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fellowshippers2006-03-23 02:19 pm
sheltiesong.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2006-03-23 02:19 pm
Fic: Enjoy the Ride V/O 1/1
First off, guys, sorry for the last attempt at this. I double-checked cuts as a private entry before posting then, but for some reason, LJ wouldn't recognize ANY of my cuts, not even the no-frills version. So, let's try this again.
Title: Enjoy the Ride
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sheltiesong
Pairing: Viggorli
Rating: NC-17
Series: Second story in my rodeo AU. Follows Ride, which should be read first to avoid confusion.
Summary: There’s much to figure out as a new day dawns, and some work to be done as well.
Warnings: Heavily AU.
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.
Beta: Withoutalliwantisanelf this story would be a 2 ½ page shadow of itself. She never ran out of ideas, never failed to suggest that one thing that would set the story spinning in all the right directions. Thank you for your tireless work despite having a full plate yourself, mellon-nin!
And thank youputerpatty, for fighting off a whole host of grammar gremlins. You tamed the wild comma beast, and anyone who knows me knows what a feat that is. She even suggested the title!.
Archive: Sure. Just let me know where, so I can go visit.
Author's Notes: To mygreensage for her friendship and support. I couldn’t do this without you. *hugs* Thanks too, to xianghua, for her insight into rodeo, and to saraid and ficklemuse for the hours they spent in writeoffs with me this week (not to mention ficklemuse's lj-cut wrangling just now).
~*~
The first rays of dawn kissed the inner nooks of the old RV, painting whimsical shapes upon everything they touched, rainbows cast upon every surface by the spider-veined windows.
For once Viggo Mortensen failed to notice the morning shadowplay. For once, the itch to take pencil to sketchpad or paintbrush to canvas was absent from him. His world consisted only of sweat-damp curls and an angel’s face, of the warm sensation of limbs tangled up in his own and a head pillowed so trustingly upon his shoulder.
As if aware of his attention, Orlando stirred and roused, all soft, sleepy sounds and blinking eyes.
“Mornin’,” he mumbled, fatigue deepening his voice to a raspy rumble. “Time is it?”
Viggo smiled indulgently, running his fingers along the sandpaper stubble of Orlando’s jaw. “’Bout half past five, give or take.”
“Fuck.”
Viggo quirked an eyebrow, smirking, and Orlando swatted his shoulder, sitting up in bed and stretching with a yawn. “Ain’t what I meant, you perverted fuck!” he said with a laugh. He sighed then, peering out the window at the ever-lightening sky. “Ropin’ starts at noon today. I gotta get Torrent into the schooling ring afore then, work the sillies out of him and try to get some calf work in after. Need to go feed him now, if that’s t’happen.”
He threw the quilt from his legs, rising with obvious reluctance, all of his attention still fixed upon Viggo. “You ridin’ today?”
Viggo nodded. “Yeah, that I am. Good draw this time, too. Got Rainmaker.” The bull was a wily old veteran of the rodeo circuit. He was nothing fancy, but he gave a good, honest ride, even if he did tend to make you work for it a bit much.
Whatever else he might have said was curbed then, as Brigit trotted over, eyeing Viggo with abject impatience. “Hungry darlin’, huh?” She spun a circle, the soft tugging sounds of her claws snagging the threadbare carpet not quite masking the rumble of Orlando’s stomach.
Orlando’s mouth opened and closed for a moment, no sound coming forth, before his laughter escaped, a bright flush staining his cheeks.
Viggo moved to the well-worn kitchen-nook cabinets, pulling out a half-empty bag of Innova and pouring some into Brigit’s bowl before opening the fridge and peering inside.
“’Fraid I ain’t got much to offer in the way of breakfast. Money’s been tight for a spell, and Brigit’s needs come before mine.” He gestured vaguely at the bag of kibble, its packaging alone implying its rather significant price. “I got eggs and toast, and more eggs and toast, but I’d be more’n happy to cook.”
“Hey, it’s food, ain’t it? Fella’s got no right to complain, especially if he’s not doin’ the cooking. Let me just run across the way, get that crazy stud of mine grained, yeah?”
“Of course.” And with a quick, shy kiss, almost chaste, Orlando strode out the door.
~*~
Viggo dashed salt and pepper on the eggs with a practiced hand, leaving them to slow-cook and setting the bread in the toaster to brown. He carried on a one-sided conversation with Brigit as he worked, the dog on his heels in patient waiting for the slightest dropped bit of food.
“Silly bitch you are, darlin’,” he chucked fondly. “You eat better ‘n I do, and here you are, beggin’ as if I starve you!” He gently ruffled her ears before turning back to the eggs; one deft flick of his wrist sent them briefly airborne before he caught them in the pan once more.
Brigit gave a low, sudden rumble, her posture turning to alertness, head low, gaze intent on the door.
Viggo settled her, an easy gesture of his hand telling her to stay where she was. Gotta be him. He turned the doorknob even as he felt the first faint vibrations of hard-heeled boots on the rickety steps
Orlando blinked owlishly up at him, still climbing the stairs. “What the hell? You ain’t been standin’ at the door the whole time, have you??”
“Doorbell,” Viggo grinned, pointing at Brigit as she crept closer to renew her tentative acquaintance with Orlando. He waved a hand toward the small benches and table set in next to the kitchen area. “Sit down. Grub’s just about ready.” Sliding a steaming egg onto each piece of toast, he brought the laden plates and utensils to the table, went back for a jar of instant coffee and steaming mugs of hot water.
Viggo took his seat, and Orlando raised startled eyes as their legs knocked unavoidably under the table, spaces intimate-tight in the small confines of the dining area. He smiled, the shyness leaving his face to be eclipsed by something bolder, and he scooted forward a bit, legs pressing tight against Viggo’s own. He raised a forkful of egg-soaked toast to his mouth, savoring the first warm bite. The tip of his tongue slipped out just a bit from between his lips, capturing a stray crumb, and his eyes closed in a way Viggo found unspeakably erotic.
