Post by syrinx on Jul 7, 2010 15:37:17 GMT -5
The Rush and the Glare
Chimerical
by Syrinx
Rated: NC-17
Jaded: worn out or wearied, as by overwork or overuse
A/N: A little scene for Pride's nonexistent Breeders' Cup Juvenile. I said that J would be a sequel to Decent Godless People, but it looks like I lied. No sequel is planned! Because my brain just couldn't figure it out.
The colt has a chunk the size of a quarter missing from his hoof on the morning of the Breeders' Cup. He doesn't take it well. Months of work, a campaign tailored for this one race, days and days of early mornings that were all supposed to add up to something...of course, he doesn't take it well.
So he doesn't go to the race. Instead he tests the limits of his rental car on the highways of Miami. He gets two speeding tickets within fifteen minutes of each other. When he finally arrives back at the track, the race is over and it's pouring a warm rain that steams on the concrete and clings in a haze to everything.
He doesn't mind, so he gets soaked on his way to the barn because he takes his time. His jeans sag on his legs and his shirt sucks against his skin. His shoes make wet prints on the dusty shedrow aisle while the dirt sticks to every surface, just like he's used to. This is his life; dirt and shit and horses. Trampled hopes and rare second chances.
He usually doesn't mind. Today, he does.
She is at the colt's stall, a little damp around the edges. Her dress sticks to her knees in odd wrinkles, and water is a sheen on her skin. He doesn't pause to stare at her, to be irritated by her. To a certain extent, he knew she'd be here, checking in on their great hope who went and tore off a good chunk of hoof this morning like it was just begging to happen. God, it just makes him want to put his hand through a wall.
The colt has his head over the stall guard, and Ashleigh is working her fingers through his mane. Her hair is pulled off her neck, and her feet are in heels. Toes painted some girly color he doesn't associate with her at all. The dress is raspberry pink. There are ruffles involved. He would laugh if he didn't think she'd turn and send him one of those withering glares.
Most of the time, she can glare all she likes. He wouldn't give a fuck. Today, he's not too sure.
“How's he doing?”
She doesn't look at him, which would irritate him on a normal day. Today's not so normal.
“Fine,” she says, parting the section of mane between the colt's ears. He thinks that if she starts to braid it he might go crazy right there. She doesn't, much to his relief. “He's a little unsure of his footing, but that's normal.”
“Good, I guess,” he says, because he has to say something. She finally looks up at him.
“You weren't at the race,” she says, taking in his appearance slowly, realizing just how committed he was to not caring.
“Didn't see the point.”
“Count Abdul won,” she informs him, but he doesn't care about that either. If it wasn't his colt, he couldn't care less.
“Great,” he says, deadpan. “Good for him.”
She bristles, as though this is aimed at her. He smirks, wondering just how often she considers herself the center of his universe. If only she knew.
“This didn't just happen to you, Brad,” she says. “You can cut the crap any time now.”
“Yeah,” he nods, leaning against the stall door next to the colt and looks at her over Pride's head. “Sure. It happened to all of us. We're all equally affected. Ashleigh, that is such a load of bullshit.”
She glares at him now. Yeah, he really doesn't care. Never mind.
“Pride's career isn't over, and Wonder will have other foals.”
“I don't think we're all waiting on bated breath for Wonder to squirt out another foal.”
“What the hell is your problem?”
He could go at this from so many different directions, the possibilities are endless. Wonder's not the only mare. The farm is past help. One race doesn't fix everything. Instead they all just wind up proving that it's hopeless, so he shrugs and says, “Maybe this was just the dose of reality I needed, Ashleigh.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she asks, alarmed for once. He smiles, changes the subject.
“Since when do you wear dresses?”
“Since I felt like it,” she snaps at him. “And you don't get to do that.”
“No?” He moves from the stall, sidesteps the colt and puts his hands on her hips, pushing her backwards until she's forced to mirror his steps.
It's not the easiest thing in the world, seducing Ashleigh Griffen. But he's done it before once or twice, three times. It's not like he's counting. He figures he can do it again. She swats at him before they hit the door to the office at the end of the shedrow, the room Maddock has been using as a temporary home base.
“What the hell is your problem?” she asks him, scathing. “Were you born wrong?”
“Probably,” he answers, because it's come to his attention more than a few times that this is not exactly the healthiest of relationships and his is not the best way to handle conflict. Sure, he finds her petulant, pissed expression a turn on, but these are extenuating circumstances, and he'd rather just not talk anymore.
He pushes her through the door and into the thankfully empty office. The door doesn't lock, and Ashleigh's standing in front of him with her arms crossed and her jaw set, ready to beat him to pulp and rip apart his dignity, he's sure.
