Slasha, Baby 2007

Three Things That Sean Bean Dreamed of Doing
(and one thing he actually did)

Recipient: stormatdusk
Author: koulagirl666
Pairing: Sean Bean/various
Rating: PG through NC-17
Summary: Three things that Sean Bean may have done if things were different, and one that he would have done if things remained the same.
Author Notes: Each part has its own rating/warnings/pairing.


I. ON A NEED-TO-KNOW BASIS (Sean Bean x Orlando Bloom, NC-17, bondage, D/s, breathplay)

He loves seeing Orlando like this, knowing that Orlando trusts him completely to not take it too far, or make Orlando do the same. He loves to see Orlando wearing his collar; he never fails to become hard when it's the first thing he notices about Orlando when he gets home. He's not sure, sometimes, whether he's in love with Orlando or just what Orlando can give him, but he's had Orlando living with him for too long now for that sort of questioning to be appropriate, and Orlando never complains. He wonders, though, whether if Orlando asked for more it would be a surprise or something he'd expect and grant easily enough.

When Orlando begs in that soundless way that makes his brown eyes take on an impossibly deep hue with hints of gold, and when Sean can see his reflection in Orlando's tears, he'd grant Orlando anything if only Orlando found the strength to voice it. When it's not like that, though, and Orlando smiles that impossibly wide smile that shows too many teeth and draws his lips just this side of too thin to be seen, Sean feels like he'd say no just to see if Orlando would cry. He's like that, Sean is, but Orlando's never complained; Orlando just takes what Sean is willing to give and makes Sean feel like the luckiest man in the world just because Orlando never leaves.

Today's no different, but it feels automatic; Sean does what he always does when he gets home and he doesn't think about it because he's wondering whether Orlando's cooking tea or planning to order in something from the restaurant down the road. He sniffs the air but can only smell stale sex and dirt; the same smell that Orlando seemed to carry with him without making any effort at all. The smell means that Orlando hasn't left the house today; he probably hasn't moved since Sean left this morning, else a window would have been opened and the smell would have diffused by Orlando's need to be connected to his environment and feel the air move on his skin. Sean knows Orlando needs this because Orlando always arches into his breath when he's close enough to feel it; he can mould Orlando just through choosing where he exhales.

But today the air is still when he finds Orlando asleep on the floor by his bed; Orlando's blanket is rumpled and Orlando lies on top of it, exposed but for the leather around his neck and the chain that trails over his side and down to the floor. Sean wakes Orlando by hooking the end of the chain around the bedpost; the handle fits over the knob neatly and settles in the groove just above where the post widens again. The lead is securely fixed, that way, and Orlando turns his head to see where the chain has moved to. Sean sees Orlando stop and flinch back towards the bed; he smiles because Orlando can now only move where Sean wants him to move and Orlando will never ask why. Orlando only knows these things when Sean wants him to know; when knowing will make the expression on Orlando's face even more enjoyable to watch. It's when Orlando knows what Sean will give him and chooses it that Sean comes without having to touch Orlando, when he can mark Orlando's skin without it going red beneath his hand or drawing blood with the last stroke of the cat.

Sean's decided that he doesn't want that today; he wants to show Orlando just how far Orlando will push himself. He wants to know something; the answer to the question that's been asking itself for days and weeks and months now. It's the question that's been making Sean doubt himself; the one that makes him hard when Orlando's asleep and Sean can't bear waking him to ask it, and the one that never just comes out when they talk. How far would you go for me?

Orlando's eyes finally focus on him when he steps back into a place where Orlando can see him. He's stripped, of course; couldn't do this with clothes on, after all, and the jeans were getting awkwardly tight anyway. He sees the moment when Orlando's eyes shift to his cock; Orlando's mouth opens just enough for his tongue to poke out and leave a trail of wetness where it touches Orlando's lips. For a moment it's erotic and then it's not enough, just like Orlando's not enough when he's not with Sean and Sean feels oddly incomplete when Orlando is far away. Sean counts the steps he takes - one, two, three - as Orlando draws his knees up to his chest and then rolls into a kneeling position without straining the lead. Sean's still too far away for Orlando to reach, though, and he stays there until Orlando leans forward and the collar presses into his skin. He listens as Orlando's breathing becomes shallower and then stops completely until Orlando makes the first raspy sounds that come from desperate breaths that don't quite make it into his lungs; Orlando's cheeks turn pale and then he blinks a tear out of his left eye. Sean watches it make its way down to Orlando's tongue, which catches it at the side of his mouth and then spreads it along Orlando's bottom lip.

