Ride - V/O 1/1

[sheltiesong.livejournal.com]

Title: Ride

Author: sheltiesong

Pairing: Viggorli

Rating: NC-17

Series: Possibly. If you'd like to see more, let me know. :)

Summary: A journeyman bull rider finds common ground with a frustrated young calf roper. Originally written for the atomic_fiction challenge. Inspired by the lyrics at the bottom of the header.

Warnings: Heavily AU. See author's notes.

Disclaimer: While based on real people, the contents of this story are entirely the product of the author's twisted imagination. I make no claims on Viggo Mortensen, Orlando Bloom, or their sexuality.

Archive: Sure. Just let me know where, so I can go visit.

Author's Notes: Thanks, as always, need to go to my dear sweet wonderful greensage for her help and encouragement. She held my hand through the entire writing process, and this is a much better story for her suggestions. I thank God every day for putting you in my life, my dear, dear friend. Thanks too, to xianghua for letting me pick her brains about Texas beer brands. *smooches*

Readers will notice the Viggo and especially the Orlando of this story have a much different way of speaking than what we all observe. That's by design; these are men who have spent nearly all of their lives living in western rodeo culture, so I've attempted to reflect that while still maintaining shades of language we know.

Lyrics:

"Love and Peace or Else"

I don't know if I can take it,
I'm not easy on my knees.

~*~



Dust swirling lazy circles around the beat-up leather of his boots, Viggo Mortensen leaned back against the cool metal of the stock pen fence. A half-burned cigarette trailed casually from between his fingers as he listened with one ear to the announcer’s drone, the restless pacing of the steers behind him sounding in counterpoint. Across the way, a bull’s angry bellow rose strident.

Grinding the butt into the dirt with one heel, he pulled his hat down low over his eyes and lingered in that drowsy slow space between sleep and wakefulness. By and by, the calf-roping would finish. By and by, it’d be time to head on down to the ring, take his chances with a ton of sharp-horned bull.

He’d drawn a rank outlaw today, a real ballbuster named Hurricane Strike. Screwed, an’ don’t I know it,” he thought disgustedly. Ol’ Striker sure was good for the adrenaline rush, but he made it damned hard to earn a paycheck. You’d more’n likely eat the dirt as make a qualified ride. Shit.

“Shit!”

He started at the sound, sweeping his hat back with an impatient hand and swiveling his head around.

A fella he vaguely recognized from the circuit ( Bloom, his memory supplied) stood some distance away, his shoulders slumped as he kicked at the dust. He’d been making a name for himself, the kid had, his flashes of brilliance even catching the attention of the bull and bronc riders, even as his brashness-born failures wagged tongues and shook heads in his passing. He was young and hungry, and a mite too headstrong for his own good, so they said.

His features now were tight with frustration. A blaze-faced Quarter Horse stood placidly behind him, the sheen of his chestnut coat grit-dulled. The animal cocked one hind foot, ears drooping lazily as his rider’s stream of invective continued, sub-audible. Viggo quirked an eyebrow in their direction, feeling a flash of curiosity turned quickly to furtive interest.

The other man was long and lean, his musculature slight but well-formed. Brown curls, free of their hat, tumbled down a slender neck. His blue plaid shirt billowed with his movement, hiding from view the planes of his chest and torso. Worn black jeans clung to his hips and thighs like a second skin before flaring out over his booted calves. Viggo felt his cock stir, and before he could think to look away, Bloom’s large dark eyes met his. Fuck it, he thought.

“You look fit t’be tied,” he drawled, the double entendre hitting him right in the groin.

Bloom’s eyes widened, and he moved forward, the chestnut trailing behind him with a heavy sigh.

“Pissed at myself, yeah?” He jerked a thumb toward the roping ring. “Broke the tape, second time in a fucking week.” He shook his head impatiently. “Woulda been a damned fine run, too.” He laughed mirthlessly at Viggo’s sympathetic look. “As is, I got fuck all to show for things, ‘sides an empty wallet.” The chestnut stamped restlessly beside him. “Hey, hey, ain’t your fault, yeah?” he said softly, running a soothing hand down the dusty copper neck and turning to loosen the cinch. “Was mine. I jumped the gun, not you.” Starting before the calf broke from its chute added penalty time to your run, knocked you clean out of the competition. He continued his soft chatter to the animal, his slow southern voice laced with a unique hint of otherness that Viggo had trouble placing. He shook his head in amusement, tipped his hat in farewell, and strode for the ring and his own day’s work.

~*~

Viggo slid onto the bull’s broad black back, firmly securing the rigging around his hand, reflexively checking its give-and-take with a few quick jerks. It held, and he settled deeper into his seat, wrapping hard-muscled legs around Striker’s barrel in preparation for the battle ahead. It was these last few seconds that were the hardest, those pulse-beats before the gate swung open, in that waiting time between stillness and the explosion of motion to come. He cast a fleeting glance at the crowd before ducking his head, a glimpse of blue plaid and brown curls flashing across his awareness. Swinging metal, and the dance began again.

