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[FIC] RPF: cartographies of silence [4/9]
I feel terrible that the last two parts have had tiny word counts. The one after this one is gigantic, I promise. =X
(... Or maybe I should apologise for the giant one. Oop.)
Also, almost at the halfway mark!
cartographies of silence
- PART 4/9: 29 March 2009
Characters/Pairing: Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen
Rating: PG
Words: 925
Disclaimer: None of this happened. Product of my imagination!
Summary:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
31_days, 9 April: Language cannot do everything. Sean and Viggo: moments caught after the Empire Awards. Viggo has learned patience well.
part 3: 14 February 2009
They really shouldn’t have drank that much. No matter how good the whiskey was, or how freely it flowed… they really shouldn’t have.
Viggo was out of breath with laughter, his hand alcohol-cold against Sean’s neck. It was a struggle to not lean in closer; to not tuck his face into Sean’s shoulder and breathe in his scent. They had finally stumbled out of the event, tucking themselves in a corner of the building with cigarettes in their hand and drops of rain sinking into their suit jackets. The event was over, the press had dispersed.
They were alone. As alone as anyone could be, in the midst of London. Viggo had no idea where Sean’s wife had gone, and he didn’t want to ask. He had Sean all to himself, his skin against his.
Viggo didn’t remember what he said during the prize presentation. He couldn’t think. Not with Sean so near; not with his dry lips leaving a brand on his cheek. It felt hot even right now, and Viggo gasped a breath as Sean laughed against his jaw, hiccupping slightly. His hair smelled of tobacco. Viggo took the chance; he reached out, cupped Sean’s jaw with his hand, and buried his nose into Sean’s hair. He could smell Sean’s cologne even through the heavy smell of alcohol stuck onto their skin; his next inhale was slow, deep and shuddering. He felt as if he had been marked on the inside, Sean’s scent like ink settling deep into his lungs, writing his name on the insides of his ribs.
“Vig,” Sean murmured. Viggo’s heart skipped a moment, but he didn’t pull away.
“Mm?”
“Don’t think I can drive ‘ome tonight,” he said, and Viggo could feel his teeth, sharp against the skin of his throat. There was a short gust of breath, and Viggo felt Sean’s ribs trembling gently against his fingers. When did his hand move to splay out against Sean’s back? “Don’t want ta go back anyway.”
Viggo nodded. He understood; the spectre of Georgina hung over the both of them. “Come back to my hotel room, then,” He said, and he laughed quietly. That wasn’t the way he wanted to invite Sean back to his house—or wherever he was living, given their lifestyles.
“Yeah? You got a couch?”
“Yeah.”
“Won’t want ta sleep in yer bed,” the words were almost completely slurred, the consonants melding into one another. Sheffield haunting the streets of London in the shape of Sean Bean’s drunken breath. “Can’t kick you out of it. Would be a terrible guest.”
Viggo sighed, his breath moving against Sean’s hair. His thumb circled against the knob of his spine, “I’ve got a couch. It’s a suite.”
“Mm.” They finally pulled apart. Viggo’s hand dropped to his side, and he tried his best to not have it curl into a fist. Sean’s eyes were red-rimmed, and he rubbed the back of his hand against his lips. “Bit funny. I’m the one who lives ‘round ‘ere, and yer the one offerin’ me yer bed.”
“You can offer yours to me tomorrow,” he offered, and they were stumbling towards the chauffeured car that Empire had offered him.
“I’d show you me garden,” Sean said, and he practically fell into the car when the chauffeur held the door open. His hand had somehow closed around Viggo’s wrist along the way. Viggo didn’t shake it off. Instead, he dropped into the car, leaning against the door as it was slammed closed.
Sean moved suddenly, throwing his hand out until it smacked against the glass window a bare inch away from Viggo’s face. Viggo blinked. Sean was grinning, a little lopsided, and definitely very drunk.
“Yer ain’t ever been ta me place,” Sean pointed out, and Viggo nodded for the lack of anything else to do. “I’ve got lots to show you.”
Viggo reminded himself to breathe.
“Come up to Idaho with me,” he said when he had enough air in his lungs to, his hand slipping into Sean’s hair. It was thick and heavy, strands of soft gold sliding against the callused knuckles of his hand. There wasn’t a single strand of grey. Viggo tried to memorise the various shades, because he didn’t know when he would let himself so close again. “I’ve horses and fields and…” he couldn’t think properly, blinded by gold, “plenty of things.”
