean's legs, their half-hard, sleepy cocks pressing lazily together, the back of his neck safely held in the crook of Sean's elbow while his breath is sucked into Sean's mouth, his soul devoured right out of him in a messy death made of stubbles, lips, tongues, teeth, saliva. No better way to go.

He feels like he's gone liquid; he couldn't move for the world.

"Mmmnap?" he pants, when at last he's allowed to come up for air.

"Daft bastard," Sean chuckles, and nibbles his ear, his jaw. Then, "Who's gonna pay for dinner?"

"Cheap bastard," Viggo counters, licks all around Sean's chin, his tongue relishing the scratchiness. He blows a raspberry right where Sean's jaw meets the neck. "I'm gonna pay," and smiles with his teeth around a mouthful of Sean's skin at the light, gentle swat landing on his ass. "Nap now," he yawns, wiggling happily.

"Yeah, all right." Sean's arms close around Viggo's shoulders, wandering drowsily along his back; they're both sweating profusely by now, the heat sticking them together. "Too fuckin' hot to fuck," Sean mumbles, pressing lazy kisses over Viggo's temple, his hair. He doesn't sound too disgruntled. "Too fuckin' hot t' sleep t'gether," he adds, his eyes already closing, his lips still glued to Viggo's skin.

"Yeah, fuck," Viggo agrees, squirming around a little to get comfortable, until he feels the hot weight of Sean's hands over his ass -- just the right size to cup it perfectly -- keeping him close, and the familiar feeling of Sean's cock sleeping alongside his own; he throws an arm and a leg over him, and rests his head on Sean's chest, under his chin; he thinks he might be purring. Sean's heartbeat is slow, strong. It's a familiar, beautiful sound.

After a few moments they're both asleep, the faint, slow whirring noise of the ceiling fan drowned out by two sets of snoring breathing.

The restaurant Viggo has chosen for their dinner is a good one: not too exclusive or formal, but expensive and discreet enough, with good food and excellent wine. Besides, he and Sean have often come here in the past, and they are left alone without too much fuss.

Viggo can barely take his eyes off Sean tonight: he's wearing the fine, dark suit that Viggo chose for him as a present, with the silk tie that Viggo loves best, gray-green as Sean's eyes; Sean's hair is impeccable, his aftershave smells expensive and spicy. He looks gorgeous, manly, a ruggedly handsome British gentleman with refined taste in clothes, tobacco, rare leather-bound books and foreign cars... with a hard, tough edge to him that speaks of risks, of experience. Of passion. Dangerous things.

No Friday evenings drinking beer and telling rude jokes with his old mates in smoky pubs, no Saturday afternoons spent watching football matches, no Sunday mornings digging into the dirt to plant new saplings surface here: not if one doesn't know where to look -- or doesn't want to look for them.

Viggo catches sight of himself in one of the restaurant's windows, and can't help but smile: he too is wearing a damn fine suit, though of a less conventional design; the suit is light green, he's got no tie on, and the first two buttons of his shirt are open. His hair is still the Hidalgo hair, not too long but not short either, and its cut looks odd in a modern, civilized setting, with its blond and red highlights catching the light when he turns his head.

With his look and his stubble, Viggo looks almost disreputable next to Sean, a scruffy hippy trying to dress up with no real heart in it. The thought sends a spark of electricity, bright as laughter, through him, as he follows their waiter to their table, and when he catches Sean's eyes, he sees the same mischievous flicker in them, and knows that Sean knows exactly what he's thinking.

So, so good.

Once they're settled and have placed their order, Sean leans back in his chair, his eyes looking dark and amused at the same time. "You are daft," he says, his soft voice and soft, smiling eyes quickly turning amusement to a shiver down to Viggo's spine. So good, yes. Arousal is always only a step away whenever he hears Sean's voice, apparently. Especially these days -- these few, precious days they've managed to scrap together in-between their latest projects. But now filming for Hidalgo is over, and Troy is almost finished. Viggo already has a ticket for London booked to his name.

They've been parted too long, of late. Viggo is determined to do his best to catch up on lost time.

"You like me daft," he counters, keeping his own voice a quiet purr, knowing what sort of effect it has on Sean, as well. He smiles, showing his teeth, when he sees Sean's eyes darken further. "You'll like it even more once we're back home," he adds, though he's sure he doesn't need to remind Sean of the promise he's made.

Sean shifts in his seat, his cheeks flushing faintly; Viggo wishes he could lean over the table, touch Sean's face to feel that lovely heat under his fingers, but as discreet as the place is, it's still not the right place for them to touch that way. So he contents himself with leaning in, toying with the silver cutlery, and saying, in the tone he'd use to talk about the food, "Can't wait to make you blush like that all over."

As he'd known, his words make Sean's blush deepen; but Sean doesn't look away, keeps looking at him with a gaze so intense, so hungry, that Viggo is the one squirming in his chair now, blood rushing to parts of him other than just his face. And fuck, Sean looks very casual sitting there, one arm casually draped over the back of his chair, the other playing with a silver knife; but he licks his lips, and Viggo knows that brilliant gleam in his eyes, that intent, focused look.

"Can hardly wait, myself," Sean says, his voice rough and low, intended just for Viggo.

