"Inspiration." LOTR RPS. NC-17. SB/VM.
Title: "Inspiration"
Author: Barbara savageseraph
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: SB/VM
Disclaimer: Never happed. All a product of my twisted imagination
Summary: Sean gardens. Viggo watches and wants.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Comments: Written for contrelamontre. An improv fic with the following guidelines: Write a story that starts with the following line: Even watching him felt like being a voyeur. Pronoun and tense can be altered. The time limit is 45 minutes.
Also written for Gardening!Bean challenge (with extra points for also including Artistic!Viggo) and cross posted to sons_of_gondor. This one is all for my Wicked Sister of the North caras_galadhon.
Inspiration
Even watching you feels like being a voyeur.
Viggo wrote the words in his sketchbook, drew coils of ivy around and between them until the letters themselves seemed to be peeping out from a tangle of wild greenery. He was supposed to be here, at Sean's, because he was too acquainted with the view from his own apartment to want to draw or photograph it. He needed a change of venue to inspire his muses.
As his eyes moved over Sean, Viggo had to admit that he was inspired. He shifted in his chair, easing his legs apart just a little to seek relief from jeans grown far too tight in the crotch. Definitely inspired. A shame it wasn't for making art.
An even greater shame that Sean was unaware of his inspiration.
Viggo learned early that his friend was devoted to the things he loved, and he loved gardening. When Sean talked about snapdragons and shrubs, about planting and harvesting, about coaxing along crops of strawberries and red currents, his voice lost its awkward pauses and hitches, his eyes looked away less. In fact, they seemed to grow even greener.
My eyes touch you, and my fingers want to follow. There and there.
Viggo whispered the words, as he drew more creepers of ivy to twine around them on the page. Sean's attention never drifted from the bed he was kneeling beside. He attacked the winter-hardened soil that stubbornly refused to be coaxed into surrendering to spring. Using the point of the spade, he stabbed into the dirt over and over again, breaking it into more manageable chunks. Those he broke up with the side of the spade or with his fingers.
The muscles of Sean's back and arms bunched as he dug, tightening and relaxing in an almost regular rhythm. Viggo wanted to feel Sean move. Hell, he wanted to rip off Sean's shirt and remove the barrier of cotton that hid all that skin. He wondered if Sean's hands would feel like they looked. Firm and efficient.
How would they feel, gritty with dirt, as they as they crept under his shirt, wandered up his chest? How would they feel as they fingered his nipples and made him moan? How would they feel as they slid lower to palm his erection before unbuttoning his jeans, freeing his cock, and stroking it?
Viggo sighed and began to stroke himself lightly through his jeans, stopping only to scrawl another line in the sketchbook that hid his lap from Sean's view.
My gaze strips you until I can smell your skin, can taste your sweat.
When Sean leaned over the bed to reach the far corners, his jeans framed his ass. Viggo shuddered, bit down on his lower lip. His palm pressed into his cock as he imagined Sean kneeling on the ground naked, spreading his legs for Viggo to kneel behind him, moaning while Viggo slipped inside him. Sean would be tight and hot, would press back into his thrusts, would spill his seed all over his freshly dug bed.
Sean was kneading the soil, picking stray stones and weeds out of the dirt, when Viggo got up and went inside. He clung to the image of Sean, bent over, inviting a good, hard fucking, as he thrust into his own fist. Beating off in a bathroom was not the ideal end to any of Viggo's fantasies, especially ones concerning Sean, but it was preferable to coming in his jeans.
After washing up and before going back outside, Viggo wrote one last line.
I wonder how you cannot feel each glance. How you never see me watching.
Author: Barbara savageseraph
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: SB/VM
Disclaimer: Never happed. All a product of my twisted imagination
Summary: Sean gardens. Viggo watches and wants.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Comments: Written for contrelamontre. An improv fic with the following guidelines: Write a story that starts with the following line: Even watching him felt like being a voyeur. Pronoun and tense can be altered. The time limit is 45 minutes.
Also written for Gardening!Bean challenge (with extra points for also including Artistic!Viggo) and cross posted to sons_of_gondor. This one is all for my Wicked Sister of the North caras_galadhon.
Inspiration
Even watching you feels like being a voyeur.
Viggo wrote the words in his sketchbook, drew coils of ivy around and between them until the letters themselves seemed to be peeping out from a tangle of wild greenery. He was supposed to be here, at Sean's, because he was too acquainted with the view from his own apartment to want to draw or photograph it. He needed a change of venue to inspire his muses.
As his eyes moved over Sean, Viggo had to admit that he was inspired. He shifted in his chair, easing his legs apart just a little to seek relief from jeans grown far too tight in the crotch. Definitely inspired. A shame it wasn't for making art.
An even greater shame that Sean was unaware of his inspiration.
Viggo learned early that his friend was devoted to the things he loved, and he loved gardening. When Sean talked about snapdragons and shrubs, about planting and harvesting, about coaxing along crops of strawberries and red currents, his voice lost its awkward pauses and hitches, his eyes looked away less. In fact, they seemed to grow even greener.
My eyes touch you, and my fingers want to follow. There and there.
Viggo whispered the words, as he drew more creepers of ivy to twine around them on the page. Sean's attention never drifted from the bed he was kneeling beside. He attacked the winter-hardened soil that stubbornly refused to be coaxed into surrendering to spring. Using the point of the spade, he stabbed into the dirt over and over again, breaking it into more manageable chunks. Those he broke up with the side of the spade or with his fingers.
The muscles of Sean's back and arms bunched as he dug, tightening and relaxing in an almost regular rhythm. Viggo wanted to feel Sean move. Hell, he wanted to rip off Sean's shirt and remove the barrier of cotton that hid all that skin. He wondered if Sean's hands would feel like they looked. Firm and efficient.
How would they feel, gritty with dirt, as they as they crept under his shirt, wandered up his chest? How would they feel as they fingered his nipples and made him moan? How would they feel as they slid lower to palm his erection before unbuttoning his jeans, freeing his cock, and stroking it?
Viggo sighed and began to stroke himself lightly through his jeans, stopping only to scrawl another line in the sketchbook that hid his lap from Sean's view.
My gaze strips you until I can smell your skin, can taste your sweat.
When Sean leaned over the bed to reach the far corners, his jeans framed his ass. Viggo shuddered, bit down on his lower lip. His palm pressed into his cock as he imagined Sean kneeling on the ground naked, spreading his legs for Viggo to kneel behind him, moaning while Viggo slipped inside him. Sean would be tight and hot, would press back into his thrusts, would spill his seed all over his freshly dug bed.
Sean was kneading the soil, picking stray stones and weeds out of the dirt, when Viggo got up and went inside. He clung to the image of Sean, bent over, inviting a good, hard fucking, as he thrust into his own fist. Beating off in a bathroom was not the ideal end to any of Viggo's fantasies, especially ones concerning Sean, but it was preferable to coming in his jeans.
After washing up and before going back outside, Viggo wrote one last line.
I wonder how you cannot feel each glance. How you never see me watching.