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fellowshippers2004-05-19 06:54 pm
lilypossibly.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-05-19 06:54 pm
FIC: Viggo/Dave
Hello
**waves**
First time I have posted here, uhm , hope it's ok!!
Cheers now.
Cx .
Title : Dangerous (complete)
Rating: NC17
Pairing : Viggo/Dave
Summary : Viggo is King, but who is David Wenham?
Feedback : Oh, yes please!! Never written anything like this before.
Disclaimer : No offence is meant, not for financial gain, just a plot bunny that wouldn't go away.
There were certain things, certain truths that were universal, and in the middle of a freezing winter, on the set of this protracted, difficult movie one thing was damned to hell certain. He was the tortured soul. Him. He was the renaissance man, the poet, the drifter, he wore the scars, was dangerous, was the loner, he listened to Trent Reznor and he sure as hell knew where the singer was coming from and it wasn't merely from a fuck them at MTV they'll ban our video stance. It was from his soul. His fucked up bloody soul. Viggo was certain that he and Trent Reznor would get along. Hell, they would probably kill one another. In a good way.
Far above all this and more was another universal truth, he was the King. The King. And this didn’t have to be a truth universally acknowledged though he knew for sure it would be. Stuart Townsend, Stuart who? Exactly. He was the man who would be King. On and off set they all played their parts and he was the King. They sought his advice, they craved his distracted glance, crooked smile, revered him, adored him. The sum of their parts was that they worshipped him. It was as it should be. They all played so well. Orlando the ephemeral beauty, too fair and fragile to be bound by another, the strength and beauty of their fellowship. A compete slut yes, but a beautiful one, and everyone’s friend. Dom, Lij, Billy and Sean, funny, sweet, amusing, childlike, in awe of him. Exactly.
Bean. Now he was dangerous also, in his own way, for he was asking to be broken, to be bent out of shape and to be bought. Not that he would admit it, but neither would he ever stop. Which was fine because Viggo didn’t want him, so it was of no consequence. They were friends. Close friends. All was as it should be. If Bean got what he wanted, what Viggo would bet he acknowledged only in sweat slick moments with faceless women who never satisfied in their pliantness, then, albeit crookedly as it always was with him, they would be equals. But that wasn’t about to happen so it was fine.
The Fellowship played their parts, until he came along. Karl himself wasn’t the problem. Neither was the look of happiness on Dom’s face, the small pale palm clamped in the large brown one. Grey eyes meeting brown. That was fine. Right. Perfect even some might say, if they believed in that sort of thing. Dom had been nervous introducing Karl as his partner, there’d not been a reason for him to be, at least, none Viggo suspected then. And it had been right that Dom had told Viggo first, alone, should he wish to make it an issue. Which if course he didn’t because anyone could see the two of them were in love, at least that’s what Ian had told him and Ian seemed a good man to trust when it came to love. Better than him.
So Karl was admitted to their Fellowship but Karl didn’t come alone. Therein lay the problem.
Karl bought Dave along too.
David Wenham. David who? Exactly. Viggo supposed it was natural the two antipodeans clung together, sounding almost the same and all, but Dom had never asked if Dave could come along, Viggo suspected Dom wasn’t even aware that he would. That was the thing about Dave, he seemed inconsequential enough but he was dangerous. Viggo could see it, though it seemed no one else could.
Night after night Dave sat in the corner, spoke quietly to Bean, laughed with Karl, teased his friend about Dominic, drank swiftly, silently. The hobbits were barely aware he was there, he never impacted on them and Orlando thought the newcomer not handsome enough to tempt him. His confidence had been knocked somewhat by Karl preferring Dom to him, not that anyone other than Viggo noticed. Viggo noticed everything. He noticed Dave. The way his hand rested on the pint glass in front of him. The way the light played on his features, his hair a brilliant redgold, with a thousand unnamed hues. The unhurried sound of his laugh. The languorous drift of his gaze. The soft downy hair on his forearm, the strong hands that gestured intermittently. He noticed Dave was a loner, a drifter and Viggo knew sure as he was damned the man had scars, visible or no.
What Viggo failed to notice was that Dave watched him. When their eyes met the latter failed to drop the glance deferentially as was the norm, leaving Viggo forced to maintain the tenuous contact which singed his soul as much as had Dave been touching him everywhere, anywhere. Most times the look was broken by an interruption or, more unsettling still, the feeling that Dave was dismissing him somehow.
Viggo held court less, left earlier, avoided people more and though the Fellowship, and its attendees, missed him they were not surprised. They had known they would only hold his attention for a short while, he was what he was, a loner, a writer, they respected that. Except Dave.
Viggo wrote more, painted less, hiked into the solitary country as often as he could, was as self-sufficient as he had ever been. He missed Dave. Missed watching him, missed wanting him. He lamented that it was a son of a bitch to be self aware enough to realise it. Returned home exhausted late one night, forgot to turn on the lights, made do only with music, slumped on the sofa. Slept on the sofa. Never knowing Dave was in the room watching him. That he binned a particularly masochistic song on the stereo and allowed himself the briefest moment to rub the back of his knuckles up the rough cheek of the man asleep.
***
It had been a while. Weeks in fact. 6 weeks and 3 days if you wanted to be particularly accurate, but Viggo had gotton pretty good at being as far from accurate as Bean trying to shoot arrows in that time. Accuracy would hurt. Like Orli firing. Dead on, centre point, black hole in the middle of the target. In this case him. So, to recap, accuracy was a son of a bitch and better to exist solely in this miasma of colour and hue that was so elusive as to not even contemplate putting down on paper. Words were easier. Letters had form and lest they become articulate, god forbid they should be accurate, there was always two or three other languages one could drop into ensuring incomprehensibility. For there was no way he wanted to understand. Self awareness had gone out the window along with conversation, returning telephone calls and, truth be told speaking in general less scripted words in a movie that was dragging on and on and fucking on.
