Title: "Seven Times Viggo Mortensen Abused His Power" Pairings: Viggo Mortensen (Jason Isaacs, Guy Pearce, Orlando Bloom, Sean Bean, Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Bernard Hill, and Karl Urban) Rating: PG to NC-17 Disclaimer: Never happened. Summary: Seven AU ficlets for your reading pleasure. Notes: Pairings and prompts by Gretchen, Rinakabu, Jackieville, Barbara, Jdsgirlbev, Caro, and Stormatdusk. Thanks to Gretchen for the beta. "Self-Preservation" (Jeremy Irons, tattoo) Jeremy's alone in the showers when it happens. Before he'd been thrown in this hellhole (for a crime he hadn't fucking committed, he doesn't care how much evidence the prosecution had manufactured), he'd thought the old clichι about showers and prison was just a story parents told to their kids to scare 'em straight. Maybe, he thinks, he should have listened more to his folks. He watches, wary and holding tight to his makeshift knife that hasn't left his side since that one attempt on him in the laundry room, as Viggo Mortensen, leader of the block's Aryan coalition, saunters toward him, naked and muscled and rock hard, confidence radiating from every pore. "I heard you've been having problems with the guards," Viggo says, by way of greeting. Word travels fast, Jeremy thinks. The incident had just happened an hour ago. "Nothing I can't handle," he replies, and glances around without moving his eyes – Viggo's lackeys are standing guard at both exits. No escape. Fuck, he should've been more careful. Stupid to let down his guard for even a moment in this place. "Are you sure about that?" Viggo steps closer, directly into Jeremy's personal space. It's all Jeremy can do not to flinch. He takes a steadying breath. Plays the system as he's done since this nightmare'd begun, because come hell or high water, he's getting out of this alive and intact. "Why, what do you know that I don't?" "Now that is a loaded question." One more small step and Jeremy can feel the smooth, slick tip of Viggo's cock against his thigh, can make out the sharp smell of cigarettes on Viggo's breath. Most importantly, he can feel the walls closing in around him. "You know I can offer protection," Viggo continues. A rough-edged finger grazes the underside of Jeremy's jaw. "Wear my mark, and I can guarantee your safety." Jeremy glances down at the swastika on Viggo's hip. All of Viggo's followers have a matching one on the inside of their right wrists, visible to all as protection from the other factions, and the guards. Jeremy swallows, meets an implacable gaze. "In exchange for?" Viggo's return smile drops the temperature of the room by a good twenty degrees. "I think you know," Viggo answers, right before his lips fasten to Jeremy's throat. *** "Human Sacrifice" (Guy Pearce, rain) It's not often that Viggo bothers himself with the dealings of puny, fragile mortals. They're fine for sport or dalliance, but their petty, inconsequential concerns bother him not at all. After all, what could a mere human offer an ageless, timeless being such as himself? He is older than the skies above the earth, older than the mountains rising majestically from the ground, and has seen the rise and fall of civilizations too numerous to mention. The merest blink of his eye is longer than the lifespan of the creatures that turn to him in adoration and fear, seeking his intervention and guidance. But even gods need companionship and appreciate worship. Especially when the accolades are delivered by beautiful, supplicating creatures ready to bow to Viggo's every whim. And Guy, a high priest at one of Viggo's largest temples, is among the most beautiful of mortals that Viggo's ever seen. Every day, Guy spends his time in prayer and contemplation; and every night, he offers himself to Viggo for the most delicious of pleasures, always eager and ready, no matter what Viggo commands. Viggo may not have much use for mortals in general, but he definitely thinks he wouldn't mind sticking close to this one for awhile. After all, their lives were so short, and who knew when he'd have anyone this pleasing again? *** "Dirty Old Man" (Orlando Bloom, autumn) "Hey, Eddie, how's it going?" Orlando asks when he steps in through the sliding glass door, backpack slung over his scrubs. "Same shit, different gravy, man," Eddie replies with a grin. "Mortie's been asking about you again." Orlando stows his backpack under the desk "Of course he has," he laughs. "Did I tell you he tried to grab a handful of ass the other day when I was giving him his sponge bath?" "That sly dog." Orlando ties his flyaway hair back from his face, and gives Molly, one of the other nurses, a bright smile as she walks past. He thinks if he plays his cards right, he can sweet talk his way into a quickie with her – and her most spectacular set of tits – during their dinner break. He definitely wouldn't mind getting a crack at her again. "He also told me if I was nice to him that he'd put me in his will." "Dude, I'd suck up to him if I were you. Word has it he's loaded." Eddie leans in, as if sharing a secret. "Apparently, Mortie used to own a string of gay clubs in San Francisco back in the day. And had a thing for sampling