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Fic: Viggo/Sean
Another attack of Viggo, wanting more happy fic. ;)
Title: Inspiration
Author: Archet
Pairing: Viggo/Sean
Rating: PG
Summary: Turning back to the marked canvas, Viggo waited for it. It was there, just begging to drip out through his fingers and off his brush, but something . . . something, something was missing.
Disclaimer: total fiction, in no way implies anything as to the real lives to the lovely men who are inspirations for these characters.
Feedback: welcomed and appreciated!
Archive: my LJ, rugbytackling
~*~
He’d walked around the room for twenty minutes, and the wooden handle of the paintbrush was sweaty where he’s held it in his palm, idly, for too long. Bare feet padded across the hardwood floors, and Viggo paused before the multihued canvas, tapping the brush handle against his thigh absently. Turning to the side, he stared, took a step back and stared some more. The inspiration was there, a hidden spring bubbling just under his skin, tingling his fingertips, but he couldn’t quite get hold of it.
After a while Viggo stopped staring and took another slow circuit around the room. Originally it’d been a spare bedroom, but because of the natural light it received through its three big windows in the mornings, he liked to paint there on occasion. He’d like to paint there now, if he could just get back into the flow. Creation was a fluid thing to him, something he encountered rather than originated. Once interrupted he couldn’t just jump in again until he felt the current of inspiration tug at him, pull him along to wherever it was he needed to go.
Turning back to the marked canvas, Viggo waited for it. It was there, just begging to drip out through his fingers and off his brush, but something . . . something, something was missing. Exasperated at the loss of his direction, Vig tapped the brush harder against his leg. Warmth. Yes. He wanted warmth, but not red, or orange either. He wasn’t painting a fucking sunset, for crying out loud. He was painting . . . warmth, fluidity, deep ocean currents . . . depthless, unending things. Fuck, how did one go about snaring that and putting it down on paper, exactly?
Turning the color wheel round in his mind’s eye, Viggo considered all the pigments he had at hand. His palette was messy with them, and the current was running through him now, carrying that nebulous answer he needed, about to splash the inspiration of it into his brain pan. He reached out, fingers still curled around the brush, poised over the paints, and as his hand passed over them he mentally discarded each . . . but the one he needed was there, he was certain.
Something swirled, a sudden whirlpool of an idea, the perfect siren song and he thought, maybe if he mixed-
“Hey, you.”
Viggo started and dropped the brush, its handle clicked against the varnished wooden floor and it rolled halfway to the window before coming to a stop. He turned, and the annoyance on his face vanished at the sight that confronted him. Sean, leaning against the doorframe, casually holding two ceramic mugs of what smelled suspiciously like coffee. He’d slipped on a pair of lightweight track pants, blue with a green strip down the leg, and they clung to his narrow hips. He wore one of Viggo’s old robes, the thin plaid one, the weird one with the too long sleeves. Even on Sean’s long arms they spilled over his wrists, halfway concealing his hands, hiding everything except for those long, elegant fingers curled around the mugs.
The robe hung open in the front tantalizingly, and Viggo took in the generous view of smooth skin, marked here and there by a very slight redness. Stubble burn. Fuck, yeah. Viggo grinned at his lover, motioned him into the room, goose bumps rising over his skin as Sean obliged, padded barefoot across the floor with a sleepy smile that was unconscious and open and so remarkable in the bright morning sunlight.
“Wondered where you’d gotten to,” Sean said, voice rough, his accent a bit thicker, but then it always was in the mornings.
Viggo took an offered mug, sipped absently, his eyes remaining on Sean who took a moment to sniff appreciatively at his own coffee before taking a taste. It was a total thing with him, the sniffing. Viggo had seen him do it often with items he particularly enjoyed, like coffee, or a good cuppa tea . . . a nice slice of chocolate cake, slick with icing. Viggo stared at the quick flash of pink tongue that darted out to lick coffee flavored lips.
