FIC: "Teacher's Pet" 1/1 (Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen) PG
Title: "Teacher's Pet" 1/1
Author: Brenda (azewewish)
Fandom: Lotrips
Pairing: Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Never happened.
Summary: Sean has a lot to learn. Professor AU. The poems in question are "To the Oracle at Delphi" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti and "Murió Al Amanecer" by Federico Garcia Lorca.
Notes: Written for disc_sophist, savageseraph and caras_galadhon. *mwah*
The bell rang just as Sean was wrapping up his lecture. He gave credit to his students for not immediately bolting; instead, they waited until he was finished speaking, then trickled out of the room in twos and threes, several of them dropping by his desk to either argue with him about his supposition, or to agree with him whole-heartedly.
That was the beauty of teaching poetry to sponge-like, eager freshman college students. They were always ready to debate him on interpretation.
"...but couldn't Ferlinghetti have been talking about any civilization that's lost its way?" Penny, one of his brightest students this semester, was earnestly saying. She tugged at her overflowing backpack, flyaway hair tied back in a loose ponytail, and gave him a look that was part expectation, part schoolgirl crush. "I mean, when he says, 'And tell us how to save us from ourselves and how to survive our own rulers', he could be talking about anyone."
"He could be, yes," Sean replied, gently, pleased that she'd not only paid attention, but came to her own conclusions about a deeper meaning in the poem. "But he's not. Now, if you feel differently," he continued, over her vocal objection, "you're free to make that poem the subject of your paper this week, and convince me otherwise. But you're not going to do it in the five minutes you now have to get to your next class."
Penny gave a helpless shrug and a winsome smile, which Sean returned. "And if I can convince you?" she asked.
"Then I'll bring it up for discussion next week in class."
"You're on."
He watched her dash out of the room with a private smile, and shook his head, pushing his glasses back up his nose. That was both the beauty and the curse of youth - they always thought if they argued with enough passion, it meant that they were right.
"She's got a point, you know."
Sean turned. Viggo Mortensen, a fellow English professor, was slouched in the doorway. Unlike Sean, who dressed the part of the professor in slacks and oxfords and ties, Viggo came to campus each day looking just like the students. Today it was a pair of ripped jeans that were almost white, a t-shirt advertising a Brazilian soccer team, and Birkenstocks that looked older than Sean. Viggo was one of the most brilliant men Sean had ever met, but his eccentricities were legendary.
"She does, does she?" Sean busied himself with putting his notes and dog-eared copy of Poetry Through The Ages back in his tattered tote bag.
"Mmhmm." Viggo walked over to lean against the desk, close enough that Sean caught the ever-present faint whiff of marijuana mixed with something slightly darker, more earthy. Viggo certainly wasn't the first fine arts professor to indulge in recreational drugs. Not that Sean went for it himself, but he wasn't a prude by any stretch, and, in any case, Viggo taught Russian literature. As depressing as some of the poems were that Sean lectured about, it was nothing compared to what Viggo had to teach. Sean didn't blame Viggo a bit for toking up to take the edge off.
"How so?" Sean pushed his glasses back up again, and gave Viggo his full attention.
"I think America's just a metaphor for anyone that's lost their soul, started to worship material wealth instead of the wealth inside themselves."
"You would," Sean wryly replied.
Viggo shrugged, but returned the smile, showing off twin dimples. "What can I say, once a hippie..."
"I think you define the term," but there was clear affection behind the gentle rebuke.
Sean had always wondered how he and Viggo had gotten to be such good friends. They couldn't have been more different, at least on the outside. Viggo, with his love of artsy photography, long hikes to the middle of nowhere to go fishing without catching any fish, crazy Russian poets, and arguing in riddles just because he could, and Sean himself with his homebody tendencies, his in-bred British love of pottering around in his garden, and pragmatic outlook on life - they were a study in contrasts. But, from the first moment they'd met, Sean had found a kindred spirit in Viggo, and knew that Viggo felt the same. For all that they didn't have in common, they had one very crucial thing that bound them together - a love of language and the written word. And they were both very good at their jobs.
Viggo thumbed through a few of the papers still on Sean's desk. Every time he moved his hands, his fingers brushed against Sean's wrist, making the hairs on his arms rise. "You'll have to let me guest-lecture sometime, do a contrasting point of view."
"Last time we did that, Dean Whittier didn't speak to us for two weeks," Sean replied, sounding a shade breathless, even to himself. He didn't move his hand.
"Yeah, but it was a good two weeks." Viggo's eyes, Nordic and cool and so very blue that it hurt to look at them, pierced beneath Sean's skin to the core of him. What little breath he had left was lost in a white-hot rush.
Then Viggo twisted, bracing his hands on either side of Sean's hips as he pressed Sean against the desk, the heat of him a living, breathing, hungry thing.
"Busco en mi carne las, huellas de tus labios..."
