Posted: April 2004
Title: Late-Night Derailment of Middle-Aged Angst
Author: Helena Snow-Renn
Type: RPS
Characters: Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen
Rating: NC-17 (just in case)
WARNING: Voyeurism, masturbation
Beta: none
Disclaimer: As always, this is fiction. It never happened.
Notes: If you're wondering about the photo, stop by my site. It's there. Written in honor of Sean's 45th birthday; finished 17 April, 2004.
Summary: See title and warning. You get the idea.

*****

He supposed he had passed out. The combination of tiredness and drunkenness had finally caught up with him. This kind of thing happened a lot though, within their little realm of grueling hours and gregarious, connection-seeking personalities. Some houses were open at all hours, for just a knock and recognition of face.

Sean didn't usually hang with the hobbits and their ever-present elf-boy. While he certainly had nothing against them, and had no problems with the age difference, somehow their boundless energy and ebullience always started as amusing and ended by depressing him. He had no desire to be them. He wanted his own youth back.

Call it an early mid-life crisis. Having everything he could possibly need or want hadn't totally satisfied him. Not the house, or the Beem-er, or the admiration wherever he went. All of that came with its price. The young, pretty wife and new baby certainly hadn't panned out. Not hardly, he thought bitterly, knocking back another pint. Shit, even his looks were starting to go, he worried sometimes. There had been this once particular photo shoot he'd done…the best one he'd ever had. Christ, was it over five hears ago already? ... and he sat brooding over those mental images of his early-thirties self. Shirtless in a tight-fitting suit jacket and pants, hair long as he'd ever worn it and slicked back, that photog flirting shamelessly to make him smile. He'd found a few white threads in his gold hair recently and yanked them out. Damn, he needed to snap out of this. He was getting all self-centered and codgy.

Lookswise, he knew his eyes were his best feature, had always played them up. That was something he'd always have, at least. He thought about Ian, still attractive and sexy. About Mr. Connolly, although he couldn't think his own name in reference to another actor. Then there was Viggo, with as many lines on his face as Sean and no shame over his graying temples, scarred as an old warrior but lithe and squirrelly as someone half his age.

And here he was, waking in the middle of the night in Viggo's guest bedroom with only a vague recollection of how he'd gotten there. The drunken hobbits were probably strewn about the den; he'd seen it before. He got up, relived himself of god knows how many pints of beer and splashed cold water on his face. After finding a towel to pat his skin dry, he remained there under the harsh light, studying himself. What was it about such a face that would make anyone want him? He'd never really been able to see it, but certainly had learned how to work it. The eyes, he told himself again. They could make him seem gentle or a totally violent bastard. The color fluxuated between a spring-leaf shade when he was happy, to near-grey when angry, to a deep emerald with love or passion. Lately his mind and heart had been rather monochromatic. Running a hand over rough stubble on his rather rumpled-looking cheeks, he made ready to go back to bed.

He was padding around to the side he'd already slept on when a noise caught his attention. It was soft, low, but it called to him. ‘Sssean...' He jumped. Was he hearing things, or had something really said his name?

Venturing into the hallway he waited, wondering if he'd hear it again. No word this time, but a hiss, the first sibilant of his name. The sounds were leading him toward the master bedroom. ‘What the hell?' What was Viggo doing? In the dark, alone, he blushed. He could just imagine what was going on in there. Oh, he wouldn't mind seeing that. Could he manage it without being spotted? It was nearly pitched black on that end of the hallway, away from the windows. He stole forward, praying no floorboards squeaked.

He made it to the end of the hall with no one but himself the wiser. Jeez, he felt the old pervert, spying on his friend, nay, his very attractive… ok fine, his Danish-sex-god friend, in a particularly private moment. Why did the man leave his door open, anyway? Was it open invitation to his bedroom as well as his home in general? Sean would die if Dom or ‘Lij happened along and caught him standing stealthily in the dark outside Viggo's room, his hand in his drawers.

Sean's heart was already thudding double-time due to his guilty approach. His eyes had adjusted enough to the dark that what he saw when he reached the doorjamb left little for his imagination. In the middle of a huge bed sprawled a naked, aroused, and furiously masturbating Viggo. Both his hands were busy on various parts of his anatomy.

Sean nearly swallowed his own tongue. He'd never seen anyone give their bollocks a workout like that but Viggo was playing with his with nearly the same intensity as his cock, which was saying something. His eyes were tightly closed, bits of hair stuck to his forehead; his torso and hips moved in a most obscene grind.

Again, "Sssshhh…." Then a deep groan. Graceful as a professional swimmer Viggo flipped onto his front. His shoulder and back muscles pulled tight because of how he tucked his arms under his body, still pleasuring himself. In the same rhythm as before, he stabbed several times against the mattress. The gesture was not lost on Sean, who by now was locked into his own rhythm, trying to keep it slow so he wouldn't make a mess of himself right then and there. Confronted with the glory of Vig's bare, muscular ass thrusting and clenching in his direction, Sean bit down on his lower lip till he tasted blood. His nostrils flared as he tried to breathe more quietly.

