Posted: April 2004
Title: Again
Author: Helena Snow-Renn
Type: RPS
Characters: Viggo Mortensen/Sean Bean/Orlando Bloom
Rating: NC-17
WARNING: PWP, weirdness, onanism (self-gratification, masturbation)
Beta: None
Disclaimer: As always, this is fiction. It never happened.
Summary/Notes: Methods of avoiding the obvious.

*****

Since he'd never been one himself, Viggo at first found the irony of being attracted to their two resident sluts a bit of a mental fiasco. A headache, even. So he did what he always did to straighten out his head: He worked till he dropped and then he worked some more. As always, he painted and wrote and went through a gross of film canisters in a month.

Then the creative juices burned low, so he got roaring drunk for 48 hours. Viggo couldn't recall the last time he'd resorted to such an act. If he could puke on screen, he could puke in real life, eh? No matter. A little hair of the dog and a quarter-bottle of Listerine and he was as good as over it. He picked up Aragorn where he'd ditched him and pretended it never happened.

Normally Viggo could shake this. He'd proven his mettle against the fair sex and the unfair one many, many times. But not this time. Maybe because there were two of them? He was well and truly infected.

Like phases of the moon, the cycle of Viggo's days ticked in increasingly tight clockwork. It seemed to go in months. During certain times, he burned with energy and temper. A couple of those and people started saying Viggo was on the rag. Or they called it his werewolf stage. People steered wide. More than a few had lost a stray lock of hair or gained new bruises. Trying to burn off his distraction, Viggo favored fancy show-off-y swordplay or just plain straightforward tackling. After, he'd laugh and show his teeth. Whispers, admiring or disapproving, for he'd heard both, would follow. "Loony." "Crazed." "Barking."

‘Yup, no denying it. I resemble that remark,' Viggo told himself, cringing at the cliché. Again. Not that he gave a shit. Between the insinuations he was cracked and the insipid Renaissance Man label, the world at large must be suffering quite the spinning head when it came to him. Not that he deluded himself into thinking he was so goddamn important. After weeks on end of the same scenarios, interspersed with blessed normalcy, or whatever could be termed such, Viggo didn't give a rat's ass what anyone thought of him anymore, any more than he ever did. Besides his ‘two,' that is. After this was over, he could crawl under a rock and stay there indefinitely, if he so chose. Maybe then he could come to an understanding of ‘why' and then ‘how not to…' He was so tempted.

Viggo is lying in a cooling pool of his own cum. Again. "It's the full moon," he tells himself. Sure it is. Each time, Viggo thanks the Creator part of the key to his sanity is attached to his body. Irony. Without it, he wouldn't be in this predicament. Tonight Viggo has imagined having two cocks. One for the right hand; one for the left. One for the Sun, one for the Moon, so that his beautiful, contrasting sluts could kneel simultaneously at his feet and worship him with eyes and mouths and tongues and backs of throats. One hand slipping off short gold hair, one tangled in near-black curls as he thrusts with his hips. He would be demanding. Take it all, bitch. Thinking about it is so intensely erotic that Viggo didn't even notice he's hard again till he pushes down their throats and into his hand. Oh, shit. Viggo adds to the mess.

"I'm going to kill myself at this rate," Viggo thinks. "Can a forty-year-old man masturbate himself to death?"

"He may have to, you dumb shit," replies Aragorn, "Or at least die trying."

*****

THE END

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