In some dim part of Sean's brain that wasn't overwhelmed by Viggo's lips so close to his and Viggo's earthy scent filling his senses and Viggo's tightly coiled body pressed hard and muscular against his, he recognized the poem as one of Lorca's. But he couldn't recall the actual poem. He rather thought he'd be forgiven the lapse, especially since Viggo took that exact moment to flick his tongue, butterfly-quick, between Sean's open lips and tilt his head for a truly exceptional kiss. Viggo tasted warm, like sunshine and summer and hot, lazy days, and Sean moaned against Viggo's mouth, encouraging Viggo to take more.
He lost track of time, lost track of the room, of everything that wasn't Viggo. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so thoroughly possessed, and by only a kiss, at that. Not that he'd had time for too many kisses lately, but they still hadn't been like this, hadn't fogged his brain along with his glasses. Viggo kissed with his entire body, kissed Sean from this tips of his toes to the crown of his head, splayed his hands across Sean's back, bringing him even closer so he could angle his head, nibble at Sean's lips, then dive in for another taste. All Sean could do was react, curl his tongue around Viggo's, and rub against Viggo to let him know whatever he was doing, it was welcome.
When Viggo finally pulled back, it took Sean several deep breaths in order to find his voice. "What was that for?"
Viggo seemed remarkably nonplussed, even though his lips were attractively bruised from Sean's. "You looked like you needed it."
"I needed it?"
"Anyone that looks as good as you do in a tie and in those glasses is just begging to have them messed up by a toe-curling kiss."
"And you just thought you'd volunteer yourself?"
Viggo grinned, flicked at Sean's now hopelessly crumpled tie. "Of course. Why should I let anyone else have all the fun?"
Sounded like something Viggo would say. "Why now?" Sean asked, instead. "It's not as if it's an unnatural occurrence for me to be in my glasses and a tie."
"Felt like the right time."
Of course it did. Sean laughed at himself for expecting something as plebian as linear thinking from Viggo. Then he tilted his head, gave Viggo a considering look. "Is that all you were planning on?"
Both of Viggo's dimples were on full display when he smiled. Sean's mouth went dry at the sight. He wondered what they'd taste like, and vowed to find out as soon as humanly possible. "Why Professor Bean," Viggo drawled, flirtation in every syllable, "I could swear that sounded like a proposition."
"Aren't you a clever one?" Sean laughed, and carded his fingers through the fine silk of Viggo's hair as he pulled him close for another kiss.
***
Author: Brenda (azewewish)
Fandom: Lotrips
Pairing: Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Never happened.
Summary: Sean has a lot to learn. Professor AU. The poems in question are "To the Oracle at Delphi" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti and "Murió Al Amanecer" by Federico Garcia Lorca.
Notes: Written for disc_sophist, savageseraph and caras_galadhon. *mwah*
The bell rang just as Sean was wrapping up his lecture. He gave credit to his students for not immediately bolting; instead, they waited until he was finished speaking, then trickled out of the room in twos and threes, several of them dropping by his desk to either argue with him about his supposition, or to agree with him whole-heartedly.
That was the beauty of teaching poetry to sponge-like, eager freshman college students. They were always ready to debate him on interpretation.
"...but couldn't Ferlinghetti have been talking about any civilization that's lost its way?" Penny, one of his brightest students this semester, was earnestly saying. She tugged at her overflowing backpack, flyaway hair tied back in a loose ponytail, and gave him a look that was part expectation, part schoolgirl crush. "I mean, when he says, 'And tell us how to save us from ourselves and how to survive our own rulers', he could be talking about anyone."
"He could be, yes," Sean replied, gently, pleased that she'd not only paid attention, but came to her own conclusions about a deeper meaning in the poem. "But he's not. Now, if you feel differently," he continued, over her vocal objection, "you're free to make that poem the subject of your paper this week, and convince me otherwise. But you're not going to do it in the five minutes you now have to get to your next class."
Penny gave a helpless shrug and a winsome smile, which Sean returned. "And if I can convince you?" she asked.
"Then I'll bring it up for discussion next week in class."
"You're on."
He watched her dash out of the room with a private smile, and shook his head, pushing his glasses back up his nose. That was both the beauty and the curse of youth - they always thought if they argued with enough passion, it meant that they were right.
"She's got a point, you know."
Sean turned. Viggo Mortensen, a fellow English professor, was slouched in the doorway. Unlike Sean, who dressed the part of the professor in slacks and oxfords and ties, Viggo came to campus each day looking just like the students. Today it was a pair of ripped jeans that were almost white, a t-shirt advertising a Brazilian soccer team, and Birkenstocks that looked older than Sean. Viggo was one of the most brilliant men Sean had ever met, but his eccentricities were legendary.
"She does, does she?" Sean busied himself with putting his notes and dog-eared copy of Poetry Through The Ages back in his tattered tote bag.
