There's a slight thumping noise coming from the trunk, and it's getting on Viggo's nerves.
It gets louder when he's moving at a high clip. Dies down every so often. But it's worst at rest stops, when Viggo needs to pull over to piss or get some water.
This rest stop, luckily, is quite empty, so Viggo turns in, parks well away from any lights, and walks around to the trunk. The thumping noises are continuing, of course, and Viggo bares his teeth a little as he goes to the back of the car, unlocks the trunk, and pops it open.
Sean is going to kill Viggo.
As soon as the fucker stops the fucking car. As soon as he lets Sean out of the fucking trunk. As soon as he gets these fucking cuffs -- and the blindfold -- and the gag -- off of Sean.
As soon as Sean's head stops feeling so dizzy for whatever the fuck is Viggo had put in his tea, and he can get a proper breath.
As soon as Sean's heart stops trying to give up on him.
Viggo is just joking. Of course he is. A prank -- gone too far, all right. But as soon as Viggo sees how far he's gone... how awful Sean is feeling...
It's going to stop. It's only a joke. Sean tries to swallow around the gag, can't. He feels the acid taste of fear invade his mouth.
A joke.
It has to be.
Viggo lifts the trunk lid with both arms; cool air fills the inside of the trunk. He sneers down at Sean. "Pathetic," he says. He watches Sean squirm for a few agonizingly long moments before starting to bring the trunk lid back down, making sure Sean can feel the air rushing back out of the trunk, hear the squeak of the hinges, see -- well, as much as he can from behind that blindfold -- the light being eclipsed.
He stops with the lid about halfway down. "Oh, did you say something? Did you want something, Sean?" He lets it go again, lets it pop fully open, and reaches into the trunk, rubbing the backs of his fingers against the leather strap of the gag. "Hungry? Thirsty? Need to piss, maybe?" He lets out a soft hhnn noise that implies he really doesn't give a damn. "I shouldn't bother, really. It's your car. What the fuck do I care if you piss all over it?" He sighs lightly. "You want out long enough to take a piss and have some water, you come up with a good way to beg me from where you are right now."
Viggo stands back with his arms crossed, waiting.
Crazy. Viggo must be crazy -- is this Viggo?
Sean tries to see from behind the heavy, dark strip of cloth tied over his eyes... he can barely catch flickering shadows, no light at all. But the voice is enough. It's Viggo.
Viggo is going to die.
"Let me out!" Sean tries to scream, to propel himself out of the trunk; all he manages is a weak, whimpering noise, and to bang his shoulder against the side of the trunk. Pain shoots through him, down to his arms, gone numb because of the cuffs and the lack of space. A new wave of dizziness washes over him, and there is that whimpering noise again.
Fuck! Why doesn't Viggo see that Sean is not amused by this? Viggo needs to let him out, let him out now...
Or Sean is going to piss himself.
"Nope," Viggo decides. "Not good enough." And he slams the trunk lid down again. He pulls the keys out of the keyslot and clips them to his belt loop, then walks away, jingling.
The rest stop is dark, poorly lit, empty, cold. Viggo finds his way into the bathroom and relieves himself, washes his hands, looks at his dark reflection in the cracked mirror. He splashes a little water over his face. He's been driving for what -- two hours? Three? And he's not really tired, not yet.
Sean can be such an asshole sometimes. He pushes, pushes, pushes, until Viggo is damn near ready to snap. And now... well. Viggo rolls his shoulders, tilts his head from side to side, stretching out his neck. Snap. Yeah, Viggo thinks he's probably snapped. Or at least Sean undoubtedly thinks he has. He smirks at that thought, too: Good. I want him scared.
He makes his way back to the car, heads back to the trunk. There are no passing headlights along the highway; there are no sounds. He knocks on the trunk a few times. "Next stop's not for another sixty-four miles," he says mildly, just loud enough for Sean to hear him. "You sure you don't want to try to beg? Thump once if you're ready to beg. Thump your fucking head off if you want me to keep driving."
When the lid slammed shut again... Oh, Christ. Sean can't believe this. He can't breathe, either -- it's so damn hot in here, but the air outside had been cold, and now he's shivering, he can feel his own sweat chilling all over him. He feels sicker by the minute.
He has to get out. He has no idea where the fuck they are, but surely, Viggo's not going to let him out tied up like this. He's sure he's heard cars rushing past, still can, if he strains his ears... There's bound to be people around.
Whatever. Just play along, then. Out there is better than in here. Sean's head is spinning. And he does need to piss, so badly -- Viggo will have to free his hands.
And when that happens...
Sean arches up, painfully, and thumps his head against the lid. Once.
Viggo grins, tongue flicking out into the corner of his lips. "Good boy," he mutters, and pops the trunk open again. He stands there, still, for a few seconds, just letting the air come into the trunk, letting Sean get used to it.
"All right," he murmurs. "Come on."
His right hand grips Sean's left arm, just above the elbow, and his left hand cups Sean's head so he doesn't knock it on the side of the trunk. Viggo struggles Sean up and half-out of the trunk, pulling him onto his knees. He braces his legs and then yanks Sean forward, pitching him out of the trunk, catching him with surprising strength and shocking gentleness. It's a while before Sean can stand on his own two feet, and Viggo is patient enough to wait it out.
At first, Sean can only feel the shock of being upright again, out of that dark, scary place. It's still dark, of course. And he's not really on his feet -- Viggo is keeping him up, and once Sean's head clears, there's the shock of standing there, in the open, leaning against Viggo.
Viggo's arms are warm around him -- bound as Sean is, blind and dizzy and weak, Viggo is the only thing that keeps him anchored to reality. For a second, Sean thinks that if Viggo were to let him go, he would fall down -- or up -- because he can't feel anything else around, can't even tell his right hand from his left...
But Viggo's not letting go. He just stands there, supporting Sean's weight as if it were nothing, and Sean has his face pressed against the side of Viggo's neck. Viggo's smell -- so familiar, reminding Sean of his friend, shared jokes, long talks, blue eyes smiling up at Sean...
Sean blinks behind the blindfold, shivers so hard he almost chokes on the gag, and struggles to get away from the arms keeping him close.
"Hold -- fuck, hold still. Asshole. How do you think you're going to get where you're going if you don't let me lead you?" Now there's a thought; Viggo probably has something in the back seat that he can use to improvise a leash. Viggo turns Sean around, facing away from him, and uses one hand to grip his shoulder and the other hand to grip his wrists. The grip on Sean's shoulder is painfully tight, pulling him back, so Sean is just the slightest bit off balance.
Still no one around. Viggo pushes Sean forward, driving him past the car, taking pity on him and running him up the wheelchair ramp instead of forcing him to step up on the curb, pushing him past the grass and the picnic tables and the vending machines and shoving him into the restroom.
