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TITLE: Avoidance
AUTHOR: Blackkoda
ORIGINAL STORY: No Harm Done by Childeproof
SUMMARY: The inevitable will hunt you down
NOTES: RPS, nothing too wild, changes include perspective and theme
DISCLAIMER: This fic and the characters therein bear no resemblance to parties in reality, in fact it is a rewritten work based and upon a fictional story of the same nature.

===== Sean has an idea that by watching suspense or horror movie, anything that quickens his blood, touches and encompasses his most primal fears—that he can somehow master his responses should he encounter anything truly frightening. His logic laying in the effort of desensitization, Sean hardly pays attention to the shrieks and roars on the tellie in lieu of staring at the more frightening, rectangular form of the door. The dark aluminum with it’s small brass knob leers at him with the threat of opening wide, mocks him by refracting the rain from outside in tones, Sean often mistakes for entry.

Stretched out across the sofa, Sean barely has to stretch to reach the coffee table, which holds his vices like a buffet. Cigarette burning upon a pyre of butts, four empty and two full bottles of lager, crumbs from a haphazardly consumed chocolate cake. He feels weighty, exhausted by vices that no longer serve their original purposes of distraction. The lure of a hot cleansing shower isn’t even enough to keep his heart from hammering, his eyes from constantly flickering to the door, nor his mind from dreading the man he knows will walk in through it. Naked and damp, a towel tied at the hip is the only thing covering him and as Sean shifts further into the comforting hold of the sofa, he is reminded that he could jerk off. Yet even that vice holds no sway.

The door opens letting in a brighter darkness, a louder symphony of rain and Viggo, who appears far too leisurely to be imposing. Sean isn’t so easily deceived by the faded green shirt, Viggo wears so often, new yet still humble jacket. ‘One would think that the Dane was the easiest bloke in the world to get along with,’ Sean thinks through the staggered beating of his heart, which disagrees.

“You’re avoiding me,” Viggo says and Sean has no idea how such a thing is even possible. He wishes for such a luxury but within the cramped space of the trailer, Viggo is everywhere and not just in the corner of Sean’s flickering gaze. Even when Sean closes his eyes, every detail of the man is visible, unavoidable from the speckling gray in blue eyes, a constant to any new bruise or scrap that Viggo might have just gotten. Sean notes and recalls too easily, he thinks. The worse thing being that he also recalls the small of Viggo’s back, the cup of Viggo’s underarm and the soft coral of Viggo’s cock.

Sean’s cock twitches underneath the terry cloth at the montage in his brain. Frowning, he tries to shake the images from his mind and bloodstream. Furious with himself and at Viggo for being so close, for tempting him with the reality of such visions, Sean snarls, “Piss off. What would I be avoiding you for?”

“You tell me.”

He has several reasons, which sound perfectly understandable in his head, but would falter as soon as they passed his lips. Sean can feel Viggo’s gaze even, warm and searching him thoroughly and wonders why they aren’t obvious, why Viggo would even wonder. Then perhaps maybe Viggo doesn’t recall the last time they were alone together. They were both pissed, yet having his face between a man’s thighs for half the night and Viggo’s in between his for the other half is not the easiest act to rebound from. It is difficult for him to recall the days when just being near to Viggo didn’t cause his insides to shiver and his cock to twitch, but Sean has tried nonetheless. On the set, at the pub with friends, Sean has kept his distance, if only to appear as if he’s not begging silently to do it again.

Feeling Viggo’s gaze roaming over him, Sean lowers his head and draws a long, deep breath, which only serves to loosen the towel around his waist more so than it already is. Sean stands with his back to Viggo, making a secretive attempt at adjusting the terry cloth.

The silence between them is thick with possibilities that the towel can’t conceal for long and no matter how loud the rain and wind is outside the trailer, the unspoken words lingering in the small space seem louder. Sean turns, avoiding Viggo’s glance. “Right, so I have been avoiding you.” Trying to infuse some measure of exasperation into his voice, Sean still doesn’t feel the need to say why. Just thinking of the explanation has made him that much harder, that much more prominent beneath the accursed towel.