So, 6 weeks and 3 days since he’d been out with them but for some reason he could barely remember tonight was going to be different. Why? He was King, that was it. The King. They’d crowned him today, he’d walked down the steps, felt a flash of anger so fierce as to consume him as he saw Faramir smirking at him and bowing no less. In that instant he could have broken bones, rearranged those in that delicate skull so that recognition would be a distant memory. For the skull would be as delicate as all others when stripped bare, no matter the danger that lurked in the flesh and sinew wrapped so perfectly around. In the golden hair, the perfect symmetry of freckles, sun drenched skin, and fuck it all to hell that mouth. Fuck.
So he was going out, to the pub, and they would all be there, His subjects, subordinates and his fucking Steward. All of them.
The stereo roared in the house, rattling window panes, wooden floors and his tightly wound veins. He stepped from the shower where he had brutally relieved himself in the hope that it would make the evening easier to bare and pulled on an old pair of black jeans which hung dangerously low on his hips. He’d lost weight. He practically looked like Orli for fucks sake though there were no reddened finger prints marring hip bones as was usual with the younger man. Maybe if he looked like Orli it would help. He sneered at the thought. He added a long sleeve black top which was neither tight nor loose and which mostly met the waist band of his jeans. Mostly. Unconsciously he pulled the cuffs of the t shirt over his hands. It was only after he’d pulled on black boots and left the house he considered that he looked like a moody teenager heavily into the requisite goth faze who was trying to make a statement. But fuck it he felt like that, and horny as hell as he remembered being at 17, though this time that was due solely to one man and not to anything that had a pulse.
Viggo entered the pub, late, and was immediately hit by three hobbits bowling into him as such speed he was forced against the wooden doors with such impact he remembered instantly he was no longer 17. Which was why all of this was so fucking ridiculous.
Orli sauntered over, gaze drawn to the expanse of skin between t shirt and jeans. He looked up at Viggo, still struggling with Elijah and saw him as if for the first time. Lean. He was the tallest of the four who were now wrestling on the floor. Strong. He was winning. Sexy. There was something about the way his hair fell in his eyes. Orli heard Karl and Dave cheering from the corner but looked still at Viggo. Who looked, fragile. As if he could be broken. Green eyes met brown and looked instantly away. Definitely fragile, that had never happened before. Then Viggo laughed. A sound no one there had heard for many weeks and he stood up, meeting Orli’s gaze firmly this time and it was Orli who looked away. Their King was among them. Orli handed over Anduril to Viggo as had been planned and as the hobbits dragged him over to take a seat at the end of the bench where he always sat he didn’t notice that they began to form a line behind him. He was too busy staring at Dave who was following the others filing out from the opposite bench where they had been sitting. He didn’t hear the laughter of friends enjoying time well spent that echoed around him.
He felt a tap on his knee. Turned, saw nothing, and looked down to see Elijah on his knees in front of him. Noticed the line the rest of the cast made and got the point. Shaking his head, he picked up the sword from the table in front of him and gently knighted the man knelt before him.
‘Who are you?’ asked Elijah jumping up before Viggo had a change to answer.
As Billy knelt he asked ‘What about second breakfast?’
Dom was next, shaking his head ‘I don’t think he knows about second breakfast Pip.’
Sean shouted ‘I’ll have you longshanks!’ and the whole party collapsed into laughter once again.
Orli followed, of course, with ‘You’re late, you look terrible’ though his voice belied the words and his appreciative gaze was evident, as was the hand that lingered on Viggo’s knee and the subtle elongated tilt of his neck as he waited his turn to be knighted also.
Ian and John were missing so Bean was the last of the fellowship and he knelt awkwardly, refusing to meet Viggo’s gaze keeping things simple with ‘My captain, my King.’
Karl came next and Viggo didn’t quite know what to make of the muttered words which followed ‘Do not trust to hope, for it has forsaken these lands.’ For ‘but maybe not here’ could mean any number of things, some of which Viggo would never dare to hope for.
As Karl collapsed onto the bench opposite Viggo alongside those who hadn’t retired to the bar there was no one to notice Viggo’s face as Dave knelt before him. His grip on the sword threatened to shatter the steel and the other hand clenched his thigh as if it would otherwise threaten to reach out if it were not elsewhere engaged. Viggo enjoyed the pain of his nails digging into his flesh, tried not to enjoy the brief caress of Dave’s hand over the white of his knuckles, which retreated when Viggo shook his head. What Dave took as a refusal was only an attempt to dislodge the image in Viggo’s mind of exactly how he would like Dave on his knees before him.
He spoke before he was aware of it, and the question he formed held an accusatory tone, though was little above a whisper, each word forced beyond clamped teeth.
‘Why are you here?’
Dave looked up at him, and the bastard smiled. He smiled. And Viggo smiled back for an instant, but it became a grimace as he struggled with the nearness of the man before him, the scent, the shape, the images that threatened to fuse his brain forever and the fucking hard on which was going to castrate him any second now.
Dave spoke. And Viggo wondered how on earth he could have thought that he had ever sounded like Karl. Karl sounded harsh and untutored compared to the smooth honeyed tones that came from the perfectly shaped mouth before him, and he reflected it was the voice of Saruman who would put a spell on him. The voice of David Wenham. David who? If only.
‘You called me my King and I came.’ Dave smiled as he spoke the words.
Viggo couldn’t speak. Such a trite fucking answer which could mean anything, or everything or nothing. He got up, dropped the sword on to the floor. Went to the bar. Dave retrieved Anduril and left it on the table, shared a ‘whothefuckknows’ glance with Karl and sat down next to his friend.
It was a good evening. For the most part. Unusually Viggo got drunk, was vaguely aware that this was due mostly to Orli who seemed to be on a mission, but he went with it and as the night drew on the image of Dave on his knees faded slightly, in fact Dave himself seemed a long way off through the haze of alcohol and whirling colour that Viggo was cursed to see. Everyone congratulated him, everyone hugged him and he allowed it, grateful for the brief interlude of heat and friction against his body,which was screaming for release.
Later he found himself in the car park fending off an insistent Orli who seemed incapable of taking no for an answer. He was standing with his back against a wall, feeling warm hands under his t shirt, the urgent brush of cock on cock thinking maybe for the release it was worth it but as long fingered hands gripped his face and brown eyes met green words spilled out before he could stop them.
‘I don’t want you.’