Viggo nearly runs Sean into a urinal; he stops Sean before he can collide with the porcelain. He pulls Viggo back against him, pressing the length of his body to Sean's, pinning Sean's hands between them. Then he unsnaps Sean's pants, unzips his fly, and slides his hand in, guiding it unerringly through the secret door and pulling out Sean's cock. He aims, hand gripping Sean's cock loosely.
"Go ahead," Viggo murmurs into Sean's ear.
This is simply not. Happening.
Sean had stopped struggling while Viggo marched him around -- too startled and afraid he'd end up on his face, with nothing else but Viggo's grip to balance him -- but this?
Sean's just starting to struggle again, when Viggo's hand tightens in warning around his cock, the barest hint of ragged, sharp nails enough to make Sean freeze, his heart pounding madly in his throat.
And then Sean feels Viggo rest his chin over his shoulder, and Sean can feel him turn his head, rub his nose just behind Sean's ear -- breathing Sean, over the acrid, unpleasant smell of what must be some sort of public bathroom.
Somehow this, even more than the hours he's spent locked in the trunk of a car, more than everything else that's been happening, tells Sean that Viggo is not joking. Maybe he's gone mad -- but he's serious.
"Go ahead," Viggo repeats, barely a whisper. And over everything else, Sean now can smell his own fear.
It does make Viggo smile when Sean finally manages to let go. Manages to release his tension just enough to piss into the rust-stained drain of the urinal. Viggo is even nice enough to shake Sean off, afterwards. He's about to put Sean away when he decides no -- I've got his cock in my hand, why not put it to use?
And so Viggo starts stroking Sean. Softly at first. And then gradually harder, and faster, coaxing an erection out of Sean, getting him hard despite the fact that Sean is struggling and shaking against him.
Sean doesn't know when he started to shake -- he thinks it might have been when Viggo started humming in his ear, Viggo's hands working him, making him hard when Sean feels like he's about to pass out -- he's so close to screaming himself raw, gag or not, just because this way, maybe, he'll wake up -- he'll wake up at home, in his bed, and will know that this never happened.
He'll wake up, and the feeling of Viggo's hands on him would still be just a fantasy. Treasured. Dreamed of...
...but not like this.
Whatever's going to happen, Sean hopes he'll never dream again.
He tries to squirm away again -- he hunches his shoulders, trying to get away, trying to ignore what Viggo's doing; and when he feels Viggo shift his balance to keep him close, he gathers all his strength and pushes his head back, hard, aiming for Viggo's face.
Sean's head connects with Viggo's nose, and Viggo pulls back immediately, stepping away from Sean and letting him fall to the ground. "You son of a bitch...!" he gasps. He puts his hand over his nose; he can see stars, and it hurts like hell, but at least he's not bleeding.
Unexpected. Very unexpected. Viggo had assumed Sean was scared enough and broken enough not to fight.
Much.
He crouches down next to Sean, where Sean is panting on the floor, half on his side, with his cock still out, still hard. "You want to play it like that?" Viggo breathes. "You want to get hurt before all this is over? You want me to hurt you?" He pauses, then leans closer still, and growls into Sean's ear, "Do you?"
He doesn't wait for a reply. He shoves Sean back so he's lying flat on his arms, and he straddles Sean's legs. And then he puts his left hand down on Sean's shoulder to pin him to the floor, and wraps his right hand around Sean's cock. Viggo is serious now, stroking, squeezing, working him fast and rough. Viggo takes his hand away slightly and spits into it, creating just a touch of lubrication, just enough to slick up his strokes, making his hand glide over Sean's cock with furious intensity.
Sean never really thought he could run, not bound like this, but he hoped, oh Christ, he hoped Viggo would get angry and beat him up, lock him back in the trunk, whatever...
And it didn't work.
He clenches his hands tight into fists, nails biting down into his palms while he arches up, up into Viggo's touch, except it's not Viggo, can't be Viggo -- he knows it's Viggo, but can't be him, oh God -- oh fuck --
He can't move. He can't scream. He can barely breathe. Viggo's working him so hard it hurts -- fuck, but it hurts.
"Viggo," he tries to say, and he's choking on the name, on the gag, and suddenly there's no air in his lungs, and he can't breathe any more.
Viggo's almost too distracted by what he's doing to Sean's cock, how hard Sean is, how Sean's cock is beautiful and warm and leaping in his hand, to notice when Sean stops breathing. But he notices when Sean's shoulder goes limp under his arm; it sets his balance off, and it takes him a moment to realize what's just happened.
"Shit," he breathes. "Fuck. Shit. Sean?"
No, no, no, that's not what Viggo was after here. He wants Sean scared and hurt and broken, but -- shit. Not passing out on a goddamned rest stop bathroom floor out of fear.
He climbs off Sean, unbuckles the gag, lifts it out of Sean's mouth. He gets the blindfold off next, and waits, and watches.
When Sean awakes, he's sitting up, his back propped against something solid, warm. Someone is holding him close. He blinks sleep away groggily, turns his head, and Viggo's face is the first thing he sees, in the dim artificial light.
Those clear blue eyes looking down at him, so close... Sean smiles. It's not the first time he's had this dream: it's a comfortable, familiar moment -- and then his bound, aching arms make themselves known, and his surroundings finally register.
He jerks away, without thinking. Viggo just lets him go, doesn't try to stop him; unbalanced as Sean is, he ends up falling onto his side on the filthy, greasy floor, his trousers and boxers riding slower on his hips because of the movement, leaving him even more exposed. Sean feels the cold air on his still bared cock -- still feels Viggo's touch on it, hard, hurting -- and finally realizes that gag and blindfold are gone. His mouth feels bruised, his throat raw as if he's been screaming. He can't remember if he did.
Viggo just watches him, saying nothing. He looks so much like the Viggo Sean knows... knew... even down to the patient, thoughtful, slightly bemused look in his eyes.
Sean wants to close his eyes again, shut everything out. But he can't, can't look away from Viggo, and the blindfold lies on the floor next to him.
Sean suddenly wishes he could have it back.
"Come on," Viggo murmurs. "Let's get you up. And out of here." He reaches for Sean's boxers, trousers, struggles them up over Sean's hips. "It's late," he explains, as if the hour of the night really matters at this point. "You don't want to be here all night, do you?" he asks, as if what Sean wants really matters, either.
He gets behind Sean, supports his arms, his back, gets Sean to his feet. "If I..." He stops, wondering if this is a smart offer to make right now. He decides it is; Sean passing out from lack of air or fear once was plenty. "If I let you sit in the car with me, will you behave yourself?"
Sean licks his lips, once, twice, trying to get his mouth to work again. He takes a long, shaky breath, feeling absurdly safer now that he's tucked in again. Or maybe it's not so absurd: Viggo doesn't really mean to hurt him -- now that he's seen how bad this can go, Sean will be able to talk him back to reason.
Nothing irreversible has happened yet -- he ignores the voice inside, whispering about daft things like trust, friendship, dreams -- there's no reason to be afraid.
