FIC: Simpatico, lotrips, Viggo/Dom
TITLE: Simpatico
AUTHOR: veuki
RATING: R
FANDOM: lotrips
PAIRING: Viggo Mortensen/Dominic Monaghan
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. I don't own anyone. This never happened.
SUMMARY: Viggo has always listened.
i.
Dom rambles quite a lot to Viggo. He comes to realize this after one lazy sunlit afternoon, the smell of paint thick and heavy in the air and grease from Chinese food streaking across his mouth, crumbs dotting his upper lip. It’s a surreal jolt; and for a moment Dom feels like if he dipped his fingers into a pool of his own life-blood, separated mix of countless afternoons, the color dripping off his hands would be the same, no matter the circumstance.
He should feel bad for subjecting Viggo to his blather, mindless musings loud and terrible in the air, unrelenting and most likely overwhelming. The overbearing voice in the back of his mind tells him that Viggo doesn’t listen to him anyway, so everything cancels each other out in the end.
The midday sun filtering in through the blinds outlines Viggo’s profile. He’s wearing headphones that encompass his ears, knee is moving soft and steady to a slow rhythm that Dom is unable to hear. His eyes are closed, a brush at rest against his canvas. As Dom watches, Viggo trails his thumb through a smear of blue-green and presses it firmly to the corner of the canvas.
ii.
Viggo’s couch is a disgusting peridot color that makes Dom’s eyes hurt, so he looks at the ceiling and the repetitive circumventing of Viggo’s fan; at anything but what he’s sprawled upon. His lips are buzzing; he repeated the word ‘toothbrush’ until it lost all meaning and became a string of broken, odd syllables. Another bout of silence lapses between them; not an uncommon thing.
“So,” Dom says lamely. He is answered by the hum of the radiator and the sound of Viggo’s pencil scratching. Another length of silence languidly unravels before he begins again. “So. Ninety-three; now that was a good year. I’m telling you, man. I had this traveling show where I peeled off my clothes and did the can-can naked whilst singing, um… songs from The Sound of Music. Quite a success. And it was a fuckin’ hit, shit you not. I sold out in Europe. They wrote an editorial praising my high kicks.” Dom waits, stretches finally. “I’m gonna go take a piss.”
When he comes out of the bathroom, zipping up, Viggo is looking intently at him. It’s startling; fucking unsettling. “I would have paid to see that,” Viggo says. “More if you wore garters.”
iii.
“Here,” Dom says breathlessly, thrusting the bright yellow package of photographs into Viggo’s hand as soon as Viggo opens the door. He shakes his head as Viggo pats his pockets, looking for his wallet. “No, don’t worry about it. On me.”
“Wanna come in?”
“Oh. Sure.” Dom blinks and follows Viggo inside his trailer. Viggo opens the envelope of photographs and lets them spill across the kitchen table, inky and glossy and bright. “Are those for the wall?”
“Yeah,” Viggo says. Dom watches as he picks up a photograph of Merry looking straight into the lens, picks up a pair of kitchen shears and cuts the photograph cleanly through the middle. Half of Dom’s face flutters to the floor, forgotten. He feels something in the pit of his stomach twist, looking at the lessened photograph. He wonders if Viggo sees him as half a person, not really there; shimmering vaguely translucent, only one foot on the ground.
Viggo picks up another picture and the scissors, slices through flannel-clad Dom and hair damp from his wig. Dom watches as Viggo glues Merry’s moiety to Dom’s moiety; Viggo’s paint-stained fingers line and push the two halves together until they’re in perfect synchrony.
iv.
“If you only you were shorter, and hairier and curlier.” The room is spinning pleasantly, warmth settling liquid-smooth in the pit of his stomach. He sloppily refills his glass of armagnac. “You could’ve been a hobbit, you know. You like going around in bare feet.” He is greeted by silence; no surprise there. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we shagged?” he blurts out. The volume of his words magnify tenfold once they leave his mouth. Dom winces at the sound of his own voice.
His tentativeness fades, though, when he sees that Viggo has put down his notebook and is watching him, intense gaze sending piercing shivers that vibrate in Dom’s belly. Heat pools in his groin, cock aching. The humiliated grimace drops off Dom’s face, and Dom drops to his knees and shuffles across the carpet.
It ends before it begins; Dom only unbuttons half of Viggo’s shirt before he comes wetly in his jeans, undulating and moaning and gasping against Viggo. Viggo waits until Dom’s breathing has slowed and crawls out from underneath him. Viggo picks up his notebook again; the fringed curtain of his hair casts a dark shadow over his eyes.
v.
