They're more like guidelines, anyway...
Recipient: nessa_t
Author: heroically
Pairing: Viggo/Sean Bean, Sean Bean/Orlando
Rating: R
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There were a set of rules that every man knew when it came to fucking. Not making love or romance, but simply sex for pleasure. Casual sex, even. There were three rules that every man knew and obeyed and they worked, and so mankind worked. The rules were there for a reason and Sean Bean, like so many others, followed them at all costs.
Rule Number One: Don't get attached.
It wasn't about love, really. Love was what he felt for his wife (or, ex-wife, rather -- why was he still making that mistake?) when he proposed, love was what he told the women he went home with to make them feel better, like they weren't being used (when they were). And love certainly wasn't what he felt for the two men he was sleeping with -- love made you gay, a fucking fag, and Sean? Totally heterosexual, but with a healthy homosexual appetite.
Or so he told himself.
It was sex, satisfaction, nothing more. It was fucking to get off, to relieve the stress of feelings, to have fun with no strings attached. It was the perfect arrangement.
They were all like brothers, the Fellowship, everyone knew that. You didn't have to have some sort of heightened intuition to see it, to understand the bond that had been created among them. They'd all go to the pubs, have a few drinks, pull a pretty young thing if it was the weekend, and be men being men. It was what they did, it was natural. The hobbits (and an honorary hobbit who was, in fact, an elf) might dance, the men might sing, it was natural. And the night that Sean went home with Viggo for the first time -- it was natural.
That first time, neither said a word. Sean was too drunk, Viggo was too calm, and it was full of fumbling perfection. Kissing Viggo was like kissing a God, Sean suspected, sagely and cunning, with skill that mere mortal men had not been privy to before the moment their lips met. And it had been so good, just what Sean needed, and he suspected that Viggo knew. He was a mystery, that man, with his soft spoken demeanor and unique sense of humor, and even in the most intimate of moments, Sean still couldn't figure him out. But when you're having the best orgasm you've ever had, none of that matters, mystery be damned.
For you see, from that first time and onward, sex with Viggo was rough and leisurely, a dichotomy of perfection. There was no tenderness, no soft whispered vows or encouragement or pleasure, no gentle kisses and none of that cuddling that women were so fond of. This wasn't love, remember? It was sweaty, hard, and satisfying; it was the best sex Sean had ever had -- no strings, just fucking. And when it was over, Sean would take a few deep breaths, give a quick nod to Viggo, and get up. "See you tomorrow," he'd say and leave, no regrets, no promises. And if the situation was reversed, if they ended up at his own place, Viggo would do the same, and Sean would smoke a cigarette as he heard the car leave. It was always the same, their own private routine, just the way Sean wanted it. There was nothing ever more than that, no acknowledgement of the situation during the day, no denying it at night. It was the unspoken agreement, and it worked.
Rule Number Two: Don't ask for more, but don't decline when more is offered.
But, like all good things, it would come to an end. Sean would be leaving soon, have to leave this Middle Earth fantasy and the comfort of having sex on lonely nights, so he took as much as he could get from Viggo, and Viggo gave as much as Sean needed without a word. If anyone else knew what they were doing, no one said anything. The fellowship knew that things happened when men were left alone for so long, it was this unmentionable truth that they lived by, and that was how Sean liked it. But then there came a day when the silence was broken and someone asked. Three days before he was home free and back to the wonderful world of women and normal-sized people about, and someone asked.
"Are you fucking Viggo?" In the middle of the pub, pint class in hand, the serenity of the arrangement started to fall apart. Orlando knew no tact. Sean could only laugh at the absurdity of it all, of how the oblivious elf was the only one to say a word. Yes, he would reply through the mists of his laughter, for what would be the point in lying? There was no shame in it, he wasn't gay, it was all about satisfaction and having a good time. And who wouldn't want that?
So he shouldn't have been surprised when Orlando came home with him that night instead of Viggo. Not that it was any sort of betrayal to the man who would be King, no, there were no ties of attachment between them. But even so, as Orlando lost his shirt and Sean lost his trousers, he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt.
Rule Number Three: Never stay longer than necessary.
Sex with Orlando was everything that sex with Viggo wasn't. It was sharp and fast and loud and full of energy. Orlando was all angles where Viggo had been lean muscles, he was lively and willing to try everything once and actually wore Sean out to the point of exhaustion that night (which made him debate what was the best sex he ever had, there still is no answer). It was the opposite of what he had with Viggo, yet it was still as satisfying and still gave him everything he needed. Fucking, hard and fast, and passing out from overexertion and one too many orgasms. Sean didn't know how lucky he could have been -- two perfect arrangements, two amazing men.
Oh, how he was wrong. There was a problem, you see, and it appeared when the next morning came and Orlando was still in his bed curled up at his side with a grin on his sleeping face. The rules would support him when he tossed Orlando's clothes at him to wake him up, the rules would defend when he all but pushed him out of his house ten minutes later. But they would not, in any case, forgive him for giving in to those sad brown eyes and press a kiss to Orlando's lips before doing so.
And so the day came when his last scene was filmed and the wig was taken off for the last time and he had a drink with the Fellowship for the last time. And Sean was surprisingly sad to leave, getting in one more fuck with Viggo in the loo and one last kiss from Orlando the next morning before taking the taxi to the airport. And as he watched the New Zealand countryside drive by, Sean knew that it was for the best, that he needed to stick to the rules and find a pretty lass back home to take his mind off this place, filming, of the greatest friends he'd ever had, and the two best lays he's ever experienced, off the empty feeling that was starting to consume him.
Taking out his mobile, he made two phone calls, both with the same message: "Re-shoots, three months. Don't forget about me by then." The rules be damned, they were just a bunch of bollocks anyway.