Orli dropped him quicker than a hot coal, seemed not to be able to find words to answer him left him collapsed, defeated, unsated against the wall. Damn it to fuck how had that happened Viggo thought as he got up and stumbled home, blotting tears of frustration with one hand, and venting further on the walls he passed with the other so he arrived home, bruised, bloodied with a bitch of a headache and the overwhelming need to fuck David Wenham on every surface in his house.
No change there then.
Dave followed him, but Viggo never knew he was there.
***
For a moment, with carnage, battle and death on the horizon on a distant set, the reek of burning in the air, the pounding in his head, the sting and stretch of his bloodied hand, Viggo thought himself in hell. In fact it could well have been imagined by Dante and orchestrated by the devil himself. Viggo watched helplessly as the scene was reset yet again, his rapport with Orli was shot to shit today and the simple scene on the battlements of Edoras was taking a ridiculous amount of time to film completely disproportional to the scant number of lines they were required to say. He sighed, dragged one hand through his hair forgetting again the damage he had inflicted there in the early hours of the morning. He believed he had quite possibly broken bones and the thought of picking up a sword later in the day, albeit in the scene concerned only a dagger, was enough almost to make him stagger though he kept upright as a King was wont to do.
Kings were also wont to tell little white lies for the sake of peace, he decided.
He walked slowly over to where Orli sat, hunched over a steaming mug of coffee and gently placed a hand on either shoulder and crouched down behind him. He felt tension frisson along the younger man’s spine and his fingers massaged in small circles. He bent low enough to whisper
‘Don’t turn around, don’t say anything, just know that if I weren’t completely fucking consumed by him, I would be begging you to take me, hell Orli, I would be begging you to just look in my direction.’
The shoulders beneath his fingers relaxed slightly, and Orli reached up and squeezed the hand upon his right shoulder so tightly that Viggo could scarcely mask the pain nor respond when Orli muttered his thanks, and stood to pull him up by his injured hand and wrap him in a hug which was, thankfully, tight enough to brace Viggo from falling. His head swam with colours, white, bright lights punctured the incessantly swarming patterns and his skull gripped so tight he could do nothing but slump against the body holding him upright.
Orli was surprised at the total submission into his embrace and took it only as further proof of Viggo’s words. He smiled, confidence much restored, tangled his fingers in the man’s hair and brushed his groin purposefully against Viggo’s before leaving him standing alone, grinning as he passed Dave and Karl on their way to the catering truck. A taste of what you’re missing he thought.
They finally wrapped the scene in question before a technical hitch caused an early lunch for which Viggo gave thanks to every God, deity and icon he had ever heard of in every language he knew. He slowly made his way to the medics, snagged a tube of antiseptic in exchange for a signed photo and retreated as far from people as possible while still within earshot.
He collapsed beside a tree, eyes closed, head resting on bark. Maybe he slept for a few moments, maybe longer, but he was woken by someone examining his hand. Which hurt. A lot.
‘It’s just fine, just fucking leave it’ he muttered, reluctant to open his eyes for he was sure it was one of the medics who had followed him.
Then the hand clasping his own clenched into a fist, and his face went white and he gasped sharply. His head swam, eyes that had started to open closed again.
The two of them stayed thus for several moments, Viggo began to welcome the pain which lessened every other feeling. He could manage this, for it overwhelmed everything else, made it all unreal, David Wenham seemed so far away. He was aware of the pulse pounding in his throat, of the warm feeling of blood spilling on his fingers. The jagged feeling of torn flesh and the burning therein that reminded him of a tattooist’s needle beating its staccato pattern into his skin. Beneath, he felt the nerves twitching, the scrape of splintered bone on bone sweet sharp, then a twist of the fingers holding his made him cry out again, a sound that even to his own ears seemed more born of passion than of pain. He was unaware his frame had sagged limply against the tree, that his head fell back exposing his throat, that tears slid silently down his cheeks. He remained unmoved when his hand was released, and as the pain receded, other emotions came hurtling excruciatingly back into focus.
On the whole Viggo would have preferred the pain.
A voice frighteningly devoid of all emotion said
‘You’re cooking me dinner tonight, I’ll be there at 8. You can’t film with your hand like this’.
Viggo flinched more so from the words than from the earlier hurt, refusing to open his eyes for several seconds until he eventually watched Dave walking away from him without looking back.
Someone called them back to set. Viggo saw Dave talking to Miranda and it was announced his scene with her was cut for the day. She had, apparently, hurt her hand and could not grip the sword. Viggo spent the rest of the afternoon recording dialogue, being interviewed for the DVD’s he’d heard so much talk of, and running lines in Elvish with Liv and Hugo. His mind was on none of it, not even that beautiful language which normally soothed his soul. He left quickly, talking to no one though exchanged friendly grins with Orli which reassured him things were ok. Between them at least.
What the fuck was he going to cook?
That was his first thought as he entered the front door, that and that his hand still hurt. He was abruptly assailed by the desire for Dave to make it hurt as he had earlier.
Dave had held his hand.
This thought stopped him in his tracks. Then he looked at the clock and it was gone 6.30. He’d shower first he thought and so he did, relieving himself awkwardly with his left hand as he held the right to his cheek, he imagined he could almost catch a scent of Dave even in the tumbling water.
Cooking was an issue which made the decision over what to wear appear child’s play, he’d finally decided on old Levi’s and a surfy shirt Henry had bought him when he took up the sport. It was an Australian brand. Which couldn’t hurt.
7.45. Shit. Dinner, what the fuck was he going to cook. He yanked open the freezer door and found at the back a home made lasagne, made not by himself but by Liv, to prove a point which he couldn’t remember, and he quickly stuck it in the microwave to defrost. Turned on the oven, emptied the fridge of salad stuff which he was sure he could do.
He’d managed to tear apart the lettuce without too much trouble, toast a couple of slice of bread for croutons and stare helplessly at the peppers, onion, cucumber and mushrooms that needed cutting. The knife was no easier to hold than the dagger would have been. Left handed then. He did however successfully manage the transition of defrosted lasagne to the oven.
Doorbell. Damn it to fuck what the hell is he doing here. He’d consciously not thought about why Dave wanted dinner with him since the offer, hell know, the instruction had been made. He’d thought about Dave’s voice, the inscrutability of his words, the feel of a warm hand on his own, the sight and shape of his body, what Viggo wanted to do with every fibre of Dave’s soul, and of course, fucking him on every surface the house had to offer and then some.
