[FIC] RPF: a nightingale at his window
And the longest (and the one I'm oddly proudest of, odd because of the pairing) for the last. :3
a nightingale at his window
Characters/Pairing: Sean Bean/Orlando Bloom, Dominic Monaghan
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~1100
Disclaimer: Definitely did not happen. Product of my imagination.
Summary: Orlando wants Sean to shut up about Keats’s Ode to a Nightingale already. Written for afra_schatz’s prompt.
Warning: Contains spoilers, so whited out. Highlight to see: Character death.
"He just doesn't know how to shut up, you know what I mean? It's like, mate, I know you love poetry, I know you love having the chance to show that you love poetry on TV to people who think you're a Northern Neanderthal - which you aren't, because you're a Northern bastard - but do you have to quote Keats to me all day?"
*
"Darkling I listen," Sean's voice caressed Orlando's skin, skittering against the top of his spine, then stroking downwards. Orlando tipped his head back, exhaling a soft breath even as his brows creased in irritation. Again?
"Old man, if you're going to quote Keats at me again, can't you choose another poem? Or even another stanza? Seriously, I'm getting sick of this one."
Sean only chuckled. His hand was cold against Orlando's back, but Orlando's body temperature had always been higher than most. Sean had told him once that he was a living hot water bottle, and ruined the sweet sentiment by telling him that he could sell himself as that, if the acting gig didn't work out. Orlando had roared, leaping upon him and showing just how good at heating skin up he was.
"And, for many a time," Sean continued, his breath against Orlando's ear. His hair was short for the mohawk again, a call back to ten years ago. But ten years ago he didn't have Sean; didn't have an old man complaining to him that such short-cropped hair was difficult to grip on his arthritic fingers. "I have been half in love with easeful Death."
"Why don't you try being one-and-a-half in love with me instead?"
*
"He'd just go on and on. The same poem, the same damn stanza every single time. I don't mind; fuck, his voice is hella sexy, everyone knows that. I just wish that he'd say something else. Teasing him about being a sod gets really, really old after the fifth or so time."
*
"Now more than ever," Sean's fingers danced on his skin, right below the waistband of his pants. Orlando, impatient, pulled his jeans down, exposing himself. Sean laughed in his ear again, a cold waft of air, but his recitation didn't cease. "Seems it rich to die,
"To cease upon midnight with no pain," Orlando whispered, the words familiar to him now. His voice melded with Sean's, turning eerie in the room as it bounced off the white, white walls. He didn't mind; not when he could feel Sean's lips against the back of his neck. Not when Sean's body was plastered against his, the broad chest against his back, its very weight chasing away the small, nagging pain at the base of his spine. If Orlando was Sean's hot water bottle, then Sean was Orlando's all-natural painkiller.
There was never any pain when Sean was here.
(He knew that wasn't true; knew that the two of them fought and argued and more often than not things had nearly ended with screaming and slammed doors. But he also knew that Sean always came back, or always took him back when he went to him crawling with tail between his legs. Orlando wasn't much of a believer of forever - he had defied expectations and expectations had defied him too many times for that - but Sean... Sean, he could believe was forever.
He was forever.)
*
"I know the whole poem, you know. I've memorised all of Keat's poetry by now, because he won't bloody shut up about it, so I might as well read, right? I'm a good boyfriend like that. God knows why I even try, though. He always repeats the same stanza."
*
"While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad," Orlando's breath hitched. His hand was wrapped around his own cock, and Sean's hand - colder than his skin, as always - was wrapped around his own. He moved slowly, to the rhythm of the words as Sean said them, slurring, each consonant lingering on his tongue before he released them into the air. Each vowel was blended into the next, and there were no beginning or ends to every word. It was just sound; voice- Sean's voice, and Orlando swallowed a sob as his hand moved a little harder.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his head leaning back. Sean's shoulder was so solid beneath him, his arm wrapping around Orlando's waist. Safe. Orlando had never needed to feel safe, but Sean made him feel it anyway. Safe as if he was a damsel in distress in an ivory tower.
(Maybe the image was too apt. The walls were white, so goddamn white.)
"In... such... " Sean's breath hitched, and his hips jerked forward, pressing hard against Orlando's ass. His hand squeezed harder around Orlando's own, forcing the rhythm to quicken even as Orlando felt Sean's cock sliding up and down his cleft, the head brushing - barely - against his hole.
"An ecstasy!"
Orlando's lips parted as he came, hard, Sean's voice surrounding him, bouncing off the walls, filling him inside even as he felt the heat of his own come, of Sean's come, covering his skin.
*
"He visits me every day," Orlando said.
He was thin. The eyebags underneath his eyes were dark and his cheekbones were so gaunt that they seemed drawn on. His hands were barely more than bones, and Dom fought not to wince as he took them into his own.
"'Course he does, Lando," he said, and he felt his heart break, the most minute of cracks splitting open, spilling his heart's blood onto the floor at Orlando's feet.
"Of course he does."
*
"Still wouldst thou sing," Sean whispered, his voice wavering.
Orlando kept his eyes closed. He raised his hand and licked at the sticky come, tasting salt and bitterness. Like tears, but he had no reason to cry, not when Sean was here. "And I have ears in vain-"
He reached behind him and smeared his hand over his own back. There was warmth there, Sean's heat, and he followed Sean to the ground, leaning his head against the white, white walls, closing his eyes and waiting for the very last time.
"To thy high requiem become a sod."
"You silly Northern bastard," Orlando said.
Sean's laughter echoed around him.
*
British actor Sean Bean died in his London home on -- -- 20--. Autopsy confirmed the cause of death to be a brain aneurysm. He was found by his longtime boyfriend, Orlando Bloom. Bloom cannot be reached for a comment.
