REPOST: free verse (viggo/dom)
Title: Free Verse
Rating: NC17, I suppose. I've seen pornier.
Disclaimer: fiction
What you will find: an early morning, weather, introspection, sex and erm... poetry. Also some inaccuracies: I have no idea about the climate in Idaho, and I'm pretty sure Viggo keeps Uraeus in New Zealand. Leave your disbelief here.
Beta: algernonthemous and elzed, for both of whom, much love.
A/N: This is for pinn2480 in recompense for a paltry birthday present and the fact that I can't seem to make Viggo shag Elijah. It is also for overloved, who asked for it, and because I'm in hopes it'll buy me a Viggo-facial hair picspam. :D
Viggo wakes early in Idaho - the air is colder and sweeter in the autumn. “Can’t sleep for the smell of horseshit,” Dom says. Coming here from LA is like loosening a pair of tight trousers and sliding into a large fleabitten armchair. Sometimes the stress of arranging this time is enough to justify it. Not September, no, Dom’s still doing the first round of promotion. Viggo has an exhibition in the middle of October - he’ll be busy for a couple of weeks before and after. What the hell’s a vernissage? Viggo had sighed. After two more phone calls they’d squeezed in a long weekend in the second week of November.
It’s too cold to be walking around the house naked. Viggo feels it in his balls and his upper arms mostly, and he likes it. LA’s his home and it feels petty and disingenuous to find fault with it, but it’s so hard to feel cold there, real cold that is, not electric cold. He takes a piss and splashes water on his face, cold water, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Dom’s still asleep when Viggo strolls back into the bedroom. He’s on his side, limbs curled, and he’s twitching a bit, like a terrier dreaming about rabbits. Viggo crouches down by the side of the bed and blows lightly on Dom’s mouth. Dom doesn’t wake, though he stops moving.
There’s a chair by the long picture window and when Viggo sits in it, he can see out to the front paddock. There’s a deep mist filtering the light, but he can make out the horse, head hanging in the water trough. After a second or two the horse lifts its head and looks in Viggo’s direction, then shakes its mane and switches its tail. Viggo looks out for a few minutes, cold clean words rising up and jostling in his head.
“What are you doing?” Dom’s propped on his elbow, one eye shut, the other squinting. He’s scratching at his scalp, through newly bleached blond hair.
“I’m writing a poem.”
“About me?”
“About Uraeus.”
“Uraeus.” Dom slumps pettishly, and the pillow by the side of his head inflates with displaced air. “Always fucking Uraeus. Uraeus you snog. Uraeus you ride. Uraeus you write your sodding limericks about. When you’re old and shagged out, they won’t put you in a nurse’s home, they’ll ship you out to a horse stud where you can watch them fuck all day long. With their fucking ginormous dicks. That’s what it is, isn’t it? You crave horse cock.”
It’s a familiar tease, and Viggo knows the script.
“I’m sorry, Vig, but this is a forfeit.”
Viggo turns right round in his chair. He’ll play along. He was just messing around with the words; ten minutes longer and he would have been too deep into it to stop and fool about. He keeps a straight face, but lifts an eyebrow. Sometimes Dom likes to roleplay; it’s as well to prepare.
“Forfeit?”
“Blowjob, I think. Blowjob and a poem.” Dom slides one arm under his head and with the other takes hold of the blanket and flings it over to the other side of the bed. He’s all rough arrogance and he’s already hard. Viggo’s own cock lifts its head with interest.
He grins. “You’ll have to be quiet.”
“Nuh - uh.” Dom puts up a finger, shaking his head. “Nothing tantric. Not again. We’ve only got three days, remember.”
“Tantric, my ass. If you want a poem, you’ll have to shut the fuck up. Think you can manage that, Dominic?” Viggo gets up. Dom’s eyes drop to his crotch. “Maybe I should get the duck tape?”
Dom chuckles uneasily. He crosses his ankles, affecting nonchalance, but his eyes are round and unlaughing, and goosebumps are tracking across his belly. Viggo wonders if he could actually scare Dom if he tried hard enough.
When Viggo climbs onto the bed, Dom bounces a little and has to uncross his legs. His hands reach up, but Viggo jerks back, out of reach.
“No kiss?”
