Sean Bean is straight. Viggo knows this because Sean told him so: it's been a long time since Sean's had a bloke under him, and even longer since he's had his arse in the air, begging for a fucking--he told Viggo this on a drunken night, his words slurred, giggly and shy and then he had kissed Viggo, laughing, because Sean is straight even when he's drunk off his ass, and it didn't mean a thing.
Fucking blokes never means anything, Sean elaborated the morning after, waking up in Viggo's bed with a headache and no regrets: with blokes it's sex, just that. Fun without consequences--not any that would matter anyway, because it couldn't lead to exchanging vows and it didn't give you kids: nothing that would last in there, nothing you could tell people about over dinner and feel proud.
Fucking blokes has never mattered in Sean's life; and Sean told Viggo this with a grin that hinted at shared experiences, then had turned away without waiting for Viggo to agree.
So why does Viggo look at Sean now, and feel like this? He looks at Sean, so noble and proud in tormented Boromir's costume, so nice and friendly out of it; and it all feels wrong somehow, it's wrong that Viggo's looking at him and feeling like this, because, fuck, Sean is his friend, the guy who shared with him jokes and the fear of being a not good enough father; he's the guy who drank Viggo under the table and slept it off in Viggo's bed just the night before.
Sean has given Viggo the long deep cut that looks like a grimace, or a smirk, across Viggo's knuckles: a bad parry from Viggo during fencing training that morning, and Boromir's sword had slashed his skin open, because the blow had already been falling and there wasn't anything Sean could've done to avert it.
It's really only a scrape; but blood had flowed from it, deep brilliant red welling up and running, Viggo's blood, set free from his body because of Sean. And now Viggo feels that things have changed because of that--and so, really, because of Sean.
Because it felt wrong, that wet burning loss of red; so wrong that he should feel it so deep inside, when it was just a superficial wound; wrong that he should look at Sean's mortified expression and reach out to cup it with his wounded hand, marking Sean's face with his own blood, deep red under the startled green of Sean's wide eyes, blooded fingerprints across the startled, half-parted lips.
It was wrong that Viggo had felt the need to lean in, to taste his own blood on Sean's lips, to smear his own blood all over Sean's mouth--to make Sean taste Viggo's blood with his own tongue, in his own mouth.
Wrong, to think how it might feel reaching inside Sean's clothes, ripping them away to see red blood on Sean's skin, drawing scarlet patterns on Sean's body as if it were paint on a canvas: brilliant red, like fatal wounds that couldn't kill, that would never close because they had never really opened.
Viggo still feels the pain now, a dull throbbing ache every time he moves his fingers; it grows and fades and grows again with every stroke, every clenching and unclenching of his fist around Sean's cock, every hard pull echoing inside Viggo's own flesh, leaving him grounded in the present, making it impossible to drift away, to close his eyes and pretend...
Every caress has bright red edges, every move of his wounded hand is delimited by pain and Sean's half-strangled moans, liquid fire ebbing and flowing in time with Sean's breathless, gasping curses.
There's red all over Sean's body, only it's not blood, but tempera paint from Viggo's new painting--a painting of Boromir--slashing across Sean's shoulderblades, pooling darker yet shining bright in the small of Sean's back, handprints marking Sean all over, chest and nipples and navel and thighs, the sheets and the wall behind the bed, a scene from a nightmare if it wasn't for the fresh wholesome smell of the paint, for the gasping hitching breaths and the
contented sighs.
Viggo's comparatively clean, oddly enough: his hands look raw and his mouth bleeds red like a well-fed vampire's; yet Sean's face is not as red as might be expected, only his cheekbones are--but it's no paint, that--and his lips are red because he bit them earlier, then spread the red more evenly when he licked them, a slender, dark rivulet running to hide in his short trimmed beard. It's the only wound that is real on him, and he did it to himself.
But Sean's cock... Sean's cock is shiny from paint and spit and come, dark red the color of Viggo's vampire mouth--a thirsty, hungry monster preying on innocents. Viggo knows the taste of Sean and paint mixed together, knows that it should taste wrong; and that it doesn't.
Viggo's hand hurts, yet despite the pain--because of the pain--he uses it, bruised red fingers pushing deep inside, red with paint and slippery with lube; he keeps Sean still under him with broad swipes of his tongue until Sean's back is flushed a deep shade of pink and Sean's hips are rocking under him, trying to rub down against the mattress, back against his fingers, Sean's unharmed hands clenching and unclenching around fistfuls of red-stained sheets; until Sean can't keep still any longer and he cries out when he's stabbed deep inside.
Viggo's hand still hurts when Viggo uses it to guide himself in, when Sean's cry pierces his ears, when Sean pushes back onto him and begs for more.
It hurts because there's nothing more.
Because there's nothing that'll come from this, not even when Viggo drives himself in deep and tries to make his home inside Sean--there's no room for this, for him, inside Sean, not even when Sean sobs his name and shudders under him; nothing here that Sean could feel proud of, nothing he would talk of over dinner with that big, happy grin of his that makes Viggo's insides feel like melting every time.
Because even when Sean calls out Viggo's name, when he goes wild and begs him not to stop, never stop never let him go never never never, and the world's red and spinning all around them, bleeding, Viggo's hand aches and he knows: knows that the wounds on Sean's body--Viggo's wounds--won't last; they are not for real; they aren't hurting Sean; they will not kill Sean.
Not Sean.
Viggo's wounds are on the inside, and Sean will never see their blood. Will never offer to tend to them as he did for Viggo's hand; not even if he knew.
Because it's wrong--they shouldn't last. Because there's nothing to them. Because they don't matter.
Viggo won't die from them either, he knows it, he tells himself so when he can't stay any longer and slips out, contenting himself with wrapping his arms around Sean, with not letting him go, with staying like this for as long as Sean will allow--for as long as Sean's asleep.
No, they won't kill him, Viggo reminds himself again when Sean stirs in his sleep, sliding free from the circle of his arms, already slipping away from him like blood escaping from a wound.
They only hurt.
Summary: Some wounds hurt more than others.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: BloodplayChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1229 Read: 909
Published: 01 Aug 2009 Updated: 01 Aug 2009