Title: Under (Part 1/2) 
Author: Helena_s_renn and klatschmohn (rotpunkt)
fandom: LoTRiPS 
Characters: Viggo Mortensen/Sean Bean 
Prompt: 28. Dominant 
Word Count: 3616 
Rating: NC-17 
Warnings: 1) We explore certain psychological aspects of a D/s relationship here; 
though we think the Viggo we portray here is still “within the possibilities” of Viggo´s 
personality, we certainly don´t think the issues he has to deal with here come so 
much to the fore or are as strong as we show them. 
2) Non-worksafe/kidsafe illustration behind the cut. 
Disclaimer: As always, this is fiction. It never happened. Not true 
Author's Notes: The quotes we use in the parts with Viggo´s insight are from his 
latest work “Linger” (page number in brackets).  
Summary: Viggo has issues with his sub himself.


Under 
 
For more than ten days, Viggo had only used Sean´s mouth. He wanted it this way; 
he wanted to use Sean, to take his pleasure without allowing Sean to come, and it 
was easier this way, when no friction was available for Sean´s cock. 
 
When he ordered Sean onto his knees, Sean would never know whether Viggo was 
going to fuck him or to beat him. Whatever Viggo did to him, it always started with 
these words: “On your knees.”  
 
In Viggo´s own eyes, Sean edged him slightly. In everything. 
 
It was only the smallest part of the problem that Viggo didn´t believe he would win 
any voting polls against Sean when it came to fans deciding which of the two of them 
was the sexier and more attractive man. 
 
And Viggo didn´t consider that unfair. For Viggo, there was absolutely no doubt that 
Sean was the sexiest and most beautiful person on Earth. He didn´t get it, how Sean 
managed that, but Sean was always sexy, in every unconscious movement and 
every random gesture, no matter what he did or what sort of condition or situation he 
was in. 
 
Viggo let Sean kneel in front of him for hours. He liked to work at his desk with Sean 
kneeling at his feet, to give him release during a short break or serve him as soon as 
he wanted a cup of tea or anything. In every single moment of his life, Sean was 
either carrying out one of Viggo’s orders, or he was naked on his knees in front of 
him.  
 
It caused more of a sting that Viggo thought Sean was the better actor – and that he 
achieved that without obsessively “internalising” his characters like Viggo did all the 
time. Sean acted intuitively; it all came naturally to him, seemingly effortless, while 
Viggo took everything deadly serious. 
 
It was not that Viggo envied Sean. He felt the utmost respect for Sean as an actor. It 
was just that this admiration for Sean´s acting skills added to Viggo´s general feeling 
of inferiority. 
 
“Something´s been killed recently. You can feel it inside…” (13) 
 
Sean had been down on the floor on his plush mat for a very long time, on all fours 
with his legs folded under him and arms crossed over his chest. Viggo allowed him to 
turn his head to the side so he could see the strong profile anytime he happened to 
glance down. The blond tresses had grown longer, sleeker, artfully streaked. It 
pleased him for Sean to fan those golden strands behind his head upon the floor. 
The glints caught the sun, just as the metallic embroidery on his costume had all 
those years ago. The patterns of breathing coming from near floor level revealed that 
Sean was not exactly sleeping, but he’d learned to relax despite the ridiculousness of 
his position.  
 
Back when they’d been filming, there had been days and days where Viggo had 
fixated on the shape and hue of Sean’s eyes, the exact angle of the fold of his 
eyelids, and the precise length of his light brown lashes, every single one of them 
tipped to match his hair. He’d done that without looking at the man once, except 
while shooting. In much the same way, Viggo virtually ignored him now, other than 
when he made demands as to his personal comfort. None-the-less, he was staring at 
the man almost constantly, in every unoccupied moment.  
 
If Sean felt it, he ignored it. Certainly he was used to constant scrutiny. The man’s 
poise was nearly flawless. And then there was Viggo, always on the edge of being 
caught out. 
 
