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Feb. 4th, 2004 12:21 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rugbytackleTitle: Experience is the best teacher.
Series: Proverbial
Chapter: 3/?
Rated:
Pairing: SB/VM
Disclaimer: RPS: Real Person Slash. Read it/Don't read it. Make an adult decision.
Warning:
Feedback: Nice, but not required.
Archive: No.
Overall Summary: A series, based on proverbs and featuring Sean as he goes about getting what he wants and possibly more than he bargained for.
Chapter Summary:
Author: Arden Elear
Email: rishalin@lycos.com
Live Journal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/arden_elear/
When in doubt, do nothing.
I don't believe I just did that.
I've walked away from a lot of things in my time. Bad marriages and stroppy gits who want to punch my head in just because I'm Sean Bean. I've even walked off a set a time or two when it came down to a choice between either taking a hike to cool off or shoving my fist down the director's throat and twisting it.
But never, ever before have I walked away from a sure-thing!
I need to think about this.
Why the fuck did I do that? I had him. And I backed off.
I could have kept going. I could have had him every which way 'till Sunday, he was ripe for it. So what if he's never done it before. I've done virgins, plenty of them. He's not the first adult male to wake up to the fact that lust is not as black and white as he thought and he won't be the last. I've even helped a few of 'em color in the blanks.
Goddamnit! I had him! Ow! That hurt!
See what you've been reduced to, Bean? You're punching the walls in frustration again. And you can't blame Viggo for it this time. You did it all by yourself.
All that work! All those casual touches. The hints. Shifting a little closer on the couch, my thigh just touching his. A hand, lingering where it landed, on his leg or shoulder, for just a little too long while I laugh at his jokes or lean on him for support, scraping the mud off the bottom of my boots.
Working him up to tonight with looks and body contact and careless conversations about on-set couplings we've both witnessed on various shoots. Gender-be-damned combinations designed to make him think about it and letting him know what I want.
And it worked. But I walked.
You wanker, Bean. You stupid fucking wanker.
Or maybe not.
I think he appreciated it. I think maybe my subconscious was trying to tell me something. Like, he's not as ready as I think he is. Like, if I'd taken it further, if I'd insisted on now, on tonight, I'd have ruined it. Lost ground. Lost out.
Maybe I'm smarter than I think I am.
He didn't protest when my hand cupped his thigh and I didn't remove it. When I half-turned in my seat to look at him while I talked, his face was soft with the first tentative wash of desire blurring the sharpness of those blue eyes.
The setting was right; quiet and dim, candles because of the opportune power failure, one bottle of red lying empty on the floor, the other half-full on the coffee table beside our glasses, the newspaper whose article we'd been discussing sliding off his lap and onto the carpet as I moved to straddle him.
Everything was perfect. But he was nervous, I could tell.
When I cupped my hand to his jaw he trembled a little, but he tipped his head and leaned in to it nonetheless. And when I kissed him I took it slow, I felt the soft hiss of indrawn breath and the little sighs, warm puffs of air against my cheek, as he tried to breathe out the tension. And I gnawed gently at his bottom lip and smiled against his mouth, enjoying the subtle shifting of his body under mine. He put his hands on my hips and rested them there, too unsure of himself to do more. He wanted to open his mouth and let me in but was scared of the consequences.
No, not ready. Not quite.
But he wants me. When I slid closer I could feel him, so hard. Felt the quivering nervous tension of his stomach muscles when my free hand floated lightly down across his chest, caressing him, thumbing his nipples through his t-shirt and moving lower.
That's when I realized. That's when I stopped.
He was too nervous. Oh, he wants it all right, he just isn't sure what he wants.
I broke off the kiss and smiled at him. Looked at my watch. 'It's ten to eleven, Viggo.' I told him. 'At eleven o'clock, I'm going home.'
He knew what I meant and relaxed. Parted his lips to let me taste him. Red wine and cigars, warm and wet and his slick tongue came up to dance with mine.
His hand in my hair and then we were making out like a couple of teenagers, except without the hormonal pressures of adolescence.
And I quite enjoyed it, actually. Just . . . kissing and light touches and . . . Well, I guess I was just letting him get used to the idea. Plenty of time for the other.
I am a nice guy!
A nice guy who needs a shower and a wank before bed.
**
Series: Proverbial
Chapter: 3/?