the wares, if you know what I mean." "No perv like an old perv, I guess," Orlando replies. It's not too hard to imagine Mortie, with his bright blue eyes and sly grin, as the overlord to a harem of pretty, young boys. "Everyone's got to have a hobby." "Maybe I'll ask him to tell me about it while we're taking our stroll around the garden. Might do him some good to talk about the old days. As long as he doesn't go into too much detail," Orlando adds. There are some things he'd really rather not know, and the ins and outs of gay sex are quite firmly among them. "Just make sure that you keep your ass away from his hands," Eddie replies, and Orlando's laughter echoes down the hall as he starts to make his rounds. *** "Making A Deal" (Sean Bean, suited) "Stop right there, hands where I can see them!" "Fuck," Sean mutters to himself, and places his hands behind his head, cursing himself for going left instead of right. How could he have forgotten that the alleyway abruptly stopped at the juncture behind the new bank? Stupid of him. He can hear the cop walking up to him, and hisses when he feels the cool kiss of metal around his wrists. "Any weapons?" "Fuck no, I'm not stupid," Sean retorts, fighting the wince when the cop yanks him around, then gives him a quick pat down. "Since you're currently standing with your hands cuffed and waiting to be carted downtown, I think I'd leave the debate on your smarts to another time," the cop – Mortensen, according to his name tag – says. "But maybe you can prove you're not as dumb as you look in another way." "What way?" Sean asks warily. Mortensen shrugs. "Could be I'll forget I ever saw you tonight if you could do something for me in return." "I ain't ratting nobody out." Sean may be many things, but he's got his code. "That's not what I want." Sean's brows furrow. "Alright, then, what?" he asks, curious in spite of himself. "I might have need of you to arrange the sale of a few items for me from time to time." Well, well, well. Seems like Mortensen's just another dirty cop looking to score big. Sean can handle dirty. It's the squeaky clean ones that cause the most problems. "What sort of things?" he asks, meeting Mortensen's look with a wide, easy grin. Whatever it is Mortensen wants, it should be a piece of cake. *** "Suffering For Art" (Jeffrey Dean Morgan, painting, girl) Jeffrey tugs his leather satchel more firmly across his lap and tries very hard not to fidget. He's been waiting in the Duke of Mortensen's spacious foyer for the better part of an hour without so much as an offer of a sip of water, but he knows he'd wait twice as long and gladly for the chance at this commission. Every artist in London has heard about the Duke's desire for a portrait of his wife to adorn the drawing room of his new summer cottage – just as every artist has heard of the generous purse the Duke is offering. Such a high profile job would bring considerable cachet and credibility to the artist the Duke selects, and Jeffrey knows this is just the sort of break he needs if he wants to fully realize his life's ambitions. One of the maidservants passes by, and gives him a small wink of commiseration before scurrying up the stairs. Jeffrey's heartened by the gesture; surely any man who would employ such a free-spirited staff would be amenable to taking a chance on an unknown, struggling artist from Glasgow. Jeffrey may not have had any formal training in Italy or France, but he knows he's got a good eye, and a delicate hand. And, more importantly, he's got the determination to make it, no matter the cost. The footman appears in front of Jeffrey, as if from thin air. "The Duke will see you now." Jeffrey smoothes his jacket and follows the footman into a masculine, spacious study. The Duke himself is standing just in front of the ornate desk that takes up the whole of one corner. The Duke waits until the servant bows out of the room before offering a hand to Jeffrey. "Mr. Morgan, thank you for waiting." "Thank you, your Grace, for agreeing to see me," Jeffrey replies, noting the firm handshake, as well the Duke's commanding bearing and penetrating blue eyes. The Duke points at the satchel. "Are these your samples?" Jeffrey nods and passes the satchel to the Duke, who opens it on the desk and silently starts to go through the sketches, a look of intense concentration on his handsomely aristocratic face. Jeffrey forces himself to remain still. At last, the Duke looks up. "You've a good eye." Jeffrey inwardly breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank you, your Grace." "When do you think you could start?" For a moment, Jeffrey can do nothing except stare. Could it really be so easy? "As...as soon as your Grace and the Duchess are ready to begin," he replies, cautiously, not entirely certain he's heard the Duke correctly. "Good." The Duke snaps the satchel closed. "You'll stay in the guest wing for the duration, and, if I'm satisfied, I've several other commissions I can give you." The Duke smiles, showing a set of even, white teeth. "After all, the King has his own personal artist, why shouldn't I?" "Thank you, your Grace," Jeffrey murmurs, overwhelmed with gratitude. "It would be