Orlando swallowed, smiling his thanks. “Wow, this is really good, Vig.”
Viggo shrugged off-handedly. “Just eggs. Wasn’t too hard.” He hesitated, held his breath a moment before pressing forward just a bit. “Been on the circuit long?” The young roper had been making a name for himself of late, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Many drifted along the circuit, like Viggo, careers lingering in relative obscurity. Many languished for awhile before blazing suddenly bright, everything falling into place like so many pieces of a child’s jigsaw puzzle. And some burned fiercely, straight on, the lucky few.
“’Bout six months now, give ‘r take. A lot of that was spent breakin’ colts before the season started proper. The next six months’ll make or break me though.”
Viggo blinked and looked at him askance. Orlando laughed, a dry, brittle sound devoid of his earlier good humor. “You don’t think I ain’t heard what they been sayin’ about me, Viggo? Rich pansy boy playin’ at rodeo on his mum and da’s money?” He shook his head, the hurt clear in his eyes. He laughed again, dryer still, then choked it off. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt so much if it wasn’t true. They gimme gas for the rig, feed for Torrent, put me up in a motel most nights too, but they ain’t gonna do that much longer. Got another six months to start makin’ this earn my keep, an’ then I gotta hotfoot it back to Dallas and work the ranch.” He paused, ducking his head as if afraid to look Viggo in the eye. “Sorry, Vig, I don’t mean to whine none.” Not to a guy who’s gotta make his own way, no matter how damned hard, went unsaid. He fingered the cracked, worn table with one hand, his breakfast momentarily forgotten.
“Hey, hey now,” Viggo soothed, reaching to still the wandering hand, stroking it in comfort. “Feelings ain’t wrong, kid. They just, I dunno … are. ”
They stayed like that for a long moment as Orlando slowly pulled himself back together. He graced Viggo with a small, grateful smile, gripped his stroking fingers with his free hand, palm warm and callused hard by long years of holding a rein.
A comfortable silence fell between them then, with all around them fading, spaces contracting till all that existed in those seconds was the soft contact of hand on hand. It was a spell too quickly broken by an insistent nudge from Brigit.
Viggo started, looking down at her and laughing with soft fondness. “I swear, Orlando.
All the money I spend on her food, an’ it never stops her from insistin’ on her right to lick the plate.” She was far too well-trained to try to beg food from the table, but she was never above telling her human to hurry up.
“Guess we’d better be listenin’ to her then, yeah?” And with one more squeeze of Viggo’s fingers, he reclaimed his hands. They resumed their meal, yet could not help their pauses, smiles and tender touches interspersed with casual conversation as they ate.
Viggo found himself letting down his guard, the high, invisible barricades he kept wrapped securely around his psyche fading to gradual nothingness. He shared his boyhood dreams and his adult hardships, let slip his joys and his sorrows with an ease that gave him pause. The familiar, welcome weight of a sketchbook in his lap, the long, exhausting hours on the ranch back home in Idaho during the off-season, as he worked and scrimped and saved to put himself through another season on the circuit. Even the whispered, close-held confession of his lonely nights in the old RV with Brigit his solitary companion. He stopped at that, schooling himself to quiet. Too much said too soon.
In the sudden, silent space, Orlando pushed his empty plate away and wrapped his hands around the warm coffee mug. He looked suddenly uncomfortable, his expression shadowed with shyness once more. Captivating, that, how quickly his emotions shifted, everything he felt writ large upon his face.
“Orlando?” Viggo asked softly, concerned. Pensive brown eyes stared back at him, large and uncertain.
“Time’s getting away from me, an’ Torrent ain’t gonna school himself. I guess … guess this is it, yeah?” he asked. His voice broke, his reluctance dripping from his tongue. “I have my work an’ you have yours and tonight we’ll be on the road again.” He looked sad and so lonely, and Viggo felt hope surge inside of him.
“I reckon it is, unless.…” He swallowed audibly, gathered the scraps of his courage about him. “Unless you don’t want it to be.”
The forceful claiming of his lips was all the answer he needed.
~*~
Viggo took a deep breath, scanning the stands for an out of the way spot. Wouldn’t do to be too visible, too in your face, invite too damned many questions. He could almost hear the boys now, the chorus resounding in his head where no earplugs might block them.
“Watchin’ THOSE pussies, Mort? What the damn fuck is wrong with you?”
“What the hell, Mortensen? That ain’t real rodeo. Why waste your time?”
“Pampered pretty boys. Wouldn’t know real work if’n it bit ‘em in the ass.
Okay, maybe their reaction wouldn’t be that extreme. Most of ‘em had grown up working cattle, knew the value of the ropers’ trade in practical work. But still … they wouldn’t get it, no. Not right away. And questions all too quickly led to answers, answers he didn’t want to give. Answers that could get him hurt. Answers that could get Orlando hurt. And so he stuck to the shadows, forsaking the closer seats and the view they offered. He had Brigit’s leash in hand, a rag and a tin of neat’s-foot oil in his pocket. He climbed, found a deserted section of bench up in the nosebleed seats. Idly, he dipped the rag in oil, drawing it across the supple leather leash, schooling his features to disinterest as the roping began below.
~*~
Motions calm and unhurried, anxiety unbetrayed, Viggo set the leash beside him and closed the oil, his gaze caught down to the ring as Orlando and Torrent moved into position.
The Quarter Horse was a far different creature than the placid, almost lazy animal of yesterday afternoon. He stood now behind the barrier, head high, ears pricked, muscles all a-quiver.
Orlando, too, looked tense, the lines of his face set as he held the stud in check. From his distant vantage point, Viggo saw the calf break. In the next instant, Torrent leaped after, muscles bunching and releasing as the dust stirred into his chestnut coat. One, two, three blinks, and Orlando cast his rope, the wide loop hovering for an agonizing instant before settling into place around the calf’s neck.
