LOTRPS: VM/BH: Untitled

my slashababy fic FROM me
For: kimberleigh_
Title: Untitled
Author: hermit9
Pairing: Viggo/Bernard
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Shakespeare
Notes: I am a glutton for punishment.
Disclaimer: Not real, not real people, just made up fictiony type stuff. About people who may happen to resemble real persons, though, of course, not intentionally.



Orlando jumps on Viggo's back as he and Bernard are packing the truck with some borrowed tackle, a tent, should they choose to use it, and an overnight bag a piece. Viggo tries to pretend the heavy, bony, and often horny boy doesn't bother him, and does his best to ignore him while trying to escape the set without any stowaways in the back of the pickup. It's getting dark.

"Pleeeease take me with you," he whines in Viggo's ear and it makes Viggo twitch at the thought, his eyes widen. He doesn't like it when Orlando takes control of his imagination like that. Well, not right now anyway.

"We're going to be gone a day and half. You'll survive," he tells him softly, paternally, he thinks. Bernard watches them with a sober face and waits motionless by the truck.

They do make it out of there eventually, just the two of them, though Viggo may have left most of his bravery back on the set, shaken from him by bawdy taunts from the hobbits, which are a matter of course if you're going to take a castmate on even the most innocuous overnight trip. They both like fishing. Nobody else was interested, not that he asked, not that he had room in his truck. But that doesn't deprive those left behind of the excuse to pretend the liaison is illicit or suspicious or obviously and flagrantly gay.

The lake isn't far, but they get there after dinner on the road and decide to skip the tent, get a double room near the waterfront, and head out early the next morning. After a few hours fishing in tall boots from the waters edge, they stow the boat and walk the rest of the day around the lake and through the trails on the swampy side and get briefly lost in a section of planted forest before heading back.

They head out to the restaurant they spotted on the walk through town, leaving the truck behind once again. They've been on their feet since five this morning, and Viggo is conscious of it, because he's not going for stress, or for discomfort, but Bernard doesn't complain or even seem particularly tired. They're on their feet all the time on set, so really, he doesn't know why he thought it would be a problem. The hotel room, with it's two little beds is less atmospheric than camping out on the trail like he had wanted to do, but more comfortable as well. They work outside most of the time too. They certainly aren't lacking fresh air doing this job nor exercise, so really, the hotel room is probably just fine. The fishing, well, that was another story. No doubts there. Bernard had a smile on his face the whole morning. You'd think he hadn't been fishing in thirty years the way he whooped when that big black whatever-it's-called-fat-New-Zealand-pik

e came shooting out of the water. They didn't even stay out that long. The fish were practically throwing themselves in the boat - well, in Bernard's half anyway. That was twelve hours ago now, and showered and redressed, they're headed to a seafood restaurant of course. So really. What is Viggo worried about?

They eat and talk about filming. About directors and theater. He's all Shakespeare, Bernard. Viggo likes it of course, but he couldn't see himself doing that for life. Immortal stories they may be, but without modernity in film and theater you fail to reach most of the people who live in the real world, the young people who are shaping the future, he thinks, and says so. Then worries he has overstepped his bounds. Bernard smiles with his wine glass distorting his beard to Viggo's eyes and says that the young people can fuck off. He likes his tragic world. Viggo laughs out loud with relief in his cheeks.

Back at the hotel room they aren't patting their stomachs. Seafood restaurants seldom fill you up around here unless it is with bread and potatoes. That place traded filler in for quality, luckily, and Viggo appreciates it now as Bernard stands beside him waiting for him to find his key card in his pockets. An overly full stomach would be uncomfortable under his knotting muscles.

"Vig."

"Hm."

Bernard inhales as a prelude to the question and a finger of electric current zings up Viggo's spine to tell him that Bernard is watching him carefully from behind. His back muscles respond and tighten from bottom to top making him straighten very slightly but awkwardly.

"I know...I know what is happening here...I know what we're doing. But what I don't get, is why."

Viggo gets the door open to the room, turns on the light and steps in. He doesn't reply right away. Instead, he takes his wallet out of his pocket, tosses it gently to the table along with his key card and lets Bernard shut the door behind him. "What do you mean?" he asks finally, finding a little courage to look him in the eye when he says it, because he has his suspicions at least. He thinks he might know what he means, but he doesn't want to assume.