Sean turns his head a little to look at Viggo over his shoulder, and nods.
And then he can't help himself.
"Why?"
The question locks down whatever openness and compassion had been showing in Viggo's eyes. He grabs Sean's upper arm and hauls him back out of the restroom, tugging him back to the car. Still no one here -- good. It's still pitch black; the stars are sparkling overhead. The wind feels crisp on Viggo's skin, and he can feel Sean's skin breaking out in gooseflesh under his hand.
He pushes Sean into the car, the impact driving breath out of Sean's lungs again, and then jabs a key into the handcuffs. "Behave yourself," Viggo repeats, snarling as he lets one of Sean's wrists go, keeping a tight hold on the handcuffs, immobilizing the wrist that's still locked up tight.
Sean entertains only a fleeting idea of trying to run, when Viggo uncuffs him: after so many hours, he can barely feel his arms; the blood rushing back to them is already tingling, and soon it becomes agony. Sean grits his teeth, doesn't bother to answer, just as Viggo hadn't bothered with him.
But he's not cuffed, not blind nor mute any more; he's not back in the trunk. His head has stopped spinning.
Anger tastes much better than fear.
Viggo tugs the passenger door open and puts Sean inside; he moves Sean's arms for him, when necessary, ignoring the near-inaudible grunts Sean lets out. His arms must be all but numb. Good. It makes it easier for Viggo to buckle Sean in and cuff his wrists again, with the end result, now, that Sean is cuffed to the car, arms on either side of the seat belt.
He slams the door shut and walks around to his side, sliding into the seat and buckling his own seat belt, getting the car started and taking off. "I think I've got another couple hours in me," he murmurs. "Maybe just enough time to cross the border into Utah." They've already been through California, through parts of southern Nevada. Sean missed it when Viggo passed Las Vegas; he was still in the trunk, not even thumping yet. He looks over at Sean for a moment. Sean's not looking at him. "How are you enjoying your visit, Sean?" he asks, the barest hint of a half-insane smile playing around his features.
Utah -- fucking Utah! Where the hell are they going? Sean knows better than to ask, though. Better play along, let Viggo talk.
"Kind of you to show me around," Sean murmurs, looking at Viggo from the corner of his eye. Fuck, but the place is deserted. There's no one around.
And suddenly, Sean realizes that it's better that way. Even after all that happened, his mind still can't accept it. Can't accept that there's no reason for it, that Viggo's just gone crazy and kidnapped him and tried to... Sean clamps down hard on that last thought, refusing to even let it form into words inside his own head.
He doesn't know what's going on in Viggo's mind, but he wants to find out. He's angry, and maybe he's still a bit scared. But that's not the worst of it, and now that he can think clearly, he knows.
He just can't help it.
He wants to get his Viggo back.
The drive passes in silence. They're on I-15, and with the western States being as big as they are, there's nothing for miles around them. Just the road and the desert and the hint of mountains far off in the distance.
Their path has them crossing into Arizona for about half an hour before they actually get to Utah. Viggo keeps them going until they see the barest hints of civilization: a tiny little run-down motel, sign flickering, a cheap wood board with "VACANCY" painted on in black letters. He parks the car at the end of the lot and sighs as he takes his seat belt off. It's going to feel good to get out and stretch his legs.
"I'm going to get us a room," he declares, not bothering to look over at Sean. "Stay in the car, and don't make any noise. I'll be back." And he gets out of the car, taking the keys with him.
Sean looks at Viggo's retreating back until he's out of sight, then lets his head drop forward to rest in his bound hands.
He's not sure what's going to happen now. Well, he's pretty sure he's not going to have his own room -- but his own bed? He closes his eyes, manages to tangle his fingers in his hair and tugs, hard. The pain helps to shove the memory of those moments in the bathroom away in some dark corner of his mind. Can't think of that now. Whatever's going to happen, he's not helpless any more. He can deal with it.
He hears Viggo's keys jingling softly across the car park, Viggo coming back.
Sean gives another tug, feels a few hair coming loose. Then he straightens his back, and waits.
Viggo opens the car, unlocks Sean's wrists long enough to get him up and out, then tugs them back behind Sean's back again. "Good," he murmurs. "You're learning. Come on."
He grabs the duffel bag out of the back seat and slings it over his shoulder, then pushes Sean over to the room on the end, number 18. He unlocks the door, pushes Sean inside first, and then closes the door, deadbolts it, slides the chain into the slot to get everything nice and secure.
The room is spare, with a stale smell and industrial-pile carpeting. Not a surprise, really, and it's not bad for the middle of the night and the middle of nowhere. It has two beds, a television on a stand in the corner of the room, a kitchenette with a small refrigerator, a stove, and a microwave, a small dining area with a table and two chairs. There's a small door that's open to a somewhat dingy bathroom. Not bad at all.
Viggo peels out of his denim jacket, sighing lightly. He slings it over the back of one of the chairs and then turns around, bracing himself on the chair back, looking over at Sean.
Once inside the room, Sean feels suddenly tired. His eyes fall on the two beds, and stay there. Not much point in looking around, really; it's as anonymous as it can get. The beds look good, though.
He has a feeling he's not going to sleep in one anytime soon.
Viggo's looking at him. Sean steels himself, and meets his eyes. He doesn't care if he's making a mistake -- he wants to hear Viggo's voice. Wants to understand.
"Do you think we can talk, now?" he asks, voice as level as he can make it.
"Sure." Viggo looks from the beds, back to Sean. Then to the chairs, and back to Sean. "What do you want to talk about?" His voice is neutral, unconcerned, as if he's talking about the weather. As if Sean isn't handcuffed and standing in a motel room in Utah, staring at Viggo as if he's gone mad. What do you want to talk about?, as if he's expecting some foray into the weather or the latest fluctuations in the stock market or the latest players to sign for Sheffield U.
That tone -- it's that tone that makes Viggo seem like he might have gone mad. It's as if he hasn't really noticed that what he's doing is insane. Frightening. Wrong.
Sean just stands there for a moment, unsure now what to ask first. He's tried 'why' already, and it's not worked. Viggo looks so normal. Sean feels a trace of fear come back in his thoughts, and he clings to the first thing that comes to mind, just to keep the fear at bay, to focus on the... the rest.
Focus on Viggo.
So Sean asks, "You all right?"
The question hits Viggo between the eyes. Because it's not just an attempt to talk him down. There's real, honest concern happening there, and Viggo's brow furrows, trying to figure it out. Some of the tension comes out of his shoulders. It's been a long day. A very, very long day. They've been on the road a good six hours, and it's been tough. Wearing. Exhausting.
"Yeah," Viggo says, finally. "Yeah, I'm all right." He rubs at his eyes, exhaling slowly. "Tired." He looks up at Sean. "Look..." He wants to say something, ask something, ask Sean if he's all right, but then something clicks in his head again, and he shakes it off. His head tosses, once, in a grim little shake, and that moment of concern is gone.