Torrent skidded to a halt, backing quickly to draw the rope tight as Orlando leapt from his back and scurried toward the struggling calf. With a strength Viggo found startling from Orlando’s light frame, he lifted the animal, setting him with gentle force on his side. A quick tie, almost too fast for the eye to follow, and he threw his hands up with a flourish. 8.1! Viggo ducked his head to hide the broad grin splitting his face. Orlando had slipped into first place, but it was early enough in the go-round. Could it hold?
He picked up the lead again, rag bringing out the burnished mahogany sheen unique to old, quality leather. Just as well Brigit seldom needed the restraint for she was strangely attracted to the taste of neat’s-foot oil. Oh well, it’d be a few days on before he’d have to seek out a town to stock up for the next week’s journeying, a few days before she’d need the confinement of leash and collar. Thoughts distant, stolen by the sight of Orlando, all tense and waiting by the ring, by close calls and near misses on the big scoreboard, Viggo kept his vigil.
~*~
Now, now, mustn’t seem too happy, old man. He settled into place on Rainmaker’s broad back, attention only half on his rigging as he fixed his grip. What you got to be grinnin’ about, ‘cording to these guys? Time enough to let the laughter loose when you make the ride, an’ not a second before.
The bull moved restlessly beneath him, all hunched muscle and coiled energy, the hump of his shoulders a familiar pressure against Viggo’s belly. His left knee twinged warningly, but that, too, was a familiar presence. Damned thing never had been quite right since he’d torn the ACL at Mesquite five seasons back. It didn’t matter any, not today. He gave himself a mental shake, firm focus pulling his head from the clouds and Orlando’s winning joy.
The shift from the waiting stillness to the harsh, explosive motion of a bucking bull was, as always, shocking.
One second …
Viggo hung on grimly, Rainmaker turning into his hand as the seconds swept by with infinitesimal slowness.
Three seconds ...
The big bull uncoiled from his circle, crowhopping harmlessly a few steps across the arena. His head tossed in his annoyance. It was moments like these, these little lapses in concentration, that kept Rainmaker from true greatness as a bucking bull.
Four seconds …
Time to get busy, old man.
Viggo unclenched his left leg slightly, dug in his boot heel and a bit of spur. C’mon, you lazy bastard, fucking MOVE! His knee chimed in more harshly now, dull ache rising to a throbbing clamor, but dammit, if he could only .… He raised his free arm higher, waving, anything to jazz up the show and wheedle one more point from the judges.
Six seconds …
With one last grunt of defiance, Rainmaker moved away from the spur, turned into his hand again, catching Viggo inexorably in the lumbering tornado of his movement. He rode it out, moving with the jarring up-and-down of each buck, infusing it with every hard-earned trick of showmanship in his repertoire.
Seven seconds …
His knee positively seared now, wavered, threatened to quit on him clean through. Not much longer. Thoughts of accomplishment, of success. Of money in his hand and of Orlando’s victorious embrace. Got a hell of a ride goin’, if I can just … hang … on.
Eight seconds!
Viggo slipped his hand from the rigging, bailed off the bull’s side. His knee shot streaks of fire up his leg as he landed, buckling beneath his weight. The bullfighters swept in, harried the bull away from him, clown makeup starting a colorful drip-drip in the heat of the southwestern sun. Viggo hopped more than limped for the rail, hitching himself up and over and grimacing as he landed, hand already going to the injured leg. A few beats, and the crowd’s roar sounded anew.
He barely registered the clap to his shoulders, Cody MacNamara shaking him fit to make his teeth rattle. He winced, raised bleary, disbelieving eyes.
“That’s a 92 for Viggo Mortensen, on Rainmaker. Got a new high man on the leaderboard, gals and gents!” came the announcer’s deep-voiced confirmation.
Don’t that beat all.… rang the dazed thought in his head.
“Hey, you okay there, Mort? You’re white as a Goddamned sheet!” Cody Mac eyed him with concern.
“Knee again,” he muttered. “Leave it go. I’ll ice it out back.” He hooked a thumb in the general vicinity of the old RV. “I’ll jus’ set here a bit, make sure my ride holds.”
Cody Mac nodded, satisfied. Pain don’t matter, was the code they all lived by. A rider who let injury stop him from competing seldom lasted long enough to truly compete at all. If it didn’t require stitches or a cast, or going under a surgeon’s knife, then it didn’t really count.
~*~
A short while later, as he limped slowly back to the RV, check and a new belt-buckle clutched in hand, he had time to wish he hadn’t been quite so cavalier. Damned knee hurt like a sonofabitch.
“Vig?” Orlando’s soft, questioning voice drifted into his ear as he reached the first motley rank of trailers, RVs and campers. He fell into step beside him, reaching out to touch his elbow with one gentle hand. “You okay?” he asked, and then he shook his head. “I had to help one of the boys doctor his mare’s gashed shoulder, or I’d have caught your ride.” Guilt colored his tone. “Steer spun into her during the bulldogging, and the vet’s already dealing with a colic.”
“Hey, now,” Viggo said softly. “You’re workin’ yourself into a state over nothin’, there. The mare needed help, and ‘sides, fewer heads to wag like this.” He gestured to the RV, visible down the way, and as he did, his belt-buckle prize caught the sunlight. Orlando grinned, broad, easy, glad.
“Hey, y’got it! That’s fine, real fine.” He sobered then. “But you’re a little worse for wear, yeah?” His brows knit.
“Damned knee’s acting up again. It’ll settle down some, with ice. Ain’t anything unusual.” He limped at Orlando’s side, and Orlando slipped a supportive hand under his arm, pleasure-touch in the guise of aid.
Orlando paused when Viggo would have climbed the RV steps, stilling him. “Keys?” he asked, and gaining them unlocked the door.