Rated:
Pairing: SB/VM
Disclaimer: RPS: Real Person Slash. Read it/Don't read it. Make an adult decision.
Warning:
Feedback: Nice, but not required.
Archive: No.
Overall Summary: A series, based on proverbs and featuring Sean as he goes about getting what he wants and possibly more than he bargained for.
Chapter Summary:
Author: Arden Elear
Email: rishalin@lycos.com
Live Journal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/arden_elear/
When in doubt, do nothing.
I don't believe I just did that.
I've walked away from a lot of things in my time. Bad marriages and stroppy gits who want to punch my head in just because I'm Sean Bean. I've even walked off a set a time or two when it came down to a choice between either taking a hike to cool off or shoving my fist down the director's throat and twisting it.
But never, ever before have I walked away from a sure-thing!
I need to think about this.
Why the fuck did I do that? I had him. And I backed off.
I could have kept going. I could have had him every which way 'till Sunday, he was ripe for it. So what if he's never done it before. I've done virgins, plenty of them. He's not the first adult male to wake up to the fact that lust is not as black and white as he thought and he won't be the last. I've even helped a few of 'em color in the blanks.
Goddamnit! I had him! Ow! That hurt!
See what you've been reduced to, Bean? You're punching the walls in frustration again. And you can't blame Viggo for it this time. You did it all by yourself.
All that work! All those casual touches. The hints. Shifting a little closer on the couch, my thigh just touching his. A hand, lingering where it landed, on his leg or shoulder, for just a little too long while I laugh at his jokes or lean on him for support, scraping the mud off the bottom of my boots.
Working him up to tonight with looks and body contact and careless conversations about on-set couplings we've both witnessed on various shoots. Gender-be-damned combinations designed to make him think about it and letting him know what I want.
And it worked. But I walked.
You wanker, Bean. You stupid fucking wanker.
Or maybe not.
I think he appreciated it. I think maybe my subconscious was trying to tell me something. Like, he's not as ready as I think he is. Like, if I'd taken it further, if I'd insisted on now, on tonight, I'd have ruined it. Lost ground. Lost out.
Maybe I'm smarter than I think I am.
He didn't protest when my hand cupped his thigh and I didn't remove it. When I half-turned in my seat to look at him while I talked, his face was soft with the first tentative wash of desire blurring the sharpness of those blue eyes.
The setting was right; quiet and dim, candles because of the opportune power failure, one bottle of red lying empty on the floor, the other half-full on the coffee table beside our glasses, the newspaper whose article we'd been discussing sliding off his lap and onto the carpet as I moved to straddle him.
Everything was perfect. But he was nervous, I could tell.
When I cupped my hand to his jaw he trembled a little, but he tipped his head and leaned in to it nonetheless. And when I kissed him I took it slow, I felt the soft hiss of indrawn breath and the little sighs, warm puffs of air against my cheek, as he tried to breathe out the tension. And I gnawed gently at his bottom lip and smiled against his mouth, enjoying the subtle shifting of his body under mine. He put his hands on my hips and rested them there, too unsure of himself to do more. He wanted to open his mouth and let me in but was scared of the consequences.
No, not ready. Not quite.
But he wants me. When I slid closer I could feel him, so hard. Felt the quivering nervous tension of his stomach muscles when my free hand floated lightly down across his chest, caressing him, thumbing his nipples through his t-shirt and moving lower.
That's when I realized. That's when I stopped.
He was too nervous. Oh, he wants it all right, he just isn't sure what he wants.
I broke off the kiss and smiled at him. Looked at my watch. 'It's ten to eleven, Viggo.' I told him. 'At eleven o'clock, I'm going home.'
He knew what I meant and relaxed. Parted his lips to let me taste him. Red wine and cigars, warm and wet and his slick tongue came up to dance with mine.
His hand in my hair and then we were making out like a couple of teenagers, except without the hormonal pressures of adolescence.
And I quite enjoyed it, actually. Just . . . kissing and light touches and . . . Well, I guess I was just letting him get used to the idea. Plenty of time for the other.
I am a nice guy!
A nice guy who needs a shower and a wank before bed.
**
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-02-03 01:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-03 04:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-03 06:51 pm (UTC)A nice guy who needs a shower and a wank before bed.
hahaha again poor Sean. You'll fix him up good in the next one right?