FIC: "Creation" 1/1 Viggo/Muse
Jan. 25th, 2004 05:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
broadwritingTitle: "Creation" 1/1
Name: Brenda
Pairing: Viggo Mortensen/Muse
Rating: PG
Summary: Viggo's a slave.
Website: Broadwriting
Feedback: Yes, please.
Disclaimer: The product of my imagination, not Viggo's.
Notes: Written for the furorscribendi challenge, using the quote below as context. Thanks to Jennifer for the beta. *mwah*
"If you want to kiss the sky
You better learn how to kneel
On your knees boy"
-- U2
She always waits until he's in the shower to talk to him. He thinks it's because she's sadistic -- or maybe a closet pervert. He's never asked. She's certainly never volunteered. He's long since given up on the idea of privacy where she's concerned anyway.
What need is there for it when she can see into his heart, his secrets, and pluck them out at a whim, lay them at his feet with a careless smile? She knows him the way no other ever would.
a wisp, just floating out of reach, like fairy dust on fingertips, darting playfully, taunting...if he could just reach it, he knows...he knows...pleasewait, please...he reaches, tries to snatch, but like a wisp of smoke, it vanishes...
he chases, as he knows he's meant to, raises the camera again, clickclickclick, prays for the light to hold, prays for time to still, to stop for just a moment, prays that he can capture, just for a second, the image that waits under dulled reality.
He pretty much thinks she lives to torment him. Or laugh at him. One second, she'll taunt him with visions so pure, so clear that he's giddy, drunk on the images she's feeding him, so caught up in the moment that it's like stepping into another realm. Then she gives him a coy wink and vanishes, no matter how much he pleads with her to stay.
She never listens to him.
He's long since given up trying.
Pride is the one thing she will not tolerate. He's at her mercy and he knows it. Knows that she's capricious and sly, that she comes at her whim, not his. Knows that she rewards his patience in her own time, knows that she'll deliver when she wants to and not a moment before.
there, there it is...like a man possessed -- and it's a mad sort of possession -- he writes, fingers stained with ink, hurriedly scribbling each word as it flows from his brain to his pen, his fingers a cruel, clumsy medium.
why isn't the image clearer? he can see it, see it so clearly, knows what he wants to say...why won't the words come? why can't he pluck the image from his brain to the paper, eliminate the need for language, for this useless form of communication?
nono, that's not the right word, that's not what he wants to say. something bold, something dazzling, something right. start again. take a deep breath. clear everything except the vision...
better...better...he's dashing now, heartbeat quickening, breath short, running a race, not daring to lift his hand, move his head. if he strays, all will fade. only this moment, this precious, lightning-quick moment, exists...
Like all beautiful women, she moves with her own confidence. It's not arrogance -- she has no need for it. She knows who she is, what she is. She knows her importance, her impact on those around her. Like a queen, like the goddess she is, she glides through his brain, plucking what she needs, discarding the rest, demanding absolute loyalty. Demanding everything. Like the faithful slave he is, he obeys her every whim.
He knows better than to ignore her.
Sometimes he imagines he can see her form, barely make out lush curves and sly smile; shadowy, but no less mouth-watering. But he doesn't really need to see her to know. She's the essence of beauty, all of the wonders of the world rolled into one tempting package. And he knows...oh yes, he knows...he is hers.
colors swirl, shift, change, and he's tempted to throw his brushes out the window. maybe he should paint with his fingers...it'd be better. more direct...
oh...
wait...
a muffled cry of thanks as his fingers tingle, his brain zings into sharp focus...and yes. here it is, here's what he wants, there it is. lines form, colors blend, shapes glide like melted butter onto a canvas that now lives and breathes with force and wonder...
All his life he's been aware of her, belonged to her. She's more than a shadow in the dark, more than a voice in his head. She is his reason, his sanity, his soul. No other lover, no other woman, could ever compare to what she gives him, to what she nourishes and gives back. He's at her mercy always.
All in all, he thinks it's a pretty good bargain.
***
Name: Brenda
Pairing: Viggo Mortensen/Muse
Rating: PG
Summary: Viggo's a slave.
Website: Broadwriting
Feedback: Yes, please.
Disclaimer: The product of my imagination, not Viggo's.
Notes: Written for the furorscribendi challenge, using the quote below as context. Thanks to Jennifer for the beta. *mwah*
"If you want to kiss the sky
You better learn how to kneel
On your knees boy"
-- U2
She always waits until he's in the shower to talk to him. He thinks it's because she's sadistic -- or maybe a closet pervert. He's never asked. She's certainly never volunteered. He's long since given up on the idea of privacy where she's concerned anyway.