“Shh, I’m thinking. Besides it’s a blowjob you said you wanted.” Viggo hunkers down, eye to eye with Dom’s erection.
“You could always start off with a ki- fucking hell!”
Viggo has sucked Dom’s left testicle full into his mouth. A quick sweep of tongue makes Dom’s knee shoot up, knocking Viggo on the temple. He pins the leg back down with one hand and looks up. Dom’s head is already twisted to one side, eyes screwed up. Sometimes you just have to touch him with the tip of a finger and he’s gasping. Viggo runs the rough flat of his tongue up the ridge of Dom’s cock, and a taut sigh hums out of Dom’s mouth. He’s trying to keep quiet. It makes Viggo grin.
When Viggo takes Dom into his mouth, he feels a hand on the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair. Gentle, though, caressing. He sucks hard and deep, runs his tongue round the glans, and the fingers tremble and prod a little, but they don’t tug or demand. Dom’s belly hollows, puffs out, then quickly hollows again. His free hand is clenching and unclenching at his side, face set in a needy grimace. Viggo breathes deep through his nose and picks up speed, bobbing up and down, one hand squeezing and tugging at the base of Dom’s cock. Dom inhales sharply and his own hand flattens and goes tight, pressing against Viggo’s head. He tries to say something - to Viggo it sounds like ‘um-uh’ - and then he’s lifting his hips off the bed, offering himself.
Viggo pulls away, and for a moment Dom’s hips lift further, trying to keep his cock inside Viggo’s mouth. Viggo puts a hand to the crest of Dom’s hipbone and pushes him down. Dom opens his eyes slowly. His gaze is glassy and vague.
“How’s the poem coming?” The words sound sticky. Dom swallows.
Viggo just smiles and reaches for a sachet of lubricant. There are words in his head, but they don’t seem quite ready yet: words like velvet and oil and salt and Dom, and some more obscene.
When Viggo presses his middle finger to Dom’s anus, Dom’s eyes slide shut again, and with a steady breath, he pushes down so the finger breaks through. Viggo closes his eyes then and begins to stroke and prod. He can feel Dom’s body twisting, quivering, and finally he has to grip himself, rocking back and forth, the darkness pressing in, muffling his hearing, blanketing his thighs and balls in a warmth that prickles with the warning of orgasm.
“Viggo, Viggo.” Viggo opens his eyes and realises with surprise that he’s been humming. Dom’s head is angled oddly on the pillow now, his legs wide and shameless, and his damp cheeks mottled scarlet. “Now. Come on,” he whispers, lifting his hips.
As Viggo moves back, his foot catches in a loose sheet and he has to shake it to get free. He feels graceless and jittery. This is the moment when they switch, when Dom becomes still and calm and Viggo aches and fidgets with anxiety and anticipation. He waits for the shift, he acknowledges it, and yet he hides it from Dom. Still, when the underneath of Dom’s thigh rests against his shoulder, and Dom lies open and waiting, he can’t stop the shake in his fingers as they angle his cock downwards and in.
They lie for a moment, and Dom’s breath is damp on Viggo’s forehead. Viggo can feel Dom lean and stretched underneath him. He feels like he’s curled in on himself, his whole body a fist. He holds onto the shivering itch, clenching his stomach and moving slowly forwards. For the first few thrusts Dom keeps still, nostrils wide, then he begins to move, pushing down as Viggo pushes up, a gentle massaging rhythm, enough to heat Viggo’s belly and bring his teeth down to Dom’s shoulder. The words have changed.
fingerpainting, fingerpainting, potatoes, please, please
When Dom comes, he arches off the bed, his head butting against Viggo’s shoulder. Viggo holds him there while he gasps and mutters out his orgasm, one arm flung out to the side, the other pumping his cock, fast at first then slower, the space between them moist and fetid with sweat and come.
When Viggo comes, Dom gloats up at him. As ever Viggo holds the gaze as long as he can, but as ever his orgasm wipes the sight away in a rush of foggy fury. For a split second Dom is gone and Viggo is on his own, panting and thrusting urgently at nothing.
When it’s over, Viggo eases himself up and off and they lie side by side on their backs, thighs still crossed. Viggo waits, keeping still while the feeling of separation gradually lifts, then looks back across at Dom. Dom has one eyebrow raised.