The chain is taut and Sean can see the gap between the collar and the back of Orlando's neck; he can barely hear it when Orlando says 'please' but it's enough. Sean steps forward - four, five - and Orlando breathes his cock in like it's the air he wanted so desperately that he asked for it; Sean holds still until Orlando's skin is closer to its natural tan and then he pushes further into Orlando's mouth. He puts a hand in Orlando's hair and the other on Orlando's shoulder and whispers I love you; Orlando's tongue slides along the underside of his cock and he marks Orlando's throat as he comes.

II. THE WAY YOU MOVE (Viggo Mortensen/Sean Bean, R, violence)

Viggo handles the sword like he was born with it, perhaps as if he was. The way he holds it is the way Sean holds his cock just before he starts to wank; it's firm but loose enough to allow movement if necessary. Viggo spins his sword but Sean slides his hand up and then two fingers over the head and grunts instead of unleashing a war cry that scares even the stuntmen. It makes for a few awkward moments when Viggo's got the sword but is clearly not Aragorn; when Viggo seems to be flying at him and then he's on the ground with Aragorn's sword at his side and his cock pressed against Viggo's, just as hard as the sword but apparently easier to ignore. Viggo laughs it off and then stays away until it's time to head back to the empty place that he calls home. Viggo's at his side, then, and they get drunk because inhaling beer is the only way to move on after two men have rubbed their incidental erections together if they're too straight to fuck it out of their memories.

Sean doesn't think he could ever drink enough, though, because he's dallied with men before and knows that Viggo had that thing with the rock singer back in the nineties.

Viggo has that damned sword, though, and since he's still not sure whether Viggo hit the rabbit or tracked and killed it himself, he's sure as hell not going to ask.

The next time Viggo pulls the sword out of its scabbard on set, Sean spreads his legs and leans forward so that his hands, loosely clasped as they are, hang just in front of his cock and nobody can see how it twitches every time Viggo brings the sword down from a high guard. He watches from behind the cameras and sees the way Viggo bites his tongue every time he parries and his jaw twitches when he swings from right to left, and he wonders whether Viggo would make those expressions if he was the one on the other end of the sword, which wouldn't be a sword but he knows it would feel like one, especially inside him where he's let nobody else before.

Viggo takes him out to get drunk again that night, but they never make it because there was this alley, and these guys, and they felt threatened by the obvious masculinity of Viggo's sword. Viggo had to take it out and show them exactly why they should maintain a safe distance; when they'd gone, Sean decided to ignore the safety lessons since they weren't really directed at him anyway. He'd ended up with his back against the wall and the sword resting carefully beside him, hilt at thigh level and Viggo's cock at cock level. He wasn't sure whether the real dance was between his tongue and Viggo's, or Viggo's cock and his, because his whole body seemed to be part of a duel he willingly lost. First blood was his, anyway; Viggo had pushed him into the wall and then followed, landing against him hard enough that his teeth had scraped the skin just below his lip. Viggo must have tasted that blood, maybe.

It was in the way that Viggo moved, Sean decided. It was, of course, on his final day of shooting, when everything seemed to have 'finally' on the end like it was the end of something hard and inflexible, but took a really long time to find. It seemed as if Viggo's whole body became an extension of the sword, and followed it through to lend a greater force to anything the sword did.

That would have meant that Viggo was led by his sword, but Sean, of course, knew better than that. Some things people just learn through age and experience, and Sean had most definitely learned that when Viggo pushed him away after every instance of unfinished swordplay, it wasn't because Viggo was interested in what his sword wanted to do.

That damned sword was the most annoying thing Sean had ever encountered, because it was always there and yet Viggo seemed to alternately ignore it and accept it as an extension of self so natural that it ceased to have a will of its own. Which, Sean should really note, yet again, it most definitely did. How else did the sword end up at the door of his trailer when Viggo was eight and three quarter metres away, smoking something green and toxic and looking in completely the opposite direction? Why else were Sean's eyes drawn to it, even when he was supposed to be acting? Why did he reach for it when there was nothing else to hold on to? The sword, obviously, had to be exercising some kind of willpower over him, because there was no way he was obsessed with it.

