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fellowshippers2006-09-21 12:53 pm
v-angelique.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2006-09-21 12:53 pm
Fic: Controlled 18/45
Title: Controlled (18/45)
Author: Viktoria Angelique
Email: viktoria_angelique@hotmail.com
Rating: NC-17 for series, PG for this part
Pairing: Elijah/Viggo
Warnings: BDSM overall, none this chapter
Disclaimer: If this were true the world might be a better place.
Feedback: I love it!
Summary: The morning after.
A/N: You're all going to kill me for making this so short. But I promise the next part is longer, sexier, and even a bit angsty for those of you who like that.
Previous Chapters
The next morning, Elijah woke with a smile on his face. The smile was tempered, slightly, when he realised he was in Viggo’s bed alone, but when he strained his ears he could just barely hear bits of what sounded like classical guitar, and surmised that Viggo was up early, listening to his eccentric CD collection and doing whatever it is a crazy artist does when he has the day off.
Elijah stretched lazily, noting the slight pull in his muscles from the previous evening’s activities and, when he sat up completely, grimacing slightly at a twinge in his nether regions. He rolled out of bed gingerly and took a survey of the room, large but not imposing, giving off a sort of cosy feel. The furniture was all mahogany, and the bedspread was a deep wine colour, a shade that made Elijah feel quite luxurious as he folded the fabric back neatly against the headboard. He noted the ornate wooden bedposts, and smiled at the possibilities there before sliding to his feet, shivering a bit at the cold hard wood and sliding on the too-big lamb’s wool slippers he found peeking out from underneath the bed. He had slept in his shorts, and having no other clothing options, slid on a robe of Viggo’s, a comfortable dark green silk whose shade matched the floor-length velvet curtains on the bedroom perfectly. Elijah briefly wondered if this was intentional, but even an artist was unlikely to match his robe to his curtains, and an eccentric such as Viggo probably even less likely.
Elijah smiled to himself as he pulled the curtains back, tying them off with lengths of gold rope that were hooked to the window frames, and squinted slightly at the bright sunshine coming in. Nearly noon, then, from the position of the sun in the sky, and Elijah noted the slight rumbling of his stomach as he headed for the bathroom to wash up and brush his teeth.
Viggo’s kitchen was much more haphazard, a few dishes still left unwashed from the previous evening, cabinets organized by no fashion logical to the average human being. Elijah scrubbed the remaining dishes and put them away as he waited for coffee to brew, knowing that if Viggo was in his studio he had necessarily lost all sense of time and space, and accordingly would be likely to forget mealtimes. He found a limited number of edible items in the pantry, but decided to settle for hummus on wheat toast, a relatively simple meal, and even put some sliced tomatoes and parsley atop his creation. Rooting around in the lower cabinets, he found a large wooden tea tray and laid it out with two cups of Viggo’s favourite Brazilian coffee, a pint carton of cream, the sandwiches, and a handful of napkins.
When Elijah re-emerged upstairs, he found that the source of the music was indeed Viggo’s studio, and the tune of choice had now changed to a cello sonata. The wistful legato of the instrument, however, matched imperfectly with Viggo’s expression, a rare contented smile that widened when he finally registered Elijah’s presence, the tray lowering magically between him and his easel where he sat in the centre of the small room, back to the door.
“Good morning,” Elijah announced with a smile, dropping a kiss on Viggo’s cheek and waiting for him to set down his brush and take coffee and sandwich plate before bringing his own lunch over to a spare stool.
“Good morning yourself. I hope the music didn’t wake you?”
“Not at all. I slept wonderfully,” Elijah added, drawing out his smile to be sure Viggo caught the reason for his peaceful slumber. Viggo just returned the smile and lifted his coffee mug to Elijah as if in a toast, sipping thoughtfully as he contemplated his canvas.
“I’m working on a new piece,” he stated unnecessarily, as the canvas was still half-white and the painting had yet to take any real form. What existed so far were a few swipes of yellow in various shades, tempered by a few splotches of mottled brown and green.
“I see that,” Elijah commented unnecessarily, balancing the tray on his knees and taking a bite of sandwich. “Does it represent anything, or…?” Elijah trailed off, feeling inadequate when it came to discussing art, but Viggo didn’t seem to resent his ignorance.
“It’s a feeling I had when I woke up this morning. It was….well, it was a kind of restfulness that I haven’t felt in a long time,” Viggo admitted. “I wanted to commit it to paper before I forgot.”
“Oh.” Elijah paused a moment, staring out the small picture window as he considered. “Do you do that a lot? Paint because you’re afraid of losing something, I mean?” Viggo shifted on his stool, fixing Elijah with a very direct look, and for a moment Elijah thought he had said too much, but Viggo’s expression wasn’t one of anger, but rather of appraisal.
