In His Cups (LotRPS, R, SB/VM)
Title: In His Cups
Author: Galadriel caras_galadhon
Fandom: LotRPS
Pairing: Bean/Viggo
Rating: R
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. This story's a wish. Believe me, I lied.
Summary: The morning after a late night.
Notes: Written for contrelamontre Senses Challenge #1: Smell, in which we are to pay attention to different odours, possibly making them integral to the plot. Time limit: 45 minutes. Many thanks to Fionavar, who was sick this week and allowed me to take full advantage of that fact by quizzing her regarding scents that made her queasy, and also for discussing at length the incarnations and ramifications of smell and memory.
In His Cups
By Galadriel
It wasn't the light that woke him, although it pierced through the curtains with a ferocity usually reserved for angelic visitations. No, it wasn't the light; it was the breeze.
Someone had opened the window in the night, and the shivery Wellington morning wafted freely into the bedroom. The air was crisp, invigorating, and it tickled at Sean's nose, the fresh scent promising a calm stomach and clean palate. Sean cracked open an eye and drew in a deep breath. The breeze stirred the curtains, lifting the fabric, parting it as the sweet notes of floral blossoms glided across the window pane. The smell was cloying, close in the small room, and Sean felt the bile rise in his throat again.
"Fuck." It was the best he could do, the most coherent he could be under the circumstances. He rolled from his back to his side, pressing his face into the mattress to block the invading odours. The bed smelled of Viggo; a warm, rich musk against crisp, bleached sheets.
The night before was a blur of dark, forbidden smells. He remembered alcohol. Lots and lots of cheap, yeasty alcohol, flowing in amounts he hadn't seen since his days at RADA. Someone in the cast was pregnant... or getting married... or some part of filming had wrapped... Hell, he couldn't remember, and it didn't matter at the time, it wouldn't matter now. It was another reason for the cast and crew to go out and get mashed, and there were precious enough chances to do that and still hold to the production schedule.
Sean remembered fruity perfumes and spicy aftershaves lingering in the air after chaste kisses and hearty handshakes, the tang of their alcohol bases clashing in a riot of notes that did little more than make him sneeze.
He remembered the heavy, oily smell of cigarette smoke. He was trying to quit, shake the habit loose once and for all, but he couldn't help but draw the spicy, dark smoke of Elijah's cloves deep into his aching lungs. After all, second-hand smoke didn't count, did it?
As the evening lengthened and the booze flowed ever freer, a group of Elf and Orc extras began a drinking game; shot for shot, prissy Elves against filthy Orcs. Somehow Sean and Viggo found themselves drawn into the game, Sean with the Orcs, Viggo with the Elves. Rum was the liquor of choice, and Sean remembered his eyes watering at the rich, dark smell, musk mingling with spice.
Lying in the borrowed bed, face pressed against the sheets, Sean moaned. Viggo smelled of rum.
He ran a tongue over his lips.
Eventually he and Viggo stumbled out of the pub, sloshed out of their minds, twin bottles of beer clutched in their fists. They clumsily hailed a cab and collapsed in the back seat. The leatherette interior reeked of new car scent, and the cheery, plastic-y odour stuck to their smoke-filled clothes.
In the foyer of Viggo's house, cabbie paid off and the door shut tightly behind them, Sean fumbled at Viggo's shirt. He yanked the neck aside so he could drizzle Newcastle Brown on the man's shoulder, mingling yeast with sweat. As he nuzzled Viggo's collarbone, lapping up the liquid, a tiny part of his mind noted how the other man smelled of chlorine and crisp astringent. He smelled of the glue used on the Elves' ears, the pungent scent that cut through the powdery warmth of the makeup trailer, that lingered faintly in Liv's hair when she leaned against Sean's chest, laughing at Orlando's antics.
Sean and Viggo tugged at sweat-stained clothing, ripping fabric in their drunken haste, until Sean fell to his knees, struggling with Viggo's zipper. As he wrestled against what felt like an infinitely complex system of metal and teeth, Sean ran his thumbs over the denim, releasing a faint acidic scent that clung stubbornly to the weave. He wrinkled his nose involuntarily at the tartness of the odour, his nose hairs curling at the assault.
