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Pairing:Viggo Mortensen / Ian McKellan - LOTR RPS
Rating: NC-17
Author: MSilverstar
Date: December 21, 2004
Feedback: yes please! also constructive criticism of any kind.
Disclaimer: not true, I made it up
Archive: yes, go ahead, but let me know
Context: Part of the Lotrips Wedding Slashaton, “a little form of rebellion against the recent passage of gay marriage bans in eleven U.S. states, and a celebration of boyslove and girlslove everywhere.”. Written for telesilla, with appreciation for being the kind of person who will not freak if I mess with fanon.
Many thanks to anatsuno, toooldnotto, and especially almostnever for speedy and helpful betas, and to mortifyd for being himself.


WARNING: this story may have explicit depictions of sex between men and women, men and men, and women and women.
If you are offended by erotica, explicit sex, or gay porn, please go elsewhere

It is LOTR RPS -- it uses the names of real people involved in making the Lord of the Rings movies.

This story is not true. I made it up.


unconsciously people are drawn to things that feel strong.
  -- Cirque de Soleil song as quoted by beachkid (I think)



Ian's porch light is on, and some other lights on the ground floor, but there's no sound and no sense of movement from inside. The doorbell is working, the noise comes faintly through the door. At least it's mostly dry under the porch roof, but there's a stiff wind that's very cold on wet hair.

Ian could be out of the country. Out at the theatre. Out at his local. In, shagging a beautiful boy. No one knows any more. He's dropped out of sight: no pictures, no gossip, no juicy quotes or plans for new plays. Email and faxes to Ian go into a black hole; he never answers his telephone, even his private number. His agent and publicist issue bland nonsense. Someone had to go find him.

Finally, just before too late, the door opens. Ian's figure is silhouetted against the brighter light from the hall. He's wearing a bathrobe and looks very much like Gandalf, but something's odd about his stance. Ian stiffens and says, "No. Go away. I don't want to see you." He turns to go, angry energy swirling around him as he pulls the door behind him.

"Wait," Viggo asks, "Just, a few minutes?"

Happy and Gay

In New Zealand, Ian didn't lose his languid air when was wasted. He got even more fey and Oscar Wilde-ish and said "dear boy" a lot. And the petulance. It was like being around a four-year-old: you're tempted to just give in so they'll stop pouting. Viggo didn't dare: give him an inch, he'd take a mile. But Ian was so damn delectable when he's drunk.

It was one of those times that Viggo found himself in Ian's giant bed, learning to suck dick. Not so bad, really. Ian's nice and clean, all soft skin and grey hair and he starts off pretty small. Teaching by doing -- Viggo just followed Ian's lead. His dickhead got nuzzled, he did the same to Ian. Same with a lick down the side, a nuzzle in the balls, some rubbing and playing around the base... Despite the booze and age, Ian's erection was notably hard and Viggo had a stray worry about Viagra. When Ian got to the nitty-gritty of blowing him, Viggo just imitated, like Simon Says or mirror miming.

Ian, of course, was a world-class expert at cocksucking. He'd had fifty years to learn. Viggo's first guy and best blowjob he'd ever had. Ian plunged down on Viggo's dick and Viggo kept up; as best he could, damn glad that he'd got a big enough mouth to make it fairly easy -- how do girls do it, he wondered. His jaw was aching already.

Ian's hands were holding Viggo's head, Ian's dick was pumping in Viggo's mouth, Viggo's dick was in Ian's mouth, and it was like closing an electric circuit. Viggo couldn't last, not with Ian doing his Linda Lovelace imitation. He had to take his mouth off Ian so as not to bite while he came, hard.

It wasn't even a problem to keep going with Ian's dick, though it took a few minutes to suck him off. Viggo felt a bit surprised and smug about managing it his first time.


Ian and Sean went back to England for a few months; Viggo was surprised at how much he missed Ian. John was grumpy and the crew were always busy, and the boys were just too damn young. Ian always knew when to insist that they'd worked enough and make Peter shut down for the night. He had a wry sense of humor, and always made just the right comment when things got too serious on set. Viggo always felt too earnest, so they had made a strong team.

Viggo thought that Aragorn might feel the same way about Gandalf: half-playful, half-worshipful. They could have been sleeping together, no one would ever know.