This is a bad idea, but it's better than actually talking to her. So he moves back up to her and nudges her to the bathroom, toward the room with a locking door. Her eyes go wide.
“You are insane,” she says, and he can practically hear her say underneath it all, “You are so pathetically broken.”
Maybe. Maybe not. She's still going along with him, so what does that say for her? The bathroom is tiny, but it's got all the essentials for someone who nearly lives at the track. Toilet, sink, shower. Mostly it smells like horse and mildew, with a sharp sting of ammonia. At least it's been cleaned recently, whatever that means.
It's easy to corner her against the door, and he locks it as he does so. She lets herself be cornered, trapped by his body and arms. She's not trembling, not scared. She wouldn't be. Neither does she put up a fight, or resist with her hands. She just leans against the raw wood door and looks up at him, and he thinks that maybe she needs this just as much.
Broke down and tired. That's what they are. Two people pathetically chasing a memory and a dream while reality crashes down around them. It's sad, really. So sad that he kisses her so hard the back of her head meets the wood with a crack. She moans, pulls on his shirt, on his collar, the damp material stretching in her fingers.
He likes her dress. Really likes it. His hands go from her waist to her hips to her thighs, pushing the hem up while his thumbs brush along the line of her panties. She gasps against his mouth when he stoops just slightly, wraps his arms underneath, and lifts her up the door. Who knows what that does to the dress. There will probably be runs and pulls and he's happy to ruin it if that means he can enjoy it right now.
Secure against him, he tugs her from the door and turns, depositing her on the sink. She nearly tips back, but he pulls her forward, perches her on the edge of the porcelain. She shifts and shimmies, gets comfortable on the edge with her legs spread around his hips. Her hands reach down to steady herself, gripping the sides of the sink and then, when she's sure he has her, moves back to his body. He's hauled back toward her, back to her mouth and her breath and tongue.
His hands push her hem up further, fingers digging into her skin and curling under elastic.
“Ash,” he says against her lips, and she lifts, arms and fingers straining briefly. He drags the material down her legs, pulls it all the way off. Her shoes tip off her toes, clattering on the concrete there's no way he'd want her to touch. He pockets the underwear, pulling her closer to the edge of the sink and going back to her mouth.
Her back arches, his fingers fitting in the bend, bare heels bumping against the back of his legs hard enough to crash him to his knees. He's inclined to go ahead, so he goes. She watches him, knees on the concrete in front of her, and he smiles a little against the inside of her thigh when she finally starts to shiver.
He takes his time, which he knows pisses her off to no end. She slips to the edge of the sink, fingers alternating between gripping at the porcelain and pulling through his hair. His tongue slides through her, and he rocks away, mouth quirking into a self-satisfied smile at the groan she's biting back. She lets out a breath through her nose while he stands between her legs. There's an unladylike huff he loves so much, and she reaches out to grab his shirt above his abdomen as his mouth, liquid and slick, hovers over hers.
“Oh,” she says against him, “Fuck you.”
He grins, kisses her, not caring about the mess. She doesn't mind, strokes him through his heavy, wet jeans that are quickly becoming the worst torture device known to man. It takes him a second, but he remembers that Ashleigh's big on giving back in kind, so before she can prolong his torture he grabs her wrist and undoes his jeans.
She laughs, throwing her head back and giving him one of those heady, genuine smiles because she's been caught, and he remembers. He supposes that's enough for her, and he's glad because he doesn't know if he'll ever have much else to give. Now or ever.
Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet and finds a condom. She eyes him steadily, her knees brushing against his sides, dress hiked up gloriously high, and he's really fucking quick about the necessities. He presses against her, and she tips her head back, exposing her throat. He puts his mouth there, daring to make a mark. She doesn't seem to care, so he does, and he's inside her without thinking.
She makes a little surprised noise, like it's been a while. Or maybe it's from the start of a bruise he's made on her skin. Either way, he likes it, and she shifts forward, balancing so precariously while he moves within.
Sweat mixes in the damp, sex with dirt and rain. Ashleigh keeps trying to push herself up, and he keeps pinning her down, keeping her hips where he needs them. They breathe into each other, pressing against mouths and moving toward some inevitable end.
She reaches up and grips his arm, burrows against him as she comes, her whole body curling around him. He's a jump away, past rhythmic, and when he stills against her, barely able to hear or see or recognize her, it's her voice in his ear that brings him all the way back.
Back to this fucking bathroom on the backside of Gulfstream. Reality pushing in unwanted.
“Okay?” she asks, and he doesn't know what she means so he just nods yes.