“Sensualist.” Viggo muttered.
The mention got Sean’s attention. “How’s that?”
Viggo set his coffee down on the narrow table that held his paint box, palette and assorted supplies, walked over and retrieved the brush, adding it to the scattered bits on the worktable. It wasn’t just the sniffing or the thing with the tongue, he thought. Sean was a very sensitive, tactile lover, Vig had noticed that from their first night together . . . jesus, how long ago, now?
“Nothing. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Sean only shook his head, as if Viggo muttering things and then not explaining them was nothing unusual. Thinking about it a moment, Vig figured that it probably wasn’t. Sean gestured to the half finished painting with his mug. “How’s it coming?”
Viggo pulled his gaze away from his lover, from the way his robe draped over Sean’s broad shoulders, the enticing line of his neck, from the contemplation of the way Sean loved to touch and taste and make such incredible noises when Viggo fucked him. “Hm? Oh. Stalled.”
Sean nodded as if that explained everything. “Want me to let you get back to it?” he asked.
No, Viggo thought instantly. “Stay. Think I need some help with it, to tell you the truth.” Taking Sean’s mug from his fingers and sitting it aside, and earning himself a puzzled look bordering on a scowl in the process, Viggo put his hands on Sean’s shoulders, turned him to face the painting. He fitted his body against Sean’s, rested his chin on Sean’s shoulder, his hands going without thought to rest on Sean’s hips. “Something’s missing.”
Sean leaned back into him, and Viggo smiled, shifted his feet a little wider, adapting to the slight change in balance. “Looks brilliant to me,” Sean offered.
Viggo’s hands grew restless, slipped around to rest palm down against Sean’s warm, lightly fuzzed, bare belly. His fingers drew slow circles over the smooth skin absently. “No, it’s definitely missing something.”
“Mm, right.” Sean mumbled, his head falling back to rest against Viggo’s shoulder.
Viggo’s attention on the painting wavered, he turned his head slightly, nuzzled Sean’s soft hair, inhaled, filling his lungs with the warm, lush scent, the slight trace of their early morning lovemaking, sweat and musk, and something underpinning it all that Viggo figured was simply Sean. A shiver rattled through him, and he liked the idea of Sean, marked with his scent, with the passage of their fucking. His arms tightened and Sean made a small, contented noise, and Viggo’s eyes wandered back to the canvas, swirling with colors but still off balance.
Sean’s nearness should’ve sidetracked him totally, he had that affect on Viggo, but suddenly something, some half formed idea, trickled into place and Viggo reached out and picked up the brush. When he pressed the tool into Sean’s hand, his lover turned his head with a questioning noise.
Viggo’s arms slipped back into place around Sean, and he nudged them closer to the canvas. His heart thumped in his chest with the certainty of what he wanted to do. He put his lips close to Sean’s ear. “Pick a color.”
“What?” Sean asked.
Viggo smiled, fitted his hips against the curve of Sean’s sweet ass, ran his hands over the naked skin of his belly. Warm. So very warm, hot. “I want you to help me finish.”
Sean gestured at the canvas with the brush. “You’re mad. I’ve not painted in years.”
Viggo shook his head because it didn’t matter, the flow was moving smoothly through him now. This was right. This is it, what he’d been looking for. “So?”
“So, you bloody loon. I’ll ruin it.”
Viggo chuckled, wanting to make Sean understand. “You can’t ruin art. You don’t have to constrain yourself to painting inside the lines, it just is. There’s no right or wrong.” Viggo’s’ voice softened. “I’ve never done this before, shared a painting with anyone. I want to now, though, with you.”
Sean took this in quietly, and it was a few moments before he spoke again. “Never?”
Viggo shook his head. “Nope. Never. Want to, though. With you.” He knew he was repeating himself, but he felt the need.
“I-” Sean started, then trailed off. “Never done as much myself, either.”
Viggo press a kiss to Sean’s hair. “Please. Do this with me?”
