Fic: Time of Need

[v-angelique.livejournal.com]

Title: Time of Need
Author: Viktoria Angelique
Pairing: VM/OB/SB (heavy on the Vigorli)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM, yay!
Disclaimer: Highly untrue.
A/N: telesilla asked for BDSM with Sean and Orli topping and Viggo on bottom. This didn't turn out quite how I wanted it to, and furthermore I somehow managed to get all Vigorli when I actually prefer Vigbean. Go figure. Well, hopefully it's good for a brief boredom relief, in any event.



From the moment he set foot inside the house, Viggo suspected something was amiss. The lamp in the front hall was on and he hadn't been here in months. The man who cared for the horses and the garden never set foot in the house, and no one else in the area had a key. Dropping his bag just inside the door, Viggo clicked the lock shut with a resounding snick and slowly proceeded to the left, into the darkened study.

Groping blindly, he located the butt of a rifle, ornamental, which always hung on the wall. It wasn't loaded, but was heavy enough to crack over the head of a potential intruder. Holding the weapon in one hand, he took a deep breath and flicked on the light.

Thud.

His shoulder hit the bookcase first, upsetting its contents and knocking a few knick-knacks and the complete works of Ferlinghetti to the floor. He struggled blindly, but the man at his back had the advantage, wrenching his elbows closely together behind his back as the gun tumbled awkwardly to the floor.

At first, his senses were so overcome by adrenaline that he didn't notice the figure lounging calmly in the leather armchair before him—Viggo's favourite chair—one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, fingertips touching just above the lap, hair tied back in a loose ponytail.

Orlando.

He went still, briefly, and the second man took advantage of the pause to bind Viggo's wrists together, the familiar texture of butter-soft leather making it clear that this ambush had been planned. And then, he realised that the style of the attack was familiar, the brute force recognisable in method and execution.

Sean.

"What the fuck??"

Viggo could hear Sean's smirk, just over his left shoulder, but Orlando's expression remained unchanged.

"Viggo."

Orlando's voice was deep, sharp, warning. Viggo gave Orlando an incredulous look, eyes widening slightly as if to say 'are you kidding me?' Orlando didn't respond to it.

"That means you'll shut the fuck up if you know what's good for you," Sean supplied.

"I know what the fuck it means," Viggo growled, wincing slightly when Sean grabbed a handful of his hair and tugged down and back.

"Then you'd do well to remember who's wearing the cuffs, mate," Sean pointed out, his accent thick with anger and lust.

Viggo growled again under his breath, but didn't reply, instead turning his eyes to Orlando, who was watching the two of them with obvious amusement.

"How?" Viggo asked, his expression pleading, changing tack in a blink of an eye the way only a skilled actor could.

As is true in so many cases, the dog with the gentler bark in this case had the more painful bite. Viggo had played with both of them in New Zealand—at intervals, never together. Sean was good, but Orlando—Orlando was deadly.

"Sean and I had a little chat," Orlando explained in answer to Viggo's question, lips quirking up in amusement. "You haven't called either of us in a month, nor have you returned our calls."

"I was in a mood," Viggo muttered lamely, and Orlando's eyebrow arched in challenge.

"Well then," he replied, rising slowly from his chair with a grace he'd never had at twenty two and crossing the room in several steps to take Viggo's chin in a bruising grip, forcing eye contact, "I suggest you get out of it."

Viggo winced again, caught between the two of them and unable to look away from the familiar intensity of deep brown eyes. His cock rose inevitably in his trousers and he started to feel his control slipping.

"Why both of you?" he asked, barely a whisper, denoting the respect he had for Orlando's abilities with his tone.

Orlando smiled and released Viggo's chin, then dropped his hand to instead caress Viggo's cock through the trousers, almost casually, as he answered the question.