This is what you do, after all. This is how you forget the bitter feeling of months of hard work lost. You fuck it all away and pretend it's all fine, because isn't it? There's next year. There's other horses. It's one race. You're fucked anyway, right? Enjoy it all now, while you still have it in your hands.
Brad Townsend nods, and he means it.
He pulls away, tosses the condom. She pushes down her dress, keeps her toes curled. He can see the start of a yellowish bruise on her neck, but doesn't say a word about it. Instead he produces her panties, and she lifts an eyebrow.
They both can't help grinning.
Chimerical
by Syrinx
Rated: NC-17
Jaded: worn out or wearied, as by overwork or overuse
A/N: A little scene for Pride's nonexistent Breeders' Cup Juvenile. I said that J would be a sequel to Decent Godless People, but it looks like I lied. No sequel is planned! Because my brain just couldn't figure it out.
The colt has a chunk the size of a quarter missing from his hoof on the morning of the Breeders' Cup. He doesn't take it well. Months of work, a campaign tailored for this one race, days and days of early mornings that were all supposed to add up to something...of course, he doesn't take it well.
So he doesn't go to the race. Instead he tests the limits of his rental car on the highways of Miami. He gets two speeding tickets within fifteen minutes of each other. When he finally arrives back at the track, the race is over and it's pouring a warm rain that steams on the concrete and clings in a haze to everything.
He doesn't mind, so he gets soaked on his way to the barn because he takes his time. His jeans sag on his legs and his shirt sucks against his skin. His shoes make wet prints on the dusty shedrow aisle while the dirt sticks to every surface, just like he's used to. This is his life; dirt and shit and horses. Trampled hopes and rare second chances.
He usually doesn't mind. Today, he does.
She is at the colt's stall, a little damp around the edges. Her dress sticks to her knees in odd wrinkles, and water is a sheen on her skin. He doesn't pause to stare at her, to be irritated by her. To a certain extent, he knew she'd be here, checking in on their great hope who went and tore off a good chunk of hoof this morning like it was just begging to happen. God, it just makes him want to put his hand through a wall.
The colt has his head over the stall guard, and Ashleigh is working her fingers through his mane. Her hair is pulled off her neck, and her feet are in heels. Toes painted some girly color he doesn't associate with her at all. The dress is raspberry pink. There are ruffles involved. He would laugh if he didn't think she'd turn and send him one of those withering glares.
Most of the time, she can glare all she likes. He wouldn't give a fuck. Today, he's not too sure.
“How's he doing?”
She doesn't look at him, which would irritate him on a normal day. Today's not so normal.
“Fine,” she says, parting the section of mane between the colt's ears. He thinks that if she starts to braid it he might go crazy right there. She doesn't, much to his relief. “He's a little unsure of his footing, but that's normal.”
“Good, I guess,” he says, because he has to say something. She finally looks up at him.
“You weren't at the race,” she says, taking in his appearance slowly, realizing just how committed he was to not caring.
“Didn't see the point.”
“Count Abdul won,” she informs him, but he doesn't care about that either. If it wasn't his colt, he couldn't care less.
“Great,” he says, deadpan. “Good for him.”
She bristles, as though this is aimed at her. He smirks, wondering just how often she considers herself the center of his universe. If only she knew.
“This didn't just happen to you, Brad,” she says. “You can cut the crap any time now.”
“Yeah,” he nods, leaning against the stall door next to the colt and looks at her over Pride's head. “Sure. It happened to all of us. We're all equally affected. Ashleigh, that is such a load of bullshit.”
She glares at him now. Yeah, he really doesn't care. Never mind.
“Pride's career isn't over, and Wonder will have other foals.”
“I don't think we're all waiting on bated breath for Wonder to squirt out another foal.”
“What the hell is your problem?”
He could go at this from so many different directions, the possibilities are endless. Wonder's not the only mare. The farm is past help. One race doesn't fix everything. Instead they all just wind up proving that it's hopeless, so he shrugs and says, “Maybe this was just the dose of reality I needed, Ashleigh.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she asks, alarmed for once. He smiles, changes the subject.
“Since when do you wear dresses?”
“Since I felt like it,” she snaps at him. “And you don't get to do that.”
“No?” He moves from the stall, sidesteps the colt and puts his hands on her hips, pushing her backwards until she's forced to mirror his steps.
It's not the easiest thing in the world, seducing Ashleigh Griffen. But he's done it before once or twice, three times. It's not like he's counting. He figures he can do it again. She swats at him before they hit the door to the office at the end of the shedrow, the room Maddock has been using as a temporary home base.
“What the hell is your problem?” she asks him, scathing. “Were you born wrong?”