Doorbell again. Fuck.
Viggo opened the door, started to speak but couldn’t. Dave looked beautiful. Too fucking beautiful to be let near him he decided and half heartedly went to shut the door upon which a booted foot stepped over the threshold and prevented him doing so. Fuck it, neither his heart nor head had been in it anyway.
‘Come in?’
And it sounded like a question, in fact it sounded like he was begging.
Dave walked through the door, brushing past Viggo, making his way instinctively to the kitchen where he sat at the bench, fumbled in drawers 'til he found a corkscrew and opened the bottle of red he’d bought along. Poured two glasses, passed one to Viggo who was trying, ineffectually, to chop salad at the counter and watched, impassively, while he struggled on.
Dave was watching Viggo’s hands. Beautiful hands. Artistic hands. That painted, that wrote, that hugged effusively when the need took him, that paddled out into the surf and now that seemed something less than they had been, that seemed wrong, that seemed damaged. Dave had watched Viggo relentlessly punching walls, fences, picking up and smashing glass on his way home and had been powerless to stop him. When he could bare watching no longer he made to move towards where Viggo stood but on focusing his eyes realised Viggo had finished the chore, the salad was in a wooden bowl, and he was returning his stare.
Dave stood up and walked slowly forward, hands jammed low in his pockets dragging down the waistband of his jeans and exposing skin which Viggo wanted to taste. As he got to the counter he held out one hand and Viggo offered his own damaged one in response and held his breath while Dave edged a nail into each laceration slowly yet surely. Dave shook his head as he watched Viggo’s eyes slide shut, as he felt him tremble. He let Viggo’s hand drop onto the counter and winced at the thud, he reached for the other hand and placed it along side, marvelling at the contrast of one perfect, the other the not. He walked around Viggo and smoothed his hands over the man’s shoulders and then reached around him, chest pressed to his back and began to unbutton the shirt until it fell open. Then he smoothed each palm up the plains of stomach and over hard nipples which he pinched mercilessly, feeling the trembling begin in the limbs he encircled. He removed his hands and pushed Viggo down onto the bench hard and fast so that his hands slid out from under him and his chin hit hard. He bit his tongue. Dave rubbed his groin against Viggo’s arse feeling the tremble in every part of the man below him. He thrust hard against him and then pulled Viggo by the hips back against him until he slammed him hard against the edge of the bench once more. A whimper moan escaped the man below him.
‘You want me to hurt you.’ Dave said quietly.
Intaken breath, sharp, a hiss between teeth and a whispered ‘yes’ was his response.
‘Get upstairs.’
Viggo got. Dave followed slowly and found Viggo waiting for him, standing at the foot of the bed, hesitating. Dave saw blood at the corner of his mouth, swallowed the need to caress the hurt and abruptly back handed him across the face. Viggo took the blow but turned slightly and Dave pushed him the rest of the way around so he was facing the bed. Dave was glad he could no longer see his face.
‘Take off your clothes.’
Viggo shrugged the shirt off his back letting it fall to the floor, Dave took a moment to admire the corded muscles, dormant beneath the skin, the beautiful line of shoulder blade, the v shaped musculature at the base of his spine and watched Viggo drop his jeans to the floor. He took a deep breath, carelessly dropped to the floor the knife he had picked up from the kitchen, saw Viggo glance down instinctively at it.
‘Clothes. Off. Now.’
A moment of time standing still, Viggo needing, Dave wiping tears from his cheek before the moment exploded about them once again.
A hiss of breath through dry lips, Viggo removing his boxers, Dave retrieving the knife while brushing against the man in front of him. Slip slide of the sharp blade from base of neck to base of spine. Trail of blood, spot by spot, marking the path the knife had taken. Another nail down edges of a wound. Viggo was shaking incessantly now, could not hold still, screaming on the inside for Dave to take him, fill him, use him, obliterate him. Knife discarded, Dave using both hands to push Viggo onto the bed in front of him, removing his own clothes, climbing behind Viggo on the bed, hands clamping hips and pulling him to all fours, a knee inserted between thighs, pushing them apart. Reaching round, finding Viggo’s cock, rock hard and weeping and wanking him roughly. The front of his thighs against the back of Viggo’s, pushing his head down onto the bed, pulling his arms behind him, holding both wrists in one hand. Wrenching arms as high as they would go, forcing Viggo’s ass higher off the bed, bending forward, licking a trail of bloodied skin leading to the darkened cleft below and tonguing it ruthlessly.
Viggo was begging now, a broken sound of words tumbling over one another, incoherent, meaningless.
‘You want me to hurt you, don’t you?’ Dave fought to keep his voice steady.
Fingers shoved roughly inside Viggo made him cry out, a sound born of passion, not of pain. Viggo came as soon as they were inside him, Dave felt him clench then tremble around his fingers, heard the man begin to cry. Dave slicked himself and then held his own cock at the entrance to Viggo’s ass.
The lube was cool against Viggo, comforting almost, and Dave felt the aftershocks of his orgasm and the tears he cried as he gripped the man’s hips tightly.
Dave waited. Waited for the violent shaking of the man beneath him to subside, waited for the tears to dry, waited for Viggo to push himself up on his hands and turn his head to see Dave looking calmly at him, the gentle tremor in his hands the only thing belying the tension in his body. The twitch of one little finger absently stroking gently the tender skin below, calming, quieting, comforting.
Viggo moved away, Dave breathed a sign of relief and sat back on his heels, Viggo turned to him slowly. Knelt opposite him and gingerly reached a hand to trace Dave’s cheek.
‘I don’t want you to hurt me, I want you…..I want you to love me.’
Finally Dave smiled. At him.
‘Thank fuck for that’ he said and lent forward, closing the gap between them and gently kissed Viggo on the mouth.
Later, had Viggo been asked to describe that first kiss he would have said bliss. Or comfort. Or homecoming.
Had he been asked to describe the second he would have said beyond sin.
Much later Dave watched Viggo sleep, enjoyed the feel of their entangled limbs, the arm slung over his chest, the way soft brown hair felt beneath his hand, and he simply loved.
