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Viggo's back is against the wall before they can make it across the room, shirt unbuttoned by deft fingers not his own, jeans around his ankles. Warm hands caress down his hips, a low voice humming against firm flesh in delicate skin, soft lips, a slick tongue.
The waiter at Hannigan's handed him his second pint, fingertips touching his along the chilled glass, lingering just a breath, and Viggo looked up from his work. Young, slender, large hazel eyes, a deep red bow of a mouth. The name tag read, "Brendan." Light brown hair with sun-bleached highlights shimmered softly in the dim, warm light of the pub. He asked Viggo in a low, sweet Irish accent if he could get him anything else.
In the pub Viggo's eyes had appeared blue, but in the moonlight flooding into the darkened room he is a study in silver, head tilted back against the wall, grey eyes feral. He pants softly in pleasure, gleaming in the moon silver. Sweat beads, darkening the light wash of hair across his chest. Hands strong and elegant rush over his thighs, his own hands thread through soft, fine hair, resisting the urge to pull closer.
Viggo paused from his scribbling to drain his third pint, glancing up to find the young Irishman at the bar. He was removing his apron while he spoke to a young woman. She was tidy, crisp, cool in a way that said she had just arrived. She tied a clean apron about her hips, listening attentively to the young man and casting an evaluating gaze about the busy pub. Change of shift. The handsome young waiter would be leaving shortly. If Viggo did not ask him now it would be too late.
Viggo's hair falls across his forehead, sticks to the sweat. His legs tremble. The strong hands curve behind his thighs, steady him, ease him, while soft lips and an eager tongue pleasure him, take him deep. His fingertips skitter over denim-covered shoulders, the heat of the man rising through the denim jacket. His breathing grows heavy, quick, desperate, little moans riding his breath. He tries not to thrust forward, can't help it. The comforting hands move up, curve forward, push his hips back against the wall. He gives a low keen of frustration that rises to a brief wail as the wonderful mouth pulls away, but not quite, tongue probing into liquid salt, suckling hard at the tenderness there. He thrashes briefly as thumbs brush into the hot, sweating space between his legs, fingers teasing at the dark, curling hair. He can feel the rush, the tightening, pulled once more deep into the heat of that mouth, and that tongue stroking with a power and rhythm guaranteed to undo him. He gasps a warning, "Sean!" before the steel that has coiled itself within his body tears itself loose into a loud snarl and a deep shudder that rocks him from his toes to his hair.
There is a satisfied chuckle from the man kneeling at his feet, now caressing his hips, releasing him, kissing him just below his navel. Sean rises smoothly to his feet, leans into Viggo and helps prop him up, resting his hands on Viggo's bare hips. He speaks in a voice like scuffed velvet.
"So, how'd the lonely night of the tortured writer go?" He kisses a sweaty cheekbone, pushes Viggo's hair out of his face.
"Not bad," Viggo rasps, catching his breath. "Got some fair work done. How was your night with the hobbits?"
"Noisy." Sean kisses him on the mouth, easy and slow, tasting of Viggo and lager.
Viggo speaks into Sean's mouth. "Listen. I learned something tonight. Want to tell you."
One flyaway eyebrow rises a hitch. "Yes?"
Viggo takes Sean's face between his hands, stares into green eyes. "Anam cara," he says, rolling the words gently, letting them flow into each other. "Hah geul ahkum orsht."
Sean's face softens into a thoughtful smile. "'Soul friend. I love you.' Now where did you learn that?"
"From an Irish waiter."
Sean's eyes crinkle at the corners. "'Hah geul ahkum orsht' is Scots Gaelic, not Irish."
Viggo shrugs, gives him a wry half-smile, runs a hand through Sean's forelock. "You're a Northman, not an Irishman."
Sean grins, kisses his friend, murmuring, "I like the sound of it. Say it again."
Viggo's grey-silver eyes gleam, and his mouth trails over and downward to kiss Sean's throat where his pulse runs strong and hot. He runs his hands down Sean's lean body, around his narrow waist and begins tugging Sean's shirt out of his jeans at the back. He speaks against quickly warming skin, "How about I show you?"
Summary: Viggo needs just the right words.
Rated: R
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 785 Read: 1065
Published: 30 Jul 2009 Updated: 30 Jul 2009