Viggo's little mock-session didn't last long. He flopped back over. Maybe it was the dark and his over-active imagination, but Sean was sure he could see foreskin sliding silkily over the thick head. An American (or half-) and uncut? The possibilities prompted him to pay more conscious attention to his own goods. Nerves flashed in the unique pattern created by looser skin over rock-hard erection. Viggo had folded his knees tailor-style and pushed them out and down as far as they'd go, flat to the bed. His abs tightened as he rose up slightly. His forehead furrowed; his lower jaw thrust forward aggressively.

"Sh-eannnn…." A two-syllable growl this time, it pulsed shivers into Sean's lower spine.

Viggo erupted, shooting white cream a yard in the air, then several more times, not as high. The crowning effect though, was what he let loose with as he did it.

"Sha-haunnn!" more urgent now. Viggo had removed his off hand from his balls and was using it to spread the puddles around on his chest and stomach. Lazily he circled one nipple, then his navel. Even with the faint light, the liquid gleamed in streaks on him. Muted movements from his hips now, light flexion as he milked himself of his last drops.

"Oh!" higher, more like his speaking voice. It hit Sean in all new ways. Now it really was Viggo, not just some sexed-up impersonation of him.

"Sh-haaa-haaauunnn!" drawled the man in the bed, obviously much more relaxed than a few seconds ago. Sean forced himself to stop stroking his cock before it was too late and carefully placed both sweaty hands on the cool wall.

‘He's gonna kill me,' thought the Brit as he backed silently away from the door. And then, understanding of what has just happened hit him. Viggo, wanking to him? Him, wanking to Viggo?

‘I'm gonna fucking kill him.' A last vestige of the homophobia pounded into him as a child snapped its ugly teeth. What the fuck?

‘You mean you're going to fucking fuck him, don't you…?' And in talking to himself, Sean was overwhelmed then with the echoes of Viggo calling out his name as he came. Well, if that wasn't an ego trip, what was? His whole body felt like it had reached the point of orgasm. He made it to the main bathroom, locked the door, turned on the shower. The sudden bright light revealed the same face he always saw these days, lips drawn back in a near snarl. The black rims around his irises stared at him like twin rims of the Pit. ‘You sure you wanna do this, like this…?' Dammit, his fucking name again, as Viggo had pronounced it. ‘Fuck it.' Indecisive moment over, Sean dropped his boxers, stepped shakily into the steam, and picked up the soap.

‘Just don't fucking drop it…' This was getting to be overkill. Once again, his name chimed internally in Viggo's sex-voice. That was it. He was done. Three or four slick yanks later, he let himself go and came into his hand, onto the wall, down the drain, whatever. Now it was his turn to squeeze his eyes shut, tilt his head back and just empty himself. His whole body shook with the force of his release.

When he had come down enough to raise his eyelids, he was in for the shock of his life.

Viggo's interested face stared at him, keen blue eyes still murky with sated lust but alight, darting between his face and the cock still in his fist. There were tell-tale pearls leaking from it.

"Jesus, Vig," Sean gasped. "You're gonna give me a heart attack!"

"But in a good way, right?" Viggo asked, smirking. "Don't be an old man about it. I caught you red-handed. So to speak."

Sean turned his back and was rewarded with a classic wolf whistle. "Oh, stop it." Now he was embarrassed.

"Don't be like that," Viggo said levelly. He cut to the chase immediately. "Your presence is much desired in my bed…After my shower." Then he went slightly pink, himself. Sean pivoted in time to catch his brief change in coloring, staring pointedly at his musky coatings.

Viggo's look dared him to say anything more. The blond didn't have to. Deliberately he raised his eyebrows and lowered his chin. Viggo had the grace to look mildly uncomfortable.

Sean stepped heavily out of the shower; Viggo climbed in at the same time from the far end of the tub, in the opposite direction.

"Wait a minute. How did you get in here?" Sean wondered. He distinctly remembered locking the door.

"Picked the lock." Oh, he was evil.

Needing revenge, a sudden equally evil idea sprang to mind. Sean waited till the darker man was fully under the water before he acted, and then hissed, "Ssssshhh…"

"Huh?" Viggo froze.

"Shh-sshhaaauuun!" Damn. He enjoyed that way too much.

Viggo launched himself from behind the vinyl curtain. "You asshole, were you spying?" He thrust his face to with inches of Sean's, standing there dripping all over the rug.

"Not on purpose. Your door was open, and you were calling me." As innocent as a newborn lamb, was his tone.

Viggo tried and failed at sounding murderous. He was too amused. And aroused. Again. Obviously so. "Oh, you're going to feel my wrath, bitch! I'm going torture your sweet ass till you cry out your own fucking name."

And he did.

By the time Viggo was done with him, Sean decided that the red Ferrari and the gold chains could wait for at least another ten years, if not forever.

*****

THE END

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