“Yeah,” Sean said, turning his head and practically leaning into Viggo’s hand. His body was far too tense for someone as drunk as he smelled. Viggo’s breath caught. Slowly, he loosened his hand, letting it drop to Sean’s shoulder and clasped it.
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
Viggo didn’t remember stumbling back into the hotel; didn’t remember Sean collapsing onto the couch and him onto the bed. He only remembered waking up to an empty room, with a glass of water beside the nightstand and two Tylenol pills, and a small note folded underneath.
Viggo picked up the note, slugging back the water and swallowing the pills. He placed the glass down, and took a single breath.
Slowly, he folded the note back into its exact creases. His mind was already shifting; trying to decide where this note would go in that box he kept.
Some other day.
Viggo had waited this long; he could wait even longer. He could learn to wait even longer.
He had to. He had to.
part 5: 24 December 2010
(... Or maybe I should apologise for the giant one. Oop.)
Also, almost at the halfway mark!
cartographies of silence
- PART 4/9: 29 March 2009
Characters/Pairing: Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen
Rating: PG
Words: 925
Disclaimer: None of this happened. Product of my imagination!
Summary:
31_days, 9 April: Language cannot do everything. Sean and Viggo: moments caught after the Empire Awards. Viggo has learned patience well.part 3: 14 February 2009
They really shouldn’t have drank that much. No matter how good the whiskey was, or how freely it flowed… they really shouldn’t have.
Viggo was out of breath with laughter, his hand alcohol-cold against Sean’s neck. It was a struggle to not lean in closer; to not tuck his face into Sean’s shoulder and breathe in his scent. They had finally stumbled out of the event, tucking themselves in a corner of the building with cigarettes in their hand and drops of rain sinking into their suit jackets. The event was over, the press had dispersed.
They were alone. As alone as anyone could be, in the midst of London. Viggo had no idea where Sean’s wife had gone, and he didn’t want to ask. He had Sean all to himself, his skin against his.
Viggo didn’t remember what he said during the prize presentation. He couldn’t think. Not with Sean so near; not with his dry lips leaving a brand on his cheek. It felt hot even right now, and Viggo gasped a breath as Sean laughed against his jaw, hiccupping slightly. His hair smelled of tobacco. Viggo took the chance; he reached out, cupped Sean’s jaw with his hand, and buried his nose into Sean’s hair. He could smell Sean’s cologne even through the heavy smell of alcohol stuck onto their skin; his next inhale was slow, deep and shuddering. He felt as if he had been marked on the inside, Sean’s scent like ink settling deep into his lungs, writing his name on the insides of his ribs.
“Vig,” Sean murmured. Viggo’s heart skipped a moment, but he didn’t pull away.
“Mm?”
“Don’t think I can drive ‘ome tonight,” he said, and Viggo could feel his teeth, sharp against the skin of his throat. There was a short gust of breath, and Viggo felt Sean’s ribs trembling gently against his fingers. When did his hand move to splay out against Sean’s back? “Don’t want ta go back anyway.”
Viggo nodded. He understood; the spectre of Georgina hung over the both of them. “Come back to my hotel room, then,” He said, and he laughed quietly. That wasn’t the way he wanted to invite Sean back to his house—or wherever he was living, given their lifestyles.
“Yeah? You got a couch?”
“Yeah.”
“Won’t want ta sleep in yer bed,” the words were almost completely slurred, the consonants melding into one another. Sheffield haunting the streets of London in the shape of Sean Bean’s drunken breath. “Can’t kick you out of it. Would be a terrible guest.”
Viggo sighed, his breath moving against Sean’s hair. His thumb circled against the knob of his spine, “I’ve got a couch. It’s a suite.”
“Mm.” They finally pulled apart. Viggo’s hand dropped to his side, and he tried his best to not have it curl into a fist. Sean’s eyes were red-rimmed, and he rubbed the back of his hand against his lips. “Bit funny. I’m the one who lives ‘round ‘ere, and yer the one offerin’ me yer bed.”
“You can offer yours to me tomorrow,” he offered, and they were stumbling towards the chauffeured car that Empire had offered him.
