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fellowshippers2003-02-14 03:43 pm
poornapoleon.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-02-14 03:43 pm
Ficlet, SB/??, NC-17
TITLE: Your Song
PART: 1/1
AUTHOR: Poor Napoleon; poornapoleon2000@yahoo.co.uk
PAIRING: Sean Bean/??
CATEGORY/CONTENT: RPS
RATING: NC-17 for one single sentence.
SPOILERS: None.
SUMMARY: Sean receives a Valentine.
FEEDBACK: Yes please.
DISCLAIMER: It never happened – or at least, not yet …
ARCHIVE: List archive only please.
THANKS: To![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
viva_gloria for beta, and azewewish for research info.
NOTES: This is a Valentine's day present forladymoonray. "My gift is my song, and this one's for you."
February 14th, 2003
Sean sits back. It's been another draining performance. He wipes the stage blood off his torso, and leaves the mesh shirt draped over the back of a chair. He turns on the small radio.
"And it's Valentine's Day, in case you'd forgotten, so that's love songs all night here on Capital FM. And here's Elton John to get you in the mood."
"It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside ..."
The doorman of the Albery comes in, laden down with cards. There are dozens, mostly in red envelopes, but some in pink, blue and mauve. Some of them are small, but many are rather large. There also seemed to be something more substantial at the bottom of the pile.
"These are for you, Mr Bean," he says, handing the pile to Sean. The doorman smirks, as he always does when he says "Mr Bean". Sean smiles at the shared joke.
"If I was a sculptor, but then again, no ..."
Samantha, hair back immaculately in place, pokes her head around the corner of the dressing room.
"Valentines?" she asks.
"Aye. Mostly proposals of marriage from mad Americans, I expect."
"What's that one?" Samantha points to the bulkier object at the bottom of the pile. This is not a card, but a small brown paper parcel, about six inches by twelve, and a couple of inches thick.
"Dunno. Let's have a look."
Sean tears off several layers of paper, noting that the parcel is postmarked "Dallas/Fort Worth, Texas". Who does he know in Texas?
"And you can tell everybody, this is your song ..."
Inside is a thin, glossy black box, with a single red ribbon tied across it. Samantha raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. He opens the box. He lifts off a layer of tissue paper.
There are two items revealed. A single red rose, and a rough leather gauntlet. He picks the rose up, and sniffs it delicately. It's silk, of course. It could hardly have survived the transatlantic journey otherwise. He lifts up the gauntlet, always aware of Samantha's quizzical gaze. Gently, feeling ever so foolish, he sniffs the material.
It smells of him.
Sean is at once taken back to drunken conversations long after everyone else had gone to bed. A curious, amused, inviting look. A touch on his shoulder, delicate yet manly. Days off spent riding together over the hills. Swimming naked in the rivers of the North Island. Lying together under the Southern Cross. A kiss on the back of his neck, rough stubble marking his skin. Lips and tongues meeting. Fingers on his cock, pumping, pulling, keeping him on the edge of release for it seems like forever, until his semen spills over his stomach.
"Anyway, the thing is, what I really mean, yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen ..."
"Sean?"
Sean realizes he has been staring distractedly at the gauntlet.
"Another mad American?"
Sean grins, somewhat sheepishly, it must be said.
"Oh yes, absolutely." He puts the gauntlet back in the box, and closes it.
Samantha looks at him for a moment, then decides he won't tell her anything more.
"I'll see you at the stage door then." She walks off. She'll take him down the pub, put a couple of pints down him, and get the full story later.
When she's gone, Sean opens the box again. Inside he finds a small white card. It has a single mark, painted on with a thin artist's brush. The Feanorian letter for v.
"I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind, that I put down in words ..."</i
PART: 1/1
AUTHOR: Poor Napoleon; poornapoleon2000@yahoo.co.uk
PAIRING: Sean Bean/??
CATEGORY/CONTENT: RPS
RATING: NC-17 for one single sentence.
SPOILERS: None.
SUMMARY: Sean receives a Valentine.
FEEDBACK: Yes please.
DISCLAIMER: It never happened – or at least, not yet …
ARCHIVE: List archive only please.
THANKS: To
viva_gloria for beta, and azewewish for research info.NOTES: This is a Valentine's day present for
ladymoonray. "My gift is my song, and this one's for you."February 14th, 2003
Sean sits back. It's been another draining performance. He wipes the stage blood off his torso, and leaves the mesh shirt draped over the back of a chair. He turns on the small radio.
"And it's Valentine's Day, in case you'd forgotten, so that's love songs all night here on Capital FM. And here's Elton John to get you in the mood."
"It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside ..."
The doorman of the Albery comes in, laden down with cards. There are dozens, mostly in red envelopes, but some in pink, blue and mauve. Some of them are small, but many are rather large. There also seemed to be something more substantial at the bottom of the pile.
"These are for you, Mr Bean," he says, handing the pile to Sean. The doorman smirks, as he always does when he says "Mr Bean". Sean smiles at the shared joke.
"If I was a sculptor, but then again, no ..."
Samantha, hair back immaculately in place, pokes her head around the corner of the dressing room.
"Valentines?" she asks.
"Aye. Mostly proposals of marriage from mad Americans, I expect."
"What's that one?" Samantha points to the bulkier object at the bottom of the pile. This is not a card, but a small brown paper parcel, about six inches by twelve, and a couple of inches thick.
"Dunno. Let's have a look."
Sean tears off several layers of paper, noting that the parcel is postmarked "Dallas/Fort Worth, Texas". Who does he know in Texas?
"And you can tell everybody, this is your song ..."
Inside is a thin, glossy black box, with a single red ribbon tied across it. Samantha raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. He opens the box. He lifts off a layer of tissue paper.
There are two items revealed. A single red rose, and a rough leather gauntlet. He picks the rose up, and sniffs it delicately. It's silk, of course. It could hardly have survived the transatlantic journey otherwise. He lifts up the gauntlet, always aware of Samantha's quizzical gaze. Gently, feeling ever so foolish, he sniffs the material.
It smells of him.
Sean is at once taken back to drunken conversations long after everyone else had gone to bed. A curious, amused, inviting look. A touch on his shoulder, delicate yet manly. Days off spent riding together over the hills. Swimming naked in the rivers of the North Island. Lying together under the Southern Cross. A kiss on the back of his neck, rough stubble marking his skin. Lips and tongues meeting. Fingers on his cock, pumping, pulling, keeping him on the edge of release for it seems like forever, until his semen spills over his stomach.
"Anyway, the thing is, what I really mean, yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen ..."
"Sean?"
Sean realizes he has been staring distractedly at the gauntlet.
"Another mad American?"
Sean grins, somewhat sheepishly, it must be said.
"Oh yes, absolutely." He puts the gauntlet back in the box, and closes it.
Samantha looks at him for a moment, then decides he won't tell her anything more.
"I'll see you at the stage door then." She walks off. She'll take him down the pub, put a couple of pints down him, and get the full story later.
When she's gone, Sean opens the box again. Inside he finds a small white card. It has a single mark, painted on with a thin artist's brush. The Feanorian letter for v.
"I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind, that I put down in words ..."</i
no subject
no subject
who would probably send Sean a marriage proposal. Witty and sentimental, my favorite combination! Want to hear phone call afterwards...no subject
Anyway, I totally love this fic. Is there any hope of a sequel? Pretty please? :)
no subject