Brigit scurried out, whining anxiously at Viggo’s preemptive, “Settle, darlin’.” Weight all on one leg, he leaned down to stroke her ears, reassure her, and she calmed.
Leaning into Orlando’s eager support, Viggo eased himself up the stairs, letting Orlando close the door behind them and lead him the few short paces to the bed. He sat with a wince.
“Here, let’s get those off, now,” Orlando said, tugging at the waistband of Viggo’s faded Levis. He snorted at Viggo’s suggestive gaze. “Yeah, I knew you were a perverted fuck.”
“You’re callin’ me a perverted fuck when you’re the one askin’ me to shuck my jeans?” He smiled, amused. “Well, now, since you asked so nicely …”
Unbuttoning his shirt, he cast it aside, the heat in the trailer too oppressive for unnecessary layers. He took a moment to flick on the bedside fan, then popped the button of his faded dungarees loose from its catch, slowly, drawing it out as he held Orlando’s gaze, easing them down his thighs with a wink before sucking in a hissed, pained breath. Orlando steadied him, all humor gone as he helped Viggo coax the heavy fabric over a knee gone all swollen and tender, eased the underwear off as well, and then it was his turn to suck in a breath of his own. “Holy Hell, Viggo!” His hand hovered over the injury, shy to touch the skin, all scars and dents and deep, livid bruising. “How hard you come down?”
“Wasn’t that. It just goes out on me once in awhile, is all.”
Orlando turned, shoulders tight, and opened the freezer door, fishing out an ice-laden Ziplock. “Got an ace bandage anywhere?”
Viggo pointed to a cabinet in the small bathroom nook, accepted the bandage and the bag of ice, and a few Advil besides, dry-swallowing them with a casualness born of long practice. With a few muffled curses, he settled the bag around his knee, twined the bandage around thigh and shin, his lip only a little worse for the biting. He leaned back with a sigh, letting the ice do its work, and held up a hand before Orlando could join him on the bed.
“Do me a favor first?”
“Course I will.”
Viggo handed him the belt buckle, a shining, twisting silver bronc fair leaping from its face. “Can ya set that and the neat’s foot up on the shelf there? And toss Brigit’s leash in the basket by the door? Leash’ll be half-chawed through and useless if we give ‘er a chance to have a go at it. Crazy bitch loves the taste of neat’s foot oil.”
Orlando laughed, quickly putting away each thing before sitting cautiously on the bed, careful not to jostle Viggo’s leg. He lifted a hand, gently tracing the outline of Viggo’s jaw with his knuckles. Soft, subvocal murmurs met his tender caress, and Viggo leaned forward, drawing close their heads.
“You got me a little when it comes to coverin’s, Orlando.” He pulled gently at Orlando’s button-down, stroked a hand along where the Levis curved at his thigh.
“Well, that’ll be easy enough to remedy, won’t it?” He stood, pulling the shirt up over his head, not bothering to unbutton it, blushing at Viggo’s avid gaze before his jeans quickly followed.
He joined him on the bed again, resting his forehead upon Viggo’s own. Their lips met, played together, sometimes chasing, sometimes chased, yet always hungry. Viggo traced the silk outside with the tip of his tongue. Then, with gentle persistence, he lay claim to the velvet interior.
They kissed for a long while, hands roaming contours charted only yesterday. Orlando squirmed, a giggle escaping as Viggo’s hands played along his ribs with fleeting touches.
“A mite ticklish, are you now?” His dared another touch before Orlando pressed him back into the pillows.
“No, no, Vig. Ain’t a good idea right now. I won’t risk that knee.” A wicked smile came to him then, and he moved a bit further down the bed. “But I’m bettin’ you might like this.” And suddenly as that he ducked his head, nuzzling at Viggo’s cock and sac like a pet begging caresses from its master
Viggo yelped, moved a bit before his knee thought better of it, and Orlando pressed one hand hard against his hip. “You jus’ set tight, Vig; don’t you even think about moving that knee. Just enjoy the ride, yeah?” And then his mouth was too full of Viggo’s cock to say more.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” Viggo said and he was thankful then for the pressure of Orlando’s hand against him. His head may have been telling him to sit still, may not have wanted to jar his damned knee, but his hips had ideas of their own.
Long, slow licks and sly little almost-nibbles slowly coaxed the shaft to hardness, and Orlando went down upon the head, a gentle suction that sent waves of pleasure sparking from cock to brain and back again. Viggo closed his eyes, fingers carding through Orlando’s dark curls as he made pleased little whimpering sounds in the back of his throat.
Orlando’s head was bobbing now, up and down the shaft as he took Viggo deep into his throat, free hand busy with his sac, squeezing it gently and rolling it in his palm.
It was maddening, really, this slow, sensuous slide, this enforced stillness. Sensations built gradually, banking high like a fuel-fed blaze.
“Ungh … not … not gonna last much longer.” And Orlando began his assault anew, redoubling his efforts till Viggo felt what was left of his mind fracture, spin into a million pieces traveling in a thousand different directions.
His balls tightened in warning, and with one final almost-thrust, he came hard down Orlando’s throat, feeling him swallow down all he could give him.
As Viggo rode out the aftershocks, Orlando moved back up the bed, smiling. Viggo kissed him softly, stroking his cheek fondly and tasting himself on Orlando’s tongue.
“Feeling better now, huh?”
“Oh yeah, ain’t that the truth.” Viggo’s tone was relaxation at its purest, drowsy and slow.
Orlando smiled again, made sure that the ice was whole and there on Viggo’s knee. “I oughta check in on Torrent in couple hours or so, maybe grab us some supper, but I’m all yours till then.”
Viggo smiled through his sleepiness and let Orlando snuggle down beside him. Oh, I’m hopin’ for a bit longer ‘n that, kid. A fair bit longer. He let his eyes drift shut, the pain in his battered knee, if not forgotten, easily ignored.