"Sean and I had a chat, as I said. Not only were you playing with us both in New Zealand, a fact you must have accidentally failed to mention…" He stopped here to raise his eyebrow once again. "…but you haven't played with either of us, or presumably anyone else, since. You're moody, you're bitchy, and you're doing your damndest to slip off the face of the Earth and let us forget you…"

"…and we won't let you do that," Sean finished, his voice rough but laced with a nearly undetectable hint of emotion. Orlando smiled, and nodded.

"But…I haven't consented to this," Viggo objected, sounding a bit pathetic.

Orlando looked him directly in the eye, and spoke slowly and clearly. "You still have a safeword. Go ahead, then. Use it."

Viggo opened his mouth, but no words came out. He tried, so hard, but he couldn't, and his eyes squeezed shut abruptly as he choked on a sob.

"No," Orlando said simply, and Viggo let out a shuddering sigh as he slowly opened his eyes and felt them moisten as he met Orlando's own.

"I can't…" Viggo whispered.

"It's one word, Viggo." Orlando's speech was slow, gentle, as if he were addressing a child. Viggo sobbed again, his eyes filling with tears now, and shook his head.

Orlando nodded and stepped aside, and Viggo felt the loss instantly.

"Get him over the desk." Orlando's voice was completely different now, a gruff command, and Viggo stumbled as he was shoved forward, wishing he had a way to wipe his eyes.

Sean manhandled him effectively; he always had, and soon Viggo found himself bent at a ninety-degree angle over the heavy oaken furniture, his cheek pressed against a blank notepad. This room was strangely stark compared to his studio, where any such treatment would end with his skin marred by paint and charcoal, a piece of artwork or two ruined in the passion. Here, though, association was singular. Looking at this desk later on, he would think of no other moment. There was nothing else.

"Sean's going to fuck you first," Orlando explained, his tone matter-of-fact off to Viggo's left. His legs were spread, hands still bound behind his back, and he felt exposed. "After he fucks you, you'll be all warm and loose," he continued, as if Viggo were unfamiliar with the concept. "That," he finished, suddenly crouching at the other side of the desk, his nose an inch away, "is when I'm going to beat you."

Viggo shuddered.

Orlando's beatings were cathartic for him, and Orlando knew it. Neither of them would ever forget the time, after months of gruelling night shoots, physically and mentally exhausted, when Orlando had literally beat Viggo until he could no longer move.

Viggo had needed it then—demoralised, doubting his own abilities, he had confided in Orlando. He felt broken, shattered by the demands of his life here, and was relatively convinced that the situation could not be fixed. But Orlando had proven that Viggo could take it, that he was whole, or maybe even made him whole again. Either way, Viggo would never forget.

A light smack to his just-bared backside with his own belt wrenched Viggo back to the present, and he wavered slightly without his hands to steady him.

"Stop," Orlando said, straightening up suddenly, his eyes focused now on Sean. Viggo shivered, even though the tone was not meant for him. "I want a clean slate."

Viggo watched Orlando carefully, seeing the implication of Orlando's words. Sean could have Viggo's arse first, but Orlando wanted the rest of him. Viggo wondered briefly if Orlando had dominated Sean in the past, as it wasn't like him to surrender to another man's direction (and Christ would Sean go down hard), but Sean did not challenge Orlando verbally, and Viggo couldn't spare any more energy to think about it as the belt was thrown down and two spit-slick fingers were shoved into his arse.

Viggo gasped, but he didn't scream. It had been a few years, but he remembered Sean's penchant for rough fucking and minimal preparation. Sean depended on shock value and risky behaviour to dominate, whereas Orlando was subtle but lethal. You didn't fuck with Orlando, and if you did, you definitely didn't make the same mistake twice.

The fucking was as familiar as it was dirty. Viggo tried his best to spread his arse and keep his balance, even as Sean wrenched his wrists upward towards the middle of his back to get them out of the way. His eyes, however, focused unerringly on Orlando, who had now resumed his casual position, this time in the desk chair directly opposite Viggo.

