`You`re bleeding daft if you think I`m wearing that to a match.`
“It’ll be festive. People would love it.” Viggo twirled the hat on his hand, setting the white puff at the top to whirling. “Come on. They’ll take a hundred pictures of you anyway—might as well make it interesting.”
“Are you saying me, by myself, isn’t interesting?” Sean inched closer on the couch, lifted Viggo’s legs into his lap.
“I didn’t say anything.” Viggo grinned broadly, rubbed his foot up the inside of Sean’s thigh.
“Oh really?” Sean returned the grin and tickled Viggo’s foot. “Sounded to me like you called me boring.”
Kicking a little, Viggo laughed. “I would never.” He held the hat like a sock puppet, the puff nodding in agreement. “Though you alphabetize soup. And cross-reference according to tin-size.”
Sean clamped his hand tighter on Viggo’s ankle, tickling harder, crossing his own legs to avoid being kicked anywhere important—they’d done that, accidentally, before. Disaster to a little amorous rough-housing, that. “You poor thing. Saddled to the dullest man in Britain.” He ran his nails over the soles of Viggo’s feet.
“It’s only—” Viggo puffed between laughter, “—how nice your ass is—” another kick, glancing off Sean’s knee “—that keeps me from falling into a coma.” With effort, he managed to tug his foot free, curl them under him. “And right now you’re sitting on that ass, can’t see it, so I haven’t got a damn thing to keep from going utterly mad with dullness.” The Santa hat on Viggo’s hand still nodded gravely, though Viggo was near-purple with giggling. Even with his Russian mobster haircut, his chest waxed smooth and severe and trimmed as Viggo never was, he could almost paralyze himself with mirth.
Sean coiled himself, turned, pounced the other side of the couch, pinned Viggo and the stupid hat into the plush upholstery. Viggo’s throat vibrated, the laughter still curling under the skin where Sean’s lips pressed, grew stronger when Sean slipped his hands under the bottom of Viggo’s shirt, slid up his ribs.
“I’m not even tickling you anymore, you daft thing.”
The hat on Viggo’s hand shook its poof from side to side, acknowledging, but Viggo shook silently, the way Sean knew better than to ask about. Whatever was funny only made sense inside that nutter’s skull. So Sean stayed still, pressed his cheek against Viggo’s chest to feel everything whirling in his lover’s skin. After long minutes, Viggo stilled, though he kept breaking into a smile, had to try three times to say anything.
“You should—hn—you should wear this, to the match. It’s even Sheffield United colors.” Viggo put the hat on Sean’s head. “Every other thing you’ll wear tomorrow is red, white, or black. You’ll match. And half the stands will wear one, too.” Viggo leaned up, licked at Sean’s lips. “Come on.”
Sliding his hands higher on Viggo’s chest, marveling again at the filming-fresh smoothness, Sean arched an eyebrow. “I think you just want an excuse to sit on me lap.” Viggo’s right leg hooked around Sean’s left, pulled him closer. “You don’t need me to wear a hat for that.” Viggo’s left leg twined Sean’s right, and Viggo wasn’t giggling anymore. His teeth were closing on Sean’s earlobe, his hands tugging at Sean’s trousers, and the hat flopped over Sean’s eyes. He pushed it away, roughened his voice some. “Besides, I don’t think you’re on the good list.” He wasn’t sure what list Viggo’s tongue was on, but he was sure he didn’t want Santa looking at it.
“Sure I am.” Viggo reached into Sean’s open fly, his grip familiar, warm. With his other hand, he resettled the hat on Sean’s head, the end of it flipped safely back, and moved the collar of Sean’s shirt to one side, nipped at his collarbone. “Sure I am. Santa just doesn’t know it yet.”
Summary: Viggo wants Sean to wear a Santa hat.
Rated: PG-13
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 699 Read: 757
Published: 16 Aug 2009 Updated: 16 Aug 2009