The second time it happens, Dom says soberly, quietly, “I’m going to touch you,” and kisses behind Viggo’s ear, the stubbled line of his jaw, the curve of gold-hot skin at the base of his throat. Dom lets his lips and tongue and teeth glide over every part of Viggo he can possibly reach. Viggo gleams; shimmers slickly with saliva and sweat, and Dom wonders if he can make every square inch of Viggo’s body shine.
Dom pushes into him, slow and deep. Viggo lets out a soft breath that feathers across Dom’s throat, slicing across Dom’s nerves like a white-hot knife. Viggo’s legs wrap and lock high around Dom’s ribs, toes dragging across his back, pressing into his spine.
Dom feels Viggo quivering, and the quivers merge and coalesce with Dom’s quivering until they’ve become one quivering, trembling unified mass; and Dom can’t tell where Viggo begins and ends. He wraps a hand around Viggo and jerks him off hard and fast. “Yes-yes yes yes,” he pants into the shell of Viggo’s ear; he’ll sell his soul if he can make Viggo come first; “come on that’s it yes-” And smiles triumphantly as Viggo arches and explodes.
vi.
The third time, Viggo arranges Dom on all fours and tongue-fucks the curve of his back until he is shaking uncontrollably. “Please, Viggo,” Dom begs unabashedly. “Please,” and feels Viggo’s smile against his skin, fingers raking through his hair and yanking his head up. Viggo turns Dom’s head and their lips smash, teeth clacking and tongues tangling wetly. Dom’s arms tense, and the tenseness is infectious because it races to his shoulderblades, down his body, pulsing red-hot and bright. Dom’s body seizes up and he comes fiercely, panting and sobbing into Viggo’s pillow. “Am I real,” Dom grates out mindlessly, words hitching and choked. He’s only slightly aware of Viggo’s knees pushing against the backs of his thighs, a salacious groan accompanying the nails buried into his scalp.
Viggo’s breath becomes long and patient and slow, and quite suddenly Dom finds himself on his back, staring up at Viggo. “You’re real to me; Dom, you’re so real,” and he smiles and pins Dom securely to the mattress, licking and biting and worrying his earlobe. “Toothbrush,” he rasps, blowing on Dom’s wet skin, “toothbrush toothbrush toothbrush,” and Dom, writhing and wriggling and laughing beneath Viggo, realizes that Viggo has always listened.
AUTHOR: veuki
RATING: R
FANDOM: lotrips
PAIRING: Viggo Mortensen/Dominic Monaghan
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. I don't own anyone. This never happened.
SUMMARY: Viggo has always listened.
i.
Dom rambles quite a lot to Viggo. He comes to realize this after one lazy sunlit afternoon, the smell of paint thick and heavy in the air and grease from Chinese food streaking across his mouth, crumbs dotting his upper lip. It’s a surreal jolt; and for a moment Dom feels like if he dipped his fingers into a pool of his own life-blood, separated mix of countless afternoons, the color dripping off his hands would be the same, no matter the circumstance.
He should feel bad for subjecting Viggo to his blather, mindless musings loud and terrible in the air, unrelenting and most likely overwhelming. The overbearing voice in the back of his mind tells him that Viggo doesn’t listen to him anyway, so everything cancels each other out in the end.
The midday sun filtering in through the blinds outlines Viggo’s profile. He’s wearing headphones that encompass his ears, knee is moving soft and steady to a slow rhythm that Dom is unable to hear. His eyes are closed, a brush at rest against his canvas. As Dom watches, Viggo trails his thumb through a smear of blue-green and presses it firmly to the corner of the canvas.
ii.
Viggo’s couch is a disgusting peridot color that makes Dom’s eyes hurt, so he looks at the ceiling and the repetitive circumventing of Viggo’s fan; at anything but what he’s sprawled upon. His lips are buzzing; he repeated the word ‘toothbrush’ until it lost all meaning and became a string of broken, odd syllables. Another bout of silence lapses between them; not an uncommon thing.
“So,” Dom says lamely. He is answered by the hum of the radiator and the sound of Viggo’s pencil scratching. Another length of silence languidly unravels before he begins again. “So. Ninety-three; now that was a good year. I’m telling you, man. I had this traveling show where I peeled off my clothes and did the can-can naked whilst singing, um… songs from The Sound of Music. Quite a success. And it was a fuckin’ hit, shit you not. I sold out in Europe. They wrote an editorial praising my high kicks.” Dom waits, stretches finally. “I’m gonna go take a piss.”
When he comes out of the bathroom, zipping up, Viggo is looking intently at him. It’s startling; fucking unsettling. “I would have paid to see that,” Viggo says. “More if you wore garters.”
iii.