~*~

Taking a seat at the bar, Viggo hitched his legs up onto the footrest with a grimace. Massaging carefully at his knee, rubbing coaxingly at the stretched ligaments and tattered cartilage, he caught the bartender’s eye. He was just taking the first pull from a frosty bottle of Bach’s when a shadow drifted into view. He looked up into Bloom’s appraising glance.

“Roughstock musta been good to you today.” He nodded toward the Bach’s in Viggo’s hand before looking ruefully at his own can -- Milwaukee’s Best, weak, pale and cheap, with a taste to match.

Viggo nodded absently, lost for a moment in the figure Bloom cut, all caught up in shadow and smoke, the dim light from overhead casting random highlights where his hair wasn’t all covered by his battered Stetson, dark eyes seeming to carry a light of their own. He gave himself a mental shake ( Settle down, old man. He ain’t interested. ) and dragged his eyes out of stare, refocusing his attention into something a shade less lecherous.

“Yeah, kid. Snuck into second with an 84.” He shook his head, a smile touching his lips. “Nice to have a bit of good luck for once.”

“Yeah,…” Bloom nodded, melancholy infusing his tone. “Maybe send a little of that my way, yeah?” He sounded wistful, suddenly, and very, very young. Again, Viggo was struck by notes in his tone he couldn’t quite place, notes that lent the slow drawl a hint of the exotic. It was one more layer, he mused, one more piece to a puzzle he suddenly very much wanted to solve.

Viggo almost reached out for him, had to stop himself midways, stop before he did something dangerous, stop before he gave the game away. Instead, he tried on a smile, feeling the crinkle outlining his eyes, as if skin and muscle were shrugging themselves out of an old, comfortable coat, trying something else on. He decided he liked it.

“Luck, you say?” Viggo thought a moment, absently traced the scar on his lip with one hand, the result of a fall long since lost in the haze of a thousand of its kin. His knee twinged again, chiming in with its own opinion. Have t’get that looked at sometime. Sometime, indeed. Sometime when he had enough gas in the RV, enough food in the cupboards. Sometime when the next week’s entry fee didn’t mean a day’s empty belly. Sometime seemed very far away indeed, most days. He shoved away the frustration, packing it into a far-away corner of his mind. Today, he had a little money in his pocket and a good ride under his belt. Today, a good-looking stranger, all curls and dark eyes, saw fit to share with him a beer and a conversation. Today seemed pretty damned good indeed. He smiled again, spoke in a low voice. “It’ll come, kid. Give it time.”

Bloom’s eyes narrowed; for a moment he looked angry, annoyed. Then, suddenly, he laughed. “Yeah, mate. Wish you’d done told me that this mornin’.”

And it came to Viggo suddenly, that otherness, clicking into place so simply he wondered how it had escaped him before. “English, right?”

Bloom nodded, surprise apparent upon his features. “Canterbury. My parents moved to Texas when I was six; they been ranchin’ outside of Dallas ever since.” He smiled then. "Lucky for me, I’m guessin’. Not much call for rodeo back across the pond.”

“I bet,” Viggo returned his smile, then swore as, in the background, the bartender announced last call.

Bloom eyed him searchingly for a moment, his gaze lingering on Viggo’s face before his hand snaked out under the cover of the barroom shadows. Viggo felt the brush of his fingers, swift and furtive, before the other man drew back with a shy, nervous shrug. Something sparked within Viggo, deep inside, hope’s flame starting a slow, determined kindle. He screwed up his courage, asked in a low, husky voice. “Maybe, if you ain’t ridin’ too early tomorrow, Bloom …”

Bloom’s eyes shone as they caught the dim light, and once more his hand reached, this time stroking a sensuous caress along Viggo’s knuckles. “Oh, well now, even if I was …” What might have followed really didn’t need saying; the language of Bloom’s own hands said all that was needed. Beers full and forgotten on the bar, they rose as one, walking amiably out into the night.

~*~

Viggo fitted the key into the rusty lock, jiggling it impatiently to coax the tumblers into movement. Bloom raised his eyebrows at the clattering rustle behind the door, but before he could comment, Viggo nudged it open. A black and white border collie wagged forward, skittering backward as she scented the stranger. Viggo knelt and held out his hand to her, drawing her forward with soft, gentle reassurance. “Hey now, Brigit, easy there darlin’. That’s it. He not gonna hurt ya none, I promise.” She drew forward cautiously, sniffing at Bloom’s leg and he knelt before her, letting her set the pace of their meeting. He smiled as she licked tentatively at his hand, and Viggo could not suppress his own grin.