“I’d show you me garden,” Sean said, and he practically fell into the car when the chauffeur held the door open. His hand had somehow closed around Viggo’s wrist along the way. Viggo didn’t shake it off. Instead, he dropped into the car, leaning against the door as it was slammed closed.
Sean moved suddenly, throwing his hand out until it smacked against the glass window a bare inch away from Viggo’s face. Viggo blinked. Sean was grinning, a little lopsided, and definitely very drunk.
“Yer ain’t ever been ta me place,” Sean pointed out, and Viggo nodded for the lack of anything else to do. “I’ve got lots to show you.”
Viggo reminded himself to breathe.
“Come up to Idaho with me,” he said when he had enough air in his lungs to, his hand slipping into Sean’s hair. It was thick and heavy, strands of soft gold sliding against the callused knuckles of his hand. There wasn’t a single strand of grey. Viggo tried to memorise the various shades, because he didn’t know when he would let himself so close again. “I’ve horses and fields and…” he couldn’t think properly, blinded by gold, “plenty of things.”
“Yeah,” Sean said, turning his head and practically leaning into Viggo’s hand. His body was far too tense for someone as drunk as he smelled. Viggo’s breath caught. Slowly, he loosened his hand, letting it drop to Sean’s shoulder and clasped it.
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
Viggo didn’t remember stumbling back into the hotel; didn’t remember Sean collapsing onto the couch and him onto the bed. He only remembered waking up to an empty room, with a glass of water beside the nightstand and two Tylenol pills, and a small note folded underneath.
Viggo picked up the note, slugging back the water and swallowing the pills. He placed the glass down, and took a single breath.
Vig,
Forgot I was supposed to fly back to Germany this afternoon. Sorry. Looks like I’ll have to show you my garden some other day.
Sean
Slowly, he folded the note back into its exact creases. His mind was already shifting; trying to decide where this note would go in that box he kept.
Some other day.
Viggo had waited this long; he could wait even longer. He could learn to wait even longer.
He had to. He had to.
part 5: 24 December 2010
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Gah! So near and yet so far. Sometimes you just want to shake people, don't you?
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I should subtitle this as: The Cockblock Series. Because that's what it is. :Xno subject
(Anonymous) 2012-04-07 06:58 am (UTC)(link)Thank you so much for posting!
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I'm mildly worried about the giant one because of other issues too, but thank you so much for commenting! ♥
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That line came straight out of Viggo's head, I swear. Thank you! ♥
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Thank you! ♥
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OH I LOVE He felt as if he had been marked on the inside, Sean’s scent like ink settling deep into his lungs, writing his name on the insides of his ribs. Oh yes, yes, yes, so true it is.
And you've got the sudden movements of the rather well drunk - Sean's hand on the car window - can hear him slurring his words a bit... oh he is defensively drunk, and still holding back, afraid. Dammit man...
I do so LOVE your (my/our) Men.... you write them as if from the 'inside' of both. Quite delicious, a feast of Vigbean a la Evocates, au angst, l'amour et du passion. What a feast! I just want the rest of the banquet....
LOVE it to pieces dear lass. Thank you, and I look at my piccies of Them and hear your words. I am really such a stupid old bat. Need sorting really, but... whot the 'ell as Bean would say.
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You will have the rest! I've finished writing, so yes. :3 Thank you so, so much ♥♥♥!
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Thank you! ♥
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They met and that’s it until who knows when.
NOT FAIR!
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Thank you! ♥
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But I am glad that you say “They are getting there eventually."
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They are! Just... in five more parts. =X
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Thank you so much for commenting ♥
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But anyway, this is about YOUR fic, and this does stand alone beautifully... the sense of waiting and missed opportunities and Viggo's patience and Sean's reluctant response to the pull toward each other makes it a lovely story just as it is.
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I've been writing slash for years and years (it started off as yaoi, and most of it is ew-worthy and I should delete them all), and I came back to LotR (I first came into 9 years ago just to trawl through fics and videos) because someone kept bugging me about Sean Bean, so I was massively biased already. I don't know how you write FPS - it intimidates me so much /sobs.
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Thank you for commenting. ♥
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It will be far too easier if they just... take that step, but they are far too comfortable where they are at this point. Thank youu for commenting ♥
(Your icon is ridiculously attractive.)
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Thank you for commenting ♥ (Also, I should've added you a long time ago. I don't know why I didn't. Do you mind?)
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