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fellowshippers2007-03-03 11:42 am
v-angelique.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2007-03-03 11:42 am
Entry tags:
Two ficlets on a Saturday: "The Curse of Chicago" and "Form and Field"
Title: The Curse of Chicago
Author: Viktoria Angelique (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
v_angelique)
Pairing: SB/VM
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not. True.
Summary: Ficlet to which many an American frequent flyer can probably relate.
A/N: If you notice any errors in statements made about airports in here, feel free to correct me. The details are mainly there for colour, and I haven't researched, as it's so short anyway.
Chicago is the death trap of the American air travel system. Sean knows this, because being a particularly neurotic traveller, he knows exactly which airports to avoid and which to request stopovers in, all over the world. He knows that the bar at one side of Terminal C in LAX charges a dollar more for the same whisky than the bar on the other side, he knows that the first class lounge in Singapore is considerably more comfortable than the same in Tokyo, and he knows, when flying, to always avoid O'Hare like the plague.
It comes as no surprise, then, that Viggo's flight to London is delayed. Sean doesn't even bother leaving his house to head to Gatwick at the appointed time, because he knew that this would happen the moment Viggo told him he was flying from Boise to Chicago and then direct to London. He warned Viggo, of course, but when did Viggo ever listen to him?
Now, he knows exactly what Viggo is doing—sitting on an orange plastic chair in the international terminal, reading a paperback book and drinking a cup of overpriced Caribou coffee—and he knows that Viggo is at least mildly frustrated, because to get into the international terminal you have to go back through security in a queue that takes at least two hours, and there are always screaming children about in said queue.
Viggo's flight has been shuffled around and around, and when Sean finally goes to meet him it is seven hours later than it was supposed to be. He knows Viggo will be dead tired, and so he makes a very large travel mug of coffee in the machine that he purchased when Viggo announced his impending visit, worrying that British restaurant coffee would be too bitter for his friend.
When Sean books flights in America, he sometimes actually asks for a plane that has been nowhere near O'Hare in the past 36 hours. He can imagine the ticketing agent's blank look, but it's a valid point—even if he knows it doesn't matter, because planes that aren't physically delayed in O'Hare are delayed because other planes are delayed in O'Hare. Still, it's worth a shot.
When he sees Viggo waiting at the curb, looking tired and haggard and older than Sean remembered, he bites back an "I told you so" and wordlessly hands over the coffee. Viggo brushes his lips over Sean's stubbled cheek, and they talk about the price of petrol and the war in Iraq. He is glad that Viggo came.
Title: Form and Field
Author: Viktoria Angelique (v_angelique)
Pairings: SB/HS; VM/HS
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Decidedly untrue.
Summary: A ficlet in which Harry compares two lovers.
Sean fucked; Viggo made love.
Sean had him up against a chest of drawers once, their backs and thighs straining from the effort and the awkward angles. Another time, Sean had him on his hands and knees, joints creaking, both their bodies too old for this and neither giving a shit.
Viggo talked to him for three hours about the symphony, about how nuances of crescendo and syncopation and denouement were lost on the younger generation. He talked about how much he appreciated Harry's knowledge of literature and the way they could really discuss the relationship between words and music, not just the pretentious bullshit anyone would spout to get noticed in a crowded room. It was a surprise when they fell into bed, when Viggo kissed him from instep to knee to groin and spent another three hours showing Harry every erogenous zone he had previously ignored in his thirty-year history of sexual experience.
Sean kissed like a thunderstorm, all hard press and teeth and occasionally-cut lips, occasionally-too-hard jabs with fingers that translated later to bruises, that made him moan as he pressed his own knuckles against them to enhance masturbation.
Viggo kissed like a pale, melancholy night, like the surreal calm in a cloudy sky when you don't know what to expect. His lips pushed and pulled as if guided by some binding internal rhythm, an invisible pull of tides. Sometimes, when Viggo finished kissing him, Harry forgot how to breathe.
Sean never announced when he was coming over, and liked to be daring, liked to fuck Harry in semi-public places where they might very well get caught. Sean didn't like to stick around afterwards, but Harry didn't mind. He didn't think Sean would be very good at cuddling.
Viggo was a fucking dream at cuddling, his body somehow fitted perfectly to Harry's like they were designed that way at birth, two blueprints destined ultimately to find their corresponding shape. His lips brushed over Harry's collarbone and he didn't ask questions about where he'd been the night before, where the bruise on his hip came from. Viggo was blissfully mature. He had few expectations, but Harry found himself trying at every turn to surpass them, to make Viggo smile.
Harry wasn't sure whom he wanted more. Best thing was, he didn't have to decide.
Author: Viktoria Angelique (
v_angelique)Pairing: SB/VM
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not. True.
Summary: Ficlet to which many an American frequent flyer can probably relate.
A/N: If you notice any errors in statements made about airports in here, feel free to correct me. The details are mainly there for colour, and I haven't researched, as it's so short anyway.
