The yellow plastic the man wears over his upper body is bright enough for Ryder to spot him from a long distance away. He grins when the guy stretches out his arm and sticks up his thumb in a half-hearted way at the two cars in front of him, making it obvious he doesn’t even expect one of them to stop.
*Why the fuck wouldn’t I take him?* Ever since that newspaper article about the ‘Highway Angel of Death’ had been published no one had stopped for Ryder, except that last guy, who had seemed to talk rather than read. Ryder had wanted to play, but the asshole had been no fun at all, annoying even, and Ryder had killed him after no more than ten miles. The van he had left Ryder had been the sucker’s only virtue.
He pulls the car over a few hundred yards down and watches the man running through the pouring rain; noticing with gratitude that at least this one seems in good shape. Ryder smiles to himself and reaches over to open the passenger door.
“Thanks man, I appreciate it!”
“’It’s okay.” *A goddamned hippie, he’d picked up, one of those ‘I was born in the wrong decade’* types. Ryder looks at the paint splattered jeans, soaked from right above the knee, where the garbage bag didn’t reach and the weird coloured shirt. The man’s hair is long and plastered to his face. Hoisting up a worn brown backpack from between his feet the man takes out a sweater, using it to dry his hair.
“I am Viggo.”
“Ryder, John Ryder. So where are you heading Viggo?”
His passenger shrugs and looks at Ryder, revealing pale blue eyes in a tanned, sharp-angled face,
“I don’t care really, I just want to get out of here. Wherever it is you’ll take me, I guess.”
“Arizona,” he says, the first thing that comes to mind and Viggo whistles appreciatively.
“Cool, I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“Okay, here we go.”
There’s a lot of traffic on the road and Ryder manages a conversation with Viggo, who seems more down to earth than expected and not boring or annoying at all. He calls himself a travelling artist.
Viggo offers Ryder a sandwich from the brown paper bag he takes out of his back pack. Ryder refuses. He’s not hungry for sandwiches, but watches Viggo’s appetite instead. His hair has slowly dried to light brown and it looks soft and silky, like a girl’s. There’s nothing feminine about his face, though, the angular jaw and the sharp planes of his cheekbones speak of willpower and stubbornness. Ryder likes that, likes it very much, likes to ponder about grabbing a fistful of that hair, pulling Viggo’s face backwards, baring his throat to Ryder’s knife.
They talk a little, well Viggo does mostly, voice almost too soft to hear above the sound of the windshield wipers while Ryder bides his time.
When Viggo stops talking, Ryder turns on the radio. Viggo closes his eyes, leans his head against the headrest and softly sings along with the music.
And the radio played that forgotten song
Brenda Lee's comin' on strong
Two hours later Viggo isn't singing any more. The faint glimmer of a pocket lamp spreads a glow on the back of the van’s interior, shimmers on the knife near, but not near enough, to Ryder’s hand. There’s a wooden frame on the left side of the van, with ropes dangling from it, designed to attach items to the wall, to keep things from sliding. There are no items, there’s just Ryder, naked, one wrist tied to the frame and there’s Viggo, naked too, but free as a bird.
They don’t speak, but their eyes are locked. Ryder doesn’t know how it came to this, how this friendly hippie managed to turn the tables on him.
He could have easily killed him earlier, could just have slit his throat, but that wasn’t what he was after. Instead he had touched Viggo’s knee almost casually and when he didn’t flinch, but smiled at him instead, he had rested his hand on the still damp jeans. From there it had been easy enough to take Viggo with him to the back of the van.
Cooped up energy and anticipation had made him horny, hard as hell for the soft skin and hard muscles underneath his hands. Still, even while he roughly pulled off Viggo’s jeans after dealing with his own clothes, making Viggo spread his legs, even while he bent over to bite the offered throat, the knife in his boot never left his mind. It was still in the back of his mind when he finally breached Viggo’s body, the way eased by the lube from Viggo’s backpack – such a good boy – and when he had fucked him hard enough to make the van rattle and shake as if struck by an earthquake.
It had been brilliant, the way Viggo moved against Ryder’s body, the hot, velvet glide inside of him, the sounds Viggo made, desperate, but not nearly desperate enough and Ryder had reached for the boot next to him and shaken it so the knife fell out and he could grab it.
It had probably been the break in rhythm that made Viggo look back over his shoulder, seeing the knife, his body stiffening in what was probably shock, clenching tight around Ryder’s cock and it had been too much. Ryder shuddered and came helplessly.
Next thing he knew he was on his back on the floor and a hand made of steel had closed around his wrist, twisting it. Viggo was straddling him, his face contorted with anger, his still hard sex bobbing up aggressively.
“Let go of the knife,” he said, his voice ragged, but clear.
Ryder lay still for a few moments, pretending defeat, then suddenly bucked up wildly, succeeding in throwing Viggo off. They rolled over the floor of the van, Viggo amazingly stronger than Ryder had expected and he was cursing and sweating.*So much like sex,* Ryder thought, his cock swiftly hardening again. He struggled to get closer to Viggo’s face, bit down hard on the lobe of his ear, laughing when Viggo yelped. He was still laughing when something hit his skull and the lights went out.
Now they are staring at each other, the knife between them on the floor and Ryder’s hand pulls at the binding, but it doesn’t give. He feels elated, almost high, knowing that maybe, maybe he has found what he has been looking for. The game isn’t over, not with Viggo tying just Ryder’s hand, after knocking him out with fuck knows what. Slowly Ryder lets his tongue slide out, licks his lips and grins at Viggo, Viggo who wants to play, even though he maybe isn’t aware of it himself, Viggo who had looked angry as hell earlier and who now looks confused, but not scared, never scared.
Viggo still stares at Ryder and doesn’t smile back, but his breath has picked up and his hand slowly starts moving in Ryder’s direction. He could be reaching for Ryder’s straining cock, or maybe just for the knife. Who knows? Ryder’s grin grows wider, because both things have their merit; are seductive in their own fashion.
Possibly, probably, one of them won’t see the new day, but Ryder honestly doesn’t care whether he will live or die. Whatever will happen, it will be good.
Summary: Ryder picks up a hitcher
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Crossovers Pairing: John Ryder/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1291 Read: 1570
Published: 02 Apr 2010 Updated: 02 Apr 2010