The cynical voice his brain whispered, "you only like the part where you fuck a Knight of the British Empire." But that wasn't true: contemplating Derek Jacobi gave him the heebie-jeebies and he couldn't even begin to think about Sir Ian Holm. But thinking about his Ian gave him a warm feeling in his groin. A night or ten with Viggo's favorite Rohan rider did nothing to make it stop. Ian was just gone, like an empty socket where a tooth used to be.

When Ian came back in August, Viggo slipped right back into his bed as though he'd never left. Ian's mouth and ass and hands were just as delicious as he remembered, maybe even better because he'd been missing Ian so much. The film was wearing Viggo down, and it was good to be with someone who understood, had been through this all before and come out the other side. And the sex was fantastic. But there was something weird before Ian left again: he kept catching a funny look on Ian's face, but could never make Ian tell him what.

Those last months of shooting were grueling The home stretch, but it took so long, and they were all ground down. Even the kids, Elijah, Dom and Orli were subdued. Viggo tried to rev up their energy with pranks and chocolate, make sure they got fed and enough time off to rest up. Fran and Philippa were perpetually upset, and even Peter was stretched thin. Viggo had to fight harder than ever to get the book scenes filmed, the ones that were "not cinematic" enough. No way to splice them in if they were never there to begin with.

Evenings at the pub were either manic or weird or both. One night, Orli's good temper snapped, and they all learned to stop teasing him about his hair. Elijah and Billy had a bit of a spat and didn't speak to each other for three days. Dom pranked Liv with a fake call from her agent, and she berated him for hours in her piercing voice. Viggo tried to keep the peace, calm them down, avoid anyone doing or saying anything unforgivable.

He should have known they would target him next.

It started with Dom calling out to Viggo in Ian's voice, damn kid was just too good at impressions. They all seemed far too gleeful at Viggo's disappointment. Elijah jumped on Dom's back and started mock-humping him, while Billy taunted him with all kinds of British slang for gays and gay sex. Some of it was pretty foul, but Viggo tried to be a good sport and replied with every insult he could think of. But when they turned it around and Dom started humping Elijah, imitating Ian's voice much too well, Viggo couldn't stay.

Arse Bandit

Ian's return felt like a gust of energy: he brought presents for everyone and his battered copy of The Book, reminding everyone that it was up to them to make it cinematic. Viggo could relax and let Ian take the lead, and rest a little for the first time in months.

Ian's magic mouth helped, along with his hands and his accommodating ass. That first night Ian after came back, Viggo slept so soundly he was late for makeup. Everyone seemed to know, they were winking or giggling or teasing him, but hey, if it made them happy, what the hell. Anything to keep up morale.

That night, just as Viggo was thinking he would have to beg Ian to stop teasing and actually suck his dick, Ian's head went down and his fingers, slick with spit, started wandering back. Viggo shifted uncomfortably, and waited for them to get back on his balls where they belonged. But they didn't, they were pushing at his asshole, trying to get in, trying to finger fuck him. Viggo grabbed Ian's arm and pulled him away, then tried to enjoy the blowjob again. But Ian was persistent and tried again. "Hell no," Viggo gritted out, looking down at the top of Ian's head, "I hate that, Ian,"

Instead of going on, Ian pulled back and smirked at him, saying, "Dear boy, you don't know what you're missing. You're usually so... experimental"

"I don't care, just don't mess with my ass."

Ian shook his head and looked disappointed, "Be a sport, and give it a go..."

Viggo couldn't believe that Ian was pressuring him. The idea of taking it up the ass made him nauseous. He didn't mind doing Ian that way, but him? He gritted his teeth and answered, "No means no, dammit."

Ian backed a bit further away, looking impatient, and said, "Tit for tat, luv. Nothing more from me until you at least experiment a bit."

"What the hell?" Viggo couldn't quite believe that Ian would mean that. "You're holding out on me?"

"I am, rather," Ian had the gall to look amused but damn, he should have known Viggo better than that. It was a standoff: Ian's determination against Viggo's revulsion.


Over the next year, Viggo saw them sometimes, in pictures. He was pretty sure that Ian was fucking Nick, who was even prettier than Orli and about the same age. They held hands and knees at the Oscars, he saw that. Nick wouldn't be so hung-up about the anal thing. He'd never asked, but suspected Orli wasn't inhibited that way either.

Viggo experimented with his ass, in the shower. He learned to crap beforehand. But even that didn't keep him from puking the first time his finger got in deep. He got past that. Tried one of those little vibrators. It stopped being so gross, but it never did anything for him. But if anyone ever asked, he'd give it a try: figured that millions of gay men couldn't all be wrong.