Title: Enjoy the Ride
Author:
sheltiesong Pairing: Viggorli
Rating: NC-17
Series: Second story in my rodeo AU. Follows Ride, which should be read first to avoid confusion.
Summary: There’s much to figure out as a new day dawns, and some work to be done as well.
Warnings: Heavily AU.
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.
Beta: Without
alliwantisanelf this story would be a 2 ½ page shadow of itself. She never ran out of ideas, never failed to suggest that one thing that would set the story spinning in all the right directions. Thank you for your tireless work despite having a full plate yourself, mellon-nin!And thank you
puterpatty, for fighting off a whole host of grammar gremlins. You tamed the wild comma beast, and anyone who knows me knows what a feat that is. She even suggested the title!.Archive: Sure. Just let me know where, so I can go visit.
Author's Notes: To my
greensage for her friendship and support. I couldn’t do this without you. *hugs* Thanks too, to xianghua, for her insight into rodeo, and to saraid and ficklemuse for the hours they spent in writeoffs with me this week (not to mention ficklemuse's lj-cut wrangling just now). ~*~
The first rays of dawn kissed the inner nooks of the old RV, painting whimsical shapes upon everything they touched, rainbows cast upon every surface by the spider-veined windows.
For once Viggo Mortensen failed to notice the morning shadowplay. For once, the itch to take pencil to sketchpad or paintbrush to canvas was absent from him. His world consisted only of sweat-damp curls and an angel’s face, of the warm sensation of limbs tangled up in his own and a head pillowed so trustingly upon his shoulder.
As if aware of his attention, Orlando stirred and roused, all soft, sleepy sounds and blinking eyes.
“Mornin’,” he mumbled, fatigue deepening his voice to a raspy rumble. “Time is it?”
Viggo smiled indulgently, running his fingers along the sandpaper stubble of Orlando’s jaw. “’Bout half past five, give or take.”
“Fuck.”
Viggo quirked an eyebrow, smirking, and Orlando swatted his shoulder, sitting up in bed and stretching with a yawn. “Ain’t what I meant, you perverted fuck!” he said with a laugh. He sighed then, peering out the window at the ever-lightening sky. “Ropin’ starts at noon today. I gotta get Torrent into the schooling ring afore then, work the sillies out of him and try to get some calf work in after. Need to go feed him now, if that’s t’happen.”
He threw the quilt from his legs, rising with obvious reluctance, all of his attention still fixed upon Viggo. “You ridin’ today?”
Viggo nodded. “Yeah, that I am. Good draw this time, too. Got Rainmaker.” The bull was a wily old veteran of the rodeo circuit. He was nothing fancy, but he gave a good, honest ride, even if he did tend to make you work for it a bit much.
Whatever else he might have said was curbed then, as Brigit trotted over, eyeing Viggo with abject impatience. “Hungry darlin’, huh?” She spun a circle, the soft tugging sounds of her claws snagging the threadbare carpet not quite masking the rumble of Orlando’s stomach.
Orlando’s mouth opened and closed for a moment, no sound coming forth, before his laughter escaped, a bright flush staining his cheeks.
Viggo moved to the well-worn kitchen-nook cabinets, pulling out a half-empty bag of Innova and pouring some into Brigit’s bowl before opening the fridge and peering inside.
“’Fraid I ain’t got much to offer in the way of breakfast. Money’s been tight for a spell, and Brigit’s needs come before mine.” He gestured vaguely at the bag of kibble, its packaging alone implying its rather significant price. “I got eggs and toast, and more eggs and toast, but I’d be more’n happy to cook.”
“Hey, it’s food, ain’t it? Fella’s got no right to complain, especially if he’s not doin’ the cooking. Let me just run across the way, get that crazy stud of mine grained, yeah?”
“Of course.” And with a quick, shy kiss, almost chaste, Orlando strode out the door.
~*~
Viggo dashed salt and pepper on the eggs with a practiced hand, leaving them to slow-cook and setting the bread in the toaster to brown. He carried on a one-sided conversation with Brigit as he worked, the dog on his heels in patient waiting for the slightest dropped bit of food.
“Silly bitch you are, darlin’,” he chucked fondly. “You eat better ‘n I do, and here you are, beggin’ as if I starve you!” He gently ruffled her ears before turning back to the eggs; one deft flick of his wrist sent them briefly airborne before he caught them in the pan once more.
Brigit gave a low, sudden rumble, her posture turning to alertness, head low, gaze intent on the door.
Viggo settled her, an easy gesture of his hand telling her to stay where she was. Gotta be him. He turned the doorknob even as he felt the first faint vibrations of hard-heeled boots on the rickety steps
Orlando blinked owlishly up at him, still climbing the stairs. “What the hell? You ain’t been standin’ at the door the whole time, have you??”
“Doorbell,” Viggo grinned, pointing at Brigit as she crept closer to renew her tentative acquaintance with Orlando. He waved a hand toward the small benches and table set in next to the kitchen area. “Sit down. Grub’s just about ready.” Sliding a steaming egg onto each piece of toast, he brought the laden plates and utensils to the table, went back for a jar of instant coffee and steaming mugs of hot water.
Viggo took his seat, and Orlando raised startled eyes as their legs knocked unavoidably under the table, spaces intimate-tight in the small confines of the dining area. He smiled, the shyness leaving his face to be eclipsed by something bolder, and he scooted forward a bit, legs pressing tight against Viggo’s own. He raised a forkful of egg-soaked toast to his mouth, savoring the first warm bite. The tip of his tongue slipped out just a bit from between his lips, capturing a stray crumb, and his eyes closed in a way Viggo found unspeakably erotic.
Orlando swallowed, smiling his thanks. “Wow, this is really good, Vig.”
