Pairing: Viggo Mortensen/Bernard Hill
Genre: was supposed to take place on one of the sets, I hope having half of it take place on one of the sets works.
Disclaimer: You know how some times things aren't true? Yeah. Well this is one of them. If Viggo and Bernard did this, I'll laugh myself silly and then ask for the video.
Summary: Bernard wants to fuck his boy.
Author's note: Slashababy fic for mcee, I sure hope you're happy. Special thanks to karleesplace and little_unwell for the beta and to enchanteresse for the feedback. Cross-posted in slashababy and yuenidezi
I can not stress enough. This is BDSM slash. If you are squicked, for the love of god, do NOT read it!
He sits there, encircled by the tools of warfare. His men surround him, clad in the iron and steel armour of their trade. Bright banners of war stand in mocking contrast to the dull, foreboding gray of the stone walls of Helm’s Deep that seem to contract around him. It was a cave, closing in, tightening, so that there is no escape, no closure, until death. And he accepts it.
The one man he thinks of as his ally is dead, and his death will not be the last. It is merely the first of many, too many. It is a war council. It can not be anything less. Then, just when he accepts that nothing more can be done, just when he understands that he is alone to face the end of his kingdom, hope appears.
Nobody ever entered a room with such presence. Nobody else could ever command attention simply by existing. He admires it, and also despises it.
He fights to remember his lines. He struggles to stay in the mindset of a troubled king, as he thinks of the women, children, and of the countless dead. He ponders the threat of Isengard that ever hangs over his head. It is a weighty concern, one that burdens his shoulders. He thought he had to deal with this alone, but not any longer. Not any more.
Then his mind registers what has been told to him. “How many?”
“Ten thousand strong at least.”
“Ten thousand?!” The worries double, and now he is nearer. Nobody ever looked so good wounded and dirty like that. It should be outlawed, illegal. Bernard struggles even more to be the king, to be worried, to be Théoden, the King of Rohan. Théoden King never desired to throw Aragorn down to the floor and fuck him senseless. It simply isn’t in the script, and he clings to the hope that if this scene is done right, done well, then they can stop. He will no longer need to fight the urge.
“It is an army bred for a single purpose: to destroy the world of Men. They will be here by nightfall.”
One more line will do it. One more line. He is determined. He is old. They may be defeated, but he knows his men. “Let them come.”
The scene is at an end. PJ hollers a cut, and he is relieved. When they are given a break for lunch, Bernard is even more thankful. He gets an hour’s respite. He gets an hour’s rest. No. He’ll get an hour’s fuck.
Viggo has left for the trailer, the Cuntebago, to be precise. He’s thinking of doing some photography over lunch, having spotted some interesting lighting that might suit his mood this day. He wants to experiment after his chat with one of the gaffers. Discussing photography with the crew is always an interesting experience. He has some ideas that he wants to play around with. The lunch break would be the ideal time for him to toy around, so to speak.
Or so he thinks.
Bernard has other plans, and none of them have anything to do with lighting or lenses and filters. No. His plans have more to do with ripping clothes and shoving a certain man against a counter, a wall, anything and having his way with him. He knows Viggo likes it rough. He knows Viggo likes the unexpected, and the unexpected he will get.
He is hovering uncertainly between two different filters when he is suddenly slammed against a wall. Hard. He growls and shoves back. He’s raring to fight. He had plans, damnit, good plans.
Bernard moves in, flush against Viggo, murmuring softly against his ear. “Just what do you think you’re doing, boy?”
The words are soft, quiet with a menacing undertone. They challenge. They bite. They dare Viggo to fight back. They provoke Viggo to push back, to shove again. The implication of further punishment is there, and Viggo senses it, but he feels perverse. He shoves back again. “What do you think I’m doing?”
The tone drops a notch. “I think you’re being contrary. I think you actually want to be punished. I think you’re practically begging for it. Boy.”
It constantly amazes Viggo how easily he drops into his submissive headspace, particularly with Bernard, and he does. He rasps out, “What do you care? You just want to fuck me.”
He’s asking for it and he knows it. He is aware that Bernard knows it. The fact is, it’s what he wants; what they both want. Bernard hauls him from the wall and hits him for his smart mouth. It stings. Bernard never did appreciate what it meant to pull a punch. When he hits, he hits hard. It is meant to hurt, and it does. Viggo is summarily slammed back against the wall, feeling Bernard’s erection pressing against his butt, and his cheeks grow flushed with the anticipation of what is to come next.