“Rest your head in my lap, boy.” Viggo had meant to offer a gesture of solicitude; 
instead it came out as arrogant. It angered Viggo how his own self-loathing, self-
aggrandizing attitude came out in his tone. “Lap dog,” he sneered.  
 
Without comment, without the slightest shift toward a glare, Sean straightened up 
slowly and laid his cheek upon Viggo’s jeaned knee. Immediately the Dane’s cock 
started to swell. He continued to read for a time, rapidly losing concentration. The 
urge to touch Sean was almost overpowering but he denied them both the 
connection. Instead, he spat out in rough commands, “Suck my cock, Sean! And 
don’t you dare cum.”  
 
Maybe Viggo could have dealt with Sean´s beauty and acting genius, with all of 
Sean´s qualities that put him so high above everyone else in Viggo´s eyes – but the 
one thing that really nagged at him was, that somewhere deep inside, Viggo was 
sure Sean was the better man…without trying or really being conscious of it, and oh, 
did that sting. 
 
Viggo highly strained his patience to be kind, a peaceful persona, true to his 
convictions and moral standards. He thought he should regard all human beings as 
his equal, and treat them like that. But sometimes he felt in truth his ego was beyond 
proportion – it was monstrous. All the average people crowding him disgusted him. 
 
Maybe this misanthropic contempt was the real reason why he had been single for so 
long – no one seemed worthy of being with him. Even his longing for solitude and his 
urge to spend time in lonely nature had to do with his autocratic ego. He didn´t want 
to be vain and arrogant; he held all these megalomaniac impulses down violently, 
forcing himself to act modestly and speak softly. His shyness and calmness, 
mentioned in so many interviews and articles, were nothing more than - a false 
attitude? No, now he judged himself too hard. It was a desperate attempt to fight his 
devastating ego.  
 
Sean, on the other hand, had no issues about buying himself an expensive car, 
renting a luxurious suite (while Viggo preferred a tent in the desert like an eremite 
doing penance) or showing off in elegant clothes. But deep inside, Sean never had 
thought he was any better than his mates from the Sheffield streets. Inside, he still 
was the simple guy he´d always been, and nothing would ever change that.  
 
“Do you care if you miss the ending, if the hero´s welcome is a send-off?” (13)  
 
Sometimes he bound the Brit so tightly he could barely achieve an erection, let alone 
come, and sometimes he made him control himself by force of will alone. And as yet, 
he did--so far, Sean had not suffered punishment for the sin of release.  
 
The flaxen head raised, the man’s shining eyes went from his crotch to his face and 
back again. Moving his leg over to allow Sean between his thighs, Viggo resolutely 
unbuttoned his fly, springing his compressed organ from the too-tight confines, 
feeling how it inflated fully. At times like this, with the other man on his knees in 
submission, it felt like his cock was huge, as big as he was tall, made of steel, 
covered in skin with a network of nerve endings interlaced and connected to his balls 
and his brain, a veritable weapon.  
 
“Suck it!” he hissed again. Grasping himself at the base, he rubbed the tip against 
Sean’s pale pink lips. Soon, he knew, those polite British lips would be dusky and 
swollen.  
 
A hot vacuum enclosed him. His head, partially covered by foreskin, was tugged on 
by suction from the surrounding orifice. The wet heat advanced, swallowing more and 
more; his hands clawed around the arms of his chair. He hit bottom—Sean’s throat.  
 
“Take it all!” he growled. Grabbing Sean by the hair so hard he must have pulled a 
few strands out, he forced the man’s head down, revelling in the sputtering, choked 
sounds. Sean’s gag reflex working against him, then eventual acceptance and 
opening, so excited him that if he’d been a younger, less-often-satisfied man, he’d 
have shot his load. Bracing against the chair back, he jammed himself in and out of 
that delightfully tight throat.  
 
No doubt about it--Sean was skilled. How or where he’d come by such talents or 
whether it was natural aptitude, Viggo didn’t want to know. He chose to think it was 
for his benefit only that the gorgeous blond man ever opened his mouth and wrapped 
it around a thick, leaking organ.  
 
