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Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial, non-profit work of fiction under the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged or condoned by the persons whose names are used without permission.


Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Original Story: Cook, Interrupted by stormatdusk
Pairing: Viggo/Sean Bean
Rating: R
Summary: No one else has ever made Viggo feel this good.
Notes: I was especially captivated by how stormatdusk played with form and structure in her story, and I've taken that as inspiration here. I hope I've managed to do her beautiful story some small justice in this remix.
Post-reveal Notes: Many, many thanks to savageseraph, beta extraordinaire and first among fishes.


It's hard, so hard not to simply let his hips carry him forward, thrust into that mouth, against that tongue, so hard to stay still and simply let each careful lick hold him, caress him, suspended between action and reaction, between need and fulfilment. It's so hard, but then again, it's so easy, so natural to let himself sink into each touch, let thought and action slip away from him, borne aloft on sensation alone.

Sometimes Viggo thinks he could count the tastebuds on Sean's tongue if he could just concentrate long enough, push past the little shivers that travel up and down his spine as each ridge and bump teases him. He wonders if he tastes like earth, like sweat and rain; if Sean considers his scent, his flavour just as Sean's considered every seasoning in the frittata he's planned for brunch.

But even that thought is snatched away in the haze of good, oh so good, until the world is abuzz, a swirl of colour and light and sound all focussed on Sean, Sean, his Sean, because no one else could possibly make him feel this good, no one has ever made him feel this good, and as he curls his toes the tip of Sean's tongue catches him just right and he's certain he heard a voice, maybe Sean's voice, maybe his own, but it doesn't matter because he's falling, falling


The creek's risen overnight. He can tell that without so much as a glance, the gentle tickling trickling replaced by a full-blown, throaty, bubbly burble. As he rounds the stand of trees, he can feel the corners of his eyes crinkling, the twist of his lips upward at the sight of a swift rush of water tripping over wide, flat stones. What a little warm weather and a lot of melting snow can't do.

The closer he gets, the more he imagines he can see the littlest flashes of silver catch in the corners of his eyes, tiny iridescent minnows wriggling their way to who knows where.

Even now, even with the smallest bite of winter still in the air, there's something warming about this stroll along the creek; not just muscles moving and limbs swinging, but the way the air fills his lungs, the sparkle of sun on water. Viggo's aware that a walk with him isn't what most people enjoy; few individuals have the same interest in stopping to feel the bark of a familiar tree, to map each curve and whorl before moving on to carefully catalogue patterns of fallen leaves or the half an inch more a decaying log has caved in; even fewer want to wander in idle zigzags, no beeline from Point A to C by way of B, but rather a drifting amble, tugged along by whatever sight or sound presents itself next. Even Sean, who has become used to Viggo's inexplicable whims and no longer asks "Why?" when he knows the only answer is "Because?" has his moments marked by benign boredom, waiting patiently on the path for Viggo to return like a dog to his master, looping back around after sniffing out and tracking down a particularly tempting scent.

While his thoughts wander ahead, twisting and twirling down a route with no direction, Viggo finds his head turning, the sparkle of something below the quickening water catching his attention and reeling it in. Something green and gold, shimmering just out of reach, even when he gets down on his knees, and then again on his belly. His whole arm is wet, almost up to his shoulder, and the muck on his front registers but faintly as he straightens and bends, haphazardly hiking up his jeans.

He's especially pleased with the way the water rises up to meet him, sucking at his legs as he splashes noisily out into the streambed. An exhilarating moment of vertigo makes his heart pound as he looks up into the treetops, stretching his arms above his head in imitation of their limbs, wiggling fingers like leaves, unable and unwilling to shake the sense of a slow spin.

When he looks down, searching for his green and gold prize, he's only a little bit dizzy, wobbles only ever so slightly as he plunges his hands below the water, his mind's eye already playing out the moment in which he gives the stone over, explains how it made him think of Sean, how he braved cold and wet to capture it. He'll humbly accept a grateful, indulgent smile, or maybe a warm embrace, a kiss on the cheek, a passionate declaration of love. Maybe Sean will be so charmed that he'll peel off Viggo's jeans, sink to his knees, unable to wait long enough for them to make it into the bedroom. Maybe he'll be so beguiled they'll couple on the floor, heedless of rug burn and stiff muscles. All that and more dangles tantalisingly out of reach as Viggo's fingers fumble, the tips skidding across the stone's smooth green surface, and he strains just a little more, just a little further, already anticipating Sean's lips against his cock as he traces an edge of gold, digging into sodden shoes with his toes, pushing forward, stretching his spine, just a little bit more, a shuffling step and then

the world is turning, tumbling around him, sky where water should be, tree branches whirling, blurring, and Viggo's certain he heard a voice, and he thinks it might be his own, because it's laughing, laughing and he's


When Viggo comes back to himself, chest heaving as he breathes in as if he's never breathed before, he's certain time has stopped, or maybe it's skipped ahead without him, the world spinning wildly out of control only to scoop him back up and place him down in this kitchen, in this moment, just where he's been sitting all along. His clothes are still wet, still muddy, and he's still in the same chair he collapsed in after slogging up from the creek, prize lost, but laughter found, and here now is Sean, green and gold and laughing with him, even if neither of them can hear it, not yet.

Viggo blinks a little, watching with interest as time and space settle back into place, the weight of Sean's chin on his knee as strange and new as it is familiar and warm. His smile, ah, his smile will always be familiar, always be Viggo's touchstone, even when green and gold fade away, and if Viggo's limbs weren't so heavy, so light, so not yet his again, he'd trace that smile, Sean's smile, his smile, just to see if he could coax it a little bit wider.

Viggo knows he's spoken; he's heard his own voice, knows he's said something wonderful, because it must be, has to be, what with the way Sean's grinning up at him. And at that his arm finally responds, is finally his own again, and Sean's hair is soft under his hand, giving just a little each time he touches it, and that makes Sean's smile all the bigger, so he does it again and he can feel Sean's smile spread to his own lips, tugging up on the corners of his own mouth and he's certain if he looked he'd see the room swirling around them, blurred and smudged with the two of them standing out in sharp relief at the centre, because there is no one else he could possibly feel so much for, no one else who's ever made him feel this much, because with Sean he'll always be falling in love, always be falling, falling



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