Trompe Loeil

by Empy


David is sitting straddling a long bench, leaning over a newspaper and dangling a coffee mug from his fingers, the palm forming a neat roof over the steaming brew. His other hand scrubs over the strawberry blonde wig, as if trying to chafe the heat away. He grimaces as he swigs from the mug, depositing it on the wobbly table that is sinking into the soil next to him.

Viggo catches himself watching as David bends his head and nods, absentmindedly stroking a curl behind his ear as he listens to PJ's advice.

It's an artist's longing for something beautiful, and he knows it. The sunlight is dappling them in Dalmatian spots of warm yellow, picking out red reflexes in David's hair and in the longbow he is leaning on.

The shutter of his camera clicks softly, counting off two shots. He can always explain it by saying the light intrigues him.


The night shoots are a nightmare, drowned in mud and rain, cold and miserable. He forgets where Aragorn ends and he begins, and he doesn't know if Faramir or David unsettles him more.

Dreams come at the break of day. He dreams of David, dreams in constellations of images that cease to make sense when he regards them half-awake.

This one is worse. This isn't one of the blood-dreams. The after-images of the dream are fragmented but sordid. He doesn't want to think about them, doesn't want to think about how it felt to force himself on David, hear the hoarse cries reverberate between the setpieces.

He can feel the cold stone of the Hornburg set under the palms of his hands as he leans back against the wall, pinned by David's body.

"Fuck yes," David whispers between kisses, eagerly pressing up against him, and something breaks inside Viggo. As the kiss continues, David's hand slides down his front, cupping the bulge at his groin. Heat of that hand going through the fabric, the kiss turns rough. Viggo takes hold of David's neck, his tongue thrusting into the slick-hot mouth.

Steps are taken back into the alley, back up against the stone wall. Condensing mist in his hair and down his collar, and warm hands are unbuttoning his fly. Hauling the younger man closer, Viggo holds tight. A pleased chuckle, mouth to mouth, before David breaks the kiss.

Resting one hand against the wall, David leans close to Viggo. His lips are barely brushing Viggo's as he smiles a slow, sweet smile that is almost Cheshire cat-like in its smugness.

Turning, crushing David against the wall so that his face is pressed to the damp stone, Viggo lays an arm over David's back to keep him in place. He yanks the tight jeans down, carelessly, then unbuttons his own one-handedly. David arches his back, pushing his hips back, twisting in the grip. The raw stone scrubs a red flare over his cheekbone.

Viggo spits on his palm and decides it will do as lube.

Pushing in, he is rougher than he needs to be and far more hasty than he should. David yields, easily at first. Angling his thrust upwards, knowing from experience how to do this, Viggo smiles wolfishly as David gives a whimper of pain.

Leaning in, he bites at David's neck, leaving marks that probably will show even under the make-up.

"This what you want?"

As David moans and twists, getting out something that sounds like a plea for Viggo to stop, Viggo smiles, mirthless. He'll take it as a yes. Anything is a yes now.

"Careful what you wish for."

Too many sensations now, his senses spiralling out of control, and he blindly reaches up, lacing his fingers with David's, the grip awkward because the fingers don't match.

Thoughts veer through his head, of what they are doing and where they are, rutting like beasts in a dank valley of a movie set. And it doesn't matter, because he wants it and that is all that he cares about...

He jerks awake. A moan is caught in his throat, and he is warm and unpleasantly aroused. The wan light that filters from under the curtains tells him it is day, and that he should still be sleeping if he intends to get through another seven hours of shooting in the dark.

The pictures of the cast he has tacked all over the walls of his trailer look down on him, celluloid voyeurs, and he lays his arm over his eyes, shutting them out. David's face is refracted over half a dozen prints, always caught not looking.

"David." The name rolling over his lips in a soft, hoarse whisper is meaningless. It doesn't mean honey-blonde hair and blue eyes, doesn't mean lean grace in denim.  Doesn't mean what he spoiled. Doesn't mean anything.

He reaches his hand over the edge of the bed, letting his fingertips slide over Anduril. He sleeps with the sword by his bed, lets the weapon lie unsheathed. It helps him get into character, and now Aragorn falls into restless sleep.

David, frozen in an unguarded moment and sealed under silver nitrate, continues to smile through the night while Viggo twists.