Bernard comes around to his own bed, the further one, and toes his shoes off and sits, propping hands on wide knees, elbows out. He makes a quick gesture. "Why me." he says simply and matter-of-factly.

Viggo blinks a few times, trying to form an answer to a trick question, but Bernard interrupts before he starts.

"Of all the possibilities - and quite a few of us on set come from London theater companies, so there are lots of possibilities - why me? Why not...Ian?"

Viggo smirks. "He's a little old don't you think?"

"...I'm older than Ian."

Viggo shrugs, feeling that sudden chilly insecurity fade away as if warmed by wine he didn't drink. "I like older men. Just not...you know."

"Out?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"That still doesn't tell me why."

Viggo takes his hands out of his pockets and goes and sits on the other little bed facing Bernard. Bernard stops looking so defensive and instead leans on his elbows to mirror Viggo. "You're an honorable man," he says softly. "I trust you."

Bernard's pale eyebrows go up gracefully. Viggo thinks he detects a certain amount of theatrics there but doesn't let the moment die in comic relief. Bernard can be as insecure as he likes, but Viggo isn't going to help perpetuate it. Not when he knows what it feels like. Bernard just looks at him for a while, eyes to Viggo's, Viggo looking back and studying the deep lines around Bernard's.

Finally he gets up again, looking baffled still, a touch exasperated, but then turns and begins undressing quickly. He turns back to Viggo when he is just in shorts and black socks, and the funny blue striped shorts are tented obviously. Viggo can't help but smirk now, realizing he really had no need to worry at all that he wouldn't interest him, or that he'd be tired after the day out, or that his senses were deluding him, or the million other things he found to worry about. He's wiggling his toes in his shoes.

"Well don't just stand there looking smug," Bernard gripes.

Viggo grins and starts pulling things off. Never one to feel naked enough in underwear and socks, he gets down to nothing and stands in front of him for a quick moment before approaching him. Bernard immediately puts a hand to his shoulder, and it's as warm as any man's, not cold like the domineering statue he appears to be. Bernard makes a noise, like half a syllable that he cut off before it had a chance to become a word, then pauses, shakes his head and moves to take Viggo in close to kiss him. Bernard has his hands up around Viggo's face which feels so damned strange and unexpected. He kisses back, deepens it slightly when Bernard seems willing and works his fingertips under the band of his shorts and lets his cock rub Bernard's belly, and Bernard's rub his through the thin damp cloth. Bernard just keeps kissing him like this, lovely, long kisses, impassioned and swept up by Bernard's hands in his hair, and it's just so surprising that at a certain point, Viggo can't kiss him anymore because he is smiling too big. Bernard pulls back and scowls at him.

"Now what?"

"What?" Viggo purrs and reaches for him again, tries to pull him back in with coy eyes.

"What are you grinning about you...Scandinavian slag?" Bernard breaks up though before he finishes the question and insult. Viggo chuckles and tries, unsuccessfully, to nip at his ear.

"I didn't think you'd be such a fan of kissing. Thought you'd be more down to business. I'm surprised."

"I'm an actor," Bernard says, head in the air now and eyes closed, letting Viggo nibble up his neck. "I love to kiss."

Viggo is laughing again. "I don't think I ever made the connection between actors and kissing. Why do you suppose we do?" he asks partially patronizing. It sounds to him like Bernard just wants to keep talking.

But Bernard is full of surprises still, and knocks Viggo down easily to the bed, crawls up, straddles him and kisses him soundly and deeply, kisses the smile right off his face. Viggo opens his eyes and has to blink to straighten the view. "Because we don't get the real thing all that often, just teasing. Or we get to watch everyone else do it. Like you and the elf."

Realization dawns on Viggo suddenly and he lets Bernard see it in his smile. He reaches his fingers down into Bernard's shorts and watches that hard face melt with his confident stroke. "Is that what this is about? Why you? Why not him?"

"He wouldn't tell a soul if you asked him not to," Bernard breathes, pants. "And he's so god-damned beautiful. I don't know how you resist him."

Viggo shrugs. "How do you resist him?"