“So? My poem?”
Viggo chuckles. He lies back and folds his hands over his chest solemnly. Dom is silent, but Viggo can feel his expectant gaze. He clears his throat.
“There was a young man from Zeebrugge-”
“You utter cunt!” Dom’s on top of him, his knees jabbing into Viggo’s sides, fingers prodding and poking. Viggo laughs and flinches. He grabs Dom’s hands and they struggle for a bit. It’s too soon to fuck again, though, so after a minute or two they come to a stop, breathing heavily. Viggo gets up to go for a piss and to make tea and eggs. When he looks out of the kitchen window, the mist is clearing and the sun is glowing white above the horizon. It’ll be a good day to take the horses out.
They have two more days together. Dom leaves first, heading back to LA for yet more interviews. When Dom’s luggage is sitting in the hall of the lodge, Viggo slides a small piece of folded paper into the pocket of his duffle bag, then stands patting it for a second. Dom comes out of the toilet while he’s still standing by the bags, but doesn’t say anything, just leans against the doorjamb and watches. The taxi comes ten minutes later and they kiss and hug in the doorway. Dom always looks so sad as he waves out of the back window of the car. In a couple of weeks they’ll be on the phone again, wrestling to sort out the next weekend.
Dom’s already left LA again for England by the time his PA finds the piece of paper and unfolds it.
*****
Eventually my life will be an armchair and a box,
a journey thoroughly traveled and shrunk to fit an album,
an afternoon fingerpainting, tracing slippery thoughts.
Then not every day, every other week, perhaps,
maybe when the weather turns and mist swells, cushioning ozone,
maybe when Henry comes,
something will shake to the surface, rattling windows.
I’ll say two potatoes please, I mean Dom;
I’ll say back hurts a bit, I mean Dom;
I’ll say weather’s kind, I mean Dom;
I’ll say later, I mean Dom;
I’ll say you, I mean Dom.
I won’t say it; my tongue’s forgotten all those shapes.
My hands are empty, content, dry as dust.
Later I’ll sleep tight; the sheets stay tucked.
Sometimes you sleep beside me, close, separate.
Sometimes I’m alone.
Rating: NC17, I suppose. I've seen pornier.
Disclaimer: fiction
What you will find: an early morning, weather, introspection, sex and erm... poetry. Also some inaccuracies: I have no idea about the climate in Idaho, and I'm pretty sure Viggo keeps Uraeus in New Zealand. Leave your disbelief here.
Beta: algernonthemous and elzed, for both of whom, much love.
A/N: This is for pinn2480 in recompense for a paltry birthday present and the fact that I can't seem to make Viggo shag Elijah. It is also for overloved, who asked for it, and because I'm in hopes it'll buy me a Viggo-facial hair picspam. :D
Viggo wakes early in Idaho - the air is colder and sweeter in the autumn. “Can’t sleep for the smell of horseshit,” Dom says. Coming here from LA is like loosening a pair of tight trousers and sliding into a large fleabitten armchair. Sometimes the stress of arranging this time is enough to justify it. Not September, no, Dom’s still doing the first round of promotion. Viggo has an exhibition in the middle of October - he’ll be busy for a couple of weeks before and after. What the hell’s a vernissage? Viggo had sighed. After two more phone calls they’d squeezed in a long weekend in the second week of November.
It’s too cold to be walking around the house naked. Viggo feels it in his balls and his upper arms mostly, and he likes it. LA’s his home and it feels petty and disingenuous to find fault with it, but it’s so hard to feel cold there, real cold that is, not electric cold. He takes a piss and splashes water on his face, cold water, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Dom’s still asleep when Viggo strolls back into the bedroom. He’s on his side, limbs curled, and he’s twitching a bit, like a terrier dreaming about rabbits. Viggo crouches down by the side of the bed and blows lightly on Dom’s mouth. Dom doesn’t wake, though he stops moving.
There’s a chair by the long picture window and when Viggo sits in it, he can see out to the front paddock. There’s a deep mist filtering the light, but he can make out the horse, head hanging in the water trough. After a second or two the horse lifts its head and looks in Viggo’s direction, then shakes its mane and switches its tail. Viggo looks out for a few minutes, cold clean words rising up and jostling in his head.