What need is there for it when she can see into his heart, his secrets, and pluck them out at a whim, lay them at his feet with a careless smile? She knows him the way no other ever would.
a wisp, just floating out of reach, like fairy dust on fingertips, darting playfully, taunting...if he could just reach it, he knows...he knows...pleasewait, please...he reaches, tries to snatch, but like a wisp of smoke, it vanishes...
he chases, as he knows he's meant to, raises the camera again, clickclickclick, prays for the light to hold, prays for time to still, to stop for just a moment, prays that he can capture, just for a second, the image that waits under dulled reality.
He pretty much thinks she lives to torment him. Or laugh at him. One second, she'll taunt him with visions so pure, so clear that he's giddy, drunk on the images she's feeding him, so caught up in the moment that it's like stepping into another realm. Then she gives him a coy wink and vanishes, no matter how much he pleads with her to stay.
She never listens to him.
He's long since given up trying.
Pride is the one thing she will not tolerate. He's at her mercy and he knows it. Knows that she's capricious and sly, that she comes at her whim, not his. Knows that she rewards his patience in her own time, knows that she'll deliver when she wants to and not a moment before.
there, there it is...like a man possessed -- and it's a mad sort of possession -- he writes, fingers stained with ink, hurriedly scribbling each word as it flows from his brain to his pen, his fingers a cruel, clumsy medium.
why isn't the image clearer? he can see it, see it so clearly, knows what he wants to say...why won't the words come? why can't he pluck the image from his brain to the paper, eliminate the need for language, for this useless form of communication?
nono, that's not the right word, that's not what he wants to say. something bold, something dazzling, something right. start again. take a deep breath. clear everything except the vision...
better...better...he's dashing now, heartbeat quickening, breath short, running a race, not daring to lift his hand, move his head. if he strays, all will fade. only this moment, this precious, lightning-quick moment, exists...
Like all beautiful women, she moves with her own confidence. It's not arrogance -- she has no need for it. She knows who she is, what she is. She knows her importance, her impact on those around her. Like a queen, like the goddess she is, she glides through his brain, plucking what she needs, discarding the rest, demanding absolute loyalty. Demanding everything. Like the faithful slave he is, he obeys her every whim.
He knows better than to ignore her.
Sometimes he imagines he can see her form, barely make out lush curves and sly smile; shadowy, but no less mouth-watering. But he doesn't really need to see her to know. She's the essence of beauty, all of the wonders of the world rolled into one tempting package. And he knows...oh yes, he knows...he is hers.
colors swirl, shift, change, and he's tempted to throw his brushes out the window. maybe he should paint with his fingers...it'd be better. more direct...
oh...
wait...
a muffled cry of thanks as his fingers tingle, his brain zings into sharp focus...and yes. here it is, here's what he wants, there it is. lines form, colors blend, shapes glide like melted butter onto a canvas that now lives and breathes with force and wonder...
All his life he's been aware of her, belonged to her. She's more than a shadow in the dark, more than a voice in his head. She is his reason, his sanity, his soul. No other lover, no other woman, could ever compare to what she gives him, to what she nourishes and gives back. He's at her mercy always.
All in all, he thinks it's a pretty good bargain.
***
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-25 04:55 pm (UTC)why isn't the image clearer? he can see it, see it so clearly, knows what he wants to say...why won't the words come? why can't he pluck the image from his brain to the paper, eliminate the need for language, for this useless form of communication?
Oh, how often that has happened--can see it SO clearly, but it doesn't make it to the paper. *sigh*
And seriously, I always get all my best ideas in the shower. So this gave me a giggle:
He thinks it's because she's sadistic -- or maybe a closet pervert.
heee..just perfect. Loved this.
Creation
Date: 2004-01-25 04:57 pm (UTC)writing. I too believe that Viggo's muse is his true love, desire
and addiction, so it's wonderful to read a fic that elucidates
this.
All I can say is God I wish I'd written this. And I love the way you've
tried to capture the feeling of creation, that moment where it's
experiment, rough then smooth, calm then shot through with
adrenaline. I love that Viggo's muse lives in the shower.
I just love this! Makes me wonder which of the 9 muses is in
the shower with him? Polyhymnia? Muse of sacred song - should
fit poetry no? Erato? Muse of erotic poetry? And no, I have no
clue who governs visual arts. Then again Mnemosyne was the
mother of all 9 and I believe her name means memory...
(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-25 06:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-25 09:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-25 10:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-26 10:02 am (UTC)Except, well, maybe Viggo's muse could possibly be... male. Couldn't it? *grins*
(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-29 03:38 am (UTC)Re:
Date: 2004-01-30 03:43 am (UTC)Glad it came across. Anytime I try anything meta, I get a little wonky.
Re: Creation
Date: 2004-01-30 03:44 am (UTC)*grins*
Re:
Date: 2004-01-30 03:45 am (UTC)*snuggles you silly*
Re:
Date: 2004-01-30 03:46 am (UTC)Re:
Date: 2004-01-30 03:50 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-30 03:51 am (UTC)