Virtuoso

by Vivi

He had never felt his truest calling was acting. It was more of a way to make some money, help pay the bills while he worked on his poetry.

That had been what he'd thought when he was younger. It was later that Viggo had seen it as simply another facet of art; take two steps away from reality and live someone else's life. It was an addictive power, to spend weeks and months, and yes, even a year as someone else.

An electrical experience, running a current from script to brain until it became like flicking on a light switch.

Flick.

He'd played this role years before, and while he'd never stepped into it this fully since then, he'd never strayed too far out of the scene, always keeping half an eye on things to make sure he would know his lines.

Before, he'd played it for her, watched lines of color come to life on her skin and heard her beg for it, beg for the fucking he'd surely give her. Until disinterest came and became in turn boredom, then apathy, and soon after it was over.

Flick.

He'd learned cruelty with Lucifer and how utterly beautiful it could be. Letting that rule him for a very short time had been instructive; the Viggo-thoughts busily taking notes at the back of his head, learning how devastating a word or touch could be.

The bitter taste of a rosebud clashing between his teeth, the salt of skin, Gabriel's faint sweat that he had licked away; it was more definitions of an oral fixation.

Fascinating, though brief, and its brevity may have been his saving grace. He'd started liking a few things almost too much and he'd spent a week of nights in some bar after that, the kind whose name was never mentioned in the morning. Day after day of finding someone with dark hair and milky skin, and he'd listen to them defy him and thrill to it, shattering their words to pleas.

Working his way out of the role and back to Viggo.

Flick.

He stayed in role for an entire movie, and if he were to be Aragorn then he would be, letting his own mind be swamped by a man who would be King. It would be his longest trek and therein lay the appeal.

Except he wasn't, not Aragorn, not all the time. He would step out of Aragorn and into another mental suit, the one he'd adapted for Elijah, and Lij had fit in like a brand new key made for an old lock.

Viggo could make him beg, just like he wanted to, and Viggo could play the bastard, taking smug delight in the appreciation of his audience. Elijah who craved the pain, and he would finger the bruises pooled darkly on his ass and hips, cheeks flushing and cock swelling just from that, until Viggo couldn't stand to watch anymore and he'd force that innocent-faced boy to his knees. He'd watch Lij's little pink tongue furl around the head of his cock until he pushed past in one vicious shove and felt the flutter of a gag in the back of Lij's throat.

Pretty, sweet Elijah, who'd lick come delicately from his fingers, lashes lowered as he savored the taste and Viggo's dick, even spent, would twitch at the sight.

It was the humiliation for Orli and he cried as prettily as he fucked, his reddened ass always raised hopefully and he would be as equally grateful for a slap as he was a cock. Orli, too tall and gangly to seem too young, his slut who begged just because he could.

A different suit for this or perhaps he never did leave Aragorn behind, still leading his little Fellowship and when they turned their eyes to him, trusting that he would know what to do, where the path would lead, sometimes he wasn't sure. The bluish-black flavor of electric terror would be in the back of his mouth, like sucking on a penny; he would be Viggo and he wouldn't be sure.

But he could always step back and become the role, and he could be what they needed him to be.

-finis-

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