"Mmhmm." Viggo walked over to lean against the desk, close enough that Sean caught the ever-present faint whiff of marijuana mixed with something slightly darker, more earthy. Viggo certainly wasn't the first fine arts professor to indulge in recreational drugs. Not that Sean went for it himself, but he wasn't a prude by any stretch, and, in any case, Viggo taught Russian literature. As depressing as some of the poems were that Sean lectured about, it was nothing compared to what Viggo had to teach. Sean didn't blame Viggo a bit for toking up to take the edge off.
"How so?" Sean pushed his glasses back up again, and gave Viggo his full attention.
"I think America's just a metaphor for anyone that's lost their soul, started to worship material wealth instead of the wealth inside themselves."
"You would," Sean wryly replied.
Viggo shrugged, but returned the smile, showing off twin dimples. "What can I say, once a hippie..."
"I think you define the term," but there was clear affection behind the gentle rebuke.
Sean had always wondered how he and Viggo had gotten to be such good friends. They couldn't have been more different, at least on the outside. Viggo, with his love of artsy photography, long hikes to the middle of nowhere to go fishing without catching any fish, crazy Russian poets, and arguing in riddles just because he could, and Sean himself with his homebody tendencies, his in-bred British love of pottering around in his garden, and pragmatic outlook on life - they were a study in contrasts. But, from the first moment they'd met, Sean had found a kindred spirit in Viggo, and knew that Viggo felt the same. For all that they didn't have in common, they had one very crucial thing that bound them together - a love of language and the written word. And they were both very good at their jobs.
Viggo thumbed through a few of the papers still on Sean's desk. Every time he moved his hands, his fingers brushed against Sean's wrist, making the hairs on his arms rise. "You'll have to let me guest-lecture sometime, do a contrasting point of view."
"Last time we did that, Dean Whittier didn't speak to us for two weeks," Sean replied, sounding a shade breathless, even to himself. He didn't move his hand.
"Yeah, but it was a good two weeks." Viggo's eyes, Nordic and cool and so very blue that it hurt to look at them, pierced beneath Sean's skin to the core of him. What little breath he had left was lost in a white-hot rush.
Then Viggo twisted, bracing his hands on either side of Sean's hips as he pressed Sean against the desk, the heat of him a living, breathing, hungry thing.
"Busco en mi carne las, huellas de tus labios..."
In some dim part of Sean's brain that wasn't overwhelmed by Viggo's lips so close to his and Viggo's earthy scent filling his senses and Viggo's tightly coiled body pressed hard and muscular against his, he recognized the poem as one of Lorca's. But he couldn't recall the actual poem. He rather thought he'd be forgiven the lapse, especially since Viggo took that exact moment to flick his tongue, butterfly-quick, between Sean's open lips and tilt his head for a truly exceptional kiss. Viggo tasted warm, like sunshine and summer and hot, lazy days, and Sean moaned against Viggo's mouth, encouraging Viggo to take more.
He lost track of time, lost track of the room, of everything that wasn't Viggo. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so thoroughly possessed, and by only a kiss, at that. Not that he'd had time for too many kisses lately, but they still hadn't been like this, hadn't fogged his brain along with his glasses. Viggo kissed with his entire body, kissed Sean from this tips of his toes to the crown of his head, splayed his hands across Sean's back, bringing him even closer so he could angle his head, nibble at Sean's lips, then dive in for another taste. All Sean could do was react, curl his tongue around Viggo's, and rub against Viggo to let him know whatever he was doing, it was welcome.
When Viggo finally pulled back, it took Sean several deep breaths in order to find his voice. "What was that for?"
Viggo seemed remarkably nonplussed, even though his lips were attractively bruised from Sean's. "You looked like you needed it."
"I needed it?"
"Anyone that looks as good as you do in a tie and in those glasses is just begging to have them messed up by a toe-curling kiss."
"And you just thought you'd volunteer yourself?"
Viggo grinned, flicked at Sean's now hopelessly crumpled tie. "Of course. Why should I let anyone else have all the fun?"
Sounded like something Viggo would say. "Why now?" Sean asked, instead. "It's not as if it's an unnatural occurrence for me to be in my glasses and a tie."
"Felt like the right time."
Of course it did. Sean laughed at himself for expecting something as plebian as linear thinking from Viggo. Then he tilted his head, gave Viggo a considering look. "Is that all you were planning on?"
Both of Viggo's dimples were on full display when he smiled. Sean's mouth went dry at the sight. He wondered what they'd taste like, and vowed to find out as soon as humanly possible. "Why Professor Bean," Viggo drawled, flirtation in every syllable, "I could swear that sounded like a proposition."
"Aren't you a clever one?" Sean laughed, and carded his fingers through the fine silk of Viggo's hair as he pulled him close for another kiss.
***