“Here,” Dom says breathlessly, thrusting the bright yellow package of photographs into Viggo’s hand as soon as Viggo opens the door. He shakes his head as Viggo pats his pockets, looking for his wallet. “No, don’t worry about it. On me.”
“Wanna come in?”
“Oh. Sure.” Dom blinks and follows Viggo inside his trailer. Viggo opens the envelope of photographs and lets them spill across the kitchen table, inky and glossy and bright. “Are those for the wall?”
“Yeah,” Viggo says. Dom watches as he picks up a photograph of Merry looking straight into the lens, picks up a pair of kitchen shears and cuts the photograph cleanly through the middle. Half of Dom’s face flutters to the floor, forgotten. He feels something in the pit of his stomach twist, looking at the lessened photograph. He wonders if Viggo sees him as half a person, not really there; shimmering vaguely translucent, only one foot on the ground.
Viggo picks up another picture and the scissors, slices through flannel-clad Dom and hair damp from his wig. Dom watches as Viggo glues Merry’s moiety to Dom’s moiety; Viggo’s paint-stained fingers line and push the two halves together until they’re in perfect synchrony.
iv.
“If you only you were shorter, and hairier and curlier.” The room is spinning pleasantly, warmth settling liquid-smooth in the pit of his stomach. He sloppily refills his glass of armagnac. “You could’ve been a hobbit, you know. You like going around in bare feet.” He is greeted by silence; no surprise there. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we shagged?” he blurts out. The volume of his words magnify tenfold once they leave his mouth. Dom winces at the sound of his own voice.
His tentativeness fades, though, when he sees that Viggo has put down his notebook and is watching him, intense gaze sending piercing shivers that vibrate in Dom’s belly. Heat pools in his groin, cock aching. The humiliated grimace drops off Dom’s face, and Dom drops to his knees and shuffles across the carpet.
It ends before it begins; Dom only unbuttons half of Viggo’s shirt before he comes wetly in his jeans, undulating and moaning and gasping against Viggo. Viggo waits until Dom’s breathing has slowed and crawls out from underneath him. Viggo picks up his notebook again; the fringed curtain of his hair casts a dark shadow over his eyes.
v.
The second time it happens, Dom says soberly, quietly, “I’m going to touch you,” and kisses behind Viggo’s ear, the stubbled line of his jaw, the curve of gold-hot skin at the base of his throat. Dom lets his lips and tongue and teeth glide over every part of Viggo he can possibly reach. Viggo gleams; shimmers slickly with saliva and sweat, and Dom wonders if he can make every square inch of Viggo’s body shine.
Dom pushes into him, slow and deep. Viggo lets out a soft breath that feathers across Dom’s throat, slicing across Dom’s nerves like a white-hot knife. Viggo’s legs wrap and lock high around Dom’s ribs, toes dragging across his back, pressing into his spine.
Dom feels Viggo quivering, and the quivers merge and coalesce with Dom’s quivering until they’ve become one quivering, trembling unified mass; and Dom can’t tell where Viggo begins and ends. He wraps a hand around Viggo and jerks him off hard and fast. “Yes-yes yes yes,” he pants into the shell of Viggo’s ear; he’ll sell his soul if he can make Viggo come first; “come on that’s it yes-” And smiles triumphantly as Viggo arches and explodes.
vi.
The third time, Viggo arranges Dom on all fours and tongue-fucks the curve of his back until he is shaking uncontrollably. “Please, Viggo,” Dom begs unabashedly. “Please,” and feels Viggo’s smile against his skin, fingers raking through his hair and yanking his head up. Viggo turns Dom’s head and their lips smash, teeth clacking and tongues tangling wetly. Dom’s arms tense, and the tenseness is infectious because it races to his shoulderblades, down his body, pulsing red-hot and bright. Dom’s body seizes up and he comes fiercely, panting and sobbing into Viggo’s pillow. “Am I real,” Dom grates out mindlessly, words hitching and choked. He’s only slightly aware of Viggo’s knees pushing against the backs of his thighs, a salacious groan accompanying the nails buried into his scalp.
Viggo’s breath becomes long and patient and slow, and quite suddenly Dom finds himself on his back, staring up at Viggo. “You’re real to me; Dom, you’re so real,” and he smiles and pins Dom securely to the mattress, licking and biting and worrying his earlobe. “Toothbrush,” he rasps, blowing on Dom’s wet skin, “toothbrush toothbrush toothbrush,” and Dom, writhing and wriggling and laughing beneath Viggo, realizes that Viggo has always listened.