Some familiar, classical music is playing softly in the background, but Viggo can barely hear it. He's remembering waking up from their afternoon nap, Sean's mouth kissing him awake in the now pleasantly cool room, and Sean's hand stroking him lazily but surely until he'd spilled over, his cries muffled by Sean's mouth. He remembers Sean shaking his head, eyes bright, smiling happily when he had made to return the favor, Sean's lips hot against his ear. "Want to keep it for later, love." Then he'd taken Viggo's hand to his mouth, turning it and kissing the palm lovingly, reverently, a faint blush coloring his ears and neck -- as close as Sean ever got to asking him for it, even after all this time -- to thanking him for it.

Viggo remembers, swallows, can't reply. However the evening will end -- with him buried deep in Sean, Sean driving hard into him, or just holding each other in their bed -- he feels blessed just to be here. In a way, after so long a separation, it's almost as if they're getting to learn each other all over again, to reacquaint themselves with each other. It's like being back in that first rush, like falling in love all over again. If something better than this exists, Viggo doesn't know what it is, nor is he interested.

"I will," he starts to say, then has to stop because their dinner arrives. He catches Sean's faint smirk while the waiters set their plates down, and hides his own smile.

"I will make it so good for you," he can finally promise, once they're alone again. And sees Sean close his eyes for a moment, draw a shaky breath in.

It still amazes Viggo, and pleases him, how much Sean's grown to like this, how important it feels to have Sean, so beautiful and hard and strong, lie of his own will over Viggo's lap and let himself in Viggo's hands, to receive pain and pleasure and yes, shame -- trusting Viggo with so much of himself.

It amazes him, and pleases him; and just thinking of the feeling of Sean's ass growing red and hot under his palm, of the soft little cries that escape Sean's lips, of the way Sean's cheeks clench hard under the first slaps, before abandoning every last trace of tension... the hot, sticky feeling of Sean's hard cock grinding into Viggo's thigh... Just thinking of it makes Viggo hard, and he lets out a long, trembling sigh.

"Viggo," Sean growls when he reopens his eyes, "I'm going to throw you down and fuck you right here, if you keep this up."

And by the way his eyes glow, Viggo can almost believe him.

"I wish," he says, the longing in his voice clear enough that Sean reaches over, after all: it's just a casual gesture, as though he meant to check Viggo's watch for the time; but Viggo's not wearing a watch, and Sean's fingers close warm and familiar around his wrist. And it's nothing, really: just a casual touch; but it's done with intent, it's done to tell Viggo something -- I'm here, I want you, I know -- and that simple, casual contact has Viggo's breathing hitch, his stomach flutter.

So good.

The dinner is good, too, and it's the best thing in the world to be here with Sean, still tingling from his touch, already anticipating what'll come next. There's no rush in it, no hurry: they have time, at last, and anticipation is something to be savored and cherished as much as the actual event.

They talk about everything and nothing while they eat. There's a poetry reading Viggo wants to attend to tomorrow; Sean needs to call his agent about a meeting that's been rescheduled. A soft drizzle begins to fall outside, glowing in the streetlights' halos. When they finally leave, the night is cool and shiny; their faces get quickly damp, and it's a pleasant feeling to walk so close, as though they need to stay like this to ward off the rain.

Viggo's car is parked a few paces ahead; they walk toward it, an alley opening just on their left, dark and unwatched. Viggo thinks he shouldn't be so surprised, when Sean pushes him toward the unlit street.

"Going crazy," Sean mutters, and Viggo's backed against a damp, crumbling brick wall. Sean's mouth is soft against his, but his kiss is hard, and Viggo moans into it, kissing back with all he has, pulling Sean closer.

"Christ, Vig," Sean pants, his hips rocking against Viggo's, so that Viggo can feel how hot and hard he already is.

Viggo gasps, fingers closing tightly around Sean's shoulders, his forehead coming to rest in the crook of Sean's neck. Sean's thigh between his own, rubbing against his balls while the heel of Sean's hand massages his trapped erection, Sean's hips grinding against him... Oh, Christ. He can still feel the small aches from having had Sean fuck him hard and rough that morning -- faint, but very much there -- and if only they weren't here, in some fucking street, he'd just push Sean down and tear his pants off and shove into him hard and fast and rough, hands digging into his chest, giving it to him the way Sean likes best, pinning him down, making him whimper and beg for it, until they lose it from the sheer intensity of it all...

"Fuck," he pants through clenched teeth, lips drawn back over them. Sean's smell, his heat... Sean's lips bruising his neck, sucking... Fuck.

"Close," he manages to mutter, and shit, that makes Sean stop at once. Or, not so at once: his hand is still over Viggo's cock, but it's not moving anymore. Sean breathes heavily against Viggo's neck, panting a little, and at last draws back. His other hand comes up, running lightly through Viggo's hair, trying to comb it back into some sort of order.

Viggo's glad of the reprieve. Walking to the car's going to be difficult, but that's good. He's going to need the discomfort, the time to cool off, or he won't last long enough to give Sean what he promised. And he wants to -- oh God, how he wants to.

"Fuck," Sean says, eyes wild, wide, dark. His fingers briefly close around two fistfuls of Viggo's hair, then slide down, hot on Viggo's neck, his chest. "Fuck."

Viggo nods. "Home," he says, and his hand taking Sean's, not letting go, is just another promise.