The excuse of finding more suitable clothing, serves as just the motivation he needs to move. Brushing briskly past Viggo and over to a mess of unsorted laundry, books, scripts, and various other rubbish, Sean casts through a small mountain for something, anything to hide within and comes up with an oversized, gray shirt that had formerly been white. Cocking a brow at the curious transformation before sliding it on, Sean wonders when his life became so haphazard.

Gaze flitting to Viggo, Sean realizes that finding a pair of trousers would mean pulling off the towel and that is something he definitely wants to avoid. His fingers curl around the hem of his shirt and Sean pulls it down to cover the intimidating curve.

“My Muffy won’t eat anything but Hautč Fru Fru brand dog food. Right, Muffy?”

Sean turns to glare at the television and it occurs to him that the terrier in the commercial might as well be eating pâté. He frowns at the resemblance between the canned pet food and hors d'oeuvres he’s had at numerous cocktail parties.

“You’re doing it again,” Viggos says matter-of-factly, interrupting Sean’s sudden fascination with gourmet dog food.

Assuming a defensive stance, Sean bars his arms across his chest, casting his chin upwards. In little more than a shirt and towel, he likes the feel of some protective measure. “So. So what if I am?” What he wants to say, is something more along the childish ways of ’You’re not the boss of me!’ Viggo laughs lightly and for a moment Sean has to worry whether he said it aloud.

“Look,” Viggo says. “I don’t mind being avoided, I just want to hear you say it.”

’Why is he always so smug, so calm and so fucking sexy,’ Sean thinks to himself. Rolling his eyes at his own lust, Sean works quickly to reestablish some form of backbone. “Say what, for fuck’s sake?” It feels as if it is a battle he can’t hope to win in his terrycloth kilt and for that Sean can feel the panic rising in his chest, warm and stuffy or is that passion. He frowns, wanting nothing more than to flee, leave Viggo and all of his confrontational ways alone in the trailer.

“Let me see. The reason why you suddenly have an entirely different schedule even though we’re shooting exactly the same scenes.” Eyeing Sean with an incredulous glare, Viggo pauses. “The reason why you hide in here like the sheriff’s on your trail and why I seem to be toxic all of a sudden?”

Toxic does seem to be an appropriate adjective. Feeling pressured and faint, Sean mumbles, “I have my reasons.”

“Don’t suppose you’d like to tell me any of them?”

Sean is beginning to feel as if he is suddenly starring in a daytime drama. Viggo looks at him with a fragileness that practically demands Sean go to him, snatch him up into an embrace and suffocate him with a kiss. ’No way for a bloke to behave at all,’ he scowls to himself. “No.”

“Sure,” Viggo sighs loudly, looking more than a bit feminine in his mock-despair. “Why would you say something when it’s so much easier not to? How silly of me.”

Viggo takes a sip from the coffee mug, he’s so protectively clutching and Sean uses the opportunity to chance a quick glance. Approximately twenty-five seconds later, Sean’s vision still remains upon the open V of Viggo’s shirt. The sheen upon the few peeking hairs, reminds Sean that there are more hidden and that rainwater could easily be sweat. An involuntary need to blink saves him, and Sean looks away to the bathroom. It is the furthest place away from Viggo and Sean wastes no time in moving there.

Bustling past Viggo, Sean thinks he hears a snicker, but doesn’t dare turn to find out. The rise of his cock underneath the towel will take advantage of any excuse to gain Viggo’s attention and that is something Sean does not want. What he does want is something, anything to calm his sensitive state. In the bathroom, he discovers his trusty bottle of Valium empty. It's back to the basics he thinks, turning on the faucet and cupping his hands underneath the flow. Splashing cold water upon his warm, very flushed face feels wonderful, refreshing. As the water fills the basin, Sean bends over and submerges his head. Excess spills over the rim of the sink and onto the floor, but arousal is no longer such a pressing issue. Staying under until the pressure wears on him, Sean arises with a gasp and an arc of droplets. In the mirror, he looks as if he's been through an ordeal, something strenuous and important.

Viggo, he finds, unmoved and peaceful, still beside the counter. Viggo shows no knowledge of Sean's epic dowsing, wiggling muddy toes in muddy Birkenstocks, staring at them as if the simplest thing could amuse him. Simplicity. Sean doesn't believe such a thing exists.