Much later still, Viggo did the same.
***The End***
**waves**
First time I have posted here, uhm , hope it's ok!!
Cheers now.
Cx .
Title : Dangerous (complete)
Rating: NC17
Pairing : Viggo/Dave
Summary : Viggo is King, but who is David Wenham?
Feedback : Oh, yes please!! Never written anything like this before.
Disclaimer : No offence is meant, not for financial gain, just a plot bunny that wouldn't go away.
There were certain things, certain truths that were universal, and in the middle of a freezing winter, on the set of this protracted, difficult movie one thing was damned to hell certain. He was the tortured soul. Him. He was the renaissance man, the poet, the drifter, he wore the scars, was dangerous, was the loner, he listened to Trent Reznor and he sure as hell knew where the singer was coming from and it wasn't merely from a fuck them at MTV they'll ban our video stance. It was from his soul. His fucked up bloody soul. Viggo was certain that he and Trent Reznor would get along. Hell, they would probably kill one another. In a good way.
Far above all this and more was another universal truth, he was the King. The King. And this didn’t have to be a truth universally acknowledged though he knew for sure it would be. Stuart Townsend, Stuart who? Exactly. He was the man who would be King. On and off set they all played their parts and he was the King. They sought his advice, they craved his distracted glance, crooked smile, revered him, adored him. The sum of their parts was that they worshipped him. It was as it should be. They all played so well. Orlando the ephemeral beauty, too fair and fragile to be bound by another, the strength and beauty of their fellowship. A compete slut yes, but a beautiful one, and everyone’s friend. Dom, Lij, Billy and Sean, funny, sweet, amusing, childlike, in awe of him. Exactly.
Bean. Now he was dangerous also, in his own way, for he was asking to be broken, to be bent out of shape and to be bought. Not that he would admit it, but neither would he ever stop. Which was fine because Viggo didn’t want him, so it was of no consequence. They were friends. Close friends. All was as it should be. If Bean got what he wanted, what Viggo would bet he acknowledged only in sweat slick moments with faceless women who never satisfied in their pliantness, then, albeit crookedly as it always was with him, they would be equals. But that wasn’t about to happen so it was fine.
The Fellowship played their parts, until he came along. Karl himself wasn’t the problem. Neither was the look of happiness on Dom’s face, the small pale palm clamped in the large brown one. Grey eyes meeting brown. That was fine. Right. Perfect even some might say, if they believed in that sort of thing. Dom had been nervous introducing Karl as his partner, there’d not been a reason for him to be, at least, none Viggo suspected then. And it had been right that Dom had told Viggo first, alone, should he wish to make it an issue. Which if course he didn’t because anyone could see the two of them were in love, at least that’s what Ian had told him and Ian seemed a good man to trust when it came to love. Better than him.
So Karl was admitted to their Fellowship but Karl didn’t come alone. Therein lay the problem.
Karl bought Dave along too.
David Wenham. David who? Exactly. Viggo supposed it was natural the two antipodeans clung together, sounding almost the same and all, but Dom had never asked if Dave could come along, Viggo suspected Dom wasn’t even aware that he would. That was the thing about Dave, he seemed inconsequential enough but he was dangerous. Viggo could see it, though it seemed no one else could.
Night after night Dave sat in the corner, spoke quietly to Bean, laughed with Karl, teased his friend about Dominic, drank swiftly, silently. The hobbits were barely aware he was there, he never impacted on them and Orlando thought the newcomer not handsome enough to tempt him. His confidence had been knocked somewhat by Karl preferring Dom to him, not that anyone other than Viggo noticed. Viggo noticed everything. He noticed Dave. The way his hand rested on the pint glass in front of him. The way the light played on his features, his hair a brilliant redgold, with a thousand unnamed hues. The unhurried sound of his laugh. The languorous drift of his gaze. The soft downy hair on his forearm, the strong hands that gestured intermittently. He noticed Dave was a loner, a drifter and Viggo knew sure as he was damned the man had scars, visible or no.
What Viggo failed to notice was that Dave watched him. When their eyes met the latter failed to drop the glance deferentially as was the norm, leaving Viggo forced to maintain the tenuous contact which singed his soul as much as had Dave been touching him everywhere, anywhere. Most times the look was broken by an interruption or, more unsettling still, the feeling that Dave was dismissing him somehow.
Viggo held court less, left earlier, avoided people more and though the Fellowship, and its attendees, missed him they were not surprised. They had known they would only hold his attention for a short while, he was what he was, a loner, a writer, they respected that. Except Dave.
Viggo wrote more, painted less, hiked into the solitary country as often as he could, was as self-sufficient as he had ever been. He missed Dave. Missed watching him, missed wanting him. He lamented that it was a son of a bitch to be self aware enough to realise it. Returned home exhausted late one night, forgot to turn on the lights, made do only with music, slumped on the sofa. Slept on the sofa. Never knowing Dave was in the room watching him. That he binned a particularly masochistic song on the stereo and allowed himself the briefest moment to rub the back of his knuckles up the rough cheek of the man asleep.
***
It had been a while. Weeks in fact. 6 weeks and 3 days if you wanted to be particularly accurate, but Viggo had gotton pretty good at being as far from accurate as Bean trying to shoot arrows in that time. Accuracy would hurt. Like Orli firing. Dead on, centre point, black hole in the middle of the target. In this case him. So, to recap, accuracy was a son of a bitch and better to exist solely in this miasma of colour and hue that was so elusive as to not even contemplate putting down on paper. Words were easier. Letters had form and lest they become articulate, god forbid they should be accurate, there was always two or three other languages one could drop into ensuring incomprehensibility. For there was no way he wanted to understand. Self awareness had gone out the window along with conversation, returning telephone calls and, truth be told speaking in general less scripted words in a movie that was dragging on and on and fucking on.
So, 6 weeks and 3 days since he’d been out with them but for some reason he could barely remember tonight was going to be different. Why? He was King, that was it. The King. They’d crowned him today, he’d walked down the steps, felt a flash of anger so fierce as to consume him as he saw Faramir smirking at him and bowing no less. In that instant he could have broken bones, rearranged those in that delicate skull so that recognition would be a distant memory. For the skull would be as delicate as all others when stripped bare, no matter the danger that lurked in the flesh and sinew wrapped so perfectly around. In the golden hair, the perfect symmetry of freckles, sun drenched skin, and fuck it all to hell that mouth. Fuck.