It triggered a momentary flash of an imaginary Viggo; Viggo in faded jeans, feet and chest bare, developing photographs, smelling of burnt vinegar. Viggo, sitting on his sofa, newly developed photos scattered across a table in front of him, one hand drifting to a denim-encased cock, rubbing vinegary fingers over bleached-out spots of blue.
Idly, Sean wondered who was in the pictures.
The zipper slid open. He pushed aside the fabric underneath and managed, on the third try, to get Viggo's cock in his mouth. Sean breathed deep, inhaling musk and salt and sweat and paint as he bobbed artlessly up and down. Viggo groaned, his fingers grasping at Sean's hair. The head popped out from between Sean's lips, surprising the besotted actor, and he fell over, helpless and laughing, mashing his face into the musty carpet.
Sean didn't remember how they had made it to the bedroom, but here he was now, lying on the familiar mattress that was just a bit firmer than his own, the clean breeze puffing breaths of perfume into the room.
The inside of his mouth felt pasty and he huffed once into his hand, inhaling his own breath. Uhf. The stink of stale beer, rum and cigarettes wafted from his mouth. It dissipated, leaving only the salty smell of Viggo trapped under his nails, the scent of warm skin and semen ground into his pores. He grinned, and found, quite unexpectedly, that smiling hurt.
He glowered and felt marginally better.
Raising an arm, he sniffed at the sour pit. Fucking Christ.
The door to the bedroom opened, and a wash of odours flowed into the tiny space. Eggs, frying in too much grease, bacon sizzling, hot and smoky, butter laved on slightly burned toast. The rich, deep scent of coffee rolled on the crest of it all, its sweet aroma bitter in his throat.
Viggo stepped into the room, two full plates balanced carefully on one arm, two steaming mugs grasped by their handles.
Sean rolled onto his back and slid into a sitting position. Very carefully, as if his face might break, he smiled wanly at his host.
Viggo stepped towards his guest and proffered a mug of coffee. He scrutinized Sean. "Breakfast."
Sean leaned over the side of the bed and threw up.
END
(January 18, 2003)
Author: Galadriel caras_galadhon
Fandom: LotRPS
Pairing: Bean/Viggo
Rating: R
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. This story's a wish. Believe me, I lied.
Summary: The morning after a late night.
Notes: Written for contrelamontre Senses Challenge #1: Smell, in which we are to pay attention to different odours, possibly making them integral to the plot. Time limit: 45 minutes. Many thanks to Fionavar, who was sick this week and allowed me to take full advantage of that fact by quizzing her regarding scents that made her queasy, and also for discussing at length the incarnations and ramifications of smell and memory.
In His Cups
By Galadriel
It wasn't the light that woke him, although it pierced through the curtains with a ferocity usually reserved for angelic visitations. No, it wasn't the light; it was the breeze.
Someone had opened the window in the night, and the shivery Wellington morning wafted freely into the bedroom. The air was crisp, invigorating, and it tickled at Sean's nose, the fresh scent promising a calm stomach and clean palate. Sean cracked open an eye and drew in a deep breath. The breeze stirred the curtains, lifting the fabric, parting it as the sweet notes of floral blossoms glided across the window pane. The smell was cloying, close in the small room, and Sean felt the bile rise in his throat again.
"Fuck." It was the best he could do, the most coherent he could be under the circumstances. He rolled from his back to his side, pressing his face into the mattress to block the invading odours. The bed smelled of Viggo; a warm, rich musk against crisp, bleached sheets.
The night before was a blur of dark, forbidden smells. He remembered alcohol. Lots and lots of cheap, yeasty alcohol, flowing in amounts he hadn't seen since his days at RADA. Someone in the cast was pregnant... or getting married... or some part of filming had wrapped... Hell, he couldn't remember, and it didn't matter at the time, it wouldn't matter now. It was another reason for the cast and crew to go out and get mashed, and there were precious enough chances to do that and still hold to the production schedule.
Sean remembered fruity perfumes and spicy aftershaves lingering in the air after chaste kisses and hearty handshakes, the tang of their alcohol bases clashing in a riot of notes that did little more than make him sneeze.
