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Shut Up by dee
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Author's Notes:
Slasha fic for Empy. Um... I'm sorry. Merry Christmas?
"You give me the reason,
You give me control."
-- Nine Inch Nails - Sin


Sean had been dying all week, and the weekend didn't seem to be shaping up any better.

He tipped his wrist to surreptitiously check his watch and his vision blurred. Not from alcohol - he hadn't drunk enough for that, despite all his best efforts. It was just the effects of fatigue. When he could finally see straight again, he almost swore.

It was past 3am, and there were still hobbits in his living room. All over his damn living room, in fact, sprawled and tangled in drunken, fuzzy-limbed bundles. Astin was long gone home to the wife. Billy, designated-driver-hobbit, was watching amused as Orlando slithered over Dom on the couch, thighs interwoven in a way that made Sean turn and look around for Elijah. Who stepped into the doorway, stretching arms up over and behind his head. His shirt rode up to show two inches of skin above jeans slung so low one swift tug would have them round his knees.

"Hey!" he yelped, spying the conglomerate on the couch, and skipped around the room, sliding over the back to mould up against Orli's back, all insinuating hands and laughter.

Sean looked down into his far-too-empty glass and somewhere beyond his left elbow, Viggo chuckled. "Not in public, boys," he murmured, the liquid syllables somehow just encouraging.

"We're not in public," Dom's voice noted from somewhere under Orlando.

"Besides," Elijah chimed in, "pot, kettle, black."

"Be at peace, Son of Gondor!" Orlando panted extravagently, one sinuous arch from hip to head, and both Dom and Elijah were laughing as Sean stood up and drained the rest of his glass.

"I'm done in," he said. Viggo looked up at him, half-full beer on the way to his mouth, and Billy was suddenly all concern. Before they could say anything, Sean added: "No, you lot carry on. Just shut the door after you. Or sleep where you fall." He ignored the sniggering from the couch, the movement in the corner of his eye. "And don't... have sex on my couch or anything."

He left the room to a chorus of good night's, and one lone cry of "Then the floor it is!"

In his bedroom, with the door shut, he couldn't hear a peep from downstairs. It didn't help. He could still see hands and pushing and -

Sean rolled over, punched the pillow up under his head. Bloody hell. He was exhausted. They didn't even mean it and he knew that. They liked girls. Orlando'd had that bird over from England and Elijah was wild about that local theatre actress and Sean was exhausted so go the fuck to sleep already.

His head wouldn't shut up. Replays came in a barrage. Seemed he'd spent all of today with Viggo crouched over him, again and again. In the background Orlando sat between Dom's legs as Elijah gave lessons in how to plait using the long blond strands of Legolas' wig. Dom's hands through Orlando's fake hair and if (when) he tried, he could cover all four of Orlando's limbs with his own, like they were almost the same person. Viggo turned to look at him, that half-smile on his face as he said again, like always: "It's not sex, it's just beauty." And then he leaned over Sean and kissed his forehead, tender and gentle and lingering.

Sean jerked awake. His room was precisely the same, wrapped in silence. He was wide awake, and when he reached out for the alarm clock, the display told him it was just past five.

He felt hollow, somewhere out the other side of sober. He certainly wasn't getting back to sleep. He swung out of bed, twitching the waistband of his boxers straight.

The rest of the house was silent too. The only light in the house was spilling out of the bathroom. As Sean pushed the door the last few inches open, Viggo straightened from the sink. Water dripped from his face down across his bare chest; he was only wearing jeans. He met Sean's eye in the mirror as he turned off the water. "Sean," he murmured, passing a towel over his face. "Can't sleep?"

Sean shook his head, and Viggo turned to face him properly. "The hobbits are gone," he reported. "Well, except Dominic. He passed out on your sofa."

Sean just blinked. The light above the mirror - the only one on - was white and it cast the situation into stark surreality. He wondered if maybe he was actually still asleep.

Viggo stepped forward and Sean stepped into the bathroom to let him past. He was smiling, saying: "And I'm stuck on the camp bed when any good, loyal warrior would offer his King his bed..."

Sean looked away as Viggo was brushing past, was breathing those words on the niggling edge of insinuation. Looked away like always.

...and suddenly, he was tired of it. Tired of flinching, of twitching, of wondering if they were serious. He was sick and tired of moments of tension he didn't know if he was imagining and didn't want either way.

Sick and fucking tired of this shit.