“What are you doing?” Dom’s propped on his elbow, one eye shut, the other squinting. He’s scratching at his scalp, through newly bleached blond hair.
“I’m writing a poem.”
“About me?”
“About Uraeus.”
“Uraeus.” Dom slumps pettishly, and the pillow by the side of his head inflates with displaced air. “Always fucking Uraeus. Uraeus you snog. Uraeus you ride. Uraeus you write your sodding limericks about. When you’re old and shagged out, they won’t put you in a nurse’s home, they’ll ship you out to a horse stud where you can watch them fuck all day long. With their fucking ginormous dicks. That’s what it is, isn’t it? You crave horse cock.”
It’s a familiar tease, and Viggo knows the script.
“I’m sorry, Vig, but this is a forfeit.”
Viggo turns right round in his chair. He’ll play along. He was just messing around with the words; ten minutes longer and he would have been too deep into it to stop and fool about. He keeps a straight face, but lifts an eyebrow. Sometimes Dom likes to roleplay; it’s as well to prepare.
“Forfeit?”
“Blowjob, I think. Blowjob and a poem.” Dom slides one arm under his head and with the other takes hold of the blanket and flings it over to the other side of the bed. He’s all rough arrogance and he’s already hard. Viggo’s own cock lifts its head with interest.
He grins. “You’ll have to be quiet.”
“Nuh - uh.” Dom puts up a finger, shaking his head. “Nothing tantric. Not again. We’ve only got three days, remember.”
“Tantric, my ass. If you want a poem, you’ll have to shut the fuck up. Think you can manage that, Dominic?” Viggo gets up. Dom’s eyes drop to his crotch. “Maybe I should get the duck tape?”
Dom chuckles uneasily. He crosses his ankles, affecting nonchalance, but his eyes are round and unlaughing, and goosebumps are tracking across his belly. Viggo wonders if he could actually scare Dom if he tried hard enough.
When Viggo climbs onto the bed, Dom bounces a little and has to uncross his legs. His hands reach up, but Viggo jerks back, out of reach.
“No kiss?”
“Shh, I’m thinking. Besides it’s a blowjob you said you wanted.” Viggo hunkers down, eye to eye with Dom’s erection.
“You could always start off with a ki- fucking hell!”
Viggo has sucked Dom’s left testicle full into his mouth. A quick sweep of tongue makes Dom’s knee shoot up, knocking Viggo on the temple. He pins the leg back down with one hand and looks up. Dom’s head is already twisted to one side, eyes screwed up. Sometimes you just have to touch him with the tip of a finger and he’s gasping. Viggo runs the rough flat of his tongue up the ridge of Dom’s cock, and a taut sigh hums out of Dom’s mouth. He’s trying to keep quiet. It makes Viggo grin.
When Viggo takes Dom into his mouth, he feels a hand on the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair. Gentle, though, caressing. He sucks hard and deep, runs his tongue round the glans, and the fingers tremble and prod a little, but they don’t tug or demand. Dom’s belly hollows, puffs out, then quickly hollows again. His free hand is clenching and unclenching at his side, face set in a needy grimace. Viggo breathes deep through his nose and picks up speed, bobbing up and down, one hand squeezing and tugging at the base of Dom’s cock. Dom inhales sharply and his own hand flattens and goes tight, pressing against Viggo’s head. He tries to say something - to Viggo it sounds like ‘um-uh’ - and then he’s lifting his hips off the bed, offering himself.
Viggo pulls away, and for a moment Dom’s hips lift further, trying to keep his cock inside Viggo’s mouth. Viggo puts a hand to the crest of Dom’s hipbone and pushes him down. Dom opens his eyes slowly. His gaze is glassy and vague.
“How’s the poem coming?” The words sound sticky. Dom swallows.
Viggo just smiles and reaches for a sachet of lubricant. There are words in his head, but they don’t seem quite ready yet: words like velvet and oil and salt and Dom, and some more obscene.
When Viggo presses his middle finger to Dom’s anus, Dom’s eyes slide shut again, and with a steady breath, he pushes down so the finger breaks through. Viggo closes his eyes then and begins to stroke and prod. He can feel Dom’s body twisting, quivering, and finally he has to grip himself, rocking back and forth, the darkness pressing in, muffling his hearing, blanketing his thighs and balls in a warmth that prickles with the warning of orgasm.