"Look," he starts again, voice firm, "maybe you should start thinking about behaving a little better. That stunt you pulled in the bathroom in Nevada--" He rubs his nose for emphasis. "None of that. You want to eat, you want to ride in the car instead of in the trunk, you want me to let you out of those cuffs so you can take a piss on your own, you're going to need to be nice to me. It's been a long day, and I'm not in a very good mood, so don't piss me off, Sean." His eyes flicker again. Please.
There.
Sean's eyes widen a little when he notices it, and though Viggo covers it quickly, Sean has seen it. A... a something, in Viggo's eyes. Something that speaks to Sean's heart, making it hurt with fear -- only this time, it's not fear for himself.
Something of Viggo -- the real Viggo, Sean stubbornly thinks -- had looked out at him; just for a moment, but it was there. And fuck, now Viggo doesn't look so frighteningly 'normal' any more: he looks tired, and maybe, just a little desperate.
Sean's hands clench and unclench, the hard metal of the handcuffs biting into his wrists.
Be nice, Viggo said. And Sean wants to -- because, fuck, he can feel something here. The key to all this fucked up situation... He can grasp it, if he plays this right.
Whatever happened to Viggo -- Sean can help him. He can get Viggo back, after all. This sudden certainty is what makes him decide.
"I'll be nice," he says, and he means it. "What," he adds, but he has to take a breath, and try again. He licks his lips, unconsciously, and looks Viggo in the eye. "What do I need to do, to get these cuffs off?"
You have to promise not to leave.
But Viggo dismisses that; it's too easy. It's too easy to make promises, and too easy to break them.
He thinks about it, and then looks Sean over, very carefully. Sean looks calm. Much calmer than Viggo would have expected from a man who'd just been drugged, kidnapped, and driven through three states with eyes toward a fourth and fifth.
Sean looks, Viggo decides, like he's trusting Viggo. Trusting him, despite all of this. And there it is: there's the key. There's what he's after.
Viggo exhales again, nodding. "You have to trust me," he murmurs. "Long enough for me to decide I can trust you. I'm going to take the cuffs off you, and you're going to get out of your clothes." He makes a slight grimace, realizing what that must sound like. "Because you're not going to get very far if you have to go out in the street naked. And then you can get some sleep. We've got another eight, nine hours to go tomorrow."
Trust! Sean wants to shake his head, laugh, ask Viggo how can he expect Sean to trust him -- when Viggo is the one who drugged him, locked him into the trunk of his own bloody car, who... hurt him. How can Viggo ask that of him?
And yet.
What really feels wrong, Sean realizes, is that it's not such an impossible request. Because he does trust Viggo. Or actually, he trusts the Viggo he knows -- the one he just saw in his kidnapper's eyes. That's the Viggo he wants back, and to have him back, he needs to give him his trust. Trust Viggo to come back to him.
He looks deep into blue eyes that don't reveal anything any more, and he knows that he's going to get hurt. No matter what -- he won't get what he wants without a fight, without something breaking. Or without breaking something. He can already feel it. But what choices does he have?
He's come to L.A. because Viggo had said he wanted Sean here. Sean can still remember himself laughing, saying, "Sure, anything you want, Viggo," because it had seemed such a weird way to phrase an invitation... Laughing, pretending he didn't mean those words literally, didn't feel the way he felt. Pretending he had never dreamt of Viggo saying those words and meaning them, too.
But what if Viggo had meant them? What if -- what if Sean had been blind, all this time?
Oh God. He can't think of this now. He'd have time to do that tomorrow, he reckons: nine more hours. Fuck.
But for now... Sean nods. "I trust you," he says, and knows he's telling the truth. He hopes Viggo will know, too.
"All right," Viggo answers. He comes back across the room to Sean, and he unlocks the cuffs, tucking cuffs and keys into a pocket. Sean lets out a soft sound as his arms slowly relax to his sides, and Viggo stays behind him, hands reaching up to Sean's shoulders.
Sean jerks under his hands -- Viggo isn't surprised, really -- but Viggo whispers, "Relax. Your arms must be killing you." He starts kneading the muscles of Sean's shoulders, hard, deep rubbing motions, getting the kinks and stiffness out.
And God, if Sean doesn't look beautiful. He looks tired and ruffled, but beautiful. And he smells like sweat and fear and Sean, that sharp smell Viggo had all but memorized in the first week they'd worked together. He knows what Sean smells like under makeup and hot lights and after a day's walk up a mountain. He knows what Sean smells like in a forest, lying cold and still, wearing heavy velvet.
And now he knows what Sean smells like in street clothes after a day of fear and tension.
His hands work into Sean's upper arms, down the length of his arms to his wrists, and he pulls one of those wrists up, turning it gently in his hand, forwards so Sean isn't hurt by the motion. He looks at the mark on Sean's wrist. Beautiful. Just beautiful. Red and raw and marked.
Viggo kisses the mark on Sean's wrist and shudders. He takes two steps backward and, covering for himself, sprawls out on the bed, leaning back on his arms. He can feel the handcuffs digging into his ass, in his back pocket. He looks up at Sean. Don't think about it, he orders himself, and very calmly, switches to giving the orders to Sean. "Clothes," he says quietly. "Now."
Sean complies, though he has a hard time in making his arms cooperate -- and it's not because of their lingering numbness. The way Viggo had released him... the gentleness, the care... Viggo's lips had burned on his chafed skin, an ache so deep it'd reached through Sean's wrist to the rest of him.
Is this what all of this is about? He looks at Viggo, sprawled on the bed, his eyes focused so intently on Sean's fingers... No, Sean realizes: on his wrists, the bruises visible under the cuffs of his shirt.
And another small piece of the puzzle falls into place.
The shirt finally open, Sean lets it fall on the floor, uncaring of where it ends -- he doesn't think he can wear it again, anyway. He thinks of sitting down on the other bed to take the rest off, but something makes him decide against it. He kicks off his shoes, then the socks, standing up. Viggo's eyes travel all over Sean's chest -- then, unerringly, they come back to the angry red lines around Sean's wrists. Taking Sean's breath away.
As if Viggo had been considering where else he could mark him.
"Go on," Viggo says, because Sean is stalling now. His voice sounds calm, commanding, but not dangerous.
Trust, Sean reminds himself, and his hands don't even shake when he unbuttons his jeans, lowering them along with his underwear, then stepping out of them.
When Viggo's eyes, very deliberately, fix into Sean's, and nowhere else, Sean shivers. He wonders if Viggo's really thinking of marking him.
His eyes never leaving Viggo's, Sean slowly touches the bruises on his wrist with his fingers, where Viggo's lips had been. He wonders.
And shivers again.
