Ficlet ~Viggo/Sean
Feb. 23rd, 2009 02:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
archetTitle: Whispered Trail to Frigid Seas
Author: Archet
Pairing: Viggo/Sean
Rating: PG
Summary: At first he’s met with only tolerant silence, but he keeps his words flowing into the silence, washing it away.
Disclaimer: this is fiction, for entertainment purposes only and in no way implies anything as to the real lives to the lovely men who are inspirations for these characters.
Feedback: welcomed and appreciated
~*~
His voice is soft but intense, beseeching, as if he’s afraid that if he can’t be free of the words instantly he never will. At first he’s met with only tolerant silence, but he keeps his words flowing into the silence, washing it away. He maintains a steady stream, telling of all the foolish things he’s done that he would have undone, if able. He speaks a whispered trail of promises along the sweet curve of throat, pools another oath into the hollow just below.
He speaks of all the things he would do, if given the permission. A permission he once would not have sought, would not have even considered seeking, but things have changed, and it is of his doing. This vast, terrible silence is his doing, and so he presses his lips against soft blond hair, and just talks, explains, begs. By degrees the tolerance sheers off, and like glacier-ice suddenly cracks open, crashing into frigid seas, but even then he can’t stop.
He talks through it all, the sound and fury that is so much better than the silence, so much so that a generous part of him is happy to endure it. He holds fast and does not relent, does not release even when the struggle becomes near to violence. He endures, all the while keeping his words a steady tempo, at times pitching them the way he would to a wild untrusting creature, soft and gentle.
When the calm comes he is exhausted, but still holding on, still holding out his words, each one a plea, bearing the mark of his hope and his fear. The fingertips brushing over his lips are sudden and warm, no longer cool and distant. He trembles beneath their light touch, anoints them with more whisper-soft promises, sends trails of them down to collect into the smooth palm that cups his jaw.
“Viggo, for chrissakes, just shut up and kiss me.”
At last, he allows his words to cease so that the true, much longer, conversation may begin.
Author: Archet
Pairing: Viggo/Sean
Rating: PG
Summary: At first he’s met with only tolerant silence, but he keeps his words flowing into the silence, washing it away.
Disclaimer: this is fiction, for entertainment purposes only and in no way implies anything as to the real lives to the lovely men who are inspirations for these characters.
Feedback: welcomed and appreciated
~*~
His voice is soft but intense, beseeching, as if he’s afraid that if he can’t be free of the words instantly he never will. At first he’s met with only tolerant silence, but he keeps his words flowing into the silence, washing it away. He maintains a steady stream, telling of all the foolish things he’s done that he would have undone, if able. He speaks a whispered trail of promises along the sweet curve of throat, pools another oath into the hollow just below.
He speaks of all the things he would do, if given the permission. A permission he once would not have sought, would not have even considered seeking, but things have changed, and it is of his doing. This vast, terrible silence is his doing, and so he presses his lips against soft blond hair, and just talks, explains, begs. By degrees the tolerance sheers off, and like glacier-ice suddenly cracks open, crashing into frigid seas, but even then he can’t stop.
He talks through it all, the sound and fury that is so much better than the silence, so much so that a generous part of him is happy to endure it. He holds fast and does not relent, does not release even when the struggle becomes near to violence. He endures, all the while keeping his words a steady tempo, at times pitching them the way he would to a wild untrusting creature, soft and gentle.
When the calm comes he is exhausted, but still holding on, still holding out his words, each one a plea, bearing the mark of his hope and his fear. The fingertips brushing over his lips are sudden and warm, no longer cool and distant. He trembles beneath their light touch, anoints them with more whisper-soft promises, sends trails of them down to collect into the smooth palm that cups his jaw.
“Viggo, for chrissakes, just shut up and kiss me.”
At last, he allows his words to cease so that the true, much longer, conversation may begin.
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no subject
Date: 2009-02-24 05:51 am (UTC)