In one of the half-dark twilight hours he sees David walk by, lost in his own thoughts. He is in civilian garb, his shorn hair slicked back against his skull. As he looks towards Viggo without really seeing him, the headlights of a passing car bathe him for a second in harsh halogen light. The white of his shirt catches the light, spreading it, until it haloes.

Later, in the dark of his trailer, Viggo bites back a name when he comes, seeing succubi with spiky blond hair and sharp blue eyes.



He purposefully stays awake the next day, in the state of insomnia that still is energy. It's a day for travelling hopefully, as he calls it; for hoping he can distract himself from nights of warlords in battle.

The Hornburg is different in daylight, not in the least because it is a dwarf fortress, stocky and child-small. His shadow creeps over the walls like a dark grey river.

Laughter catches his attention easily.

"Just can't stay away?"

Smiling, caught up, he stops. Gravel rattles underfoot as David walks up to him, Faramir-haired but David-clad.

A feather, part of a ruined fletch of an arrow, sits stuck behind David's ear, lending him the look of a slightly skewed Indian. The green of the feather heightens the blue of David's eyes, heightens it to the too-clear blue of the dreamscape sky. Viggo shakes the thought. It is not right to either one of them, and as he stretches his fingers out to touch David's hair, the memory of the dream slips quietly out of his mind. His fingers clench, pulling on the locks. He doesn't care if the gluing of the wig comes undone. David yields, bends his head close, the lush mouth already half-open.

David tastes of fresh air more than anything else, of fir and pine and a long day spent crawling through the underbrush. It's easy to kiss him, easy to lean into it all. Viggo brings his hand up to rest the heel of it against David's shoulder, feeling the high curve of a collarbone under the densely woven cloak and shirt.

He shoves back, breaking the kiss.

David's eyes are a disturbingly clear and sharp shade of blue in the late afternoon light, and Viggo finds himself leaning in for another kiss. Jerking his head back, stopping at a point where a single breath could bring their mouths into contact, he finds David is holding his breath.

Viggo leans out of the contact, and David follows like a puppet neatly pulled by a string. Viggo's smile is extinguished by another kiss from David, and he is pushed back until he is pressed flat against the cold stone wall of the Hornburg.

David ruins the image Viggo has built up over the week. The kiss tastes spoiled, like fruit gone over bad. The ring -- Barahir's ring -- snags on David's hair, tearing loose a few strands as Viggo draws his fingers through the blonde locks.

The kiss is overripe, dark and tainted, but Viggo presses further despite himself. The kiss deepens to metal.

"Fuck yes," David groans. Viggo leans in close, breathing in the exhalations.


"Shh," Viggo whispers, pressing his lips against the hot skin of the crook of David's neck.

Don't say that.

Viggo takes hold of David's neck, but does not follow the steps of the dream. He breaks the kiss, his fingertips digging into the soft flesh of David's neck.

"What?" David mumbles, still reeling from the kiss.

"I --" Viggo breaks off. "I've had such fucked-up dreams of late..."

David freezes, his face changing to cold through a second of hurt.

"No," Viggo hastens to say, "it's not that. Forget it," he mutters. Leaning in close, he swallows thickly, then inhales the crisp scent of David's hair. "We'll do this the other way around. I want you to take me."

The words ring odd to his ears. He does not take this position by rote, but it has always been a question of silent agreement. Either can yield.

David gives a little sound in the back of his throat. Viggo realizes he is going too fast, leaps and bounds, to warp his dream and prove it wrong.

"We can't do this here," David says, almost regretfully. "People walk here, and they might see."

"So let them! I don't care." He doesn't know if there's enough conviction in the words, but ultimately it doesn't matter. David takes the offer, even smiles slyly as Viggo comes up with a tin of Vaseline for lube.

"Always prepared, eh?"

"I didn't plan this," Viggo almost-lies. He didn't script it, and the paint-smeared tin is only a lucky detail. Why explain?

David's hands are sliding along his side, in under his shirt, a hangnail scraping momentarily against the sensitive skin over his ribs. Only a brief travail, then they trace back, dipping downward to circle his navel. Pressing the warm palm of his hand against the already prominent bulge in Viggo's chinos, David flexes his fingers slightly as Viggo groans.

Easy sailing from now on. His body knows what to do, his hips bucking up as David undoes his trousers. The turn is a muscle memory and his palms remember the texture of the stone.

When the same raw stone scrubs a red flare across his cheekbone, he smiles.