“Are you going to play nice, or am I going to have to teach you a little lesson?”
The growl rumbles up from Viggo’s belly, it snarls through his teeth. “You know I never play nice. If you want me, you fight.”
“If that’s how it’s to be, then so be it.” Bernard forces Viggo to his knees, fighting every single inch of the way. His teeth are bared, eyes flashing with excitement, arousal. He needs the fight. He craves it, and he gets exactly what he wants.
Viggo struggles constantly, but is eventually down on his knees in the middle of the cramped trailer. He gives in at that point, his hands going automatically behind his head. Still, he can’t help being snarky. “What, are you going to beat me now?”
“Oh, a beating is what you want, is it?” Bernard pulls the words out of his mouth, purring. “I don’t think you’ll get it so easily. I know what you like, and you haven’t shown me that you deserve it yet.”
“You’re going to do it anyway, might as well get it over-with.” The sniping is only going to earn him a beating, and Viggo knows this.
Bernard shoves Viggo down on his hands and knees, holding him on the floor with his boot. They are still in costume, Viggo in dirty, wet leather, Bernard in his kingly raiment. “If you want to get it over-with, I will gladly oblige.”
The pants are pulled off so they pool around Viggo’s knees, and two pale cheeks are exposed to the air. Bernard wraps the buckle end of a leather belt around his fist and gives a good swing. His stroke is firm, practiced; all in the wrist, as they say. The first hit is loud, echoing in the trailer, and Viggo barely blows out a breath before snarking. “Is that all you can do? Pathetic.”
Bernard’s fingers dig into Viggo’s scalp, pulling his head back painfully. “You want to watch your smart mouth, boy, or I will watch it for you.”
The next few strokes come easily in succession, and Viggo’s buttocks warm with blood drawn to the surface. He feels the contrast of the cool air against his warm ass and nearly moans with pleasure, but he refuses to give Bernard the satisfaction. He feels the sting as the belt is brought smartly down on his buttocks, and shudders.
Viggo wants the pain. He can taste it. Bernard is the first person who’s ever shown him how to derive pleasure from it. A world has opened before him, and he nearly begs for more. Even towards the end, he’s arching his butt up to meet the strokes, welcoming the sting of leather against flesh. When Bernard stops, Viggo almost cries out at the loss. Then a cool hand is placed lightly upon his butt, and the he does whimper at the contrast.
Gently, too gently, Bernard lightly parts Viggo’s buttocks, slipping his lube-slick fingers into Viggo’s hole. That is all the preparation he is going to get, because Bernard means to fuck him, and fuck him he will. He thrusts in with one swift stroke, all the way to the hilt. Viggo is snug around him; tight, hot, perfect. Always perfect. Flawless.
Viggo moans at the invasion, almost screaming out at the pleasure-pain as Bernard drives in and out of him repeatedly, endlessly. He rides the fine line where pain and pleasure merge and meld into one, crying out soundlessly as he is pressed, pushed, towards the edge. The lure of coming draws him, and he tries to stop it, to cling by the skin of his teeth to the slippery precipice. His face is contorted with effort, beads of perspiration forming, dropping to the worn linoleum of the trailer floor. He is close to begging, but he refuses.
Bernard knows this, and there will be no respite until Viggo begs, pleads, needs to come. The rhythm he set is vicious, punishing, but he persists. Somebody will have problems sitting afterwards, but that is neither here nor there. He angles himself so his cock runs over Viggo’s prostate repeatedly.
The words that spill out are strangled, choked. “Please. Please. I’m begging you. Let me come.”
“Not yet, not now.” Bernard runs his fingers through Viggo’s hair, his nails digging in as he spurts his seed into Viggo.
Viggo can’t help himself, he wants to come, he needs to. He’s so close to the edge, his cock is so hard, painfully stiff. He is panting, cross-eyed with effort, and when Bernard’s hand closes around the base of his shaft and purrs his permission into his ear, Viggo’s release is immediate and exhilarating. It leaves him kneeling there on his hands and knees, spent, exhausted, and strangely triumphant.