August 1st, 2007
I wrote two slashababy fics this year. Here's the first one.
Title: On The Road to Nowhere
Written for telesilla
Disclaimer: No way, no how.
Betaed by the lovely crimson_bride, and Americanized by vegetariansushi. ETA: Only thing is, I seem to have posted an uncorrected version of this fic. Sorry, the mistakes are all mine, and I'll blame New Year's Eve for the posting error.
Request: You are set to write for telesilla, who has requested: "Viggo/Bean/Orli or any combination thereof." in "anything but really sappy schmoop; I don't mind love stories but I want the men to act like men"
“This what you wanted?” Viggo asked, glancing sideways at Sean, who was sprawled in the passenger seat of Viggo’s borrowed pickup, feet on the dash, joint in his hand.
“Yeah,” Sean said, exhaling a stream of smoke, deep contentment in his voice.
‘I just wanna run,’ he’d said to Viggo on the phone. ‘Go someplace else.’
‘Where?’ Viggo had asked, and Sean had chuckled.
So they were going to Nowhere, fuelled by Sean’s platinum Amex card, Sean well lubricated with Viggo’s homegrown, though possibly not as well lubricated as Viggo would have liked.
It had taken Viggo ten minutes to discover that Nowhere, USA was a Boston-based band that played raw and angry garage music, the kind of gig that neither Sean nor Viggo would go to unless they were being paid, but that had been good enough to drag Sean out of his suede-smooth LA hotel room that was equipped with crystal glasses and stereophonic sound, and shove him into the cab of the pickup.
Sean hadn’t shaved since they’d left LA; he might have showered, but Viggo hadn’t bothered. They’d just taken off, CD player blaring, slept the first night in some crappy motel somewhere in Nevada, filled the truck up a couple of times, and now it was Viggo’s turn to drive while Sean got wasted.
“Do you remember?” Sean said, his voice thick with the joint. “In New Zealand… When we drove to Auckland because you thought it would be a good idea?”
The pot was rough and green--Viggo hadn’t bothered drying it in an oven, he’d just stuffed it into a paper bag and then into his closet and left it--and the smell of the smoke made Viggo think of New Zealand too.
It had been some kind of idyllic time, an imaginary place, too beautiful to actually exist. The second-hand smoke must have been getting to him, because Viggo was feeling decidedly nostalgic.
“Yeah, I remember,” he said, and he leaned forward and cranked up the stereo a notch.
It was all going to be fucking fantastic, even if they never made it to Boston, or Nowhere.
He’d thought Sean was asleep, leaning against the passenger door, eyes slitted, but Sean broke into Viggo’s thoughts and urgently said, “Pull over.”
Viggo’s thoughts had been unnecessarily maudlin anyway, so Viggo put the right hand indicator on and slowed the truck down and pulled it over onto the shoulder, spraying gravel sideways.
“You OK?” Viggo said, expecting a dive out of the truck door to vomit, and found himself surprised at an alert Sean twisting himself around in the cab and craning to look out the back window.
“Fuck, he’s hot,” Sean said, and Viggo turned and peered through the back window too.
“Who?” he asked, amused at Sean’s sudden sharpness: it was like looking at Sean through his prescription reading spectacles all of a sudden.
“The hitchhiker,” Sean said, grinning sideways at Viggo. “You gotta give this bloke a lift, for me.”
“If you want me to,” Viggo said. “Why the fuck not?”
Sean opened the truck door and stepped out, and Viggo caught sight of a tanned and slender man, wild dark curls, white smile, and Sean said, “Toss your pack in the back then get in, mate.”
“Thanks,” the young man said. “I’m Orlando. Where are you guys going to?” He had a British accent, not burred and rough like Sean’s; Orlando’s was smoother, better educated perhaps.
“Boston,” Viggo said. “Via anywhere we like the look of.”
“I’m Sean, and he’s Viggo,” Sean said, and then Orlando was sliding across the bench seat of the pickup, so he was right up against Viggo. “Where are you going to?”
“Ohio, via anywhere I like the look of,” Orlando said. Viggo could smell his skin, slightly sweaty, with a hint of coconut oil perhaps, and he understood why Sean thought this was a good idea.
Sean slammed the pickup door shut, and Viggo turned the motor over, kicking the beast into life.
They drove east, the setting sun at their backs, and Viggo ignored Sean chatting with Orlando, comparing the places they were from in England, pubs in London, the fucking weather in California, for fuck’s sake.