This seems wrong, somehow. Seeing Sean naked, completely, for the first time, here in front of him. In a motel room in Utah. The way Sean's fingers trace the marks on his wrist. The way Sean's eyes are meeting his. It's not supposed to happen this way.
Viggo sits up, breath drawing up short in his chest. "Sean," he whispers. "I--"
No. Viggo stops thinking and over-thinking, and bends down so he can gather Sean's clothing and put it away in the duffel bag.
And again, Sean's thrown off-balance by the abrupt change. As if he'd been about to glimpse something, to find some clue to reach out to Viggo... and Viggo just shut that door firmly in his face.
Sean lets his arms fall down to his sides. He can smell himself, and it's not pleasant. He wonders if Viggo will let him take a shower alone, or if he'll want to look on -- right. It doesn't matter. Viggo can watch all he wants -- Sean looks down at himself, can't help a wry smile. It's not as if it makes all that difference.
He's so damn tired. Achy. It's like the numbness in his arms has spread inside, and it's harder to get rid of it, there. He only wants, for now, to drop on one of the beds, close his eyes, switch off his brain for a few hours. Get clean, he thinks, but maybe Viggo won't let him have that.
Ah, what the hell. He's already given Viggo all he can: he's not going to beg for the privilege of using the bathroom.
Viggo is still rummaging around in the duffel bag, not looking at him. Sean takes a breath, lets it out.
"I'm going to take a shower," he announces, and moves a step towards the bathroom.
"A shower?" Viggo muses, and then nods. "Shower sounds good. Go on." He nods at the bathroom. Sean hesitates for a moment, but then goes; Viggo follows him into the bathroom and shuts the door behind them.
He's so tired. So confused. This isn't the way he meant for all this to happen. No, it is -- he wanted Sean scared and confused and his, even if just for the time it took to drive across five states -- but things are not going the way he expected, somehow. Sean is free, and awake, and aware, for one -- Viggo expected him to spend most of the trip out cold.
Viggo waits until Sean has started the water for the shower, and then begins peeling out of his own clothes, folding them and dropping them on the counter next to the sink. A shower does sound good, and the only way he's going to be able to take one without letting Sean out of his sight is if he's right there in the shower with Sean. Seems as good an idea as any, really. If any of this can be termed a "good idea".
Sean can't say he's surprised, when Viggo steps in behind him. He tenses only for a moment, before letting himself relax. Fight or flight... He's too tired to do the former; he's determined not to try the latter.
The shower stall is barely large enough for two grown men to stand in, but for now they're not touching, and that's all right. The hot water feels brilliant on Sean's skin, washing a bit of his tiredness away; the bruises on his wrists sting, but it's not unbearable. It feels, in fact, almost good.
Sean reaches for the bar of soap at the same moment Viggo reaches for it, too: their hands meet, Sean's closing around the soap, Viggo's around Sean's.
Sean doesn't turn around, ready to let go as soon as Viggo asks him to; but Viggo doesn't say anything: he just shifts his hold, closing his fingers around Sean's bruised wrist for a moment, before letting his hand fall away.
Maybe it was a warning, or permission; but the touch has been gentle, Viggo's thumb lingering on the chafed skin on the inside, right over Sean's pulse, startlingly intimate; and Sean's breath hitches. All of a sudden it feels like the water is too hot, like there's not air enough in the small bathroom.
Viggo is too close, Sean thinks; then shakes his head in confusion, mild panic fluttering in his belly, when he can't stop the next thought from forming.
He's not close enough.
Mistake. Viggo knows his reasons for getting in the shower with Sean should have been about efficiency, but they weren't, and aren't now. He reaches forward for the soap again, slipping it out of Sean's hand, and he steps closer, arms going around Sean so he can slick his hands with soap before putting the soap back on the ledge.
"Your back," he murmurs, and that's all this is, efficiency, the desire to get Sean clean so they can get out of this steam-filled chamber, the urge to work some of the tension Viggo caused him out of his shoulders. He brings his hands up, and from the moment he touches Sean he breaks his tiny mental promise to himself. This is not at all about efficiency. He's touching Sean because he wants to. Needs to.
Viggo's soft murmur is almost as bad as the touch on Sean's wrist; Viggo touching him, lathering his back... Sean lets out a small sound, knowing this is not the way things should go, not the way he should feel; but it's Viggo, and he can't even remember how many times he'd dreamt of this, of being this close, of having Viggo's hands on him like this.
Sean curls his hands tightly into fists. The more Viggo tries to be gentle, the more he tenses up: he tries to stop, but he just can't help it. He wants to let go, lean back, feel Viggo's wet, slick chest against his back: so easy to imagine, Viggo's arms coming up around him, Viggo guiding him forward, against the tiled wall...
And he wants to lean away, to get out of here almost as badly as he'd wanted to get out of the trunk. It's confusing the hell out of him, because it's not that he feels these things one after the other: he's feeling them both at the same time, and it's quickly becoming too much. If this goes on, he doesn't stand a chance to keep his head. To fix whatever it is that needs to be fixed.
"Viggo," he breathes, hoping to God that Viggo won't take it as Sean trying to piss him off. "Viggo. Stop."
And as soon as the words are out, he's hoping that Viggo won't.
Viggo's hands pause in mid-caress, and he holds his breath. "Sean," he whispers, "it's all right. I don't want to hurt you. I didn't want to hurt you." He squeezes Sean's shoulders again, hands lingering before he draws them off Sean's skin. "I'm sorry."
When his hands come off Sean's skin, it's as if the world explodes in front of him for a moment; he's in a shower, with Sean. They're in Utah. In a dingy motel in Utah because Viggo looked at the smirk on Sean's face and realized just what they both needed to get that smirk gone, to get them on equal footing.
And this is insane. This is all utterly, completely mad, and Viggo feels his stomach twist as he realizes just how far he's gone, and that there's no excusing it, no making up for it.
His breath catches.
"I'm sorry."
Sean turns around at that. Of all the things he was expecting...
"Viggo?" he says, stupidly. But God, Viggo's eyes...
"Viggo," Sean says again, and this time it's not a question. Relief spreads through him, warm, heady, bringing a new kind of dizziness with it: because there, right there, there's Viggo, his Viggo... looking so pale. Looking frightened.
Sean reaches blindly behind his back, turns the water off. In the sudden silence, all he can hear is Viggo's breathing, too fast, too shallow.
"Don't," he murmurs, looking hard into Viggo's eyes, as if trying to keep him in there. He's not sure what he's trying to say: Don't say you're sorry? Don't say you didn't mean to hurt me? Don't you fucking dare to faint on me?
He spots the towels lying easily within reach, takes the one at the top and thrusts it at Viggo, not quite ready to touch him yet -- not sure what would happen if he'd touch him -- if it'd be what needs to happen.
Just stay with me, he thinks, clinging stubbornly to his relief, and beyond that, he has no idea what he's going to do.