A shiver passed through Sean’s frame, and Viggo watched, transfixed as the brush dipped toward the palette on the table. Sean hesitated, brush wavering. “I don’t . . . don’t want to disappoint you.”
Something clenched in Viggo’s chest, hard, and he whispered roughly into Sean’s ear. “You won’t. You can’t.”
Sean nodded slowly, and dipped the brush into a puddle of pigment. Viggo watched raptly as the brush was carefully prepared. He realized with surprise that Sean was preparing the brush in the exact same manner he himself always did. A swipe and twirl, a pat and a tap . . . he wondered if Sean was doing it deliberately, or had somehow picked up the habit from having watched Viggo in the past. He decided he didn’t care, it was beautiful, and suddenly he never had felt closer to Sean.
Sean brought the brush back up, and again, hesitated, the paint laden bristles hovering just inches from the canvas’ face. “How ‘bout a bit of assistance?”
The soft, rough tone of Sean’s voice did something to Viggo, reached right down inside him and brushed him with pleasure, with happiness. “Sure,” he rasped, his own voice thick.
His hand came up, slid over the back of Sean’s, his fingers lacing around Sean’s long, graceful ones. He urged them forward, and his breath literally stopped when the brush make contact with the canvas, and they were doing it, moving as one, making wet, rasping sounds with the brush as it moved.
Viggo was awash with the joy of it, the warmth of Sean in his arms, under his hand, the perfection of this act of creation and the inspiration sang though him, carrying him away in its current. They worked for an hour or so, painting . . . jesus, painting, stroking the canvas, periodically reloading the brush, doing it all in silent communication. Finally, Sean stopped, and Viggo with him. Their fingers were still tangled together around the brush, and paint was on both their fingertips.
Silence, stillness, and they just breathed, bodies pressed close, their warmth combined to bring the beginnings of sweat starting on their skin under their clothes. They stood as the tide of inspiration drew back, leaving in its wake a finished painting. It was a creation of blended hues and currents of patterns underneath smooth rippling swirls.
“God.” Viggo finally managed, and as he did Sean turned his face into Viggo’s neck, mumbling something Viggo couldn’t make out.
His unpainted hand came up to Sean’s chin, tilted his face until Viggo could look down into mesmerizing jade green eyes. “Say again?” he asked.
Sean gazed back, licked his lips. “Didn’t know,” he said wonderingly. “Didn’t know it could be like this.”
Viggo’s fingers tighten on Sean’s chin, and the flow was singing in him again, only now it was a much deeper, faster current than before. It was a warm, depthless thing, unlike anything he’d ever known. He understood suddenly, standing before their creation in the midmorning sunlight, that they’d been talking to each other on so many different levels, about so many different things, all this time . . . the painting, them, everything.
“I want you to help me finish.”
“I don’t . . . don’t want to disappoint you.”
“You won’t. You can’t.”
If Sean hadn’t known it could be like this, then neither than Viggo, but as he drew down, his mouth hovering over Sean’s lips, what he said was, “Now you do. Now we both do.”
Viggo slanted his mouth over Sean’s and they tangled together hungrily, wonderingly, riding the lush, heated current that bound them together, and somewhere in the claiming of one another, the paintbrush slipped away, clicking against the floor, marking the hardwood with paint that glistened in the sunlight, unnoticed.
Title: Inspiration
Author: Archet
Pairing: Viggo/Sean
Rating: PG
Summary: Turning back to the marked canvas, Viggo waited for it. It was there, just begging to drip out through his fingers and off his brush, but something . . . something, something was missing.
Disclaimer: total fiction, in no way implies anything as to the real lives to the lovely men who are inspirations for these characters.
Feedback: welcomed and appreciated!