an honor." He's waited his entire life for this moment, and he knows, better than anyone, how fragile this position is, and that he'll do everything in his power to make sure the Duke doesn't regret giving him this chance. So when, in the dark of night after Jeffrey's settled in the guest quarters and is sound asleep, he's awakened by the Duke sliding under the sheets behind him and feels the slick press of the Duke's cock between his thighs, he allows the invasion with open arms and even manages to pretend enjoyment in the act. Anything to keep the Duke happy. *** "Gaining Favor" (Bernard Hill, dye) The marketplace is alive, buzzing with vendors hawking their wares, pickpockets scurrying around for an easy mark, the smells of roasted meats and freshly picked vegetables mixing with perfumes and incense. Viggo moves easily among the crowd, nodding to a few chosen people here and there, taking care not to linger on one person too long. It wouldn't do to be seen favoring one member of the nobility over the others. When he reaches the end of the street, he ducks under the awning of one of the tents and looks around. Brightly colored fabric beckons from every corner, spilling over the tables in careless display. Bernard, the proprietor, rushes to Viggo's side, and bows. "Mr. Mortensen, you honor me with your presence in my humble place of business." Viggo acknowledges the compliment as his due. "I take it business has been good today?" "You are most kind to say so," Bernard replies. "One of the ladies of the court was here with her mother. They were most...enthusiastic." He motions to one of the bolts on the table. "They were most interested in the new shipment I received from India just this morning." Viggo reaches out with long fingers, rubs the silk between them. Fine quality, indeed. "How much?" "For you, I'm prepared to make a most excellent bargain." "I expect nothing less." Viggo turns his hand palm up. "And yesterday's take?" Something dark and ugly flashes, for just a second, in Bernard's eyes before he places a heavy purse in Viggo's outstretched hand. "As promised." "Is that all of it?" "I resent the implication that I would ever cheat His Majesty or any of his officials." "I'm sure you do." Viggo's smile is lazy, predatory. "And good that you're so honest. I'd hate to make an example of you. Now, if you would be so kind as to wrap up two of those bolts of indigo silk. My mistress has been clamoring for a new dress, and I do believe the color would suit her nicely." After all, what good was it being part of the King's inner circle if one couldn't occasionally enjoy the benefits? *** "Bending The Rules" (Karl Urban, cheap motel, thunderstorm) Karl rises from his knees and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes blaze with passionate disdain, beautiful and brilliant. "We done?" "Careful, now, you don't want to piss me off," Viggo replies, with a tsking sound. He pulls up his pants, tucking his spent cock back in his boxers before zipping his fly. He feels lazy with satisfaction – kid had a truly excellent mouth – and power. "Besides, I quite think you enjoy sucking me off." "In your dreams," Karl scoffs, with a roll of his eyes. But Viggo can see the flare of interest buried under the resentment. One thing he's always been good at is reading people. Viggo runs a careless, hard thumb across Karl's lower lip. "Oh, but you're far too good at it for me to think it's mere duty. In fact, I'm thinking of tweaking our contract." "Tweaking?" Viggo yanks Karl to him, and uses both hands to cup a truly magnificent ass. He's been dreaming of this day for months. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about my cock buried deep inside you, boy. You've been gagging for it as long as I've known you." Karl, Viggo is pleased to note, doesn't try to pull away. "We had a deal." "So I'm changing it," Viggo shrugs, unconcerned. Deals are like everything else – open to renegotiation. "You can't keep treating me like your whore." "Says who?" Viggo laughs, digging his nails into Karl's ass as he drags Karl even closer. For all of Karl's brash talk of not being interested, Viggo can feel the hard press of Karl's cock digging against his hipbone. "Besides, you like me treating you like a whore. And since I doubt your father would be pleased to hear about..." "Can we leave my dad out of this?" Karl interrupts, glancing at Viggo through partially lowered lashes. It's a carefully calculated look, but there's no denying it works. Viggo's already half-hard again. "Besides. If I give you something more, what do I get in return?" "Clever businessman; I like it," Viggo notes, with approval. He grinds against Karl, mulling over several possibilities before deciding on one that suits him best. "There's an internship opening at McKinley-Foster." "I'm listening." "I can make sure you get it," Viggo says, and inwardly grins in triumph when Karl slides his arms around Viggo's neck. The trick of renegotiation was to always, always hold all the cards. "Well, then," Karl murmurs, as he leans in and nips at Viggo's ear, "I think we might have ourselves a deal." If you enjoyed this fic, please leave feedback here. Thanks!