Chicago is the death trap of the American air travel system. Sean knows this, because being a particularly neurotic traveller, he knows exactly which airports to avoid and which to request stopovers in, all over the world. He knows that the bar at one side of Terminal C in LAX charges a dollar more for the same whisky than the bar on the other side, he knows that the first class lounge in Singapore is considerably more comfortable than the same in Tokyo, and he knows, when flying, to always avoid O'Hare like the plague.
It comes as no surprise, then, that Viggo's flight to London is delayed. Sean doesn't even bother leaving his house to head to Gatwick at the appointed time, because he knew that this would happen the moment Viggo told him he was flying from Boise to Chicago and then direct to London. He warned Viggo, of course, but when did Viggo ever listen to him?
Now, he knows exactly what Viggo is doing—sitting on an orange plastic chair in the international terminal, reading a paperback book and drinking a cup of overpriced Caribou coffee—and he knows that Viggo is at least mildly frustrated, because to get into the international terminal you have to go back through security in a queue that takes at least two hours, and there are always screaming children about in said queue.
Viggo's flight has been shuffled around and around, and when Sean finally goes to meet him it is seven hours later than it was supposed to be. He knows Viggo will be dead tired, and so he makes a very large travel mug of coffee in the machine that he purchased when Viggo announced his impending visit, worrying that British restaurant coffee would be too bitter for his friend.
When Sean books flights in America, he sometimes actually asks for a plane that has been nowhere near O'Hare in the past 36 hours. He can imagine the ticketing agent's blank look, but it's a valid point—even if he knows it doesn't matter, because planes that aren't physically delayed in O'Hare are delayed because other planes are delayed in O'Hare. Still, it's worth a shot.
When he sees Viggo waiting at the curb, looking tired and haggard and older than Sean remembered, he bites back an "I told you so" and wordlessly hands over the coffee. Viggo brushes his lips over Sean's stubbled cheek, and they talk about the price of petrol and the war in Iraq. He is glad that Viggo came.
Title: Form and Field
Author: Viktoria Angelique (
v_angelique)Pairings: SB/HS; VM/HS
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Decidedly untrue.
Summary: A ficlet in which Harry compares two lovers.
Sean fucked; Viggo made love.
Sean had him up against a chest of drawers once, their backs and thighs straining from the effort and the awkward angles. Another time, Sean had him on his hands and knees, joints creaking, both their bodies too old for this and neither giving a shit.
Viggo talked to him for three hours about the symphony, about how nuances of crescendo and syncopation and denouement were lost on the younger generation. He talked about how much he appreciated Harry's knowledge of literature and the way they could really discuss the relationship between words and music, not just the pretentious bullshit anyone would spout to get noticed in a crowded room. It was a surprise when they fell into bed, when Viggo kissed him from instep to knee to groin and spent another three hours showing Harry every erogenous zone he had previously ignored in his thirty-year history of sexual experience.
Sean kissed like a thunderstorm, all hard press and teeth and occasionally-cut lips, occasionally-too-hard jabs with fingers that translated later to bruises, that made him moan as he pressed his own knuckles against them to enhance masturbation.
Viggo kissed like a pale, melancholy night, like the surreal calm in a cloudy sky when you don't know what to expect. His lips pushed and pulled as if guided by some binding internal rhythm, an invisible pull of tides. Sometimes, when Viggo finished kissing him, Harry forgot how to breathe.
Sean never announced when he was coming over, and liked to be daring, liked to fuck Harry in semi-public places where they might very well get caught. Sean didn't like to stick around afterwards, but Harry didn't mind. He didn't think Sean would be very good at cuddling.
Viggo was a fucking dream at cuddling, his body somehow fitted perfectly to Harry's like they were designed that way at birth, two blueprints destined ultimately to find their corresponding shape. His lips brushed over Harry's collarbone and he didn't ask questions about where he'd been the night before, where the bruise on his hip came from. Viggo was blissfully mature. He had few expectations, but Harry found himself trying at every turn to surpass them, to make Viggo smile.
Harry wasn't sure whom he wanted more. Best thing was, he didn't have to decide.
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And the second one!
*sigh*
I want to be Harry.
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*is clueless*
I just know that O'Hare is the bane of my existence. Has he actually had trouble there? Wouldn't surpise me... fucking O'Hare *grumble grumble*
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Oh, that's right, no one reads Harry. Lol. I swear, everytime I sit down to write some man/elf p0rn someone IMs me and says "when are you writing the sequel to such-and-such monaboyd?" Sigh.
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And trust me, I know of which you speak. It's hard to get people excited about the rare pairings.
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Speaking of--do you have any idea when Price was filmed? I think I remember Harry saying in the commentary that it was a six-week shoot, but no clue when exactly.
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No, I didn't do an insane amount of research on him.
Also, I have quite a few articles & such with Harry. I used to run a website for his films & such until he asked me to take it down (boy's shy about publicity, really, who'd have thought).
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I honestly think he's somewhat phobic.
But it doesn't stop me from writing about him. ;)
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Ficlet number two is great. The romantic soul in me says Harry already knows who he prefers, but it's interesting to read something where the main character is equally torn between rough and ready versus slow and loving.
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the world needs more harry.
Oh, I hear ya, sister. Lol. Did you ever read the vampfic I wrote, "The World Is Not Enough?" Not many people did, but who knows, you might like it.