He remembered the heavy, oily smell of cigarette smoke. He was trying to quit, shake the habit loose once and for all, but he couldn't help but draw the spicy, dark smoke of Elijah's cloves deep into his aching lungs. After all, second-hand smoke didn't count, did it?
As the evening lengthened and the booze flowed ever freer, a group of Elf and Orc extras began a drinking game; shot for shot, prissy Elves against filthy Orcs. Somehow Sean and Viggo found themselves drawn into the game, Sean with the Orcs, Viggo with the Elves. Rum was the liquor of choice, and Sean remembered his eyes watering at the rich, dark smell, musk mingling with spice.
Lying in the borrowed bed, face pressed against the sheets, Sean moaned. Viggo smelled of rum.
He ran a tongue over his lips.
Eventually he and Viggo stumbled out of the pub, sloshed out of their minds, twin bottles of beer clutched in their fists. They clumsily hailed a cab and collapsed in the back seat. The leatherette interior reeked of new car scent, and the cheery, plastic-y odour stuck to their smoke-filled clothes.
In the foyer of Viggo's house, cabbie paid off and the door shut tightly behind them, Sean fumbled at Viggo's shirt. He yanked the neck aside so he could drizzle Newcastle Brown on the man's shoulder, mingling yeast with sweat. As he nuzzled Viggo's collarbone, lapping up the liquid, a tiny part of his mind noted how the other man smelled of chlorine and crisp astringent. He smelled of the glue used on the Elves' ears, the pungent scent that cut through the powdery warmth of the makeup trailer, that lingered faintly in Liv's hair when she leaned against Sean's chest, laughing at Orlando's antics.
Sean and Viggo tugged at sweat-stained clothing, ripping fabric in their drunken haste, until Sean fell to his knees, struggling with Viggo's zipper. As he wrestled against what felt like an infinitely complex system of metal and teeth, Sean ran his thumbs over the denim, releasing a faint acidic scent that clung stubbornly to the weave. He wrinkled his nose involuntarily at the tartness of the odour, his nose hairs curling at the assault.
It triggered a momentary flash of an imaginary Viggo; Viggo in faded jeans, feet and chest bare, developing photographs, smelling of burnt vinegar. Viggo, sitting on his sofa, newly developed photos scattered across a table in front of him, one hand drifting to a denim-encased cock, rubbing vinegary fingers over bleached-out spots of blue.
Idly, Sean wondered who was in the pictures.
The zipper slid open. He pushed aside the fabric underneath and managed, on the third try, to get Viggo's cock in his mouth. Sean breathed deep, inhaling musk and salt and sweat and paint as he bobbed artlessly up and down. Viggo groaned, his fingers grasping at Sean's hair. The head popped out from between Sean's lips, surprising the besotted actor, and he fell over, helpless and laughing, mashing his face into the musty carpet.
Sean didn't remember how they had made it to the bedroom, but here he was now, lying on the familiar mattress that was just a bit firmer than his own, the clean breeze puffing breaths of perfume into the room.
The inside of his mouth felt pasty and he huffed once into his hand, inhaling his own breath. Uhf. The stink of stale beer, rum and cigarettes wafted from his mouth. It dissipated, leaving only the salty smell of Viggo trapped under his nails, the scent of warm skin and semen ground into his pores. He grinned, and found, quite unexpectedly, that smiling hurt.
He glowered and felt marginally better.
Raising an arm, he sniffed at the sour pit. Fucking Christ.
The door to the bedroom opened, and a wash of odours flowed into the tiny space. Eggs, frying in too much grease, bacon sizzling, hot and smoky, butter laved on slightly burned toast. The rich, deep scent of coffee rolled on the crest of it all, its sweet aroma bitter in his throat.
Viggo stepped into the room, two full plates balanced carefully on one arm, two steaming mugs grasped by their handles.
Sean rolled onto his back and slid into a sitting position. Very carefully, as if his face might break, he smiled wanly at his host.
Viggo stepped towards his guest and proffered a mug of coffee. He scrutinized Sean. "Breakfast."
Sean leaned over the side of the bed and threw up.
END
(January 18, 2003)