Sukha - LOTR RPS - Viggo - R
Sukha
N. - FLEETING PLEASURE
VIGGO/HAND ; R
Sukha
Viggo comes. He opens his eyes. Isn't that interesting? He's been doing this for at least fifteen years now, and he's never actually seen it. He's heard it, smelled it, felt it, and tasted it. He's had it done to him and he's done it to others. He's painted man-shaped objects doing it to other man-shaped objects. He's even drawn what his inner eye thinks he looks like while doing it. But he's never actually seen himself.
That's not to say he's never seen it, period. Everyone has their voyeuristic moments, and Viggo certainly does not think himself too high and mighty to conduct a quick, easy, and straight-to-the-point web search. He never thinks about anything when he uses porn, though, so it's resorted to mainly when he's in a pinch.
When he's in his bedroom his thoughts flow long and hard. He'll trounce through the generic turn-ons: a naked woman tied to his bed, two naked women cupping each other, two men tied together on the floor, and-slightly disturbing factor aside-the thought of his son succeeding in life.
Today is different. This Sunday, as natural light floods the room and a salty ocean breeze tickles the tips of his toes, Viggo thinks of a sticky afternoon spent in the very back of a Greyhound bus.
Two pairs of sunglasses cuddle on the handle attached to the back of the navy cotton seat in front of him. One of them is sleek and silver, the other a pair of Aviators with dust living any cracks it can find.
Viggo smiles at their sunglasses, and he's really kicking himself now for leaving his camera at home. He'd really like a tangible shot of this, not just a mental picture he can already feel fading as freezing fingertips slide up his arm and into his tee-shirt sleeves. The shirt is thick and cerulean; the fingers tap on his tightened muscles.
The tapping stops. Viggo's breath catches when all ten of the now-lukewarm fingers rise further up into his sleeves, gentle and wavering, like his own hands when reaching for the perfect paintbrush. He exhales with the fingers as they fall back to the base of his sleeve, almost with a thud, before they travel back up again, down again, again and again, their only form of explanation found in a mumbled, "They were cold."
And then whoom! A skater kid flies off his wooden ramp across the street. Viggo could see everything from his position on the bed (lying back against the headboard, as nonchalant as he'd look reading a book) if he'd only open his eyes.
There's a crash and a scream. A volcano of sound erupts outside, each noise falling like pieces of molten debris into Viggo's ears.
Eeeeeech BEEP BEEP! A car alarm is triggered. Dogs bark. CRCHT! A screen door slams into place. Heels run awkwardly towards unabashed wailing. Some others are unrecognizable: CLACK CLACK clack clack clack. Sounds like walnuts trickling down aluminum siding. SCHUHM. SCHUHM. SCHUHM. Possibly the dragging foot of a giant? Huh uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh! This is Viggo's quickened breath, but he's lost in the explosion outside and forgets himself completely. THUD.
His eyes snap open.
Surprise.
Viggo comes again.
(unbetad, as this was written as a form of pain aversion therapy. entirely experimental. for earthmagik, if she'd like it, mostly because her comment "Viggo is my OT1" inspired the thing.)
N. - FLEETING PLEASURE
VIGGO/HAND ; R
Sukha
Viggo comes. He opens his eyes. Isn't that interesting? He's been doing this for at least fifteen years now, and he's never actually seen it. He's heard it, smelled it, felt it, and tasted it. He's had it done to him and he's done it to others. He's painted man-shaped objects doing it to other man-shaped objects. He's even drawn what his inner eye thinks he looks like while doing it. But he's never actually seen himself.
That's not to say he's never seen it, period. Everyone has their voyeuristic moments, and Viggo certainly does not think himself too high and mighty to conduct a quick, easy, and straight-to-the-point web search. He never thinks about anything when he uses porn, though, so it's resorted to mainly when he's in a pinch.
When he's in his bedroom his thoughts flow long and hard. He'll trounce through the generic turn-ons: a naked woman tied to his bed, two naked women cupping each other, two men tied together on the floor, and-slightly disturbing factor aside-the thought of his son succeeding in life.
Today is different. This Sunday, as natural light floods the room and a salty ocean breeze tickles the tips of his toes, Viggo thinks of a sticky afternoon spent in the very back of a Greyhound bus.
Two pairs of sunglasses cuddle on the handle attached to the back of the navy cotton seat in front of him. One of them is sleek and silver, the other a pair of Aviators with dust living any cracks it can find.
Viggo smiles at their sunglasses, and he's really kicking himself now for leaving his camera at home. He'd really like a tangible shot of this, not just a mental picture he can already feel fading as freezing fingertips slide up his arm and into his tee-shirt sleeves. The shirt is thick and cerulean; the fingers tap on his tightened muscles.
The tapping stops. Viggo's breath catches when all ten of the now-lukewarm fingers rise further up into his sleeves, gentle and wavering, like his own hands when reaching for the perfect paintbrush. He exhales with the fingers as they fall back to the base of his sleeve, almost with a thud, before they travel back up again, down again, again and again, their only form of explanation found in a mumbled, "They were cold."
And then whoom! A skater kid flies off his wooden ramp across the street. Viggo could see everything from his position on the bed (lying back against the headboard, as nonchalant as he'd look reading a book) if he'd only open his eyes.
There's a crash and a scream. A volcano of sound erupts outside, each noise falling like pieces of molten debris into Viggo's ears.
Eeeeeech BEEP BEEP! A car alarm is triggered. Dogs bark. CRCHT! A screen door slams into place. Heels run awkwardly towards unabashed wailing. Some others are unrecognizable: CLACK CLACK clack clack clack. Sounds like walnuts trickling down aluminum siding. SCHUHM. SCHUHM. SCHUHM. Possibly the dragging foot of a giant? Huh uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh! This is Viggo's quickened breath, but he's lost in the explosion outside and forgets himself completely. THUD.
His eyes snap open.
Surprise.
Viggo comes again.
(unbetad, as this was written as a form of pain aversion therapy. entirely experimental. for earthmagik, if she'd like it, mostly because her comment "Viggo is my OT1" inspired the thing.)