Viggo shrugged off-handedly. “Just eggs. Wasn’t too hard.” He hesitated, held his breath a moment before pressing forward just a bit. “Been on the circuit long?” The young roper had been making a name for himself of late, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Many drifted along the circuit, like Viggo, careers lingering in relative obscurity. Many languished for awhile before blazing suddenly bright, everything falling into place like so many pieces of a child’s jigsaw puzzle. And some burned fiercely, straight on, the lucky few.
“’Bout six months now, give ‘r take. A lot of that was spent breakin’ colts before the season started proper. The next six months’ll make or break me though.”
Viggo blinked and looked at him askance. Orlando laughed, a dry, brittle sound devoid of his earlier good humor. “You don’t think I ain’t heard what they been sayin’ about me, Viggo? Rich pansy boy playin’ at rodeo on his mum and da’s money?” He shook his head, the hurt clear in his eyes. He laughed again, dryer still, then choked it off. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt so much if it wasn’t true. They gimme gas for the rig, feed for Torrent, put me up in a motel most nights too, but they ain’t gonna do that much longer. Got another six months to start makin’ this earn my keep, an’ then I gotta hotfoot it back to Dallas and work the ranch.” He paused, ducking his head as if afraid to look Viggo in the eye. “Sorry, Vig, I don’t mean to whine none.” Not to a guy who’s gotta make his own way, no matter how damned hard, went unsaid. He fingered the cracked, worn table with one hand, his breakfast momentarily forgotten.
“Hey, hey now,” Viggo soothed, reaching to still the wandering hand, stroking it in comfort. “Feelings ain’t wrong, kid. They just, I dunno … are. ”
They stayed like that for a long moment as Orlando slowly pulled himself back together. He graced Viggo with a small, grateful smile, gripped his stroking fingers with his free hand, palm warm and callused hard by long years of holding a rein.
A comfortable silence fell between them then, with all around them fading, spaces contracting till all that existed in those seconds was the soft contact of hand on hand. It was a spell too quickly broken by an insistent nudge from Brigit.
Viggo started, looking down at her and laughing with soft fondness. “I swear, Orlando.
All the money I spend on her food, an’ it never stops her from insistin’ on her right to lick the plate.” She was far too well-trained to try to beg food from the table, but she was never above telling her human to hurry up.
“Guess we’d better be listenin’ to her then, yeah?” And with one more squeeze of Viggo’s fingers, he reclaimed his hands. They resumed their meal, yet could not help their pauses, smiles and tender touches interspersed with casual conversation as they ate.
Viggo found himself letting down his guard, the high, invisible barricades he kept wrapped securely around his psyche fading to gradual nothingness. He shared his boyhood dreams and his adult hardships, let slip his joys and his sorrows with an ease that gave him pause. The familiar, welcome weight of a sketchbook in his lap, the long, exhausting hours on the ranch back home in Idaho during the off-season, as he worked and scrimped and saved to put himself through another season on the circuit. Even the whispered, close-held confession of his lonely nights in the old RV with Brigit his solitary companion. He stopped at that, schooling himself to quiet. Too much said too soon.
In the sudden, silent space, Orlando pushed his empty plate away and wrapped his hands around the warm coffee mug. He looked suddenly uncomfortable, his expression shadowed with shyness once more. Captivating, that, how quickly his emotions shifted, everything he felt writ large upon his face.
“Orlando?” Viggo asked softly, concerned. Pensive brown eyes stared back at him, large and uncertain.
“Time’s getting away from me, an’ Torrent ain’t gonna school himself. I guess … guess this is it, yeah?” he asked. His voice broke, his reluctance dripping from his tongue. “I have my work an’ you have yours and tonight we’ll be on the road again.” He looked sad and so lonely, and Viggo felt hope surge inside of him.
“I reckon it is, unless.…” He swallowed audibly, gathered the scraps of his courage about him. “Unless you don’t want it to be.”
The forceful claiming of his lips was all the answer he needed.
~*~
Viggo took a deep breath, scanning the stands for an out of the way spot. Wouldn’t do to be too visible, too in your face, invite too damned many questions. He could almost hear the boys now, the chorus resounding in his head where no earplugs might block them.
“Watchin’ THOSE pussies, Mort? What the damn fuck is wrong with you?”
“What the hell, Mortensen? That ain’t real rodeo. Why waste your time?”
“Pampered pretty boys. Wouldn’t know real work if’n it bit ‘em in the ass.
Okay, maybe their reaction wouldn’t be that extreme. Most of ‘em had grown up working cattle, knew the value of the ropers’ trade in practical work. But still … they wouldn’t get it, no. Not right away. And questions all too quickly led to answers, answers he didn’t want to give. Answers that could get him hurt. Answers that could get Orlando hurt. And so he stuck to the shadows, forsaking the closer seats and the view they offered. He had Brigit’s leash in hand, a rag and a tin of neat’s-foot oil in his pocket. He climbed, found a deserted section of bench up in the nosebleed seats. Idly, he dipped the rag in oil, drawing it across the supple leather leash, schooling his features to disinterest as the roping began below.
~*~
Motions calm and unhurried, anxiety unbetrayed, Viggo set the leash beside him and closed the oil, his gaze caught down to the ring as Orlando and Torrent moved into position.
The Quarter Horse was a far different creature than the placid, almost lazy animal of yesterday afternoon. He stood now behind the barrier, head high, ears pricked, muscles all a-quiver.
Orlando, too, looked tense, the lines of his face set as he held the stud in check. From his distant vantage point, Viggo saw the calf break. In the next instant, Torrent leaped after, muscles bunching and releasing as the dust stirred into his chestnut coat. One, two, three blinks, and Orlando cast his rope, the wide loop hovering for an agonizing instant before settling into place around the calf’s neck.