So he was going out, to the pub, and they would all be there, His subjects, subordinates and his fucking Steward. All of them.
The stereo roared in the house, rattling window panes, wooden floors and his tightly wound veins. He stepped from the shower where he had brutally relieved himself in the hope that it would make the evening easier to bare and pulled on an old pair of black jeans which hung dangerously low on his hips. He’d lost weight. He practically looked like Orli for fucks sake though there were no reddened finger prints marring hip bones as was usual with the younger man. Maybe if he looked like Orli it would help. He sneered at the thought. He added a long sleeve black top which was neither tight nor loose and which mostly met the waist band of his jeans. Mostly. Unconsciously he pulled the cuffs of the t shirt over his hands. It was only after he’d pulled on black boots and left the house he considered that he looked like a moody teenager heavily into the requisite goth faze who was trying to make a statement. But fuck it he felt like that, and horny as hell as he remembered being at 17, though this time that was due solely to one man and not to anything that had a pulse.
Viggo entered the pub, late, and was immediately hit by three hobbits bowling into him as such speed he was forced against the wooden doors with such impact he remembered instantly he was no longer 17. Which was why all of this was so fucking ridiculous.
Orli sauntered over, gaze drawn to the expanse of skin between t shirt and jeans. He looked up at Viggo, still struggling with Elijah and saw him as if for the first time. Lean. He was the tallest of the four who were now wrestling on the floor. Strong. He was winning. Sexy. There was something about the way his hair fell in his eyes. Orli heard Karl and Dave cheering from the corner but looked still at Viggo. Who looked, fragile. As if he could be broken. Green eyes met brown and looked instantly away. Definitely fragile, that had never happened before. Then Viggo laughed. A sound no one there had heard for many weeks and he stood up, meeting Orli’s gaze firmly this time and it was Orli who looked away. Their King was among them. Orli handed over Anduril to Viggo as had been planned and as the hobbits dragged him over to take a seat at the end of the bench where he always sat he didn’t notice that they began to form a line behind him. He was too busy staring at Dave who was following the others filing out from the opposite bench where they had been sitting. He didn’t hear the laughter of friends enjoying time well spent that echoed around him.
He felt a tap on his knee. Turned, saw nothing, and looked down to see Elijah on his knees in front of him. Noticed the line the rest of the cast made and got the point. Shaking his head, he picked up the sword from the table in front of him and gently knighted the man knelt before him.
‘Who are you?’ asked Elijah jumping up before Viggo had a change to answer.
As Billy knelt he asked ‘What about second breakfast?’
Dom was next, shaking his head ‘I don’t think he knows about second breakfast Pip.’
Sean shouted ‘I’ll have you longshanks!’ and the whole party collapsed into laughter once again.
Orli followed, of course, with ‘You’re late, you look terrible’ though his voice belied the words and his appreciative gaze was evident, as was the hand that lingered on Viggo’s knee and the subtle elongated tilt of his neck as he waited his turn to be knighted also.
Ian and John were missing so Bean was the last of the fellowship and he knelt awkwardly, refusing to meet Viggo’s gaze keeping things simple with ‘My captain, my King.’
Karl came next and Viggo didn’t quite know what to make of the muttered words which followed ‘Do not trust to hope, for it has forsaken these lands.’ For ‘but maybe not here’ could mean any number of things, some of which Viggo would never dare to hope for.
As Karl collapsed onto the bench opposite Viggo alongside those who hadn’t retired to the bar there was no one to notice Viggo’s face as Dave knelt before him. His grip on the sword threatened to shatter the steel and the other hand clenched his thigh as if it would otherwise threaten to reach out if it were not elsewhere engaged. Viggo enjoyed the pain of his nails digging into his flesh, tried not to enjoy the brief caress of Dave’s hand over the white of his knuckles, which retreated when Viggo shook his head. What Dave took as a refusal was only an attempt to dislodge the image in Viggo’s mind of exactly how he would like Dave on his knees before him.
He spoke before he was aware of it, and the question he formed held an accusatory tone, though was little above a whisper, each word forced beyond clamped teeth.
‘Why are you here?’
Dave looked up at him, and the bastard smiled. He smiled. And Viggo smiled back for an instant, but it became a grimace as he struggled with the nearness of the man before him, the scent, the shape, the images that threatened to fuse his brain forever and the fucking hard on which was going to castrate him any second now.
Dave spoke. And Viggo wondered how on earth he could have thought that he had ever sounded like Karl. Karl sounded harsh and untutored compared to the smooth honeyed tones that came from the perfectly shaped mouth before him, and he reflected it was the voice of Saruman who would put a spell on him. The voice of David Wenham. David who? If only.
‘You called me my King and I came.’ Dave smiled as he spoke the words.
Viggo couldn’t speak. Such a trite fucking answer which could mean anything, or everything or nothing. He got up, dropped the sword on to the floor. Went to the bar. Dave retrieved Anduril and left it on the table, shared a ‘whothefuckknows’ glance with Karl and sat down next to his friend.
It was a good evening. For the most part. Unusually Viggo got drunk, was vaguely aware that this was due mostly to Orli who seemed to be on a mission, but he went with it and as the night drew on the image of Dave on his knees faded slightly, in fact Dave himself seemed a long way off through the haze of alcohol and whirling colour that Viggo was cursed to see. Everyone congratulated him, everyone hugged him and he allowed it, grateful for the brief interlude of heat and friction against his body,which was screaming for release.
Later he found himself in the car park fending off an insistent Orli who seemed incapable of taking no for an answer. He was standing with his back against a wall, feeling warm hands under his t shirt, the urgent brush of cock on cock thinking maybe for the release it was worth it but as long fingered hands gripped his face and brown eyes met green words spilled out before he could stop them.
‘I don’t want you.’