Sean turns off the spigot, throws a towel to the floor to collect the spilled water. "Look, Vig," he says finally. "I've tried and failed before." His tone is like that of a wise teacher to a idealist child and he feels only slightly foolish. "People disappoint me. I disappoint them. It's nothing personal."

Something of an edge of surprise turns Viggo's eyes toward Sean. First wide then narrowing, Viggo's steel blue eyes flash with perception. Sean remembers then that Viggo is not a child and is just as old as he. Panicking Sean tries another explanation. "No offense, but I have wretchedly appalling taste, always have done."

"Thanks a lot," Viggo says plainly and Sean thinks that he might have gotten his message across.

"You're welcome." Setting his shoulders back with a false air of confidence, Sean nods. Things should be clearer, the air in the trailer should be lighter and free of peril soon, he supposes. It doesn’t and Viggo returns to watching the specter of his wiggling toes. Sean is tired of competing with wiggling digits. He would almost be upset if he believed in half of what he’d been saying. Before he realizes it, Sean is starring at the dancing toes, smiling at their comedic performances. Seconds pass and Sean blinks back to awareness. His voice is shaking anew as he tries again to beat back the flush of warmth that Viggo effortlessly inspires in him. “Look, I’m just not one of life’s nice people.”

“You’re right.” Viggo’s voice snaps at Sean with a mockingly British tone. “It’s pathetic. The entire world’s fucked. All that shit about lack of self-esteem, as if anyone’s interested. Inner Child Discovery workshops… And underneath we’d all fuck each other over at the drop of the hat.” It’s him, Viggo is definitely mirroring him and Sean is much too amazed by the skilled delivery to pay much attention to the mocking content.

’Do I really sound like that,’ Sean wonders. “Huh?”

Viggo stares back at him as if the point of negativity is useless. Sean lowers his head as a smile tugs upon the edges of his mouth. His is slipping into dangerous territory and knows it, but the warmth inside him is glowing too brightly to be feared, too brilliantly to dampen. “You bastard,” he chuckles.

A flash of dark green and Sean has to move quickly to catch long, fingers that would unfurl his towel of a kilt. He doesn’t know how Viggo appeared so suddenly at his side. Unbalanced and needful as an addict, Sean gasps, “What the-.”

Viggo’s hand pulls downward carrying the cuff of Sean’s fingers with it. He finds the front of the towel where Sean’s half-swollen cock has been waiting, craving. Sean falters as Viggo plays him with the skill of a virtuoso. None of Sean’s addictions can compare as Viggo rubs the ruthless terry cloth material across his shaft.

“This is-.” Another broken sentence, awkward and squeaking, comes from Sean’s mouth. He silences it, because he doesn’t really know how to describe the sugar waves weakening his legs and thighs, stifling his airways. Viggo seems to know as he presses the now rigid shaft underneath the towel, puts a thumb just over the head and pushes.

Sean can feel the flexing of tendons, the pulsing of veins within Viggo’s wrist. Aware that the act of holding Viggo’s wicked hand is very co-dependent, Sean is unaware as he pushes his hips closer into Viggo’s touch. He looks up as if in surprise and meets Viggo’s serendipitous periwinkle gaze. There are no surprises within them.

Confused, Sean wishes he had just an ounce of that assuredness, that clarity. He wishes Viggo would let him in on the secret, on why this is so easy and right. “Oh, Christ…Vig,” he whimpers, brow knitted with as much confusion as abandon. “What am I…what are we supposed to do?”

“We could talk sense.” It is a suggestion but before Sean can think of beginning the talking, Viggo’s lips are hard pressed against his. Too close and too weak to deny, Sean opens his lips to Viggo’s insistent tongue, purring deep as he submits to the wet curl of it. All of his petty excuses seem to melt in the familiar lure of Viggo’s presence, that much more powerful when tasted at the source. Just when Viggo is about to pull away, perhaps for air, Sean presses his tongue into Viggo’s mouth, too greedy to let up. Viggo’s cool fingers slipping underneath his shirt, touching the base of his spine changes all that.