“I think that may be part of it,” Viggo agreed, setting his food on an end table as he dipped a brush in burgundy-coloured paint. “Art can be a powerful tool to capture emotion, the emotion of a moment. Every emotion is a bit different, so yes, I suppose once the moment is gone you can lose the emotion, if no effort is made to capture it.” Viggo paused, swiped the brush across the page as if on impulse, and then smiled over the easel at Elijah. “The artist’s tools are imperfect, though. I’ve never made a work of art that I felt quite did justice to the memory,” Viggo admitted, and Elijah almost felt sorry for him in that moment. The confession made him feel pity for the older man, though perhaps pity was not the appropriate emotion, as Viggo had seen so many more moons and felt such a wider range of emotions than Elijah ever had. How can one pity that which he does not fully understand? Still, Elijah felt a pang of something, perhaps illogical but nonetheless true, and he sat his tray down gently on the ground before stepping over to Viggo’s stool, his jaw set in determination.
“I see something beautiful in you,” Elijah stated simply, cupping Viggo’s chin in one hand, his thumb tracing the bearded jaw as if to memorize its contour. “If you don’t capture what you want to in your artwork, well…maybe you at least capture that.”
Viggo gave Elijah an unreadable look at first, almost of shock or bewilderment, but then smiled and reached up with one paint-stained hand, caressing Elijah’s face and leaving a bold swipe of royal blue across his cheek. “You are wise beyond your years, my lovely little one,” Viggo whispered fondly, and though Elijah supposed he should feel indignant at the endearment, he was rather proud, smiling broadly at Viggo. For once, he felt, he had done something completely right. It was a good feeling.
“All right, Elijah,” Viggo announced suddenly, nearly upsetting a cup of murky water as he suddenly rose to his feet. “Today, we are going to live! What do you say to that? No sitting up here and trying to capture all my emotions on paper so that they don’t float away… today we’re going to experience them!” Viggo’s grin was wide, and Elijah found himself laughing in response, a laughter that was contagious as Viggo’s eyes brightened, leaning slightly on Elijah with a hand on his forearm as he burst into mirthful fits of glee himself. There was a madness in the moment, an utter madness that consumed them both, but it was giddy and it was right, and when Elijah spontaneously wrapped his arms around Viggo’s neck and pressed his forehead to Viggo’s sternum, still laughing as Viggo in turn nuzzled into Elijah’s hair, the younger man had never felt so alive.
Author: Viktoria Angelique
Email: viktoria_angelique@hotmail.com
Rating: NC-17 for series, PG for this part
Pairing: Elijah/Viggo
Warnings: BDSM overall, none this chapter
Disclaimer: If this were true the world might be a better place.
Feedback: I love it!
Summary: The morning after.
A/N: You're all going to kill me for making this so short. But I promise the next part is longer, sexier, and even a bit angsty for those of you who like that.
Previous Chapters
The next morning, Elijah woke with a smile on his face. The smile was tempered, slightly, when he realised he was in Viggo’s bed alone, but when he strained his ears he could just barely hear bits of what sounded like classical guitar, and surmised that Viggo was up early, listening to his eccentric CD collection and doing whatever it is a crazy artist does when he has the day off.
Elijah stretched lazily, noting the slight pull in his muscles from the previous evening’s activities and, when he sat up completely, grimacing slightly at a twinge in his nether regions. He rolled out of bed gingerly and took a survey of the room, large but not imposing, giving off a sort of cosy feel. The furniture was all mahogany, and the bedspread was a deep wine colour, a shade that made Elijah feel quite luxurious as he folded the fabric back neatly against the headboard. He noted the ornate wooden bedposts, and smiled at the possibilities there before sliding to his feet, shivering a bit at the cold hard wood and sliding on the too-big lamb’s wool slippers he found peeking out from underneath the bed. He had slept in his shorts, and having no other clothing options, slid on a robe of Viggo’s, a comfortable dark green silk whose shade matched the floor-length velvet curtains on the bedroom perfectly. Elijah briefly wondered if this was intentional, but even an artist was unlikely to match his robe to his curtains, and an eccentric such as Viggo probably even less likely.
Elijah smiled to himself as he pulled the curtains back, tying them off with lengths of gold rope that were hooked to the window frames, and squinted slightly at the bright sunshine coming in. Nearly noon, then, from the position of the sun in the sky, and Elijah noted the slight rumbling of his stomach as he headed for the bathroom to wash up and brush his teeth.