Here, they were almost at an eye level, and though Sean was the one fucking him, Orlando's steady gaze systematically shattered his soul. His thighs and shoulders burned from the strain of the position, but he refused to look away, and Orlando's eyes did not shift, pinning him as effectively as any bonds.

Viggo used to find it ironic, the number of tools Orlando had at his disposal when all he really needed to exert control was his eyes. He had asked Orlando about it once, out-of-scene, when he was looking through the closet full of cuffs, cockrings, floggers, and paddles in Orlando's Wellington house. Orlando had smiled and explained that he was a sensualist. He liked the feel of leather and the soft pink texture of well-flogged skin. "Besides, Vig, not everyone is like you," he added, and Viggo wonder if that meant he was a whore. The thought bothered him less than he might have expected.

Sean didn't come all that quickly, but he didn't take long, either. Viggo remembered all the times Orlando had fucked him, taking hours and alternating between intercourse, pain, and other creative means of torture. Of course, Orlando knew how much this strategy appealed to Viggo's specific sensibilities, and Viggo suspected that Orlando's dominant style with Sean was or would be much different. Maybe Sean would need all the fancy bondage and torture implements to be brought down. Sean, after all, was not a whore.

When Sean finished fucking Viggo, he pulled out silently and tossed the condom in the bin, quickly zipping up and stepping aside. Viggo didn't move or speak as Orlando stared at him appraisingly; the warm-up was over. He indeed felt warm and loose, and unable to move at all without Orlando's explicit instruction. He hadn't felt the haze of headspace in years, but his mind returned to it gratefully, like a return visit to a hometown you didn't realise you had missed. Orlando smiled slowly as he got to his feet, and Viggo felt the praise wash over him as a physical presence before Orlando walked around behind him, replacing Sean, and bent over to bite just under Viggo's ear.

"I should fuck your arse with that bloody weapon you were trying to point at me," he growled harshly, making Viggo shiver.

"I'm sorry… I thought you were…"

"You thought I was a fucking criminal?" Orlando yanked Viggo upright hard by one arm, and he reeled, stumbling with his trousers around his ankles, held up only by Orlando who didn't give him the benefit of a decent steadying grip. "Wouldn't have mattered though, would it have?" Orlando continued, tugging Viggo back against his chest with an arm wrapped firmly around his torso now, lips again at his ear. "Cause you're still a fucking slut, Viggo. You'd beg for it, no matter who it was…"

"No! Please! Only you," Viggo whimpered, hardly able to speak in the state he was in, feeling like he was perpetually falling. "Your slut," he whispered, and it sounded like begging.

Orlando laughed.

"You fucking liar," he growled, throwing Viggo hard now to the left, and he stumbled and dropped to his knees and then his chest, gasping in air before he struggled to kneel up. "What about Sean, Viggo? Were you planning to tell me about that?"

In Viggo's peripheral vision, Sean smirked, and Viggo wondered if this was what the execution block felt like.

"I… sorry," he moaned. "So sorry… Sir… Orlando… please!"

Orlando growled again, and yanked Viggo to his feet by the hair, and Christ did it hurt but still in such a beautiful way. "You goddamned cunting whore, Viggo. Can I trust you with anything?"

"My love," Viggo whispered, and it wasn't a joke. His eyes were clear, and sincere, and Orlando nodded, respecting the honest declaration and laying off the insults, for now. He was fucked up; they both knew it, but he did love Orlando. In the corner, Sean shifted, looking uncomfortable.

"I want him bound well for his punishment, Sean. Do you have anything?" he asked, turning now to Viggo who stood unsteadily before him. "Hooks, a strong bar…?"

"Only in the barn," Viggo replied, quickly surveying the contents of the house in his head. "There are a few iron hooks on the wall for hanging tools and things," he explained, surprising himself with his own coherence. It was strange, in this place, the way he could answer a question of Orlando's perfectly, but when he wasn't commanded to talk, his tongue felt like cotton.