Thing is, when he was on the plane home, with his eyes closed and his hands clasped tightly on his lap, covering the insanely pitiful lack of erection given the way his mind was going, he remembered the feel of Viggo's naked sword on his skin and the way Viggo thrust it forward and then still managed to parry and feint when he was at full stretch. When he slept, it was because he remembered the way Viggo had curled up next to him afterwards, catlike almost in his economy and grace, and the sword lay forgotten on the floor, unsheathed, by the practice mat where they'd duelled and come to a draw.

III. JUST LIKE I DO (Sean Bean/Karl Urban, M15+, h/c, mild fluff)

Karl decided that their meeting was entirely coincidental about four hours after he'd come home. It was weird enough that they'd been invited to the same company do after Sean had come back only to run the new guys through the project that had been his baby until he'd had to leave. Certainly, it was strange enough that Karl had never met him before, despite working in the same building for three weeks, with the same security clearance and offices on the same floor. But actually being introduced? That was purely the next coincidence in the chain. Just like it was coincidence that he couldn't shake the mental photograph of Sean's smile and the way his hair fell over his eyes until he laughed and his head tilted back just enough that his hair moved out of the way. Karl always had someone in mind like that, and Sean was the latest man to catch his attention, so naturally he'd be the one he thought of when he jacked off in the shower, cleansing the staid businessman image from his skin and taking on the relaxed persona he preferred to wear on weekends.

But four and a half hours after he'd come home was six hours after he'd spent five minutes with Sean Bean, and it was just coincidence that he heard a knock on his door that was too forceful to be tentative but didn't sound completely sure of itself when he'd just been wondering if he'd have company when he hit the clubs for the rushed meet-greet-quickie he was used to procuring from those too desperate to care about more than a free drink and an orgasm without questions or obligations. It was an accident of timing that he'd just finished dressing and was holding his favourite cologne in his hand, and a fluke that when he opened the door he saw Sean's green eyes looking at him, unobstructed, in the way that coincidences that happen too often are orchestrated by fate rather than time and mutual friends.

Perhaps it was a coincidence that Sean showed up on Karl's front porch, his clothes rumpled and his arm bleeding through the rip in his shirt. Karl didn't think it was coincidence that Sean greeted him by name and asked to use the phone, and he knew what he was doing when he said that Sean could stay the night if his friend didn't answer and went to get the first-aid kit from its home in the kitchen.

Coincidence, though, made the phone ring out, and it was coincidence that Karl had picked up a carton of Sean's favourite beer on his way home.

"All I wanted to do when I found out your name was scream it as you made me come," said Sean, when his arm was patched up and he held his fourth bottle in his hand, the mugging forgotten.

That was a coincidence, too, Karl supposed, but not one he was going to argue with, especially when Sean's drunken kisses tasted like beer and beer was something he definitely needed if he was going to get his head around how they got here, now, and why this didn't feel like something that was going to end at sunrise.


He was always surprised when he caught up with Billy; somehow his memories tricked him into thinking that Billy was shorter, and it was always a shock to realise that he only needed to tilt his head slightly downwards to look into Billy's eyes. It could have been the same thing that made him oddly protective of Billy and at the same time proud of him - the time spent in New Zealand playing with Billy on his knees some times and Sean standing on boxes at others. Still, he only noticed it with Billy, nobody else, and he'd spent longer with some of the others. Perhaps it was that Billy was the one who took him drinking and never said a word about how much a fool he proved himself when life imitated art, or that it was Billy who'd sent a card to the hotel when his house was flooded, offering a place to stay if he needed out.

They'd been nothing more than acquaintances outside those times that nobody else knew they'd shared and it could have been that distance itself that reflected in his surprise when Billy's arms wrapped around his chest rather than his waist and the hello was spoken near his ear rather than into his shirt. He recovered as if he'd never felt it; the split second between feeling and reacting could have been his customary shunning of overly friendly contact. Billy knew, though, because he always knew when something was off-kilter, even if it was something he never mentioned. That had been the way of it in New Zealand and it was the way things happened now.

"You're good," said Sean, because it was the polite thing to say and because it was true.

Billy said goodbye to the rest of the band when Sean accepted the offer to go out for a proper pint, because that's what friends did, and no matter how things appeared, that's what he and Billy were... would always be, despite appearances and tricks of the mind.

Comment on this story

Concept created by Megolas in 2002
Fabulous artwork ©2002 by Hope
Moderated since 2004 by MSilverstar, with yueni and/or feelforfaith
Site revised ©2006 by yueni and 2007 by MSilverstar