Viggo’s kitchen was much more haphazard, a few dishes still left unwashed from the previous evening, cabinets organized by no fashion logical to the average human being. Elijah scrubbed the remaining dishes and put them away as he waited for coffee to brew, knowing that if Viggo was in his studio he had necessarily lost all sense of time and space, and accordingly would be likely to forget mealtimes. He found a limited number of edible items in the pantry, but decided to settle for hummus on wheat toast, a relatively simple meal, and even put some sliced tomatoes and parsley atop his creation. Rooting around in the lower cabinets, he found a large wooden tea tray and laid it out with two cups of Viggo’s favourite Brazilian coffee, a pint carton of cream, the sandwiches, and a handful of napkins.
When Elijah re-emerged upstairs, he found that the source of the music was indeed Viggo’s studio, and the tune of choice had now changed to a cello sonata. The wistful legato of the instrument, however, matched imperfectly with Viggo’s expression, a rare contented smile that widened when he finally registered Elijah’s presence, the tray lowering magically between him and his easel where he sat in the centre of the small room, back to the door.
“Good morning,” Elijah announced with a smile, dropping a kiss on Viggo’s cheek and waiting for him to set down his brush and take coffee and sandwich plate before bringing his own lunch over to a spare stool.
“Good morning yourself. I hope the music didn’t wake you?”
“Not at all. I slept wonderfully,” Elijah added, drawing out his smile to be sure Viggo caught the reason for his peaceful slumber. Viggo just returned the smile and lifted his coffee mug to Elijah as if in a toast, sipping thoughtfully as he contemplated his canvas.
“I’m working on a new piece,” he stated unnecessarily, as the canvas was still half-white and the painting had yet to take any real form. What existed so far were a few swipes of yellow in various shades, tempered by a few splotches of mottled brown and green.
“I see that,” Elijah commented unnecessarily, balancing the tray on his knees and taking a bite of sandwich. “Does it represent anything, or…?” Elijah trailed off, feeling inadequate when it came to discussing art, but Viggo didn’t seem to resent his ignorance.
“It’s a feeling I had when I woke up this morning. It was….well, it was a kind of restfulness that I haven’t felt in a long time,” Viggo admitted. “I wanted to commit it to paper before I forgot.”
“Oh.” Elijah paused a moment, staring out the small picture window as he considered. “Do you do that a lot? Paint because you’re afraid of losing something, I mean?” Viggo shifted on his stool, fixing Elijah with a very direct look, and for a moment Elijah thought he had said too much, but Viggo’s expression wasn’t one of anger, but rather of appraisal.
“I think that may be part of it,” Viggo agreed, setting his food on an end table as he dipped a brush in burgundy-coloured paint. “Art can be a powerful tool to capture emotion, the emotion of a moment. Every emotion is a bit different, so yes, I suppose once the moment is gone you can lose the emotion, if no effort is made to capture it.” Viggo paused, swiped the brush across the page as if on impulse, and then smiled over the easel at Elijah. “The artist’s tools are imperfect, though. I’ve never made a work of art that I felt quite did justice to the memory,” Viggo admitted, and Elijah almost felt sorry for him in that moment. The confession made him feel pity for the older man, though perhaps pity was not the appropriate emotion, as Viggo had seen so many more moons and felt such a wider range of emotions than Elijah ever had. How can one pity that which he does not fully understand? Still, Elijah felt a pang of something, perhaps illogical but nonetheless true, and he sat his tray down gently on the ground before stepping over to Viggo’s stool, his jaw set in determination.
“I see something beautiful in you,” Elijah stated simply, cupping Viggo’s chin in one hand, his thumb tracing the bearded jaw as if to memorize its contour. “If you don’t capture what you want to in your artwork, well…maybe you at least capture that.”
Viggo gave Elijah an unreadable look at first, almost of shock or bewilderment, but then smiled and reached up with one paint-stained hand, caressing Elijah’s face and leaving a bold swipe of royal blue across his cheek. “You are wise beyond your years, my lovely little one,” Viggo whispered fondly, and though Elijah supposed he should feel indignant at the endearment, he was rather proud, smiling broadly at Viggo. For once, he felt, he had done something completely right. It was a good feeling.
“All right, Elijah,” Viggo announced suddenly, nearly upsetting a cup of murky water as he suddenly rose to his feet. “Today, we are going to live! What do you say to that? No sitting up here and trying to capture all my emotions on paper so that they don’t float away… today we’re going to experience them!” Viggo’s grin was wide, and Elijah found himself laughing in response, a laughter that was contagious as Viggo’s eyes brightened, leaning slightly on Elijah with a hand on his forearm as he burst into mirthful fits of glee himself. There was a madness in the moment, an utter madness that consumed them both, but it was giddy and it was right, and when Elijah spontaneously wrapped his arms around Viggo’s neck and pressed his forehead to Viggo’s sternum, still laughing as Viggo in turn nuzzled into Elijah’s hair, the younger man had never felt so alive.
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