He worked on Viggo’s now with his lips compressed in a tight ring, folded back over 
his teeth. The flat of his tongue was applied against the whole underside of Viggo’s 
shaft, pressing against the fluttering vein in waves. Then, he began to bob his head 
up and down, brazenly pushing Viggo’s jeans back enough to cup his balls in one 
hand and roll them slowly, carefully, exquisite little squeezes and taps with his thumb.  
 
Every so often, he’d look up, as if he wanted to be praised, but Viggo never gave it to 
him. That way, it made Sean try harder. And he did at that, sucking, pulling, 
massaging from root to ridge till not only Viggo’s cock and balls but his whole groin, 
perineum, even his asshole felt heavy with blood, aching and congested. 
 
The only thing that might have been better was Sean’s ass, and so far, he had not 
ventured into that territory. Best to keep the man guessing, lusting, on edge. Till Sean 
showed him a crack in his composure, Viggo wouldn’t fuck him. It was all part of the 
process. Why Sean would debase himself in this way, to suck the cock of a man such 
as him, Viggo couldn’t say, not yet. That curiosity would need to be satisfied, as well.  
 
But suddenly cooler air on his shaft and an urgent tugging at his clenched fist 
distracted him. Sean pulled his mouth away, red-faced and gasping for air.  
 
Maybe if he wasn’t simply terrified of Sean not wanting such a thing of him, Viggo 
would have leaned down and kissed that open, panting mouth. But he just didn’t 
know. 
 
“Can you join, ask sincerely for affection, understanding and accepting, if it 
never is given?” (94) 
 
So he growled, “Nobody said you were done, boy,” and pulled the blond head back 
down in his lap. Tears of effort ran from Sean’s eyes; they landed in the hairs 
surrounding the base of his cock and ran down around his sac, into the crease of his 
ass. The liquid was warm, same as anything coming out of a live human body, yet 
the drops felt cooling against Viggo’s overheated skin.  
 
If he’d had to choose a color for what was going on between his legs, it would most 
certainly have been red… Red for heat, blood, anger, lust… changing to molten 
orange as his balls boiled over and he blasted his fiery passionate consummation of 
this strange relation into Sean’s receiving mouth. He’d been slouched down with his 
butt tucked under, but now he had to bend at the waist even more, rounding himself 
over Sean’s head. He shook and shook and the hot mouth milked him for more and 
more of his essence; eruptions became spurts, then dribbles, and still Sean’s mouth 
sucked and his tongue probed and he stroked at Viggo’s utterly drained balls.  
 
It was almost as if, the darker man thought in a daze, the submissive had become 
bent on experiencing the orgasm he was not allowed, second hand.  
 
Well, he was a painter, a poet, and a photographer. Shouldn´t he rightly be proud of 
his universal genius? Wasn´t the multitude of talents a gift that separated him from 
most people, who would have been glad if they had been born with skills in just one 
discipline? 
 
Viggo snorted inwardly. He wouldn´t fool himself. The subjects of his poetry were 
melancholy, sadness, failure, falling apart and inner emptiness. He described with the 
precision of an excellent watcher, with sensitive perception, but there was no trace of 
passionate appropriation, no powerful affirmation of life and love. He didn´t judge, he 
didn´t claim. He stayed outside, distant.  
 
And his photos – what else were they than documents of his loneliness? Empty 
spaces, deserted landscapes, forlorn and forgotten. Hardly ever a recognisable 
person in them, and if, it was from behind, with closed eyes, almost wiped out by 
refractions of light, visually contorted or blurred. The photos were evidence of his 
inability to come close to anyone, the impossibility within him to love and trust and 
join.  
 
His paintings – there were some cheerful colours, yeah, yellow and pink, light green 
and red – but even there, it was more about the things you couldn´t grasp and 
couldn´t keep. A sunbeam, lost and gone; a smile, flickering across and over. Vague 
forms, fading, wavering away… 
 
His music. Okay, maybe we shouldn´t talk about that. 
 