Archive: my LJ, rugbytackling
~*~
He’d walked around the room for twenty minutes, and the wooden handle of the paintbrush was sweaty where he’s held it in his palm, idly, for too long. Bare feet padded across the hardwood floors, and Viggo paused before the multihued canvas, tapping the brush handle against his thigh absently. Turning to the side, he stared, took a step back and stared some more. The inspiration was there, a hidden spring bubbling just under his skin, tingling his fingertips, but he couldn’t quite get hold of it.
After a while Viggo stopped staring and took another slow circuit around the room. Originally it’d been a spare bedroom, but because of the natural light it received through its three big windows in the mornings, he liked to paint there on occasion. He’d like to paint there now, if he could just get back into the flow. Creation was a fluid thing to him, something he encountered rather than originated. Once interrupted he couldn’t just jump in again until he felt the current of inspiration tug at him, pull him along to wherever it was he needed to go.
Turning back to the marked canvas, Viggo waited for it. It was there, just begging to drip out through his fingers and off his brush, but something . . . something, something was missing. Exasperated at the loss of his direction, Vig tapped the brush harder against his leg. Warmth. Yes. He wanted warmth, but not red, or orange either. He wasn’t painting a fucking sunset, for crying out loud. He was painting . . . warmth, fluidity, deep ocean currents . . . depthless, unending things. Fuck, how did one go about snaring that and putting it down on paper, exactly?
Turning the color wheel round in his mind’s eye, Viggo considered all the pigments he had at hand. His palette was messy with them, and the current was running through him now, carrying that nebulous answer he needed, about to splash the inspiration of it into his brain pan. He reached out, fingers still curled around the brush, poised over the paints, and as his hand passed over them he mentally discarded each . . . but the one he needed was there, he was certain.
Something swirled, a sudden whirlpool of an idea, the perfect siren song and he thought, maybe if he mixed-
“Hey, you.”
Viggo started and dropped the brush, its handle clicked against the varnished wooden floor and it rolled halfway to the window before coming to a stop. He turned, and the annoyance on his face vanished at the sight that confronted him. Sean, leaning against the doorframe, casually holding two ceramic mugs of what smelled suspiciously like coffee. He’d slipped on a pair of lightweight track pants, blue with a green strip down the leg, and they clung to his narrow hips. He wore one of Viggo’s old robes, the thin plaid one, the weird one with the too long sleeves. Even on Sean’s long arms they spilled over his wrists, halfway concealing his hands, hiding everything except for those long, elegant fingers curled around the mugs.
The robe hung open in the front tantalizingly, and Viggo took in the generous view of smooth skin, marked here and there by a very slight redness. Stubble burn. Fuck, yeah. Viggo grinned at his lover, motioned him into the room, goose bumps rising over his skin as Sean obliged, padded barefoot across the floor with a sleepy smile that was unconscious and open and so remarkable in the bright morning sunlight.
“Wondered where you’d gotten to,” Sean said, voice rough, his accent a bit thicker, but then it always was in the mornings.
Viggo took an offered mug, sipped absently, his eyes remaining on Sean who took a moment to sniff appreciatively at his own coffee before taking a taste. It was a total thing with him, the sniffing. Viggo had seen him do it often with items he particularly enjoyed, like coffee, or a good cuppa tea . . . a nice slice of chocolate cake, slick with icing. Viggo stared at the quick flash of pink tongue that darted out to lick coffee flavored lips.
“Sensualist.” Viggo muttered.
The mention got Sean’s attention. “How’s that?”
Viggo set his coffee down on the narrow table that held his paint box, palette and assorted supplies, walked over and retrieved the brush, adding it to the scattered bits on the worktable. It wasn’t just the sniffing or the thing with the tongue, he thought. Sean was a very sensitive, tactile lover, Vig had noticed that from their first night together . . . jesus, how long ago, now?
“Nothing. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Sean only shook his head, as if Viggo muttering things and then not explaining them was nothing unusual. Thinking about it a moment, Vig figured that it probably wasn’t. Sean gestured to the half finished painting with his mug. “How’s it coming?”