End
a nightingale at his window
Characters/Pairing: Sean Bean/Orlando Bloom, Dominic Monaghan
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~1100
Disclaimer: Definitely did not happen. Product of my imagination.
Summary: Orlando wants Sean to shut up about Keats’s Ode to a Nightingale already. Written for afra_schatz’s prompt.
Warning: Contains spoilers, so whited out. Highlight to see: Character death.
"He just doesn't know how to shut up, you know what I mean? It's like, mate, I know you love poetry, I know you love having the chance to show that you love poetry on TV to people who think you're a Northern Neanderthal - which you aren't, because you're a Northern bastard - but do you have to quote Keats to me all day?"
*
"Darkling I listen," Sean's voice caressed Orlando's skin, skittering against the top of his spine, then stroking downwards. Orlando tipped his head back, exhaling a soft breath even as his brows creased in irritation. Again?
"Old man, if you're going to quote Keats at me again, can't you choose another poem? Or even another stanza? Seriously, I'm getting sick of this one."
Sean only chuckled. His hand was cold against Orlando's back, but Orlando's body temperature had always been higher than most. Sean had told him once that he was a living hot water bottle, and ruined the sweet sentiment by telling him that he could sell himself as that, if the acting gig didn't work out. Orlando had roared, leaping upon him and showing just how good at heating skin up he was.
"And, for many a time," Sean continued, his breath against Orlando's ear. His hair was short for the mohawk again, a call back to ten years ago. But ten years ago he didn't have Sean; didn't have an old man complaining to him that such short-cropped hair was difficult to grip on his arthritic fingers. "I have been half in love with easeful Death."
"Why don't you try being one-and-a-half in love with me instead?"
*
"He'd just go on and on. The same poem, the same damn stanza every single time. I don't mind; fuck, his voice is hella sexy, everyone knows that. I just wish that he'd say something else. Teasing him about being a sod gets really, really old after the fifth or so time."
*
"Now more than ever," Sean's fingers danced on his skin, right below the waistband of his pants. Orlando, impatient, pulled his jeans down, exposing himself. Sean laughed in his ear again, a cold waft of air, but his recitation didn't cease. "Seems it rich to die,
"To cease upon midnight with no pain," Orlando whispered, the words familiar to him now. His voice melded with Sean's, turning eerie in the room as it bounced off the white, white walls. He didn't mind; not when he could feel Sean's lips against the back of his neck. Not when Sean's body was plastered against his, the broad chest against his back, its very weight chasing away the small, nagging pain at the base of his spine. If Orlando was Sean's hot water bottle, then Sean was Orlando's all-natural painkiller.
There was never any pain when Sean was here.
(He knew that wasn't true; knew that the two of them fought and argued and more often than not things had nearly ended with screaming and slammed doors. But he also knew that Sean always came back, or always took him back when he went to him crawling with tail between his legs. Orlando wasn't much of a believer of forever - he had defied expectations and expectations had defied him too many times for that - but Sean... Sean, he could believe was forever.
He was forever.)
*
"I know the whole poem, you know. I've memorised all of Keat's poetry by now, because he won't bloody shut up about it, so I might as well read, right? I'm a good boyfriend like that. God knows why I even try, though. He always repeats the same stanza."
*
"While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad," Orlando's breath hitched. His hand was wrapped around his own cock, and Sean's hand - colder than his skin, as always - was wrapped around his own. He moved slowly, to the rhythm of the words as Sean said them, slurring, each consonant lingering on his tongue before he released them into the air. Each vowel was blended into the next, and there were no beginning or ends to every word. It was just sound; voice- Sean's voice, and Orlando swallowed a sob as his hand moved a little harder.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his head leaning back. Sean's shoulder was so solid beneath him, his arm wrapping around Orlando's waist. Safe. Orlando had never needed to feel safe, but Sean made him feel it anyway. Safe as if he was a damsel in distress in an ivory tower.
(Maybe the image was too apt. The walls were white, so goddamn white.)
"In... such... " Sean's breath hitched, and his hips jerked forward, pressing hard against Orlando's ass. His hand squeezed harder around Orlando's own, forcing the rhythm to quicken even as Orlando felt Sean's cock sliding up and down his cleft, the head brushing - barely - against his hole.
"An ecstasy!"
Orlando's lips parted as he came, hard, Sean's voice surrounding him, bouncing off the walls, filling him inside even as he felt the heat of his own come, of Sean's come, covering his skin.
*
"He visits me every day," Orlando said.
He was thin. The eyebags underneath his eyes were dark and his cheekbones were so gaunt that they seemed drawn on. His hands were barely more than bones, and Dom fought not to wince as he took them into his own.
"'Course he does, Lando," he said, and he felt his heart break, the most minute of cracks splitting open, spilling his heart's blood onto the floor at Orlando's feet.
"Of course he does."
*
"Still wouldst thou sing," Sean whispered, his voice wavering.
Orlando kept his eyes closed. He raised his hand and licked at the sticky come, tasting salt and bitterness. Like tears, but he had no reason to cry, not when Sean was here. "And I have ears in vain-"
He reached behind him and smeared his hand over his own back. There was warmth there, Sean's heat, and he followed Sean to the ground, leaning his head against the white, white walls, closing his eyes and waiting for the very last time.
"To thy high requiem become a sod."
"You silly Northern bastard," Orlando said.
Sean's laughter echoed around him.
*
British actor Sean Bean died in his London home on -- -- 20--. Autopsy confirmed the cause of death to be a brain aneurysm. He was found by his longtime boyfriend, Orlando Bloom. Bloom cannot be reached for a comment.
End