Torrent skidded to a halt, backing quickly to draw the rope tight as Orlando leapt from his back and scurried toward the struggling calf. With a strength Viggo found startling from Orlando’s light frame, he lifted the animal, setting him with gentle force on his side. A quick tie, almost too fast for the eye to follow, and he threw his hands up with a flourish. 8.1! Viggo ducked his head to hide the broad grin splitting his face. Orlando had slipped into first place, but it was early enough in the go-round. Could it hold?
He picked up the lead again, rag bringing out the burnished mahogany sheen unique to old, quality leather. Just as well Brigit seldom needed the restraint for she was strangely attracted to the taste of neat’s-foot oil. Oh well, it’d be a few days on before he’d have to seek out a town to stock up for the next week’s journeying, a few days before she’d need the confinement of leash and collar. Thoughts distant, stolen by the sight of Orlando, all tense and waiting by the ring, by close calls and near misses on the big scoreboard, Viggo kept his vigil.
~*~
Now, now, mustn’t seem too happy, old man. He settled into place on Rainmaker’s broad back, attention only half on his rigging as he fixed his grip. What you got to be grinnin’ about, ‘cording to these guys? Time enough to let the laughter loose when you make the ride, an’ not a second before.
The bull moved restlessly beneath him, all hunched muscle and coiled energy, the hump of his shoulders a familiar pressure against Viggo’s belly. His left knee twinged warningly, but that, too, was a familiar presence. Damned thing never had been quite right since he’d torn the ACL at Mesquite five seasons back. It didn’t matter any, not today. He gave himself a mental shake, firm focus pulling his head from the clouds and Orlando’s winning joy.
The shift from the waiting stillness to the harsh, explosive motion of a bucking bull was, as always, shocking.
One second …
Viggo hung on grimly, Rainmaker turning into his hand as the seconds swept by with infinitesimal slowness.
Three seconds ...
The big bull uncoiled from his circle, crowhopping harmlessly a few steps across the arena. His head tossed in his annoyance. It was moments like these, these little lapses in concentration, that kept Rainmaker from true greatness as a bucking bull.
Four seconds …
Time to get busy, old man.
Viggo unclenched his left leg slightly, dug in his boot heel and a bit of spur. C’mon, you lazy bastard, fucking MOVE! His knee chimed in more harshly now, dull ache rising to a throbbing clamor, but dammit, if he could only .… He raised his free arm higher, waving, anything to jazz up the show and wheedle one more point from the judges.
Six seconds …
With one last grunt of defiance, Rainmaker moved away from the spur, turned into his hand again, catching Viggo inexorably in the lumbering tornado of his movement. He rode it out, moving with the jarring up-and-down of each buck, infusing it with every hard-earned trick of showmanship in his repertoire.
Seven seconds …
His knee positively seared now, wavered, threatened to quit on him clean through. Not much longer. Thoughts of accomplishment, of success. Of money in his hand and of Orlando’s victorious embrace. Got a hell of a ride goin’, if I can just … hang … on.
Eight seconds!
Viggo slipped his hand from the rigging, bailed off the bull’s side. His knee shot streaks of fire up his leg as he landed, buckling beneath his weight. The bullfighters swept in, harried the bull away from him, clown makeup starting a colorful drip-drip in the heat of the southwestern sun. Viggo hopped more than limped for the rail, hitching himself up and over and grimacing as he landed, hand already going to the injured leg. A few beats, and the crowd’s roar sounded anew.
He barely registered the clap to his shoulders, Cody MacNamara shaking him fit to make his teeth rattle. He winced, raised bleary, disbelieving eyes.
“That’s a 92 for Viggo Mortensen, on Rainmaker. Got a new high man on the leaderboard, gals and gents!” came the announcer’s deep-voiced confirmation.
Don’t that beat all.… rang the dazed thought in his head.
“Hey, you okay there, Mort? You’re white as a Goddamned sheet!” Cody Mac eyed him with concern.
“Knee again,” he muttered. “Leave it go. I’ll ice it out back.” He hooked a thumb in the general vicinity of the old RV. “I’ll jus’ set here a bit, make sure my ride holds.”
Cody Mac nodded, satisfied. Pain don’t matter, was the code they all lived by. A rider who let injury stop him from competing seldom lasted long enough to truly compete at all. If it didn’t require stitches or a cast, or going under a surgeon’s knife, then it didn’t really count.
~*~
A short while later, as he limped slowly back to the RV, check and a new belt-buckle clutched in hand, he had time to wish he hadn’t been quite so cavalier. Damned knee hurt like a sonofabitch.
“Vig?” Orlando’s soft, questioning voice drifted into his ear as he reached the first motley rank of trailers, RVs and campers. He fell into step beside him, reaching out to touch his elbow with one gentle hand. “You okay?” he asked, and then he shook his head. “I had to help one of the boys doctor his mare’s gashed shoulder, or I’d have caught your ride.” Guilt colored his tone. “Steer spun into her during the bulldogging, and the vet’s already dealing with a colic.”
“Hey, now,” Viggo said softly. “You’re workin’ yourself into a state over nothin’, there. The mare needed help, and ‘sides, fewer heads to wag like this.” He gestured to the RV, visible down the way, and as he did, his belt-buckle prize caught the sunlight. Orlando grinned, broad, easy, glad.
“Hey, y’got it! That’s fine, real fine.” He sobered then. “But you’re a little worse for wear, yeah?” His brows knit.
“Damned knee’s acting up again. It’ll settle down some, with ice. Ain’t anything unusual.” He limped at Orlando’s side, and Orlando slipped a supportive hand under his arm, pleasure-touch in the guise of aid.
Orlando paused when Viggo would have climbed the RV steps, stilling him. “Keys?” he asked, and gaining them unlocked the door.
Brigit scurried out, whining anxiously at Viggo’s preemptive, “Settle, darlin’.” Weight all on one leg, he leaned down to stroke her ears, reassure her, and she calmed.
Leaning into Orlando’s eager support, Viggo eased himself up the stairs, letting Orlando close the door behind them and lead him the few short paces to the bed. He sat with a wince.