Viggo pulled his gaze away from his lover, from the way his robe draped over Sean’s broad shoulders, the enticing line of his neck, from the contemplation of the way Sean loved to touch and taste and make such incredible noises when Viggo fucked him. “Hm? Oh. Stalled.”
Sean nodded as if that explained everything. “Want me to let you get back to it?” he asked.
No, Viggo thought instantly. “Stay. Think I need some help with it, to tell you the truth.” Taking Sean’s mug from his fingers and sitting it aside, and earning himself a puzzled look bordering on a scowl in the process, Viggo put his hands on Sean’s shoulders, turned him to face the painting. He fitted his body against Sean’s, rested his chin on Sean’s shoulder, his hands going without thought to rest on Sean’s hips. “Something’s missing.”
Sean leaned back into him, and Viggo smiled, shifted his feet a little wider, adapting to the slight change in balance. “Looks brilliant to me,” Sean offered.
Viggo’s hands grew restless, slipped around to rest palm down against Sean’s warm, lightly fuzzed, bare belly. His fingers drew slow circles over the smooth skin absently. “No, it’s definitely missing something.”
“Mm, right.” Sean mumbled, his head falling back to rest against Viggo’s shoulder.
Viggo’s attention on the painting wavered, he turned his head slightly, nuzzled Sean’s soft hair, inhaled, filling his lungs with the warm, lush scent, the slight trace of their early morning lovemaking, sweat and musk, and something underpinning it all that Viggo figured was simply Sean. A shiver rattled through him, and he liked the idea of Sean, marked with his scent, with the passage of their fucking. His arms tightened and Sean made a small, contented noise, and Viggo’s eyes wandered back to the canvas, swirling with colors but still off balance.
Sean’s nearness should’ve sidetracked him totally, he had that affect on Viggo, but suddenly something, some half formed idea, trickled into place and Viggo reached out and picked up the brush. When he pressed the tool into Sean’s hand, his lover turned his head with a questioning noise.
Viggo’s arms slipped back into place around Sean, and he nudged them closer to the canvas. His heart thumped in his chest with the certainty of what he wanted to do. He put his lips close to Sean’s ear. “Pick a color.”
“What?” Sean asked.
Viggo smiled, fitted his hips against the curve of Sean’s sweet ass, ran his hands over the naked skin of his belly. Warm. So very warm, hot. “I want you to help me finish.”
Sean gestured at the canvas with the brush. “You’re mad. I’ve not painted in years.”
Viggo shook his head because it didn’t matter, the flow was moving smoothly through him now. This was right. This is it, what he’d been looking for. “So?”
“So, you bloody loon. I’ll ruin it.”
Viggo chuckled, wanting to make Sean understand. “You can’t ruin art. You don’t have to constrain yourself to painting inside the lines, it just is. There’s no right or wrong.” Viggo’s’ voice softened. “I’ve never done this before, shared a painting with anyone. I want to now, though, with you.”
Sean took this in quietly, and it was a few moments before he spoke again. “Never?”
Viggo shook his head. “Nope. Never. Want to, though. With you.” He knew he was repeating himself, but he felt the need.
“I-” Sean started, then trailed off. “Never done as much myself, either.”
Viggo press a kiss to Sean’s hair. “Please. Do this with me?”
A shiver passed through Sean’s frame, and Viggo watched, transfixed as the brush dipped toward the palette on the table. Sean hesitated, brush wavering. “I don’t . . . don’t want to disappoint you.”
Something clenched in Viggo’s chest, hard, and he whispered roughly into Sean’s ear. “You won’t. You can’t.”
Sean nodded slowly, and dipped the brush into a puddle of pigment. Viggo watched raptly as the brush was carefully prepared. He realized with surprise that Sean was preparing the brush in the exact same manner he himself always did. A swipe and twirl, a pat and a tap . . . he wondered if Sean was doing it deliberately, or had somehow picked up the habit from having watched Viggo in the past. He decided he didn’t care, it was beautiful, and suddenly he never had felt closer to Sean.