“Viggo, Viggo.” Viggo opens his eyes and realises with surprise that he’s been humming. Dom’s head is angled oddly on the pillow now, his legs wide and shameless, and his damp cheeks mottled scarlet. “Now. Come on,” he whispers, lifting his hips.
As Viggo moves back, his foot catches in a loose sheet and he has to shake it to get free. He feels graceless and jittery. This is the moment when they switch, when Dom becomes still and calm and Viggo aches and fidgets with anxiety and anticipation. He waits for the shift, he acknowledges it, and yet he hides it from Dom. Still, when the underneath of Dom’s thigh rests against his shoulder, and Dom lies open and waiting, he can’t stop the shake in his fingers as they angle his cock downwards and in.
They lie for a moment, and Dom’s breath is damp on Viggo’s forehead. Viggo can feel Dom lean and stretched underneath him. He feels like he’s curled in on himself, his whole body a fist. He holds onto the shivering itch, clenching his stomach and moving slowly forwards. For the first few thrusts Dom keeps still, nostrils wide, then he begins to move, pushing down as Viggo pushes up, a gentle massaging rhythm, enough to heat Viggo’s belly and bring his teeth down to Dom’s shoulder. The words have changed.
fingerpainting, fingerpainting, potatoes, please, please
When Dom comes, he arches off the bed, his head butting against Viggo’s shoulder. Viggo holds him there while he gasps and mutters out his orgasm, one arm flung out to the side, the other pumping his cock, fast at first then slower, the space between them moist and fetid with sweat and come.
When Viggo comes, Dom gloats up at him. As ever Viggo holds the gaze as long as he can, but as ever his orgasm wipes the sight away in a rush of foggy fury. For a split second Dom is gone and Viggo is on his own, panting and thrusting urgently at nothing.
When it’s over, Viggo eases himself up and off and they lie side by side on their backs, thighs still crossed. Viggo waits, keeping still while the feeling of separation gradually lifts, then looks back across at Dom. Dom has one eyebrow raised.
“So? My poem?”
Viggo chuckles. He lies back and folds his hands over his chest solemnly. Dom is silent, but Viggo can feel his expectant gaze. He clears his throat.
“There was a young man from Zeebrugge-”
“You utter cunt!” Dom’s on top of him, his knees jabbing into Viggo’s sides, fingers prodding and poking. Viggo laughs and flinches. He grabs Dom’s hands and they struggle for a bit. It’s too soon to fuck again, though, so after a minute or two they come to a stop, breathing heavily. Viggo gets up to go for a piss and to make tea and eggs. When he looks out of the kitchen window, the mist is clearing and the sun is glowing white above the horizon. It’ll be a good day to take the horses out.
They have two more days together. Dom leaves first, heading back to LA for yet more interviews. When Dom’s luggage is sitting in the hall of the lodge, Viggo slides a small piece of folded paper into the pocket of his duffle bag, then stands patting it for a second. Dom comes out of the toilet while he’s still standing by the bags, but doesn’t say anything, just leans against the doorjamb and watches. The taxi comes ten minutes later and they kiss and hug in the doorway. Dom always looks so sad as he waves out of the back window of the car. In a couple of weeks they’ll be on the phone again, wrestling to sort out the next weekend.
Dom’s already left LA again for England by the time his PA finds the piece of paper and unfolds it.
*****
Eventually my life will be an armchair and a box,
a journey thoroughly traveled and shrunk to fit an album,
an afternoon fingerpainting, tracing slippery thoughts.
Then not every day, every other week, perhaps,
maybe when the weather turns and mist swells, cushioning ozone,
maybe when Henry comes,
something will shake to the surface, rattling windows.
I’ll say two potatoes please, I mean Dom;
I’ll say back hurts a bit, I mean Dom;
I’ll say weather’s kind, I mean Dom;
I’ll say later, I mean Dom;
I’ll say you, I mean Dom.
I won’t say it; my tongue’s forgotten all those shapes.
My hands are empty, content, dry as dust.
Later I’ll sleep tight; the sheets stay tucked.
Sometimes you sleep beside me, close, separate.
Sometimes I’m alone.