Orli dropped him quicker than a hot coal, seemed not to be able to find words to answer him left him collapsed, defeated, unsated against the wall. Damn it to fuck how had that happened Viggo thought as he got up and stumbled home, blotting tears of frustration with one hand, and venting further on the walls he passed with the other so he arrived home, bruised, bloodied with a bitch of a headache and the overwhelming need to fuck David Wenham on every surface in his house.
No change there then.
Dave followed him, but Viggo never knew he was there.
***
For a moment, with carnage, battle and death on the horizon on a distant set, the reek of burning in the air, the pounding in his head, the sting and stretch of his bloodied hand, Viggo thought himself in hell. In fact it could well have been imagined by Dante and orchestrated by the devil himself. Viggo watched helplessly as the scene was reset yet again, his rapport with Orli was shot to shit today and the simple scene on the battlements of Edoras was taking a ridiculous amount of time to film completely disproportional to the scant number of lines they were required to say. He sighed, dragged one hand through his hair forgetting again the damage he had inflicted there in the early hours of the morning. He believed he had quite possibly broken bones and the thought of picking up a sword later in the day, albeit in the scene concerned only a dagger, was enough almost to make him stagger though he kept upright as a King was wont to do.
Kings were also wont to tell little white lies for the sake of peace, he decided.
He walked slowly over to where Orli sat, hunched over a steaming mug of coffee and gently placed a hand on either shoulder and crouched down behind him. He felt tension frisson along the younger man’s spine and his fingers massaged in small circles. He bent low enough to whisper
‘Don’t turn around, don’t say anything, just know that if I weren’t completely fucking consumed by him, I would be begging you to take me, hell Orli, I would be begging you to just look in my direction.’
The shoulders beneath his fingers relaxed slightly, and Orli reached up and squeezed the hand upon his right shoulder so tightly that Viggo could scarcely mask the pain nor respond when Orli muttered his thanks, and stood to pull him up by his injured hand and wrap him in a hug which was, thankfully, tight enough to brace Viggo from falling. His head swam with colours, white, bright lights punctured the incessantly swarming patterns and his skull gripped so tight he could do nothing but slump against the body holding him upright.
Orli was surprised at the total submission into his embrace and took it only as further proof of Viggo’s words. He smiled, confidence much restored, tangled his fingers in the man’s hair and brushed his groin purposefully against Viggo’s before leaving him standing alone, grinning as he passed Dave and Karl on their way to the catering truck. A taste of what you’re missing he thought.
They finally wrapped the scene in question before a technical hitch caused an early lunch for which Viggo gave thanks to every God, deity and icon he had ever heard of in every language he knew. He slowly made his way to the medics, snagged a tube of antiseptic in exchange for a signed photo and retreated as far from people as possible while still within earshot.
He collapsed beside a tree, eyes closed, head resting on bark. Maybe he slept for a few moments, maybe longer, but he was woken by someone examining his hand. Which hurt. A lot.
‘It’s just fine, just fucking leave it’ he muttered, reluctant to open his eyes for he was sure it was one of the medics who had followed him.
Then the hand clasping his own clenched into a fist, and his face went white and he gasped sharply. His head swam, eyes that had started to open closed again.
The two of them stayed thus for several moments, Viggo began to welcome the pain which lessened every other feeling. He could manage this, for it overwhelmed everything else, made it all unreal, David Wenham seemed so far away. He was aware of the pulse pounding in his throat, of the warm feeling of blood spilling on his fingers. The jagged feeling of torn flesh and the burning therein that reminded him of a tattooist’s needle beating its staccato pattern into his skin. Beneath, he felt the nerves twitching, the scrape of splintered bone on bone sweet sharp, then a twist of the fingers holding his made him cry out again, a sound that even to his own ears seemed more born of passion than of pain. He was unaware his frame had sagged limply against the tree, that his head fell back exposing his throat, that tears slid silently down his cheeks. He remained unmoved when his hand was released, and as the pain receded, other emotions came hurtling excruciatingly back into focus.
On the whole Viggo would have preferred the pain.
A voice frighteningly devoid of all emotion said
‘You’re cooking me dinner tonight, I’ll be there at 8. You can’t film with your hand like this’.
Viggo flinched more so from the words than from the earlier hurt, refusing to open his eyes for several seconds until he eventually watched Dave walking away from him without looking back.
Someone called them back to set. Viggo saw Dave talking to Miranda and it was announced his scene with her was cut for the day. She had, apparently, hurt her hand and could not grip the sword. Viggo spent the rest of the afternoon recording dialogue, being interviewed for the DVD’s he’d heard so much talk of, and running lines in Elvish with Liv and Hugo. His mind was on none of it, not even that beautiful language which normally soothed his soul. He left quickly, talking to no one though exchanged friendly grins with Orli which reassured him things were ok. Between them at least.
What the fuck was he going to cook?
That was his first thought as he entered the front door, that and that his hand still hurt. He was abruptly assailed by the desire for Dave to make it hurt as he had earlier.
Dave had held his hand.
This thought stopped him in his tracks. Then he looked at the clock and it was gone 6.30. He’d shower first he thought and so he did, relieving himself awkwardly with his left hand as he held the right to his cheek, he imagined he could almost catch a scent of Dave even in the tumbling water.
Cooking was an issue which made the decision over what to wear appear child’s play, he’d finally decided on old Levi’s and a surfy shirt Henry had bought him when he took up the sport. It was an Australian brand. Which couldn’t hurt.
7.45. Shit. Dinner, what the fuck was he going to cook. He yanked open the freezer door and found at the back a home made lasagne, made not by himself but by Liv, to prove a point which he couldn’t remember, and he quickly stuck it in the microwave to defrost. Turned on the oven, emptied the fridge of salad stuff which he was sure he could do.
He’d managed to tear apart the lettuce without too much trouble, toast a couple of slice of bread for croutons and stare helplessly at the peppers, onion, cucumber and mushrooms that needed cutting. The knife was no easier to hold than the dagger would have been. Left handed then. He did however successfully manage the transition of defrosted lasagne to the oven.
Doorbell. Damn it to fuck what the hell is he doing here. He’d consciously not thought about why Dave wanted dinner with him since the offer, hell know, the instruction had been made. He’d thought about Dave’s voice, the inscrutability of his words, the feel of a warm hand on his own, the sight and shape of his body, what Viggo wanted to do with every fibre of Dave’s soul, and of course, fucking him on every surface the house had to offer and then some.
