FIC: Sheffield Snow (LotRPS)
Title: Sheffield Snow
Author: Galadriel caras_galadhon
Fandom: LotRPS
Pairing: Bean/Viggo
Rating: PG
Archive: Lothlorien, sons_of_gondor, and Green Opals.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Absolutely did not happen. Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Summary: One perfect snowball formed from one perfect snowfall.
Notes: The world must be coming to an end, because this is the second fic I've finished in as many days. Clearly I need to start channelling this newfound energy into long-term projects before certain characters in certain other stories come after me. Thank-yous go to some of the usual suspects, cinzia and ithiliana, for their enthusiastic encouragement and prodding.
Sheffield Snow
By Galadriel
Fat, soft snowflakes spiral gently towards the earth in the still air. The sun is shining, glinting off the whiteness that's everywhere, coating trees, outlining houses and shapeless bumps that might be cars, and Sean is laughing, shouting at Viggo, tossing proper snowballs at him, jeering when Viggo can't quite get the snow to stick together. He ducks when Viggo's sad attempts dissolve in midair, showering snow all over Sean instead of hitting him with the same unerring aim, the same satisfying thump as missiles made by someone who has spent many, many winters building snowmen and snow forts and sliding on his arse across frozen lakes, someone who has spent those same winters wrapped in scratchy wool and down-stuffed jackets, rather than stripped to the waist in the burning sun.
Sean executes an end-run around Viggo, shaking snow from his hair and kicking up powder as he stops behind him, leans against him, chest-to-back, pulls off his own gloves and drops them in a drift. He cups warm fingers around frozen, naked ones, peers over Viggo's shoulder to instruct him in the precise art of shaping snow into ball form.
Filled with good humour, Viggo lets Sean show him, deliberately learns slowly -- even though memories of winters in Denmark are coming back to him with every tiny movement, every flake that sticks to his eyelashes, his cheeks -- just to feel Sean's laughter in his ear, his fingers stroking his skin. And once they've shaped one perfect snowball, Viggo turns and wraps his arms around Sean, pushes down the scarf over Sean's nose and mouth with his own chin. He kisses him, warms his pale lips with his breath, and as his tongue slips past Sean's teeth he tugs at the collar of Sean's jacket, snags his shirt with one finger, and in one swift, perfect movement he shoves the snowball down Sean's back, swallows the sounds of surprise, of Sean's protest against the cold, spreading wetness. Viggo tumbles them both into the snow, marring the clean, unbroken, sparkling white surface with denim and plaid and wool and skin, and after what seems like forever and no more than the blink of an eye, Sean pulls away and complains that the cold is seeping into his trousers.
Viggo arches up against him and moans just the same, whispers dark, longing things about cold and warmth and freezing and melting, and Sean laughs and tugs him to his feet to mutter his own dark desires which include heat and sheets and sweat and skin sliding across skin. He pushes Viggo towards the house, then turns, bends to pick up his gloves, only to be hit square in the middle of his back by a perfect, solid snowball thrown by a perfect, laughing man.
END
(March 12, 2004)
Crossposted to sons_of_gondor, rugbytackle, fellow_shippers.
Author: Galadriel caras_galadhon
Fandom: LotRPS
Pairing: Bean/Viggo
Rating: PG
Archive: Lothlorien, sons_of_gondor, and Green Opals.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Absolutely did not happen. Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Summary: One perfect snowball formed from one perfect snowfall.
Notes: The world must be coming to an end, because this is the second fic I've finished in as many days. Clearly I need to start channelling this newfound energy into long-term projects before certain characters in certain other stories come after me. Thank-yous go to some of the usual suspects, cinzia and ithiliana, for their enthusiastic encouragement and prodding.
Sheffield Snow
By Galadriel
Fat, soft snowflakes spiral gently towards the earth in the still air. The sun is shining, glinting off the whiteness that's everywhere, coating trees, outlining houses and shapeless bumps that might be cars, and Sean is laughing, shouting at Viggo, tossing proper snowballs at him, jeering when Viggo can't quite get the snow to stick together. He ducks when Viggo's sad attempts dissolve in midair, showering snow all over Sean instead of hitting him with the same unerring aim, the same satisfying thump as missiles made by someone who has spent many, many winters building snowmen and snow forts and sliding on his arse across frozen lakes, someone who has spent those same winters wrapped in scratchy wool and down-stuffed jackets, rather than stripped to the waist in the burning sun.
Sean executes an end-run around Viggo, shaking snow from his hair and kicking up powder as he stops behind him, leans against him, chest-to-back, pulls off his own gloves and drops them in a drift. He cups warm fingers around frozen, naked ones, peers over Viggo's shoulder to instruct him in the precise art of shaping snow into ball form.
Filled with good humour, Viggo lets Sean show him, deliberately learns slowly -- even though memories of winters in Denmark are coming back to him with every tiny movement, every flake that sticks to his eyelashes, his cheeks -- just to feel Sean's laughter in his ear, his fingers stroking his skin. And once they've shaped one perfect snowball, Viggo turns and wraps his arms around Sean, pushes down the scarf over Sean's nose and mouth with his own chin. He kisses him, warms his pale lips with his breath, and as his tongue slips past Sean's teeth he tugs at the collar of Sean's jacket, snags his shirt with one finger, and in one swift, perfect movement he shoves the snowball down Sean's back, swallows the sounds of surprise, of Sean's protest against the cold, spreading wetness. Viggo tumbles them both into the snow, marring the clean, unbroken, sparkling white surface with denim and plaid and wool and skin, and after what seems like forever and no more than the blink of an eye, Sean pulls away and complains that the cold is seeping into his trousers.
Viggo arches up against him and moans just the same, whispers dark, longing things about cold and warmth and freezing and melting, and Sean laughs and tugs him to his feet to mutter his own dark desires which include heat and sheets and sweat and skin sliding across skin. He pushes Viggo towards the house, then turns, bends to pick up his gloves, only to be hit square in the middle of his back by a perfect, solid snowball thrown by a perfect, laughing man.
END
(March 12, 2004)
Crossposted to sons_of_gondor, rugbytackle, fellow_shippers.