“Want a joint, Orlando?” Viggo asked, cutting into Sean’s diatribe against Maggie-fucking-Thatcher. “Because I could do with a toke when we stop for dinner.”
“Fuck, yeah,” Orlando said, and Viggo thought that just maybe the pressure of Orlando’s thigh against his own had increased.
“I’ll get it,” Sean said, and he opened the glove box and took out the pouch and papers.
It was a beautiful pouch, made of deerskin, hand-stitched with sinew, and when Viggo glanced down at the way Orlando’s hands caressed it, smooth elegant fingers running over the pure strength of the hide, lust lurched inside his belly. It would be something to see Orlando naked, to touch him…
Viggo swapped the CD and turned the stereo up a notch, and his forearm, bare with his sleeve rolled up, brushed across Orlando’s knee, and Viggo’s cock decided that even if Viggo had doubts about fucking a hitchhiker, it was ready for action, independent of his mind.
He took a drag on the joint when Orlando handed it across to him, just a small one, to warm him up for dinner, then he passed it back. He flicked the headlights on in the dusk, and caught the slide of Sean’s hand up Orlando’s thigh out of the corner of his eye.
Viggo forced himself to keep his eyes on the road ahead and stretched his legs a little, surreptitiously making more room for his cock in his too-tight jeans.
Sean made a noise, kind of wet and needy, in his throat, and Viggo caught it over the sound of the stereo. Orlando moved a little, lifting his weight up for a moment so the vinyl of the bench seat creaked, and when Viggo glanced sideways, Sean was undoing Orlando’s fly slowly and carefully.
Orlando moaned, and spread his legs further, so he was right up against Viggo, and Viggo reached over and turned the stereo off suddenly, plunging the cab into relative silence, with only the hum of the road and the growl of the motor to mask Orlando’s whimper.
“Touch yourself,” Sean said, voice low and urgent, and Viggo backed off on the accelerator, dropping down to well under the speed limit, just to reduce the chance of running the truck off the road.
He couldn’t see clearly what Orlando was doing, but the arm that was right up against his shoulder began to move rhythmically, so either Orlando was a leftie, or he used both hands.
One glance, that was all Viggo allowed himself, just enough to see Orlando was pumping himself with one hand and had shoved the other into Sean’s crotch.
Sean’s head was tipped back, eyes closed, and it must have felt incredibly good for him to be doing that because Viggo wouldn’t have missed out on the floor show for anything, not with Orlando squirming on the seat beside him, the hitch of his breathing timing with each of the wet sounds of his strokes.
Listening to Orlando come was heaven, with each oncoming car’s headlights shining yellow illumination on his face, his tongue protruding between his lips, breath quick and warm, so that Viggo’s imagination pushed him closer and closer towards coming himself, and only advancing middle age and iron will stopped him.
Orlando swore under his breath, then groaned long and deep, and the smell of come filled the cab, overlaying the sweat and pot, and his arm kept moving against Viggo’s, more slowly now, slippery and smooth and so fucking tempting.
The neon sign of a motel loomed out of the darkness, and Sean was grunting and moaning on the far side of Orlando, and Viggo flicked the right hand indicator on again and braked hard going into the gravel drive of the motel.
Fuck, they were going to check into a room, right away, but first of all he flung the door open and dropped his legs out of the cab, sliding sideways on the seat and falling forward, so his mouth wrapped around Orlando’s hand and his still-hard cock. There was self control, and then there was provocation that no man could resist.
When Viggo woke, Sean was sprawled across the sagging motel room bed, legs draped over Viggo’s, his mouth open and eyes closed, blissfully asleep. Viggo felt good: deep down, fucked-senseless good, the kind of good feeling that was going to last for days and days, along with his grin.
The motel room door thudded again, just gently, letting more light in for a moment; that was the noise that had woken Viggo, the sound of Orlando leaving.
Sean groaned, gave a happy growl, and Viggo shook his arm gently. “He’s gone,” he said, and Sean rolled over so he faced Viggo, rumpled bedding bunching up around his knees, and his arm slid around Viggo’s waist.
“Did he take much?” Sean asked sleepily.
“My cards, yours too; all the cash,” Viggo said, and he licked Sean’s shoulder, tasting the lingering sweat of desire there. “Not the cell phones or the truck keys.”
“An honest man,” Sean said contentedly.
Viggo felt the same way. It would have been embarrassing to lose the truck; he would have had to buy another one to replace it. Apart from that, all he cared about was either curled up beside him, or tucked away in the glove box of the truck, hand-worked deerskin, made with love.