Viggo looked absurdly startled, wide-eyed, as his shoulder hit the wall with Sean's palm behind it. He tried to lean forward, stand up again, but Sean pressed hard.

"Tell me," he said, feeling the words unwind from inside him like a ribbon. "If I fuck you will you shut the fuck up?"

There was only a second before Viggo was frowning, pushing Sean's hand away to lean forward, but Sean had seen the spark jump in his eyes. "Sean, don't be -"

He brought both hands up this time, slammed both of Viggo's shoulders, his whole body, back against the wall, and his own body against Viggo's. Crushed his breath out of his chest and into his mouth where Sean tasted it.

Viggo kissed him back. Of course. Viggo wanted this. Wanted Sean pinning him to the wall with lips and hands and hips. Viggo's tongue pushed into his mouth and Sean pressed back fast and hard. A dull thud as Viggo's skull hit the plastered wall, and their teeth met with a click.

Shoulders were lying quiet under Sean's hands, but Viggo was pushing forward with his hips now. Sean pushed a knee against the wall, between Viggo's, and tilted up with just enough pressure to edge a grunt between Viggo's teeth. He pulled back a little, body and mouth, to get a hand between them, and pushed Viggo into the wall with his palm flat over the other man's erection.

The noise Viggo made was wordless and glottal, and Sean brought his other hand up, elbow on Viggo's shoulder, heel of his hand against teeth, fingers gripping cheek and still-damp jaw.

"Shut up," he said quietly. "D'you want to wake Dom up?"

Viggo's breath came fast over the base joint of Sean's little finger. His eyes were still wide. No smoked teasing there now. Sean could feel Viggo's pulse beating through his jeans. He smiled tight, and squeezed - a moan trickled past his fingers - before pulling away. Viggo's hips lifted after him, and Sean used his body to keep Viggo in his place. Forced their hips together, hard and alongside, as he reached for the cabinet beside Viggo's head.

He had to turn from Viggo's face to find what he was after. He dropped the hand away from Viggo's mouth to brace across his collarbone, and kept Viggo's attention with his hips. The soft cotton of Sean's boxers caught and whispered over denim as he shifted and rubbed. Viggo's breathing was hurried but steady.

Until Sean found what he needed, and set it on the edge of the basin - bottle and foil packet. Then Viggo's breath hissed in, and Sean laughed, short and sharp. "I mean what I say, Vig. Always." He closed the cabinet, and stepped back. "Face the basin."

Which meant Sean could watch Viggo's face reflected in the mirror. Watch that blank-canvas face - his turn to paint across it - as Sean reached around Viggo's waist to unzip his jeans. Soft denim, worn almost through in places. Old jeans. Comfortable jeans.

Viggo wasn't wearing anything underneath.

Sean shoved the jeans down to mid-thigh with one hand. He leaned around Viggo to wipe his other hand across the water-beaded interior of the basin, and then wrapped it around Viggo's cock, hard already and jumping in his palm. Viggo steadied himself against the edge of the sink and Sean stroked lazily - once, twice. From this angle, it was almost like doing it to himself. Except not. When Viggo bucked back against him, Sean was hard and pushing him forward again. Viggo's eyes were half-lidded, his head tilted, neck bared. "Sean..." he murmured.

Sean stopped. "Bend over."

Viggo did. Sean stepped back to give him space and he did, hinged forward from the hips, hands gripping the edge of the basin and arms braced. His jeans were still around his thighs and Sean pushed them down until Viggo could shake and step free. The white tiles of the bathroom ricocheted with damp breath, and the rip of foil sliced through. The skin over Viggo's ribs twitched.

Sean undid the button on his boxers. He was hard. Ready. Viggo was looking down, hair falling around his face, as Sean rolled the condom on. He twitched - not quite a flinch - again when Sean popped the lid on the plastic bottle. That made him chuckle as he slicked up his fingers. "Nervous?"

Muscles shifted across Viggo's shoulders. "Fuck," he breathed.

"Wasn't that the idea?"

The first finger brought breath hissing and whistling through teeth, but it was the way Viggo's spine wanted to arch that made Sean's blood beat. He shifted forward to nudge against the curve of Viggo's buttocks. The second finger brought a grunt, a settling shiver. Sean pressed and twisted, and found a back-of-the-throat swallowed sound that made him smile in strict satisfaction. He was never comfortable with Orlando's full-body attention, he wasn't Elijah's "I'll blow you for a decent cup of coffee", but he knew how this was done.

