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cimoreneshort karggo ficlet inspired by something ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
phineasjones said. written on a whim.
title: reading glasses
author: cimorene
pairing: karl/viggo
rating: pg
disclaimer: blahblah
the light in the room is almost completely gone because viggo's been sitting on the couch, maybe dozing, in front of the sliding glass doors for a few hours. the sunset is winding down and shafts of koolaid-colored light coming through the crowns of the trees sparkle over the deck like swords made of stardust and break through the window to illumine the crinkled paper spread over his knee.
it's barely enough to see by. viggo's got one hand spread on his knee to hold the paper still while he writes with the other, awkward over the knobby curve of his knee, but his hand is wild, his handwriting exuberant, with inspiration. he doesn't want to spoil it and move to the coffee table. he hasn't written this poem for a week and he's been sulking around, napping in the sun trying to capture the first line, frowning and snapping over breakfast.
a shadow falls over the paper and he can't see a thing. viggo stops writing with dress of springtime flowers, not looking up, and murmurs 'i can't see to write.' he clings to the words, --springtime flowers, tattered, flowers, ribbons, forest--
there's the whisper of fabric, karl bending in front of him, and then karl's reading glasses find their way fumblingly towards his nose. karl's never been the most coordinated. he nearly stabs viggo in the eye with the left earpiece, and he gets them on crooked. viggo looks up at him so he can straighten them. karl's shape is dark, silhouetted against the orange-gray of the windows, blurry through reading glasses viggo doesn't need.
he can feel the last wisps of the poem evaporating like the last rays of the sun as he looks at karl's face sculpted out of shadows. their noses are almost level, karl's eyes wide and solemn, but it looks, in the dark and the blurriness, like his lips are crinkled at the corner.
'better?'
'i'm supposed to be finishing this poem,' viggo points out softly, but he isn't snapping.
karl smiles at him, puts out his forefinger and slides the reading glasses down till they rest on the tip of viggo's nose and their gazes are locked above them. then he puts one hand on each of viggo's shoulders. they rest lightly but viggo is pinned to the couch, skewered like a butterfly on a corkboard.
the coffee table skips as karl's knees thump awkwardly to the floor, slides back a little, and a magazine slithers off to the floor. viggo's legs were already apart, so it isn't hard for karl to move between them. 'keep the pen in your hand,' he says, leaning forward, whispering the last word. his breath smells like coffee, a little sour.
viggo fixes his gaze on karl's moving lips.
'then as long as the paper is on your knee you're still working on the poem.'
viggo puts his mouth on karl's cheekbone, where the last little bit of the sunlight--or is it the first light of the moon?--has pooled in a crescent-shaped highlight.
karl's cheek is stubbly, his skin salty, his hair black and silver in the shadow and the pale light.
he moves his mouth to karl's ear. 'what poem?'
phineasjones said. written on a whim.title: reading glasses
author: cimorene
pairing: karl/viggo
rating: pg
disclaimer: blahblah
the light in the room is almost completely gone because viggo's been sitting on the couch, maybe dozing, in front of the sliding glass doors for a few hours. the sunset is winding down and shafts of koolaid-colored light coming through the crowns of the trees sparkle over the deck like swords made of stardust and break through the window to illumine the crinkled paper spread over his knee.
it's barely enough to see by. viggo's got one hand spread on his knee to hold the paper still while he writes with the other, awkward over the knobby curve of his knee, but his hand is wild, his handwriting exuberant, with inspiration. he doesn't want to spoil it and move to the coffee table. he hasn't written this poem for a week and he's been sulking around, napping in the sun trying to capture the first line, frowning and snapping over breakfast.
a shadow falls over the paper and he can't see a thing. viggo stops writing with dress of springtime flowers, not looking up, and murmurs 'i can't see to write.' he clings to the words, --springtime flowers, tattered, flowers, ribbons, forest--
there's the whisper of fabric, karl bending in front of him, and then karl's reading glasses find their way fumblingly towards his nose. karl's never been the most coordinated. he nearly stabs viggo in the eye with the left earpiece, and he gets them on crooked. viggo looks up at him so he can straighten them. karl's shape is dark, silhouetted against the orange-gray of the windows, blurry through reading glasses viggo doesn't need.
he can feel the last wisps of the poem evaporating like the last rays of the sun as he looks at karl's face sculpted out of shadows. their noses are almost level, karl's eyes wide and solemn, but it looks, in the dark and the blurriness, like his lips are crinkled at the corner.
'better?'
'i'm supposed to be finishing this poem,' viggo points out softly, but he isn't snapping.
karl smiles at him, puts out his forefinger and slides the reading glasses down till they rest on the tip of viggo's nose and their gazes are locked above them. then he puts one hand on each of viggo's shoulders. they rest lightly but viggo is pinned to the couch, skewered like a butterfly on a corkboard.
the coffee table skips as karl's knees thump awkwardly to the floor, slides back a little, and a magazine slithers off to the floor. viggo's legs were already apart, so it isn't hard for karl to move between them. 'keep the pen in your hand,' he says, leaning forward, whispering the last word. his breath smells like coffee, a little sour.
viggo fixes his gaze on karl's moving lips.
'then as long as the paper is on your knee you're still working on the poem.'
viggo puts his mouth on karl's cheekbone, where the last little bit of the sunlight--or is it the first light of the moon?--has pooled in a crescent-shaped highlight.
karl's cheek is stubbly, his skin salty, his hair black and silver in the shadow and the pale light.
he moves his mouth to karl's ear. 'what poem?'
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(no subject)
Date: 12 Aug 2003 01:04 pm (UTC)this makes me want to shake you by your shoulders and then hug you into next week. just that you can do something like this on a whim. your talent makes me ill, there's just so much of it.
have i made it clear that i think this is beautiful? i think this is beautiful. this is beautiful.
(no subject)
Date: 12 Aug 2003 01:39 pm (UTC)but thanks, and thank you for waking it up. not to mix my metaphors or anything. :)
(no subject)
Date: 12 Aug 2003 07:45 pm (UTC)The only real LotR RPS pairing I like. Argh. So sweet and wonderful and, you, you are a goddess.
(no subject)
Date: 12 Aug 2003 08:21 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 12 Aug 2003 08:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 13 Aug 2003 05:34 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 13 Aug 2003 07:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 11 Sep 2003 06:06 am (UTC)Have you seen Truth About Demons??
(no subject)
Date: 11 Sep 2003 08:18 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 12 Sep 2003 05:31 am (UTC)Not as sweet as Price of Milk, though.
And where *is* that man's career heading at the moment?
Camping Adventure??? *gulp* I need it!!
(no subject)
Date: 12 Sep 2003 05:46 am (UTC)i'm not sure i want to see that. >.>
i want to finish it. unfortunately inspiration strikes when i've no time.