Title: Putting Out Fire With Gasoline Author: Alex (parts 1 & 3) and Liz (parts 2 & 4) (alex_cat_45@yahoo.com twopipstreasures@aol.com) Rating: NC-17 Type: Viggo/Sean B. slash Disclaimer: Never happened, never will… Summary: Viggo and Sean come to terms… Feedback: Please! Archive: yes PUTTING OUT FIRE WITH GASOLINE Part 2 – Sean See these eyes so green/ I can stare for a thousand years/ Colder than the moon/ It’s been so long/ And I’ve been putting out fire/ With gasoline –Bowie, ‘Cat People (Putting Out Fire)’ "‘My brother… my captain… my king….’" For the umpteenth time, Viggo looked widely into my eyes after my line, shifted his hips, and fucking groaned. "CUT! CutcutCUT!" Peter was getting right annoyed, and I don’t blame him. But how could anyone resist the contact we had to endure, that full-length press of heat on heat, body to body? I sure as hell fucking couldn’t. Who could resist Viggo? Bloody hell…. Laying there, not bothering to get up from my bed of leaves, I watched through slitted eyes Viggo’s Method relaxation exercises – the bouncing on the heels, the rolling of the head on the neck, the clenched fists… …the raging hard-on…. Oh, he fucking knew I could see it. That tight bulge. And I knew it was because of me, and I smiled every time he pushed harder onto me, his shaking hands holding my face for that sweet forehead kiss. As I did when we rolled the tenth take. Viggo hopped off me as if I were burning him, and Peter bellowed with a miniscule, knowing laugh, his words bouncing off the trees. "Dead men DO NOT SMILE, Sean!" Says you, Peter. Vig and I had become close mates on this shoot. We were both ‘of an age’, as the bloody Hobbits called it with a fucking giggle, and we spent our wee hours talking of art, poetry, and life. Somewhere down the road, I began to feel more than friendship for the moody, beautiful bastard. Something I wasn’t used to feeling, but something I wanted to roll with. To feel those strong artist’s hands on my skin, that mouth that poured forth such heartfelt fragments on my mouth, those could-be-cold blue eyes catching the flames from my green ones…. Christ. Now I was starting to sound like him. I hopped up, pacing within the confines of the set, waiting…. ***** It felt sooo good to get that damned wig off. I ripped it off on the way to the Cuntebago, scrubbing a hand through my hair. Sweaty. Need shower, badly… ‘If ya wanna be my lover…’ How in fucking hell did THAT song pop into my mind?! I bloody well detest the Spice Girls! Oh, God… I found myself humming it as I popped the door on the trailer, and resisted the urge to bash my brains out on the jamb to wipe the song permanently from my inner-mind CD. The trailer was full of steam, the mirrors fogged over. Someone here already. Vig? I heard a sharp intake of breath from the next room, and crept along the corridor to investigate. I was about ready to barge on in, but the scene before me caused me to slam on the brakes and pull back. Jesus, he was glorious. Sitting naked, stroking his phenomenally hard cock with sure, erotically slow fingers… I could only glimpse a side view, but it was more than enough to cause my own cock to come to life, the rush of blood almost blacking me out. Holy fuck. He made me so damn hard, I couldn’t believe it. Well, yeah, I could. Those supple arm muscles sliding under his skin with every grasp and stroke of his hand. Wet hair clinging to his cheek and neck, hanging over the back of the chair. Nostrils flaring as he tilted his head back, eyes rolling up under his lids, lips with a luscious sheen of wetness where he licked them. Fuck! I slid my hand into the front of my jeans, adjusting my cock from its now-painful position, and let my hand linger…. Would he warm up in bed? I always wondered that… and now I knew. Was he thinking of my mouth sucking his stiff, straining prick deeply into it? As I was daydreaming of his? Or did he dream of someone else? No matter, it was just enough for me to watch him, the sleek panther of a man… Fuck, I wanted him. Didn’t care what anyone thought, didn’t care if they saw us in here, did not give a rat’s arse. I shivered. I never, ever, wanted a man as much as I wanted him, if ever at all. I was surprising myself every day with my desires, desires that Derek used to joke about with me when I shot ‘Caravaggio’. I thought nothing then, just played Ranuccio naturally, like I did everything else. Now Viggo was changing that for me, making me need and want things. I had sensed a chill in Viggo at all times, like he wanted to let go, but only could through his poetry and art, as if only the visual would let his passions be seen or heard… if his canvases were people, I could only imagine what he’d be like. Seeing him exposed now, however, made me realize the fires inside him that he kept tamped around others…. That cock would probably taste so sweet; I got a mental and tactile jolt just licking my lower lip. I knew I did that lip lick when I was aroused, and when I was intense, and I could tell it hit Viggo like a brick every time I did it… now I did it with the thought of that swollen head at my lips, begging for entry. My cock was dying to explode from my touches, touches I wished were from Viggo’s hands… hands that now kneaded his balls with a languid squeeze as the hot skin on his cock stretched taut from his other hand stroking just a bit faster. His mouth opened, eyes screwing tight. He was going to come, as I was… Viggo bit back a groan as his cock spurted jets over his hand, the come glistening in slow drips down his fingers…. I held back, creeping away, going out the door and back to my own trailer… back to where I could play back my own private film of what I’d just witnessed, and dream….