Breaking away with a worried frown, Sean feels his shirt being lifted around him, is powerless to stop, Viggo from pulling it and his arms upwards. Awareness comes chilly around Sean’s naked chest as Viggo tosses the shirt to the floor to soak up water alongside the towel. Sean uses the opportunity to catch his breath and slip away. Running a hand through his cropped blonde hair, Sean feels that if only Viggo would tell him how to be so unabashedly, so bloody calm about wanting a bloke, about needing a bloke…then all would be ok. Shaking his head, Sean asks himself rhetorically, “Why do I always go along with this?”

Gone is the childishness, the patience that Viggo seemed to possess in abundance. “Later, Ok.”

“All right,” Sean nods, content to see emotions and hunger, the likes of which he can recognize.

Viggo’s chest rises and falls in a dramatically controlled rhythm. “I never met anyone before who did the guilt stuff in advance.”

Sean doesn’t need to be reminded that guilt and avoidance are cousins. He doesn’t need to be reminded of his failings with both. “I said alright,” his voice flavored with a hint of irritation.

“That’ right,” Viggo adds with a sudden wicked smile, takes off his dingy green jacket and tosses it to the floor with the other make-shift sponges. “You did.”

As simple as that and Sean is smiling again. He can’t recall why he’d ever choose not to when Viggo is so close. He has an inkling that the very question of choice is at the heart of all of his anxiety.

Viggo takes a step forward and with on tug the towel falls to the floor, more clothe on the tiles, but none on Sean. He moves back to take in the sight and Sean stays riveted in place. All of the humor is gone, only to be replaced by a synchronous, heavy silence.

With Viggo’s eyes roaming over him, Sean can’t recall ever feeling so vulnerable. It has nothing to do with addictions, guilt…Sean suspects it might not even be lust, but that is as far as his descriptive efforts are willing to delve. Then Viggo steps up to him, raises the curve of his hand to Sean’s cheek.

Eyes drifting shut, Sean swears that he can see rose-colored lights behind his eyes. He knows he should panic, knows that he should fear crossing into the mother of all addictions, love itself. He knows, but is helpless to its lure. When he opens his eyes, all Sean can see is colored by wanting. Moving against Viggo, Sean binds them together, chest to chest, mouth to mouth. Viggo matches his intensity until they are both too wild for reasoning. Sean leads pushing Viggo back out of the bathroom, and then Viggo turns leading the rest of the short distance to the sofa. They fall together.

Even with Viggo on top of him, overpowering him with fingers, knee and hands and mouth. His throat seems to be a particular area of interest for Viggo’s hunger and Sean can only cling a hold of the slender waist, weave his fingers into golden-dark hair. It is all that he wanted and was afraid of but no more. He doesn’t want or need any distractions. Fumbling with a hand hanging off the side of the couch, Sean finds the remote control. He shuts the television off, bathing them both in darkness and the music of rainfall out side. Helping Viggo to pull off his shirt, trousers and those wretched Birkenstocks, Sean is will with his addiction. Addicted to the taste of Viggo’s skin, the feel of his muscled body, twisting and writhing on top of him. In the blackness, he can shed the doubt and frailty he feels in the day.

Rolling Viggo over, Sean takes control away from the Dane. A junkie hooked and free to indulge, Sean pushes his leg in between Viggo’s, working his legs apart to settle between them. Tasting, nipping his way over collarbone and breastplate, Sean wants the fresh green and musk taste of Viggo’s skin to remain upon his tongue for weeks, mornings later when acknowledgement is too give, when the future might lead him to doubt. It seems a lot to do, but Sean has time. His fingers find the silky flesh of Viggo’s cock, wet and so eager for attention.

Closing his fist around the slick width, Sean smiles against the taut peak of Viggo’s left nipple, snakes out his tongue to taste.

Viggo cries for him and Sean is addicted to the sound aroused to aching behind it. Pumping Viggo’s cock faster, twisting his strokes, Sean listens to what devastates the Dane the most, what causes the feeblest cries.

When Viggo begins to muffle his sounds, Sean halts, moves from Viggo’s cock downwards. Caressing the heavy sack, the thick sensitive muscle underneath, Sean smiles as Viggo breaks, buries his face in Sean’s shoulder to scream. Relentless, Sean moves his shoulder away. He wants to hear, wants to see Viggo as he often imagines himself to be…hopelessly lost and wanting.