Orlando nodded, and shoved Viggo towards Sean, letting the other man remove their charge's trousers and shoes and lead him to the barn as Orlando turned to a black bag in the corner. Viggo hadn't noticed the bag, and shivered despite the warmth of his body temperature as Sean led him to the side door.

It was with a certain respect, walking towards the large barn barefoot and in only his shirt, that Viggo realised neither Orlando nor Sean had ever been to Idaho, and therefore must have checked the place out before he arrived. Sean was silent, however, possibly regretting his decision when he saw the dynamic between his friends, and the only sound as they walked was the whipping of a strong wind and the rustling of the trees.

The barn door creaked as Sean opened it, and then Viggo was being led inside, dragged across to the opposite wall, away from the several horses in their stalls. There was a plethora of tools and equipment here, including a length of rope on one shelf, and Sean grinned as he stood Viggo facing the wall and emptied the hooks, whistling tunelessly as he grabbed the rope and slid it between two hooks of equal height, a bit above Viggo's head and about twice shoulder-width apart. The rope was strong, but not too thick, and Sean unlocked the cuffs behind Viggo's back, re-positioning his wrists below the hooks and expertly knotting the ends of the rope to the metal loops, tugging to test that they would hold. Of course, they would, and Viggo could already feel the strain in his back and shoulders, but he also knew that he could hang from these bonds, if need be, without doing any damage to his body.

Sean withdrew a knife from his back pocket, and sliced Viggo's shirt neatly up the back, using two more cuts to free the scraps from his body. When this was done, and Viggo stood naked and bound, they were still and alone, and the silence was unnerving.

"You know I… I mean Orlando and I…"

"Shut up," Sean growled, and Viggo nodded, respecting Sean's need not to be coddled to. Sean never liked coddling, and Viggo suspected that if it hadn't happened already, Sean would benefit from a visit from Orlando in the near future.

Either way, it didn't matter, for the barn door swung open again, and all Viggo's energies went into his hearing, trying to sense Orlando's distance. Sean's eyes shot forward, and then he stepped away, and Viggo's body tensed as he waited.

Smack.

The first hit was excruciating, utilising the momentum of Orlando's quick stride and the strength of his arm to lay a single stripe diagonally across Viggo's back. He didn't move to strike again with the riding crop, however, and Viggo knew instinctively that this was simply a show of authority, a reminder that Viggo was not to be so reluctant to submit in the future. He heard it loud and clear, and he would feel that single blow for weeks to come, even when the pain was only a phantom and the mark had completely faded.

Orlando stepped in close now, one hand kneading and massaging Viggo's backside before proceeding to light, barely painful smacks. Viggo knew he was simply warming the skin, getting the muscles ready, but this didn't stop him from leaning into it. He felt so open, freshly fucked, and wished he had a large plug filling him as Orlando beat him, remembering the times this technique had been used in the past. He didn't dare ask, however, and let his eyes fall shut, breathing in the scent of horses and manure and rain that was just beginning to fall, the drops a gentle roar on the tin roof. Orlando's hand was familiar and beautiful, a sensation that he had missed more than he could quantify.

"Tell me why you need this," Orlando demanded, his tone gentle but insistent.

Viggo moaned, hating this part the most. As much as he wanted to just fall into it, to simply feel, Orlando's beatings always had a purpose, and the purpose would not be fulfilled if it wasn't identified. "I… I've been bad about calling you…" he tried, wincing as Orlando began to slap him harder, putting more of his strength into it now.

"Try again."

The gruff tone made Viggo whimper, pushing back, not wanting to have this forced out of him in front of Sean, not wanting to give in. He began to cry, and Orlando didn't stop.

When Viggo's words were not immediately forthcoming, Orlando stepped back, and Viggo choked back a sob, trying to follow him but thwarted by the bonds. "Please," he whispered, and he jerked as a flogger's tails descended upon his back.

"Tell me," Orlando demanded, louder now, the light peppering of blows with the leather device increasing in intensity as Viggo's skin began to turn consistently pink.

