Adagio

by Nienor

Viggo is busy. He's been busy most of the morning, working on a poem that came to him sometime in the night. It's not an easy one; it's like a deer in the woods, when you can just see something moving and have to squint to make out the shape of the light on shadow-dappled flanks.

He glances at Lijah.

Lijah is naked, and that's the way Viggo likes him best. Naked and belly-down, with his hands tied at the wrists and then to the headboard. He's glad he had the guys at the motel replace the solid headboard on this bed with a nice brass one, with spokes.

Lijah squirms, and Viggo shifts, propping his notebook on his knees, staying balanced. He told Lijah not to talk, and for once he isn't-- probably because Orli isn't here. Sunlight dances on Lijah's alabaster skin, a beautiful relief of glow and shadow, the blowing curtains making it dance in an ever-shifting pattern.

Viggo's pen scratches, and Lijah shifts again, moving against his leg-- he wants attention; he always wants to be the main event, the center of the show. "Be still." Viggo's voice disturbs the silence, but without shattering the spell of peace laid over the room. Lijah subsides, and Viggo writes, feeling the poem shift and flow as he coaxes it to give up its secrets.

Lijah sighs and settles; maybe the warmth of the sunbeam is making him drowsy, and maybe he's just given up. Viggo relents and shifts again, bracing the pad with the hand that holds his pen.

Lijah is warm, downed with soft hair so pale it's invisible until the sunlight catches it and makes it shine. He lets his hand wander up the ridge of his spine. Lijah isn't Frodo, isn't that small, but he's not large either, and maybe he never will be.

Viggo scratches out another half-line, slowly losing concentration; the poem is nearly done anyway, and it could stand a rest, so he can clarify it later, see how much of it is the sunlit morning and how much is Lijah and how much is art.

From this angle, Lijah feels a lot like a girl. He still has some baby-fat left on him, and in places, he's got more sweet curves than he has muscle. Like his ass. It's not hard like a man's ass-- not like Orli's. It's somewhere in between the soft welcome of a girl's roundness and a grown man's narrow masculine muscle. Lijah needs to work out more, if he's ever going to shake the little-boy stereotype.

Not that Viggo cares. Lijah is on the cusp-- in transition, and that's a big part of his charm; it's something Viggo has always found irresistible. The moment between.

He slips his fingertips between the soft round halves of Lijah's ass.

That gets Lijah's attention in a hurry, and he opens his thighs, sunlight gilding the hair between them. "Be still," Viggo reminds him.

Lijah sighs again and obeys. He's already slick; Viggo's fingertips glide and play easily on his flesh, and sink inside without resistance. Lijah whimpers, but Viggo holds still; he's not focused on the page in front of him, but he writes anyway-- a different poem now, something earthy and urgent, catching the mood of the flesh rising between his thighs. Catching the alabaster of Lijah's ass, and hinting at the hot secrets inside.

When he feels Lijah quivering, he knows he can't take anymore, and he tosses the notebook at the bedtable, not caring when the pen goes skittering across the floor.

Lijah is an easy weight for him, rolling over on his back. His eyes are huge, but heavy-lidded; the warm sun has worked its drowsy spell on him. His dick is hard, though. Viggo palms it for one testing stroke, then slides between Lijah's thighs. He pushes Lijah's knees to the side, and Lijah hooks his ankles behind Viggo's thighs.

Lijah smiles, his impossibly delicate mouth curving welcome, and Viggo leans in to taste it.

His tongue and his cock press into Lijah together.

Hot and sweet, delirious and slow, he has Lijah. Stroking into him with measured grace. Kissing him, feeling him yield. It's unimaginably good, as good as crushing Lijah with harsh kisses; as good as fucking him open with fierce haste.

His hands run up Lijah's prominent ribs; he tickles for a moment at Lijah's armpits; he feels Lijah's arms stretched taut over his head and the stiff scratchy rope binding his slender wrists. He runs his fingertips over Lijah's and feels his bitten nails. Lijah kisses him, whimpering, his ankles locked behind Viggo's back, his body sleek and welcoming.

Viggo realizes he's forgotten a condom, and he pulls back and looks into huge, hazy blue eyes, but he doesn't have the self-discipline to pull out and put one on. He rocks against Lijah instead, feeling Lijah's hard cock rub against his stomach, trapped between their bodies.

When he comes, it's warm like the flood of sunlight through the doors from the balcony, and swift like the brush of curtains over his shoulder, and sweet like the taste of Lijah's tongue in his mouth.

He slips out of Lijah's embrace, but doesn't stop kissing him, wrapping his hand around Lijah's cock and jerking him off to the same lazy rhythm. Lijah makes a little surprised grunt and comes, leaving wet trails on his belly. Viggo wipes his finger through one of them and tastes it-- he's never let Lijah see him do that; never felt the moment was right or the trust was enough.

Until today.

Lijah watches, lashes sinking with weary pleasure, arms still bound.

Viggo holds him until his lids sink closed, then gets up and finds the pen, waiting under a straight chair near the bed. He gets his notebook. Lijah turns over, nestling against one of the pillows Viggo's been using as a prop, and Viggo smiles. He sits back down and puts his notebook on his knees; his free hand falls on Lijah's back.

The morning waxes and wanes, and Viggo writes while Lijah sleeps.

-finis-

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