Sean brought the brush back up, and again, hesitated, the paint laden bristles hovering just inches from the canvas’ face. “How ‘bout a bit of assistance?”
The soft, rough tone of Sean’s voice did something to Viggo, reached right down inside him and brushed him with pleasure, with happiness. “Sure,” he rasped, his own voice thick.
His hand came up, slid over the back of Sean’s, his fingers lacing around Sean’s long, graceful ones. He urged them forward, and his breath literally stopped when the brush make contact with the canvas, and they were doing it, moving as one, making wet, rasping sounds with the brush as it moved.
Viggo was awash with the joy of it, the warmth of Sean in his arms, under his hand, the perfection of this act of creation and the inspiration sang though him, carrying him away in its current. They worked for an hour or so, painting . . . jesus, painting, stroking the canvas, periodically reloading the brush, doing it all in silent communication. Finally, Sean stopped, and Viggo with him. Their fingers were still tangled together around the brush, and paint was on both their fingertips.
Silence, stillness, and they just breathed, bodies pressed close, their warmth combined to bring the beginnings of sweat starting on their skin under their clothes. They stood as the tide of inspiration drew back, leaving in its wake a finished painting. It was a creation of blended hues and currents of patterns underneath smooth rippling swirls.
“God.” Viggo finally managed, and as he did Sean turned his face into Viggo’s neck, mumbling something Viggo couldn’t make out.
His unpainted hand came up to Sean’s chin, tilted his face until Viggo could look down into mesmerizing jade green eyes. “Say again?” he asked.
Sean gazed back, licked his lips. “Didn’t know,” he said wonderingly. “Didn’t know it could be like this.”
Viggo’s fingers tighten on Sean’s chin, and the flow was singing in him again, only now it was a much deeper, faster current than before. It was a warm, depthless thing, unlike anything he’d ever known. He understood suddenly, standing before their creation in the midmorning sunlight, that they’d been talking to each other on so many different levels, about so many different things, all this time . . . the painting, them, everything.
“I want you to help me finish.”
“I don’t . . . don’t want to disappoint you.”
“You won’t. You can’t.”
If Sean hadn’t known it could be like this, then neither than Viggo, but as he drew down, his mouth hovering over Sean’s lips, what he said was, “Now you do. Now we both do.”
Viggo slanted his mouth over Sean’s and they tangled together hungrily, wonderingly, riding the lush, heated current that bound them together, and somewhere in the claiming of one another, the paintbrush slipped away, clicking against the floor, marking the hardwood with paint that glistened in the sunlight, unnoticed.
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the paintbrush slipped away, clicking against the floor, marking the hardwood with paint that glistened in the sunlight, unnoticed.
--worked so beautifully. Perfect end to an excellent fic.
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“You won’t’. You can’t.”
There's lots of wonderful imagery, but I liked this line especially.
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My own creativity is somewhat stumped at the moment. I feel that stroking Bean's fuzzy tummy would help enormously. Please send him round gift-wrapped as soon as possible. Thank you.
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My own creativity is somewhat stumped at the moment. I feel that stroking Bean's fuzzy tummy would help enormously. Please send him round gift-wrapped as soon as possible. Thank you.
*g* Sure, no problem. Will send him along, as soon as I'm done with him, say, in about five, six years? ;D
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Go happy you liked this, thank you! I had a very clear picture of them in my mind, I'm so glad that came across. They are sometimes impossible to ignore. Thanks for reading and letting me know you liked! ;)
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What a beautiful, beautiful sentiment and story. It was sensual and loving and creative and I could have drowned in it.
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And as always, your words are gorgeous, dripping with sensuality and so clear I can see every bit. Just lovely!
~Kris
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Glad you enjoyed this imagery, and that it was very clear to you, that's a great compliment, thanks so much for reading! ;)
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