As Ian starts to close the door, Viggo feels that a grand gesture is the only thing left to do: he kneels, and bows his head.

Ian stands still, but at least the door is still open. Maybe even metaphorically.

Viggo looks up at Ian, and says what he's known for so long, "I'm sorry, I should have trusted you."

Ian grunts, but it's a good sound. An interested-not-disgusted grunt. He turns, but leaves the door open behind him as he disappears into the shadows of the house.

Following, Viggo strips off his soaked jacket and looks around for a mudroom or something. Finding an umbrella stand, he dumps the jacket in, along with his shoes and socks, then goes the same direction that Ian went. Ian is there, sitting silently on a big chair, like a throne in the dim room. He's never gone this long without drawling something in that impossibly sexy voice, and Viggo's left hanging, wondering if this is some kind of intricate punishment.

Ian just looks at him, and a cold blast of energy hits Viggo's chest -- it's like being in a room with a ghost. He doesn't know what to do, so falls back on what worked before: kneeling before Ian, this time close to his knees. "Please," he whispers. "I don't want to lose you for good."

Viggo looks up and sees that Ian has a tear on his cheek, and he feels confused, spun out of control. The eeriest part is that Ian hasn't said a word, and he used to be impossible to shut the hell up. In a good way, like Dom.

"Please, tell me," is all he can think of to say, as his hands come up and hold both of Ian's.

One of Ian's hands is stiff and cold as winter in Idaho.

Now Viggo's eyes are used to the dim light, and he can see that the right side of Ian's face is slack: mouth drooping, jowl slack, the eyelid almost closed.

"Stroke?" he asks, in a whisper, and for a wonder, Ian nods.

"When? Why didn't you tell me, or anyone?"

"Last month, after the panto." Ian's voice is labored and slurred, far from his usual mellow tones. His stiff hand is warming as Viggo clutches it, and he explains, "I'm not myself, these days."

English stiff upper lip, that's what it is. And pride. Viggo knows all about self-defeating pride.

"You aren't your body, Ian, or even your brain. Your soul... your essence, that's what we miss." Viggo swallows, "That's what I, I care about."

Ian sighs, and Viggo's not sure what that means. And then, almost imperceptibly, Ian's body relaxes. He looks tilted, even a little melted on one side; so different from the elderly sprite that Viggo went dancing with in New Zealand.

Laying his head on Ian's knee, Viggo closes his eyes and lets go of that vanished Ian. This Ian needs him, he is pretty sure. "It's okay, I'll take care of you." He doesn't quite know what it will require, but it feels right.

After a minute, Ian moves his working hand and starts stroking Viggo's hair. "I suppose I shall have to let you, then," he says, still slurred but softer, easier: an echo of his usual archness.

"Thank you," Viggo knows it's an odd thing to say, but he is deeply grateful that Ian will allow him to do this.

He looks at Ian again, and realizes that he did the right thing, kneeling. If he'd been standing and looming above Ian, the balance between them would have been all wrong. This way, Viggo's strong chi can lift Ian's, rather than pushing it down.

His practical side comes forward, and he kneels up, still holding Ian's hands. "What can I get you? A cup of tea?" After all that time in New Zealand, it's automatic to offer. Ian's head tips slightly but definitely no, and Ian's body is leaning towards him and it's equally automatic to catch hold.

Viggo's eyes close again and he hugs Ian, wanting to crawl right into his lap. He brings Ian's stiff hand to his lips and knows from Ian's response that there's still feeling there. They have a lot of work to do.

The News

Actors Sir Ian McKellen and Viggo Mortensen were married today in Amsterdam. Sir Ian, sixty-five, is best known for his roles in Bent, Amadeus, Richard II and III, and the film series X-Men and Lord of the Rings. He has almost fully recovered from his stroke earlier this year. Mr. Mortensen, forty-six, is a Danish-American actor who starred in the films Perfect Murder, Hidalgo, and the Lord of the Rings series, where he met Sir Ian.

The couple issued a statement indicating that they would accept no gifts, but would be pleased with donations in their name to PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays) and the Iris Trust, a charity attached to the Stonewall Group UK. Mentioning the obstacles that Mr. Mortensen encountered with some institutions whilst caring for Sir Ian, they expressed the hope that legalizing their relationship would address this difficulty.

Mr. Mortensen renounced his citizenship in the United States of America in protest of that country's resistance to gay marriage.


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