“I hadn’t thought of it, you know? Taking my dog with me out here. Sidi’s back on the ranch with my folks …” Bloom said wistfully. “I should bring him along next time.”

“It makes the road a sight less lonely, that’s for sure.” Viggo agreed. He caught his breath as the other reached again for his hands. A low, whispered prayer, trailing off at the end of a gasp. “Bloom …”

“Call me Orlando, Viggo,” was the quiet response, as rough, calloused fingers reached up to reverently touch his face, brushing back an errant lock of hair. Brigit, unnoticed, padded softly away to curl up on a blanket at one end of the RV as Viggo returned the sensuous caress, his fingers running through Orlando’s soft curls. They felt light-springy in his hand, the airy silk-feel of them tickling his palm.

Together, they regained their feet, and as Viggo reached for Orlando’s hand to lead him toward the bed alcove, Orlando stilled their movement. He drew Viggo close, hand again finding his face and holding. He bent his head, and warm, soft lips found Viggo’s own. They pressed and released, quick touches fading into lingering contact. A few beats, and then their tongues joined in, Orlando’s delving to taste the inner recesses of Viggo’s mouth. Viggo’s hands roamed Orlando’s back and shoulders, stroking his spine before pulling him closer still. Hardness met hardness, one soft moan finding its echo.

“I think …” Orlando’s fervent voice began.

“Yeah,” Viggo agreed, and arms still around Orlando, backed him toward the bed. They sank upon it, never ceasing their explorations. Again, their tongues met, not so much dueling as dancing, a giving and sharing between them.

They undressed each other slowly, taking time all the while to linger over each newly-bared surface. Each scar, every callus, was given due attention, worshipped by lips and hands alike.

Viggo uttered a low groan as, at last, Orlando took his weeping cock in hand, his languid strokes stoking the fires between them. His hips bucked, little, involuntary thrusts, then surged forward as Orlando thumbed the slit at the head, swirling the pearlescent fluid.

Shuddering with need, Viggo palmed the curve of Orlando’s ass before easing his fingers into the dark crease at its center. Orlando groaned, pressing back against him.

“Yeah, yeah, like that …” Orlando trailed off as he massaged his perineum. Viggo’s movements stuttered then, as Orlando cupped his balls, and with one swift, limber motion, took Viggo’s cock in his mouth.

For a few moments, there was nothing for Viggo but warm, moist heat and the deep, taut pool of pleasure in his belly. He lingered for an instant on the brink, then drew away, panting.

“Not gonna last if you keep on with what you’re doin’.” He fumbled for the bedside table, opening it with a hasty snatch. He held up his quarry, meeting Orlando’s gaze. A swift kiss answered him, reassured him, and then Orlando rolled onto his belly, legs slightly spread in invitation.

Viggo stroked his hair reverently, taking his time, learning this uncharted landscape. He mapped the lean expanse of Orlando’s back, eyes widening at the thick, ropy scar running down the center. “How?” he breathed.

Orlando craned his neck, looked back at him. “Fell off a green-broke stud three years gone. Broke my back.”

“Shit.” And he leaned down, lapping along its length, soothing the raised skin. Orlando moaned, making low, pleading little sounds, pushing up to rub his backside needily against Viggo’s throbbing length.

Viggo needed no more encouragement. He uncapped the lube, squirting a generous amount of the slippery substance on his fingers. Again, his hands delved into the crease of Orlando’s ass, resuming their massage. Orlando pushed back against him as he found the small, puckered opening and circled one lazy digit around it.

“More, please … mmmmmm.” Orlando’s restless movements brought a slow smile to Viggo’s face, and with gentle force, he eased a single finger inside.

Soon enough, there was room for a second, and Orlando’s low, guttural murmurs were a constant now. Viggo scissored his fingers, stretching and coaxing before pressing deeper still to the hidden nub.

Orlando cried out, hands clutching convulsively at the pillows. “Now, Viggo, please!”

Viggo complied, quickly slipping on a condom and slicking his erection, and, with infinite care, breached the ready opening. Hot, warm tight heat gripped him, vise-like, almost beckoning him inside. He eased in, not wanting to go too far too fast, until, with a sigh of utmost completion, he settled, fully sheathed, against Orlando’s back.

Adapting quickly to the invasion, Orlando was soon moving against him.

They moved together, finding their motions an easy rhythm between them, speed building to a crescendo that peaked, and …

Orlando’s cry of completion split the silence, startling the dozing Brigit, who raised her head. Viggo thrust once, twice more, and came with a hoarse cry of his own.

In the aftermath, Orlando rolled upon his back, fixing Viggo with a lazy smile and a saucy wink. “Yeah, I’m thinkin’ that beats your 84, for sure.”

Viggo’s laughter bubbled forth, and he held Orlando close.

~fin~