“There was no joy in his work, no satisfaction from his needful efforts.” (23) 
 
And somehow it was still not enough, no matter than he was drained dry, and that it 
was taking a supreme effort on his part not to just collapse back into his chair like a 
limp rag. He wanted more than to dominate Sean by making him bring him off… he 
wanted to claim more.  
 
‘The hell with it!’ he mustered himself. Reaching out with both hands, he cupped the 
sides of Sean’s face. There was a pleasant whiskery rasp, along with soft, 
moisturized skin, for of course Sean took the best care of himself when he wasn’t 
under Viggo’s hand. The rugged bone structure beneath that, to Viggo’s eyes—
artist’s eyes—made him so appealing, the perfect blend of sharp with heavy. The 
world centered around the small tracing of his thumb over Sean’s parted lips. He 
watched the tiny folds of skin over his joint pull apart and re-fold.  
 
When he was able to look up, to gauge the blond’s reaction, he saw something close 
to panic. Almost fear. “Don’t,” Sean said in a low voice.  
 
“No?” queried Viggo. He was nearly pole-axed by the one word. But then his desire 
to possess the other man roared up again, and he spat, “Safeword, then!” daring 
Sean to use that finality as an out. There was a slight shake of head, barely shifting 
the sweaty tresses, but no words. “Kiss me.” This, Viggo demanded, for all that he 
knew that men in such arrangements don’t kiss. Nor did he care that Sean had had a 
mouthful of his sperm a minute ago. He wanted… 
 
Still Sean hesitated. “Do it!” Viggo barked at him.  
 
Something feral flashed in the greyed, inky-rimmed eyes. Sean’s nostrils flared; his 
upper lip curled to reveal his teeth. He grabbed Viggo’s face between his large hands 
and pulled the Dane forward, sealing their mouths together. A slick tongue invaded 
Viggo’s mouth in fast discovery of his palate and his own tongue; he could only push 
back in that moment of surprise. One of Sean’s hands slid around to grip the back of 
his neck. Repositioning his whole upper body, the Brit pressed forward. His chest 
crushed against Viggo’s, who could feel the rapid heartbeat thudding through his 
clothes. Sean sucked his lower lip briefly, licked the upper, then tilted his head to the 
side for another dive…  
 
Viggo was ready this time. When the same warm tongue slid forward again, he 
suctioned hard to get it fully into his oral cavity, and thrust his own answer back, 
tasting the smoke-honey taste of Sean, his own slightly fishy flavour below. Hot 
breath fanned against his face in quick puffs; it excited him beyond reason to have 
some say in Sean’s very breathing. Curling his tongue-tip, he licked all around the 
little arches of the insides of the other man’s teeth. When he used it like a feathering 
instrument to tickle the top of the sensitive palate, the blond jerked hard, but Viggo 
increased the seal of his kiss. Sean groaned; he backed off slightly, looking out 
through his eyelashes for half a second. Even that small measure of gentleness 
spoke of his passion. Slate-blue eyes met deep emerald green, only an inch apart.  
 
“C’mon,” Sean pulled back enough to taunt him.  
 
Viggo clawed into his shoulders and pulled him in harder, thighs clamping around the 
sides of the heaving flanks. “Come get me,” he growled in return. It seemed he’d 
made a mistake, commanding his sub to take the upper hand. But Sean, to his 
disconcertment, brought it. His kisses now were no less erotic, moving his head just 
so to continually brush the other man’s darker, finely-carved lips, yet not as violent; 
he was waiting. His flicking tongue begged to be overpowered; it teased; it pleaded 
with partner to make him submit. For that would bring his release, if and when he was 
allowed. 
 
All of a sudden, Viggo simply didn’t know how to do this. This gorgeous, utterly 
alluring man, whatever his reasons, wanted this…. Wanted it this way. Viggo hated 
Sean’s ingrained or trained-in response to threats, humiliation, subjugation. It didn’t 
matter that it had started with Viggo getting his rocks off in all manners of speaking 
by forcing his submission. Now he couldn’t see how to stop it from continuing only in 
this manner if at all.  
 