Viggo takes the towel, but does nothing with it, only clutches it to his chest. He's cracked now, fractured, and the hard-edged persona he'd thought he was living in is breaking away from him a piece at a time.
He's going to hate himself when it's gone. Sean is going to hate him. There are no excuses. No reasons. Nothing.
His vision blurs, then dims. He tugs the towel awkwardly around his waist and stumbles out of the shower.
"Fuck!"
Sean has barely time to catch him before Viggo's legs give up under him -- they slide a little on the smooth tiles, but Sean manages to keep his balance, pushes Viggo down, making him sit with his head between his knees.
"Breathe," he orders, though his voice comes out too shaky. "Don't pull this shite on me, Viggo -- fucking breathe."
After a moment, he can tell he's got through to him: Viggo's breathing evens out, and at last Viggo's head comes up, with a groan. It's only then that Sean notices he's holding him -- much like Viggo had, in that other bathroom -- and Viggo's head is resting against his shoulder, his wet hair dripping down over Sean's chest. He can't see Viggo's eyes.
When Viggo comes back to himself, the first thing he realizes is that he's cold. The next thing he realizes is that Sean has him wrapped up in his arms, and the third thing is that they're sitting on the bathroom floor.
Not his bathroom floor. Not Sean's bathroom floor. A bathroom floor nine hours away from anything that could be considered "home".
Viggo remembers the idea coming to him. He doesn't remember where his head was, what he'd read -- he must have read something, must have been someone, because in his own skin, this would never have happened. Could not have happened.
And he knows he goes a little mad sometimes. He knows he doesn't always manage to separate his own thoughts from the thoughts he's absorbing from others, from their writing, their posture, their words.
But this -- there's no excuse good enough for what he's feeling here. There's no way to explain away kidnapping Sean. Was he even really pissed off at Sean in the beginning? He'd held onto that idea, every time he'd heard a thump from the trunk, every time he'd thought about the sounds Sean was making, but now he's not so sure.
He knows how badly he'd wanted Sean. That he'd wanted something.
He knows it felt right, somehow, to see Sean frightened. And marked. Or at least it felt right at the time. Now -- God. The bruises on Sean's wrists. The look in his eyes.
"We have to get you home," Viggo murmurs. "I'm so fucking sorry."
Sean doesn't know how to react. That's it? After... after everything... that's it? I'm sorry, let's go home?
But, fuck it. Viggo's voice sounds so small right now, so broken. Sean wants to go home, yeah: but not yet. No. They need to go through this first, and they need to do it here. No way he could bear to relive the last hours once they're back in familiar... normal... surroundings.
He takes only a moment first, though; just a little moment, just for himself. He lowers his head to Viggo's, feels the wet, tangled hair under his cheek, his mouth: Viggo, this is Viggo -- Thanks, God -- and lets a shudder run through his body. Just once. For a second, he feels Viggo's arm go around his waist, hold him -- before it falls away again.
"Let's get up from the floor, first," he whispers, and reluctantly -- carefully -- lets Viggo go.
Viggo nods, and slowly gets to his feet. He walks out to the bed nearest the bathroom and sits down, elbows on his knees, trying to come up with the words that will make this better. Words are his canvas, sometimes; he should know what he wants to say, at the very least, even if he doesn't know how to make it better yet.
Nothing. He shakes his head and looks up at Sean. "I don't know what happened to me," he says, finally. "I don't know what I did to you. I don't know why. I'm sorry."
His eyes are open, blinking wide, not frightening anymore, but not quite focused, either. And he can't apologize anymore. He's said it, and he can't ask Sean to forgive him. He has no right to that.
Sean remains standing, naked and still damp, knowing that if he sat down he'd just get up again to pace -- or he'd reach out to Viggo again -- and narrows his eyes when he hears that.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" he asks, taking in the vague, unfocussed look in Viggo's eyes, his mind searching for possible explanations. Maybe Viggo doesn't actually remember? As if he had an... an episode, and now he's removed everything? Fuck, if that's the case... Sean doesn't know if he should hope so -- hope that both of them could forget it -- or just scream in frustration.
Everything would be better, anyway, than this nagging fear that started gnawing at this belly -- fear for Viggo. For what this might mean for him. For them...
No. One thing at a time. The room feels cold after the damp heat in the bathroom, and Sean is starting to feel it. He can see Viggo shiver, too, sitting naked -- the towel he'd tied around his waist has fallen on the bathroom floor -- and miserable on the bed, staring at something that Sean's not quite sure he can see.
Sean turns and heads back into the bathroom. They need other towels. And clothes.
Fuck.
Sean hands over a towel, and Viggo takes it, this time drying himself off with it. He looks up at Sean and frowns a little. "You don't have anything to say, either," he says, not a question. "Jesus, Sean, say something. Tell me you hate me or that you want to go home or..." He shakes his head. It would be easier if Sean were angry. Viggo doesn't know how to make up for what he's done.
Sean doesn't know what to say, exactly -- but thank God, he thinks, Viggo's not so far gone as he'd feared. The relief makes his breath rush out of him, and he sits down after all, on the bed in front of Viggo.
"I don't..." Sean starts, then can't go on. He doesn't hate Viggo. But he's confused. Hurt. Scared -- angry, yes. There's still that, too. What should he say?
"Tell me why," he settles for at last. The first question he'd asked. The one that Viggo never even acknowledged. "Tell me what you were trying to do."
And when Viggo looks at him as if he were about to bolt, Sean remembers something. He reaches out, pushing the hurt and the confusion, for the moment, aside, and his fingers close around Viggo's wrist -- a loose hold, meant to be reassuring. He looks right into Viggo's eyes, hoping Viggo will see.
"I still trust you," he says.
Viggo thinks about it. Why?
Because I wanted you.
Because I needed you.
Because, for once, I didn't want you to have any option to leave.
But no, none of those -- none of those quite fit. He could have told Sean about wanting him, could have told him about needing him. He could have told Sean, when he got here, that he wanted him to stay.
So there's more to it.
Because I lost myself in the idea of taking you away with me.
Because I thought it could be all right.
Because I thought you'd look so good with my marks on you.
Jesus.
He is worse off than he thought. All these thoughts are cascading over him, one after another until he can't see straight, and then he sorts through them, sifts through them, one after another, to the thought he had in mind when this whole insane idea occurred to him:
"I was trying to take you home."
Home.
The word leaves Sean confused for a moment, before his tired mind finally places all the pieces together: Idaho. Viggo was trying to take him home. His home.
He's not sure he understands; maybe even Viggo doesn't. Something must've happened, to make Viggo snap like this: if he wanted to take Sean with him, why not just ask? Why don't say something, just like he'd said...
And then, as if in a bad movie, he can hear Viggo again, over the phone: "I want you here." And he can hear himself -- laughing. As if it were nothing. As if hearing Viggo say those words hadn't been enough to make Sean leave all his projects behind and take the first plane to L.A.
