| Title: Eavesdrop Series: Kink, part 3 Authors: Jo Pairing: Karl Urban/Marton Csokas; Viggo Mortensen Rating: NC17 Summary: Aural voyeurism Disclaimer: Absolutely, completely, utterly, 100% fiction. Means I made it up. In other words, this.never.happened. Notes: Just some mild kink. Bunny courtesy of Brenda!
Ring. Rrrrrriiiiiinnnnnng. Without moving from his chair, Viggo reaches over and stabs at the button with one finger. Immediately, he can hear the crackle and hiss of the speakerphone. He doesn't say anything; he doesn't need to. He knows who's on the other end of the line. A click, another click, then the muffled clatter of the phone being placed back in its cradle. Through it all, he sits and listens. Listens as the odd, faintly hollow echo of hearing sounds through a speakerphone drifts to his ears. Both sides of the call on speakerphone. The image makes him smile. It isn't a big smile, just a bare curving of his lips. Then the smile fades as he continues to listen, eyes closed, head tipped back against the chair. There isn't much to hear, just quiet murmuring and muffled rustling, but Viggo listens to it all. Then…. "Is he…?" "Yes." Another smile. As he listens to them, Viggo absently wonders how he's ended up in this position. He still isn't exactly sure. Then his attention sharpens, snaps back to the sounds emitting from the tiny speaker at his elbow. "Cold in here," Karl says with a breathless laugh. "You'll be warm enough soon," Marton replies, dark smile evident in his voice. More rustling that can only be clothes being removed. Viggo keeps his eyes clothes, wonders which of them is unclothed. Not that it really matters. Both of them are beautiful. Both would be even more beautiful nude. Just the mental images have him shifting a bit in the chair. Another sound snaps his eyes open, focuses them on the phone. That sounded like a chain – a light one – being clinked together. Viggo closes his eyes again, listening to the faint sounds. More clinking. Rustling. A muffled click. "These the new ones?" "Just got 'em yesterday," Marton says. "Nice." "Not too tight, are they?" More clinking and rustling. "No, they're good." Again, Karl's soft laugh. "Still cold." "Well, then let me see what I can do about that…." It's just a few seconds at the most before a quiet moan echoes through the speaker. Viggo swallows, shifts in the chair again. One hand, resting on his stomach, slips a little until his thumb rests on the button holding his jeans closed. He doesn't do anything else, just sits there. Right now he wants to listen and absorb. "Fuck…." "In a bit. Patience, love." More sounds, different now. And Viggo's heard enough kissing – been involved in enough kissing, if the truth is told – to know it when he hears it. But fuck, if this isn't one of the hottest things he's ever heard. The two of them kissing…. God. He swallows again, but doesn't move. He can't. He's pinned in place by the sounds of lips meeting, touching, parting wetly. Then he wonders if tongues are involved and has to bite his lower lip to stifle a gasp. He's not going to think about what their kisses taste like. He's not. Really. He's going to just sit and listen to everything from a purely aesthetic point of view. He is. Right. Viggo's not even sure he believes that himself when he hears a soft groan. "Pretty like this," Marton murmurs. His only reply is a soft, barely audible groan. "So pretty…and all mine." "Yours," Karl manages to gasp, the words accompanied by a metallic ching as he shifts. Fuck. Viggo squeezes his eyes shut as he tugs at his suddenly too tight jeans. He shouldn't be listening to this, shouldn't be reacting to the sounds he's hearing, shouldn't be letting those sounds paint Technicolor visions in his head. Most of all, he should have declined when the offer was placed on the table. But he didn't. It had been too tempting, too provocative. So now he sits here, eyes closed tight, thumb worrying the button of his jeans open as he listens to the two men on the other end of the line. "Fuck, Marton, please…" Karl gasps in response to a soft smacking sound. Marton just laughs, the sound low and wicked. "We're getting to that," he says, odd liquid sounds accompanying his words. "You've really got to learn some patience." "Fuck patience," Karl growls. "Rather fuck you," Marton replies in a low, sibilant murmur. "God…yes…." It's all Viggo can do to swallow his moan. His fingers, far too clumsy on the button and zipper of his jeans, slip inside worn denim, curl around hardening flesh. His hand, feeling completely wrong (not the hand he wants, no, definitely not), slides, still clumsy. With an oath muttered under his breath, Viggo shoves at his jeans, works them down until his cock springs free. That's it. Much better. A soft sigh passes his lips now that he can move freely, fingers slipping along hot hardness, thumb sweeping over the head to collect the drops pearled there. Slickness smeared along his length eases the motion of his hand, draws another quiet sound from him. He can't believe he's doing this. Karl's soft groans mingle with Marton's harsher grunts. Skin slapping against skin echoes loudly in the near silence. Bedsprings creak faintly. And then the soft whispers just at the edge of hearing. "Ever told you how much I love you like this?" "L-like what?" A loud gasp. "This. Needy, body begging for my cock." Flesh striking flesh, moving together. "Such a pretty whore for me." "Only…for you." Viggo's hand continues to move, sliding up and down his cock. His hips lift to meet each downward glide of curled fingers. Sharp copper fills his mouth, letting him know he's bitten his lip too hard in an effort to stifle his moans. The incessant, unbearably gorgeous pictures being painted in his mind are too much, and he has no control left. All he can do is move and feel and listen. It should feel dirty, what he's doing – stroking himself while listening to two of his friends fucking. But it doesn't. Not even close. Something about it feels right, feels as if he should have done this long ago. Quiet moans, breathless pleading…it all wraps around him, draws into the invisible spell they've woven. Leaves him helpless to do anything but what he's doing. He can hear them clearly now. Hear Karl's moans getting louder, coming one on top the other. Hear the harsh breathing and soft grunts that Marton makes with each thrust. Hear the bed creaking beneath them, hear the sound of Marton's skin smacking against Karl's. If he listens hard enough, Viggo thinks he might be able to hear the sweat sliding on golden skin. Karl cries out, the sound low and almost broken. It's too much, the way his voice sounds when he comes, wrapping around Marton's name. Near reverence in his words, in the soft sounds he makes as Marton continues to thrust into him. Viggo hovers on the edge of release, in that almost painful place where the tiniest thing will send him plunging over. His hand moves faster and faster, hips lifting to thrust into his fist, and the movements are jerky, erratic. Much like his breathing. And then it happens. Marton's voice, harsh as he groans Karl's name, provides that tiny impetus that Viggo needs. Somehow, his free hand finds his mouth, teeth closing over his knuckles as he comes hard. Silvery-hot liquid hits his bare stomach in spurts, and his entire body twitches. As he floats in the hazy afterglow, he can hear soft murmurs and more clinking of metal on metal. Two voices now, tired and sated, whispering to each other. He should disconnect, give them some privacy. His hand, it seems, is there before the thought even forms fully in his mind. One finger, perfectly formed teethmarks at the base, finds the button. And silence fills the room, broken only by Viggo's harsh breathing as it slowly starts to ease.
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