He was ready, so ready, slippery as an eel and he capped the bottle again, tossing it aside and making Viggo twitch at the sound. One last flex of his fingers to make him twitch again, and then out.

Sean was breathing deep and steady and harsh in his own ears. He seemed to have forever between heartbeats. When he pressed his hand flat in the small of Viggo's back, the skin was warm and welcoming. Viggo yielded, arched that tiny extra bit with a sigh.

Sean steadied himself, and slid in.

Something in the back of his head exploded, but he was more interested in the sudden electrified tautness of Viggo's limbs. More interested in how Viggo moved when he did. He ran his eyes over the lines, took in every tremour and twitch as it corresponded to a thrust. He fit his own hands to Viggo's hips and thought about the resonant frequency required to shake an object to pieces.

Viggo made noise. Tiny grunts of expelled air every time he was rocked forward against his braced arms. When Sean dragged blunt fingertips down his spine, the sounds became open-mouthed and breathy. He shook his hair back out of his eyes only to have it fall forward again when he didn't notice. He pushed back against Sean, meeting his rhythm, and his shoulders tremoured.

More. Faster, harder. There was momentum here, a process started that raced towards completion and Sean knew what he wanted. One hand on Viggo's hip to guide and insist, and with the other he reached around, underneath. Viggo gasped and tossed his head back when Sean's fist wrapped around him again. Sean timed it to perfection, stroking with the rhythm and a twist. Implacable. Irresistible.

"C'mon Viggo..." This is what it feels like to be fucked with.

"Sean!" His name was weighted with surprise, burning with tension, bursting out loud. But Sean didn't hush him this time, didn't care, just took what he wanted with a final trio of swift, sure strokes.

Only once Viggo came apart, trapped between Sean's hand and body, only then did Sean let satisfaction swamp him, drowning in the bitter, thick tide.



Sean left the bathroom in disarray, Viggo sagged on the white tiles. He blinked down the hall - it was coal-black outside the spill of light from the bathroom. But there was no movement.

There were a few damp smears on his boxers; Sean ignored them and pulled on a pair of jeans before heading downstairs.

The living room was less dark, lit by the pre-dawn sky. No one had been bothered to draw the curtains last night. Sean didn't bother now. Dom snored fainty on the couch. He was twisted and curled up on the too-short cushions, limbs dangling over all edges. His mouth was open and a line of dry drool crawled across his cheek. Sean found his pack of cigarettes on the sideboard and let himself out, pulling the door quietly to behind him.

The world was hushed, and Sean wasn't in any hurry to smoke, to finish the single cigarette he'd allow himself before breakfast. He let it linger as the sun rose in stately disinterest, and the world started to stir and whisper, getting over its small-hour fear. Waking up. Sean thought maybe he could sleep. Fatigue had crept through his shoulders and it felt good. Certain. It just was. The entire cadre of hobbits could dirty dance in front of him, and he wouldn't shake. Dealt with. Yes, he could sleep.

Behind him, the house was waking up. Hush-thump of feet on the stairs, the creaking floorboard outside the kitchen, glass-wood-liquid mumbles. Faint. Distanced. But there.

A flick of his fingers sent the butt spinning into the undergrowth, and he remembered that the gardener had left him a stern note about that two weeks ago. Too late now.

Dom had rolled over with the texture of the couch imprinted on his cheek and an arm thrown over his face. "Fuck," he said, voice thick and muffled.

"Morning," Sean offered on the way through.

"Fuck," he repeated.

Viggo was in the kitchen, sitting on the bench near the window with a glass of juice in his hand. He looked up fast and his eyes followed Sean across the kitchen to the refrigerator. There was a groan from the living room, and a slithering thump that indicated Dom might be off the couch.

Sean pulled the half-full juice bottle from its place in the door, and twisted off the lid. He drank straight from the bottle, in long, unhurried gulps. He turned back to Viggo, but the other man seemed to have nothing to say, just watching. Sean swigged again, holding Viggo's eyes, waiting a moment longer. He could hear the whispered crack of joints in another room. "So, are we good?" he asked.

The floorboard in the hall creaked, and in Sean's peripheral vision Dom stepped into the kitchen doorway, hungover-bleary and toddler-innocent.

Viggo could have been a statue, a wax effigy of himself. But then he blinked, and said: "Yeah. We're good."