Doorbell again. Fuck.
Viggo opened the door, started to speak but couldn’t. Dave looked beautiful. Too fucking beautiful to be let near him he decided and half heartedly went to shut the door upon which a booted foot stepped over the threshold and prevented him doing so. Fuck it, neither his heart nor head had been in it anyway.
‘Come in?’
And it sounded like a question, in fact it sounded like he was begging.
Dave walked through the door, brushing past Viggo, making his way instinctively to the kitchen where he sat at the bench, fumbled in drawers 'til he found a corkscrew and opened the bottle of red he’d bought along. Poured two glasses, passed one to Viggo who was trying, ineffectually, to chop salad at the counter and watched, impassively, while he struggled on.
Dave was watching Viggo’s hands. Beautiful hands. Artistic hands. That painted, that wrote, that hugged effusively when the need took him, that paddled out into the surf and now that seemed something less than they had been, that seemed wrong, that seemed damaged. Dave had watched Viggo relentlessly punching walls, fences, picking up and smashing glass on his way home and had been powerless to stop him. When he could bare watching no longer he made to move towards where Viggo stood but on focusing his eyes realised Viggo had finished the chore, the salad was in a wooden bowl, and he was returning his stare.
Dave stood up and walked slowly forward, hands jammed low in his pockets dragging down the waistband of his jeans and exposing skin which Viggo wanted to taste. As he got to the counter he held out one hand and Viggo offered his own damaged one in response and held his breath while Dave edged a nail into each laceration slowly yet surely. Dave shook his head as he watched Viggo’s eyes slide shut, as he felt him tremble. He let Viggo’s hand drop onto the counter and winced at the thud, he reached for the other hand and placed it along side, marvelling at the contrast of one perfect, the other the not. He walked around Viggo and smoothed his hands over the man’s shoulders and then reached around him, chest pressed to his back and began to unbutton the shirt until it fell open. Then he smoothed each palm up the plains of stomach and over hard nipples which he pinched mercilessly, feeling the trembling begin in the limbs he encircled. He removed his hands and pushed Viggo down onto the bench hard and fast so that his hands slid out from under him and his chin hit hard. He bit his tongue. Dave rubbed his groin against Viggo’s arse feeling the tremble in every part of the man below him. He thrust hard against him and then pulled Viggo by the hips back against him until he slammed him hard against the edge of the bench once more. A whimper moan escaped the man below him.
‘You want me to hurt you.’ Dave said quietly.
Intaken breath, sharp, a hiss between teeth and a whispered ‘yes’ was his response.
‘Get upstairs.’
Viggo got. Dave followed slowly and found Viggo waiting for him, standing at the foot of the bed, hesitating. Dave saw blood at the corner of his mouth, swallowed the need to caress the hurt and abruptly back handed him across the face. Viggo took the blow but turned slightly and Dave pushed him the rest of the way around so he was facing the bed. Dave was glad he could no longer see his face.
‘Take off your clothes.’
Viggo shrugged the shirt off his back letting it fall to the floor, Dave took a moment to admire the corded muscles, dormant beneath the skin, the beautiful line of shoulder blade, the v shaped musculature at the base of his spine and watched Viggo drop his jeans to the floor. He took a deep breath, carelessly dropped to the floor the knife he had picked up from the kitchen, saw Viggo glance down instinctively at it.
‘Clothes. Off. Now.’
A moment of time standing still, Viggo needing, Dave wiping tears from his cheek before the moment exploded about them once again.
A hiss of breath through dry lips, Viggo removing his boxers, Dave retrieving the knife while brushing against the man in front of him. Slip slide of the sharp blade from base of neck to base of spine. Trail of blood, spot by spot, marking the path the knife had taken. Another nail down edges of a wound. Viggo was shaking incessantly now, could not hold still, screaming on the inside for Dave to take him, fill him, use him, obliterate him. Knife discarded, Dave using both hands to push Viggo onto the bed in front of him, removing his own clothes, climbing behind Viggo on the bed, hands clamping hips and pulling him to all fours, a knee inserted between thighs, pushing them apart. Reaching round, finding Viggo’s cock, rock hard and weeping and wanking him roughly. The front of his thighs against the back of Viggo’s, pushing his head down onto the bed, pulling his arms behind him, holding both wrists in one hand. Wrenching arms as high as they would go, forcing Viggo’s ass higher off the bed, bending forward, licking a trail of bloodied skin leading to the darkened cleft below and tonguing it ruthlessly.
Viggo was begging now, a broken sound of words tumbling over one another, incoherent, meaningless.
‘You want me to hurt you, don’t you?’ Dave fought to keep his voice steady.
Fingers shoved roughly inside Viggo made him cry out, a sound born of passion, not of pain. Viggo came as soon as they were inside him, Dave felt him clench then tremble around his fingers, heard the man begin to cry. Dave slicked himself and then held his own cock at the entrance to Viggo’s ass.
The lube was cool against Viggo, comforting almost, and Dave felt the aftershocks of his orgasm and the tears he cried as he gripped the man’s hips tightly.
Dave waited. Waited for the violent shaking of the man beneath him to subside, waited for the tears to dry, waited for Viggo to push himself up on his hands and turn his head to see Dave looking calmly at him, the gentle tremor in his hands the only thing belying the tension in his body. The twitch of one little finger absently stroking gently the tender skin below, calming, quieting, comforting.
Viggo moved away, Dave breathed a sign of relief and sat back on his heels, Viggo turned to him slowly. Knelt opposite him and gingerly reached a hand to trace Dave’s cheek.
‘I don’t want you to hurt me, I want you…..I want you to love me.’
Finally Dave smiled. At him.
‘Thank fuck for that’ he said and lent forward, closing the gap between them and gently kissed Viggo on the mouth.
Later, had Viggo been asked to describe that first kiss he would have said bliss. Or comfort. Or homecoming.
Had he been asked to describe the second he would have said beyond sin.
Much later Dave watched Viggo sleep, enjoyed the feel of their entangled limbs, the arm slung over his chest, the way soft brown hair felt beneath his hand, and he simply loved.
Much later still, Viggo did the same.
***The End***