Casual 6-10/?

Fandom: LotRips
Pairing: Marton Csokas/Viggo Mortensen
Rating: PG13 (for the moment)
Notes: Hours 6-10 of the drabble marathon.
Disclaimer.

The parameters of whatever it is they had were blurred, but Marton remembers how things felt.

He can remember the exact detail that struck him again and again. Square inches of skin pixelated along a continuous spectrum of imperfected flesh tones. He remembers noticing, not staring, maybe at the same time as he flicked Viggo's scrambled hair away from his face or as they sat talking.

Each leaning unconsciously towards the other. Unconscious, not bothered with the why, but both stubbornly aware.

Marton remembers sitting at friendly tables with secretly nudging thighs. Warm arms loosely draped, undemanding and unsuddenly familiar.

***

Kisses were fleeting. They attracted curious eyes, and so were generally but brushes of lip against skin, transitive and indefinite. Sometimes they were small, solid things, firmly planted, shut lips against shut lips, pleased hellos or equally happy goodbyes.

Curious eyes that politely refrained from commenting. Or curious eyes that were too busy playing their own younger flirtatious games to articulate their inevitable misconceptions.

Sleepy alone kisses never came often. But sometimes, just rarely, it would seem perfectly normal to share long wet exchanges with no direction, safely depositing both back at their blithe point of embarkation. Gentle, risk-free mouthing.

*

Marton was the one that took the next step, that disrupted the carefree equilibrium.

They walked back one night, meandering in the summer air and talking gently. They reached Viggo's house, and on the doorstep Marton kissed him, completely and unsloppily, and rewriting the rules. Teeth and tongue and lips, pushing, entering, licking and sliding. It was everything that had never come before, and an admission of all that had been exactingly partitioned off.

There still wasn't much of a why, just an undeniable. Everything that could have been forgotten, left standing as some dusty addendum of the friendship, declared.

*

Suburbia was exactly where Marton would expect to find Viggo. He knew this seemed oxymoronic to the rest of the world, understood the view that Viggo was pedantically eccentric, and would therefore belong anywhere but in the complacent normalcy of something so mundane as suburbia.

Viggo belonged in the wilds, with bare feet in the grass and camping out. Or Viggo belonged in the city, with his camera and dereliction, and the powerful visual capture of society's grit.

Viggo belonged in suburbia, like secrets, special innately, unassuming and needless of display.

Viggo belonged in Marton's mouth, tongues twining in segue.

*

As Viggo drew him closer Marton felt hands encompass his waist, moving up along his sides with steady permission. He leant them easily against the door and gently rested his hands on hips clothed with familiar material, grip supportive and supporting.

It was a connection, and the same connection that had been there all the while. Like reading a favourite novel in an entire new language, this kink of mouth was some delicious new perversion, multi-facetted but right.

Marton's oral venture over Viggo's collarbone was something new entirely, an explorative probe, asking and finding, hearing the grinding.

"Let's get inside."

Posted by Missiedith at February 27, 2004 10:13 PM | TrackBack