So Viggo had asked, after all. In his own way, and Sean hadn't seen it. He'd kept hiding, too afraid to be hurt, because he hadn't trusted Viggo to want him... No. Not quite that.
He hadn't trusted Viggo to keep him.
Sean reaches out with his other hand, trapping both of Viggo's wrists, holding them so tightly he's sure he's leaving bruises of his own. He has to swallow a couple of times before he can speak the words.
"Then do it."
The grip on his wrists startles Viggo. Trapped -- he feels trapped, suddenly, in Sean's grip. And Sean's not saying Get me the hell back to L.A., Viggo, before I call the police. No. The pieces have clicked for him -- Viggo could see it in Sean's eyes -- and now he's saying Take me there.
It's too much. Oh, God, it's too much to hope for. Viggo leaves his wrists loose in Sean's hands and stares at him, almost unable to comprehend it.
And now it's Viggo's turn to ask the all-important question: "Why?"
Sean doesn't look away from Viggo's eyes. He doesn't let go, either: he can feel Viggo's pulse under his fingers, and he needs the connection, now that it's up to him to initiate one.
"You hurt me," he whispers, very softly. Then, before Viggo can speak, he adds, voice growing steadier with each new word: "You took from me -- everything good I had ever felt for you... everything I hoped for with you, everything I wanted to give you -- you took it, you bastard. And it hurt."
You made me hate you, Sean wants to say, but he can't, because it's not true -- or, not yet. They can still come out of this, he knows. He doesn't know how, or what they'll find on the other side; but they're not finished yet, and he needs to see this through. He couldn't bear it, otherwise.
"You hurt me, and now you can't leave me like this. Finish what you started, Viggo, or God help me, I'll kill you."
Yes. Viggo's eyes go wide, and then they go dark. Finish what you started.
And the two halves of him war with each other. The dark half that made him think that the only way to get what he wanted was to get Sean tied and bound so he couldn't say no. The part of him that's real, that wants to see Sean back at his home in Idaho with him, wants to tackle Sean into the grass and look down on him while the sun is beating down on his back, warming his skin.
He wants. So badly.
He doesn't know whether he wants to offer himself up now, in all the quiet, strong, strangely enigmatic words he loves to offer those who mean the most to him -- or to take, hard, the way he's been taking for the last twelve hours. Take without asking.
Finish what you started.
Give or take. Darkness or light. Viggo knows which half of him is real -- which part of him is going to be here when the madness lifts. But they're not on that path right now. That's not where he's taken them. And he doesn't know if he can change gears, or if Sean would want him to, even if he could.
"All right," Viggo whispers. "It's late. And I'm tired. And you must be exhausted, Sean." Just rolling Sean's name off his tongue has him reeling, trying to figure out what part of him is speaking. "We'll sleep, and in the morning we'll get back on the road and I'll take you home."
Home. Yes.
The word sounds different to Sean's ears, as though he's never heard it before; and he knows that Viggo will take him there, at last.
He nods, tiredly, and reluctantly lets go of Viggo's hands. Sleep, he thinks, casting a glance towards Viggo's bed, then his own. He sighs. He doesn't know when it stopped being a matter of choice, really. Maybe there was never a choice involved.
"Get up," he says, and when Viggo does, Sean turns back the covers on the bed Viggo was sitting on, and climbs in, grateful that there's space enough for two. He can't afford to wake up tomorrow and feel too scared to go on: he needs something to cling to, and if that something is also the source of that fear, then so be it. It makes sense.
Viggo is all he has.
It takes Viggo a moment to realize what Sean is doing -- what Sean is offering. Sharing space. Sharing a bed with him. Sharing this experience, in the end, instead of Viggo simply dragging Sean along for the ride.
Viggo climbs into bed with Sean and, very tentatively, wraps up behind him. His arms curl around Sean's chest, and his head drops down onto Sean's shoulder. And he breathes, not easily, but steadily, and feels Sean's heartbeat under his fingers.
Sean's heart misses a beat when Viggo's arms come up around him and Viggo moves closer, skin sliding against skin; but it lasts only a moment. Viggo's head feels right resting on his shoulder; it feels right to have Viggo this close, so close Sean can hear him breathing, can feel Viggo's breath gusting warm and soft against his neck.
It feels right, maybe, but not yet safe: Sean still can't seem to avoid tensing up every time Viggo moves in his sleep. Viggo's arms never once leave him, though: they tighten around his chest when Sean shifts around, as though Viggo, even in his sleep, is determined not to let him run away.
It doesn't feel quite safe, yet, or even comfortable; but Sean focuses on Viggo's arms, keeping him trapped, bound. His breathing evens out, and he drifts into sleep.
* * * * *
Viggo wakes up groggy. He's not sure where he is. He rolls over, slightly, eyes opening.
Sean.
And it comes back to him: the tea, the trunk, driving through four states, getting to this hotel in Utah and falling apart.
And he could have gone. At any time. And didn't.
Viggo realizes he's never had the chance to watch Sean while he's sleeping this way. He draws his fingers across the curve of Sean's shoulder, and down his arm. His wrist is still red, raw, bruised. Viggo feels his stomach clench, and he pulls Sean's hand up to his face.
Sean stirs a bit, but Viggo doesn't pay it any attention. He's completely focused on Sean's wrist, now, on the mark he left there. He's not sure whether to be horrified or fascinated.
When Sean tries to roll over, tries to take his hand away from Viggo, Viggo holds tight. His breathing goes jagged, and he leans down, pressing his lips to the mark on Sean's wrist. And he flicks his tongue out over it, tracing the line of the bruise, lapping lightly at Sean's skin.
Coming awake to find Viggo lapping at the raw skin on his wrist, Sean doesn't need too many moments to remember where he is, or why; everything is still as it was when he fell asleep last night.
And it's not: sometime during the night, his mind apparently decided to trust his body and accept that having Viggo touch him isn't a bad thing. Sean lets out a soft little breath, and settles to watch.
Viggo is making love to his wrist, there's no other word for it: he's completely absorbed in touching it, stroking it with lips and tongue and teeth -- Sean can feel himself stir under the attention, heat radiating from his abused skin down his arm and through the rest of him; and God, but Viggo is beautiful, mad and dangerous and beautiful -- and he promised to take Sean home.
When he tries to take his hand back, Viggo makes this sound, deep in his throat -- this growl -- and Sean's breath catches, his heartbeat quickening.
"Mine," Viggo growls, grip on Sean's wrist tightening. He bites down on the mark on Sean's wrist, eyes on Sean's the entire time. The bite is more for show than anything; he doesn't try to hurt or mark or draw blood from it. He pushes Sean's hand up, pinning it down next to his head, and then leans up and grabs Sean's other hand at the wrist, pinning it at the other side of his head. He comes up and rubs his cheek against Sean's neck, stubble scratching at Sean's skin.