Bernard looks a little annoyed at that, or else Viggo's hand on his cock has completely severed his control over his face. Bernard pulls the band of his own shorts down under his balls with one hand just then to give Viggo better access.. "I don't need to resist him. He doesn't want me."

"How do you know? How do you know he and I don't have a bet going to see which of us could get you into bed first?"

Bernard huffs a little laugh. Now Viggo is just talking nonsense of course. Orlando has been quite clear to Viggo exactly what he was willing to do for him. Has never mentioned Bernard, really. It's possible Orlando never even considered Bernard as competition. And yes, Viggo has been tempted, but those fantasies at least he knows are delusions, because a pliant young man is not really what he wants. At heart, that is what Viggo is. That is perhaps why they have so much fun together. Shame, really, that it couldn't be more than just fun. But Viggo smiles again, because Bernard has had enough of watching Viggo lay there in self-reflection while torturing him manually, and backs off and bodily flips Viggo over to his stomach. He leans in heavily on Viggo's shoulders securing him to the bed and notching his hips against Viggo's ass. His bare cock rests between the cheeks. Orlando isn't the only one who knows how to have fun.

"How do you know," Bernard asks then," that Orlando and I don't have the same bet about you?"

Viggo cackles because Orlando never had a chance. Though if Orlando was older, more experienced, he would have known not to look to Viggo in the first place - that Bernard has what they both want. Some things only get better with age, with confidence, and with experience.

Bernard pulls his shorts and socks off and pulls Viggo's hips up in the air with little fanfare and sighs. "I forgot what a young ass looks like. Do you mind if I just..."

"Mmm, please do. Please do anything you want, I mean." Viggo hums to him and throbs.

Bernard's weight comes off the bed and Viggo turns his head and watches him go to his suitcase on the floor, smiles when he sees him bend over. Yes, Young Ass has it's merits, but Viggo isn't shallow like young men. The fact that he realizes it, though, could be paradoxical, or at the least, self deluding once again. He turns back around, feels Bernard return to the bed, then cool wetness touch him followed by hot thickness inside of him.

Viggo sweats like rain during sex no matter how small his physical role may be. Bernard, on the other hand, gets only a glossy dew all over him and pinked cheeks and chest despite how long and how hard he keeps it up. It's astounding and fantastic, and when he turns him over again so they breathe face to face, their skin sliding wetly, and Viggo finds himself bent and folded on himself and held there by powerful hands, Viggo has more appreciation for Bernard's youthful vitality now than he did after all the fishing and hiking and all the scenes over the past few months of riding for hours on end and falling off of horses and growling and snarling at imaginary orcs and running through cut after cut of hacking and slashing. When Bernard comes, hanging onto Viggo's wet skin with hands like vice grips, Viggo is grateful and absolutely humbled.

Bernard collapses on half of the tiny bed and breathes hard for a moment while Viggo does the same. The sheet is wet beneath him. Bernard only rests a moment though, and despite Viggo's admittedly half-hearted dismissal, he rolls over and takes Viggo into his mouth. He doesn't get to appreciate it very long.

In the morning they head back to real life, or as real as movies get, the weekend over, but when Viggo sees Orlando on set the next day, the boy leers at him, squints, and looks generally silly with all that makeup and hair combined with a childish, suspicious sneer. So he knows, somehow, though he doesn't think he is acting any different, or looks any different. He doesn't feel much different, just happy and relaxed. But when Orlando begins his daily routine of flirtation mixed with irritation, it becomes obvious how he knows. Bernard looks at them from across the lunch table; Viggo calmly picking pickles off of his sandwich with dirty fingers and Orlando perched and eagle-eyed over his shoulder, playing with his hair. Bernard smiles warmly with his cup near his lip and then stands and suddenly catches Ian in a toast. Bernard in bits of armor and Ian in smock over his white cloak, everyone stops, even Orlando, and watches Bernard bloom before them with spontaneous verse to which Ian gratefully supplements with a smile.

"O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;

It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock

The meat it feeds on; that cuckold lives in bliss

Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger;

But, O, what damned minutes tells he o'er

Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves! "

"O misery!" Ian chuckles.

"Poor and content is rich and rich enough,

But riches fineless is as poor as winter

To him that ever fears he shall be poor.

Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend

From jealousy!"