Thinking he hears the word ’Please’, Sean gives in, straightens his body alongside Viggo’s. He lifts the heavy arc of Viggo’s cock and strokes anew, purposeful loving glides of his tight grasp. Finding Viggo’s mouth in the darkness, Sean captures the rising pitch of Viggo’s cries just as surely as his palm meets every upward thrust of Viggo’s hips.

The final thrust, the final sound Sean cannot contain, and would not want it to be muffled even if it meant that everyone for miles could hear!


Breathless and needy, scratching lines across Sean’s back, Viggo gasps, “Have you got a condom?”

The question is both startling and relevant. Sinking inside velvet heat and clenching muscle, being one with Viggo. It dawns upon him like a gift too great for him to be the recipient of. “You mean-?”

“Yeah.” Kissing the tip of Sean’s chin, Viggo seems to have an easy access to calm and rational thought. The gesture is soothing even as Sean’s heart threatens to beat out of his chest.

“No,” Sean mutters cloudily. “Wasn’t expecting you.” He fears he might have broken the mood.

Viggo slips out from under Sean, knees meeting the floor in a soft thud. “I should have called first, shouldn’t I?” His voice carrying elements of both disappointment and resolve and as Viggo parts his legs, Sean thinks it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard.

“You should’ve, yeah,” Sean sighs as wet lips slide over the head of his cock. His hips rise impatiently as Viggo draws away, and Sean has a mind to press Viggo back down. He wants it, needs it and the darkness only adds to his desire. There is really nothing to detract from it. Then Viggo’s mouth returns and Sean can buck all he likes. Viggo takes everything he has to give, deep-throating the length with selfless commitment.

The darkness fills with sounds that would bow their head in shame in the light of day…broken whimpers, crackling gasps and keening moans. There are sloppy, awkward sounds as Viggo rises and falls between Sean’s thighs, even something akin to a purr of contentment. Sean welcomes the music whole-heartedly, especially the staggered scream of a denouement.


Once the lights come on, Sean is too weary and vulnerable to bear the weight of reasoning and propriety. In that state of ease, that is so difficult to find when searched for, but so well to enjoy once in it, Sean finds their clothes. He hands Viggo his and they both dress in the heavy, near tangible air of their lust.

Pulling on his shirt, Sean finds a pair of sweat pants tucked underneath the couch. Rather than wonder how they got there, which would be a thoroughly distracting action, Sean slides them up over his legs before turning to look at Viggo. The disheveled man looks vulnerable and unnerved. Sean isn’t sure that he’s ever seen Viggo look so dazed but Sean is sure he looks every bit as similar.

Going into the kitchenette, Sean takes out the tea tin and kettle. They both need something warm and calming in their veins, he thinks. It only takes a few minutes before; Sean is pouring steaming, brown liquid into two mugs. He adds sugar to both, gives one to Viggo.

They sip their tea in silence, sitting side by side on the couch as if sound is once again shy. Neither of them is bold enough to look upon skin in the light that they spent so long kissing and worshiping in the dark. Neither of them is daring enough to see in eyes, what they heard in heartbeats and whispers.

“I should get going,” Viggo finally stammers, setting down his mug.

“Wh- What’s the hurry?” Sean starts, head snapping up from his mug with alarm. It is his first response and he couldn’t have suppressed it even if he wanted to. He doesn’t understand why it is so important but he wants Viggo near, now that he has him.

Raising his head, Viggo stares unbelieving yet humorously, at Sean. His mouth falls open as if in preparation for questioning. He swallows and lowers his head before smiling. “I was trying to give you some space, you fuck.”

Sean hides his smile in his mug, grateful for the consideration but not really needing to avoid or be avoided. "Well, that's very-." Unable to say 'sweet' or 'selfless', Sean lets the comment fade to nothingness. If he allows it, things can be easy between them, he knows. Lowering his mug to the table, Sean reaches down and pcks up the remote. He turns the television back on before settling back against the sofa and settling and arm behind Viggo's back.

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