"I… God, it hurts," Viggo sobbed, referring not to the exquisite pain of Orlando's doing but to the difficulty of admitting his own weakness.

"I know," Orlando said simply, not stopping, knowing what Viggo meant. Sean stepped further away and sat down on a bale of hay to watch, but neither of the other men paid him any attention.

"I… I need you… this… so fucking…" Viggo stopped, couldn't continue, hung defeated from his wrists and knew this beating would continue to the end of time because he couldn't explain himself.

Orlando calmly stopped, bent down, switched implements again. Viggo jumped from the hard thud of the paddle on his arse, giving his back some relief but intense nonetheless, hard and driving at close range. He whimpered and moaned at an impressive range of frequencies, and Orlando didn't stop. "So fucking what, Viggo?" Orlando growled, forcing the words from his lips even as he struggled to keep them in.

"Helpless!" Viggo yelled, forcefully, surprisingly loud for his state, and Sean flinched. "Needy, lonely, so fucking lonely, broken, broken, I'm broken, so broken…"

Once the words had started, they couldn't stop, and he continued to mutter as his volume decreased, drowned out by the rain, not noticing that the beating had ceased. Orlando stepped in close, a gentle hand warm on the fragile skin of his back, and kissed his shoulder.

"Then let me put you back together again," he said softly, and Viggo nodded, crying openly. Orlando smiled against Viggo's shoulder and kissed it once more, then stepped away.

The crop was easier now, on well broken-in skin, but it still hurt, still burned, still stung with a vengeance, and Viggo hung heavy in his bonds, rocking helplessly into and out of the blows. The helplessness mirrored what he felt, what he couldn't paint or photograph out of his system, the weighty chaos of depression that he had been drowning in for months. He sobbed loudly, and Orlando didn't stop. Welts rose from his skin, and Orlando didn't stop. Sean rose, looking concerned, and Orlando's glare was deadly. Orlando didn't stop.

"Ten more, Viggo," Orlando spoke loud and clearly, and Viggo knew what it meant. Ten more was all he could take. Orlando was experienced; Orlando had a brilliant eye. He would take Viggo just to the edge of danger and then stop, before the marks had a risk of becoming permanent scars, before he abused the position of extreme trust Viggo had put him in. Sean watched, somewhat in awe, as Orlando laid the last stripes down in perfect symmetry, blood beading to the surface, and the physical signs of his anger dissipating were visible. Viggo, however, noticed none of it, noticed nothing except those last ten blows, felt so acutely, stripping him down to nothing but flesh and vulnerability.

When it was finished, he didn't quite realise it, hanging limply from those iron hooks, his skin on fire but difficult to feel now. Orlando pressed up behind him though, and suddenly he could feel it, every burning inch pressing against Orlando's body, and it was beautiful. Again, he was saved, just as he had been that first time in New Zealand. His doubts were stripped away with the intensity of the pain, and he was absolved. He slumped gratefully in Orlando's arms as the bonds were removed, knowing that his blood stained Orlando's shirt, not caring.

Orlando whispered wordlessly in Viggo's ear, and lifted him effortlessly in his arms. Viggo was heavy, especially like this, unable to help, but Orlando could bear him a short distance, and Sean hurried ahead through the rain, opening doors, following Orlando to the downstairs bedroom and laying out a towel so that Orlando could carefully set his friend down on his stomach.

"If you want to stay until I've taken care of him and then let me fuck you, fine. Otherwise, you can go," Orlando said with a tone that brokered no argument. Viggo barely registered the words, nor the sounds of Sean's footsteps down the stairs. He was rather certain now, though—whether Orlando and Sean had been intimate or not didn't matter. They would be later. They would not be now. Viggo sighed as a cloth cleaned him, ointment smoothed along the lines of his cuts. He drifted into a sleepy plane as Orlando carefully tended to him, sparing no effort, and then finally stripped down and lay along the length of his body. Orlando would be there in the morning. He always was.