He was still battling it out within the confines of both of their mouths. The whole 
situation angered him. It was by no means the first time he wanted to beat the 
beautiful manly male body, and to spit upon the spirit within. And he wanted to lift him 
up, odd because he already thought the man so outshined him.  
 
It was driving him crazy. He regretted having blown his wad already, because he did 
not doubt that kissing Sean would have aroused him that much more had he done it 
before. How was it that everything was suddenly upside down and backwards, just 
over a fucking kiss? He had to stop this before he couldn’t hold up the barrier 
between ‘Sir’ and ‘boy’ anymore. Peeling his lips away, Viggo moved his head to the 
side and bit the thin-skinned earlobe he found as he nuzzled under strands of hair.  
 
Yelping, the blond released his grip and leant back. He stared, waiting on Viggo to 
make a move  
 
One thing the Dane decided: Sean deserved to be allowed to come. Ten days now 
since he’d emptied his balls. His thrill would be that much more if he was watched, 
seemingly ordered to do it. Viggo would allow him to take that edge off--he wanted to 
see that so damn badly…  
 
It was this train of thought that prompted Viggo to move his booted foot under Sean’s 
chest and roughly kick him over on his back. There was surprise, of course, but once 
again, the golden man carefully contained any negative reaction. As expected, his 
fully erect penis slapped against his belly; his balls were high and tight with pent-up 
frustration, and he was red from the waist up from lack of air combined with sex-flush.  
 
“You fucking little slut!” Viggo gritted. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”  
 
Very calmly, the Yorkshire-tinged voice answered him, “I’m sorry, Sir, that my 
obedience was unsatisfac—“ 
 
Hauling back, Viggo unleashed a right hook, but at the last minute reined it and 
merely grazed Sean’s jaw with his knuckles. “Don’t… fucking tempt me. You know 
exactly what you were on about, bitch. Even I know what “pushy bottom” means, as 
subtle as you seem to think you are. And if you call me ‘Sir’ even one more time the 
rest of the day, it will be the real thing.” He pointed to his still-fisted hand. “That, I 
promise you. I can only stand so much of…that.”  
 
“Yes… Viggo.”  
 
With an impolite snort, Viggo looked down at the floor where Sean had been 
kneeling. There was a silvery-clear pool with traces of white there on the wood 
planks, as big around as his palm with a trail running off into the seam of the floor. 
Even the idea of Sean leaking so much pre-cum could not harden him yet at this 
point, so he filed it away in his brain for future use, but it thrilled in the pit of his 
stomach and in the joints of his legs were his baser pleasures lived.  
 
“You wanna cum, Sean?” 
 
There was an actual whimper.  
 
“Since you made such a mess, you can lie in it… and better yet, with your face… 
while you show me exactly how a man who needs to be ‘under’ comes. I bet you go 
in ‘under’ five seconds, just like you did when you were ‘under’ fifteen, eh? Just can’t 
wait to get your hand ‘under’ yourself and around your cock. Should see what it looks 
like from here, Sean. It’s got a lot more to say that you seem to. Maybe you should 
listen to it.” He leered—self-actualized men like themselves were not supposed to 
admit to thinking like that. But here he was.  
 
Silence… heavy breathing, and then: “Please… Viggo, please … I need… need to 
come.”  
 
“Kiss my feet,” Viggo ordered. “Lick them.” Sean bent down and obeyed. 
 
“You can come now,” Viggo growled. “Touch yourself.” 
 
Sean did, down on the ground with the side of his face in the puddle of his own 
making; he came with all the denied need of ten days, bucking and cringing, spurting 
uncontrollably in hot strings of seed while Viggo slowly put his foot on Sean´s neck 
and pinned him to the floor, treading down. 
 
And while Sean came under Viggo´s foot, humiliated as deeply as possible, for one 
moment Viggo didn´t feel his self-doubts and fears, looking at Sean under him, so 
deep, deep under him.  
 
“When we walk away in our separate directions, will it matter who had the last 
word, who was in charge in the end?” (13)  
 
 
TBC...