"Mine." Again. Softer this time.
There's a very dim, very faint part of his mind that's asking him what in hell he thinks he's doing. But the rest of him is centered on those marks on Sean's wrists, and the way Sean stayed here all night, letting Viggo curl up to him. That part of him thinks, You had your chance to run last night, and you didn't; you're mine now, Sean. Finally, completely mine.
"Mine," Viggo says, and the word has Sean shivering: here it is again -- that other, looking at him from Viggo's eyes. Except that it's not 'other' any more, Sean knows him now: this is Viggo. A part of Viggo that he never saw before, because Viggo never let him. Until now.
Sean's no longer scared of this: not now that he knows what's happening; now that Viggo promised. He can let go. He can let Viggo do what he needs.
The grip on his wrists is tight, though not so much that Sean couldn't free himself, if he wanted. Viggo's bite burns on his skin, Viggo's stubble leaves a trail of fire where it scratches against Sean's neck; both sensations fade too quickly, and Sean arches up, trying to get more.
No. There's still something wrong.
When Sean tries to move his hands, Viggo's hold gives way, letting him; Sean makes a frustrated noise -- it's not right; it's not what he needs. Viggo took from him with violence, without consent: he can't give back with gentleness, as though asking for the permission to give -- that won't do. It's not enough, and Sean feels frustration, and anger, grow inside.
Viggo fucking promised -- he can't let Sean down now. Sean won't allow it.
The frustrated noise coming from Sean's throat confuses Viggo. Sean had started to struggle, and Viggo was letting him up -- letting him join, consent, agree to this. And that's not what Sean wants. Somehow that's not what Sean wants.
Viggo drops one of Sean's wrists and grips Sean's chin firmly between his thumb and the crook of his index finger. "What are you trying to pull?" he growls. "You want it, but you don't want it? You want it, but you want me to force you? Is that what you're doing here?"
Nothing. No response. Sean's eyes burn, but he says nothing.
That is what he wants, Viggo thinks, looking down at Sean. That's why it never worked before. Why you kept trying and trying and nothing ever came of it.
The muted side of his mind whispers, That's why I let you do this to him.
It twists in his stomach like fear, like pain, and Viggo aches for it. Aches for Sean, which is nothing new, no, but to ache for him this way, to ache and know he can have Sean...
...and all he'd have to do is take him...
Viggo's eyes go dark, and he lowers his teeth to Sean's neck, biting down hard.
Sean feels the pain of Viggo's bite down to the very centre of him -- yes, that's it, that's something that won't fade so quickly, something that'll remind him... that Viggo did this. That Viggo wanted him enough to do this.
Sean tries to buck under Viggo, to dislodge him, but he can tell that he won't be let go this time: he's completely pinned down, and Viggo is biting down hard on his shoulder now, then his chest; Sean can feel the marks left by Viggo's teeth burning through skin and muscle, hurting so bad, so good. He stops struggling, breathless with something that feels so much like relief it doesn't bear thinking about.
He wondered, when he saw Viggo watching him last night, that hungry, open look in his eyes... He wondered, then: and now he's sure that Viggo can take him home: that scary, alien place he's never known before, he never dreamed he could want to know, until Viggo -- beautiful, mad Viggo -- showed it to him.
"More," he gasps, pressing up against Viggo, not sure what he's asking for, knowing only that he needs to have it.
"Yes," Viggo growls, "yes, more... God, Sean..." He drags Sean's hands together, crosses them at the wrist, pins them above his head. His lips go up, teeth dragging over Sean's chest, biting down hard on Sean's neck, and then he captures Sean's lips with his, giving him a hard, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue thrusting against Sean's in a rhythmic, demanding motion. His right hand, free now, reaches down between them, curving around Sean's cock and stroking, not quite the same intense, hard-enough-to-hurt strokes as he was giving Sean in the rest stop bathroom, but still -- fast and rough and blinding.
Viggo bites down hard on Sean's lower lip, hips moving, hand moving. He wants Sean to come for him, wants to pull back and watch the look on his face when he does. He's not sure which of them will come first; Sean is writhing under him, tugging at his wrists, but obviously going nowhere. Sean's breath is picking up, and he's so warm under Viggo, warm and hard and perfect, just perfect. Viggo can feel Sean's cock jumping in his hand, and he groans -- "now, Sean, come for me now..."
Their groans are almost in unison; Viggo shudders as orgasm rocks through him, shudders more as he feels the pulse of Sean's cock under his hand, the warm jets of come falling over his hand. It's so good, so completely perfect, and his hand on Sean's wrists only tightens as he collapses onto Sean, spent and shaking.
It's a while before Sean can see again, breathe again; before the world stops spinning.
He was there. He's still there, he thinks.
It's not a place of light and brilliance: it's a scary, terrible place -- to want so much, to need so much until it hurts, and then to need the hurt, too -- and he was daft to believe it was a place one could come back from.
Viggo is still lying atop of him, heavy and warm and slick with sweat, making breathing difficult; Sean doesn't mind. Where he is now, air is not as important as having Viggo right where he needs him. So he just lies there, trapped, marked, aching.
It's too much, he thinks. And he knows that it won't ever be enough again.
Viggo pushes up, bracing himself on his elbows, letting Sean's hands go. He brushes the hair back from Sean's face. He wants Sean's eyes on him. Wants Sean to look up at him. He wants to see what he's done here. Sean is almost trembling, and Viggo isn't sure whether he's given them both what they need or pushed them both somewhere they're not going to recover from. The frustration, the growling hunger, are gone. Purged. He's not quite sure what that means -- he's not quite sure who he is right now. He's waiting to see Sean's eyes again.
"Sean?" he whispers. He presses a kiss to Sean's forehead, the tip of his nose, his chin. "Sean, look at me."
It doesn't make sense. Sean was so sure... so sure, once he reached wherever it was he needed to go, that he could learn to want gentleness and affection again. But now Viggo's touching him so gently, calling his name with such love in his voice... Yes, Sean can still feel all of this.
Then why is it so difficult?
He lets Viggo kiss him, soft, little kisses, like between lovers; Viggo cards his fingers through Sean's hair, and something in the gesture brings back fragments of what Sean used to dream -- to lie in a bed like this, with Viggo; to want and be wanted, and to feel like that could be enough.
Sean turns his head, searching for a caress, and Viggo is there, his palm cupping Sean's face, and Sean can almost feel him hold his breath, waiting.
When he looks up, he can't tell who's looking at him from Viggo's eyes; he can't tell anymore. Maybe it's because he doesn't know who's looking up at Viggo anymore.
Don't let me go, he thinks. What he says is, "Let's get home."
Summary: Something's gone wrong with Viggo. A visit from Sean turns into a dark scary kidnapping.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: Non-con, ViolenceChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 11443 Read: 1464
Published: 07 Jan 2011 Updated: 07 Jan 2011