“Here, let’s get those off, now,” Orlando said, tugging at the waistband of Viggo’s faded Levis. He snorted at Viggo’s suggestive gaze. “Yeah, I knew you were a perverted fuck.”
“You’re callin’ me a perverted fuck when you’re the one askin’ me to shuck my jeans?” He smiled, amused. “Well, now, since you asked so nicely …”
Unbuttoning his shirt, he cast it aside, the heat in the trailer too oppressive for unnecessary layers. He took a moment to flick on the bedside fan, then popped the button of his faded dungarees loose from its catch, slowly, drawing it out as he held Orlando’s gaze, easing them down his thighs with a wink before sucking in a hissed, pained breath. Orlando steadied him, all humor gone as he helped Viggo coax the heavy fabric over a knee gone all swollen and tender, eased the underwear off as well, and then it was his turn to suck in a breath of his own. “Holy Hell, Viggo!” His hand hovered over the injury, shy to touch the skin, all scars and dents and deep, livid bruising. “How hard you come down?”
“Wasn’t that. It just goes out on me once in awhile, is all.”
Orlando turned, shoulders tight, and opened the freezer door, fishing out an ice-laden Ziplock. “Got an ace bandage anywhere?”
Viggo pointed to a cabinet in the small bathroom nook, accepted the bandage and the bag of ice, and a few Advil besides, dry-swallowing them with a casualness born of long practice. With a few muffled curses, he settled the bag around his knee, twined the bandage around thigh and shin, his lip only a little worse for the biting. He leaned back with a sigh, letting the ice do its work, and held up a hand before Orlando could join him on the bed.
“Do me a favor first?”
“Course I will.”
Viggo handed him the belt buckle, a shining, twisting silver bronc fair leaping from its face. “Can ya set that and the neat’s foot up on the shelf there? And toss Brigit’s leash in the basket by the door? Leash’ll be half-chawed through and useless if we give ‘er a chance to have a go at it. Crazy bitch loves the taste of neat’s foot oil.”
Orlando laughed, quickly putting away each thing before sitting cautiously on the bed, careful not to jostle Viggo’s leg. He lifted a hand, gently tracing the outline of Viggo’s jaw with his knuckles. Soft, subvocal murmurs met his tender caress, and Viggo leaned forward, drawing close their heads.
“You got me a little when it comes to coverin’s, Orlando.” He pulled gently at Orlando’s button-down, stroked a hand along where the Levis curved at his thigh.
“Well, that’ll be easy enough to remedy, won’t it?” He stood, pulling the shirt up over his head, not bothering to unbutton it, blushing at Viggo’s avid gaze before his jeans quickly followed.
He joined him on the bed again, resting his forehead upon Viggo’s own. Their lips met, played together, sometimes chasing, sometimes chased, yet always hungry. Viggo traced the silk outside with the tip of his tongue. Then, with gentle persistence, he lay claim to the velvet interior.
They kissed for a long while, hands roaming contours charted only yesterday. Orlando squirmed, a giggle escaping as Viggo’s hands played along his ribs with fleeting touches.
“A mite ticklish, are you now?” His dared another touch before Orlando pressed him back into the pillows.
“No, no, Vig. Ain’t a good idea right now. I won’t risk that knee.” A wicked smile came to him then, and he moved a bit further down the bed. “But I’m bettin’ you might like this.” And suddenly as that he ducked his head, nuzzling at Viggo’s cock and sac like a pet begging caresses from its master
Viggo yelped, moved a bit before his knee thought better of it, and Orlando pressed one hand hard against his hip. “You jus’ set tight, Vig; don’t you even think about moving that knee. Just enjoy the ride, yeah?” And then his mouth was too full of Viggo’s cock to say more.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” Viggo said and he was thankful then for the pressure of Orlando’s hand against him. His head may have been telling him to sit still, may not have wanted to jar his damned knee, but his hips had ideas of their own.
Long, slow licks and sly little almost-nibbles slowly coaxed the shaft to hardness, and Orlando went down upon the head, a gentle suction that sent waves of pleasure sparking from cock to brain and back again. Viggo closed his eyes, fingers carding through Orlando’s dark curls as he made pleased little whimpering sounds in the back of his throat.
Orlando’s head was bobbing now, up and down the shaft as he took Viggo deep into his throat, free hand busy with his sac, squeezing it gently and rolling it in his palm.
It was maddening, really, this slow, sensuous slide, this enforced stillness. Sensations built gradually, banking high like a fuel-fed blaze.
“Ungh … not … not gonna last much longer.” And Orlando began his assault anew, redoubling his efforts till Viggo felt what was left of his mind fracture, spin into a million pieces traveling in a thousand different directions.
His balls tightened in warning, and with one final almost-thrust, he came hard down Orlando’s throat, feeling him swallow down all he could give him.
As Viggo rode out the aftershocks, Orlando moved back up the bed, smiling. Viggo kissed him softly, stroking his cheek fondly and tasting himself on Orlando’s tongue.
“Feeling better now, huh?”
“Oh yeah, ain’t that the truth.” Viggo’s tone was relaxation at its purest, drowsy and slow.
Orlando smiled again, made sure that the ice was whole and there on Viggo’s knee. “I oughta check in on Torrent in couple hours or so, maybe grab us some supper, but I’m all yours till then.”
Viggo smiled through his sleepiness and let Orlando snuggle down beside him. Oh, I’m hopin’ for a bit longer ‘n that, kid. A fair bit longer. He let his eyes drift shut, the pain in his battered knee, if not forgotten, easily ignored.
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more?
♥
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"The forceful claiming of his lips was all the answer he needed" - beautiful line.
Looking forward to more . . .
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I love cowboys, it's wonderful to see another chapter.
And I don't know what's wrong with LJ, but I can't seem to make a cut work either, I tried three times and gave up on it last week ;-)