“Probably,” he answers, because it's come to his attention more than a few times that this is not exactly the healthiest of relationships and his is not the best way to handle conflict. Sure, he finds her petulant, pissed expression a turn on, but these are extenuating circumstances, and he'd rather just not talk anymore.
He pushes her through the door and into the thankfully empty office. The door doesn't lock, and Ashleigh's standing in front of him with her arms crossed and her jaw set, ready to beat him to pulp and rip apart his dignity, he's sure.
This is a bad idea, but it's better than actually talking to her. So he moves back up to her and nudges her to the bathroom, toward the room with a locking door. Her eyes go wide.
“You are insane,” she says, and he can practically hear her say underneath it all, “You are so pathetically broken.”
Maybe. Maybe not. She's still going along with him, so what does that say for her? The bathroom is tiny, but it's got all the essentials for someone who nearly lives at the track. Toilet, sink, shower. Mostly it smells like horse and mildew, with a sharp sting of ammonia. At least it's been cleaned recently, whatever that means.
It's easy to corner her against the door, and he locks it as he does so. She lets herself be cornered, trapped by his body and arms. She's not trembling, not scared. She wouldn't be. Neither does she put up a fight, or resist with her hands. She just leans against the raw wood door and looks up at him, and he thinks that maybe she needs this just as much.
Broke down and tired. That's what they are. Two people pathetically chasing a memory and a dream while reality crashes down around them. It's sad, really. So sad that he kisses her so hard the back of her head meets the wood with a crack. She moans, pulls on his shirt, on his collar, the damp material stretching in her fingers.
He likes her dress. Really likes it. His hands go from her waist to her hips to her thighs, pushing the hem up while his thumbs brush along the line of her panties. She gasps against his mouth when he stoops just slightly, wraps his arms underneath, and lifts her up the door. Who knows what that does to the dress. There will probably be runs and pulls and he's happy to ruin it if that means he can enjoy it right now.
Secure against him, he tugs her from the door and turns, depositing her on the sink. She nearly tips back, but he pulls her forward, perches her on the edge of the porcelain. She shifts and shimmies, gets comfortable on the edge with her legs spread around his hips. Her hands reach down to steady herself, gripping the sides of the sink and then, when she's sure he has her, moves back to his body. He's hauled back toward her, back to her mouth and her breath and tongue.
His hands push her hem up further, fingers digging into her skin and curling under elastic.
“Ash,” he says against her lips, and she lifts, arms and fingers straining briefly. He drags the material down her legs, pulls it all the way off. Her shoes tip off her toes, clattering on the concrete there's no way he'd want her to touch. He pockets the underwear, pulling her closer to the edge of the sink and going back to her mouth.
Her back arches, his fingers fitting in the bend, bare heels bumping against the back of his legs hard enough to crash him to his knees. He's inclined to go ahead, so he goes. She watches him, knees on the concrete in front of her, and he smiles a little against the inside of her thigh when she finally starts to shiver.
He takes his time, which he knows pisses her off to no end. She slips to the edge of the sink, fingers alternating between gripping at the porcelain and pulling through his hair. His tongue slides through her, and he rocks away, mouth quirking into a self-satisfied smile at the groan she's biting back. She lets out a breath through her nose while he stands between her legs. There's an unladylike huff he loves so much, and she reaches out to grab his shirt above his abdomen as his mouth, liquid and slick, hovers over hers.
“Oh,” she says against him, “Fuck you.”
He grins, kisses her, not caring about the mess. She doesn't mind, strokes him through his heavy, wet jeans that are quickly becoming the worst torture device known to man. It takes him a second, but he remembers that Ashleigh's big on giving back in kind, so before she can prolong his torture he grabs her wrist and undoes his jeans.
She laughs, throwing her head back and giving him one of those heady, genuine smiles because she's been caught, and he remembers. He supposes that's enough for her, and he's glad because he doesn't know if he'll ever have much else to give. Now or ever.
Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet and finds a condom. She eyes him steadily, her knees brushing against his sides, dress hiked up gloriously high, and he's really fucking quick about the necessities. He presses against her, and she tips her head back, exposing her throat. He puts his mouth there, daring to make a mark. She doesn't seem to care, so he does, and he's inside her without thinking.
She makes a little surprised noise, like it's been a while. Or maybe it's from the start of a bruise he's made on her skin. Either way, he likes it, and she shifts forward, balancing so precariously while he moves within.
Sweat mixes in the damp, sex with dirt and rain. Ashleigh keeps trying to push herself up, and he keeps pinning her down, keeping her hips where he needs them. They breathe into each other, pressing against mouths and moving toward some inevitable end.
She reaches up and grips his arm, burrows against him as she comes, her whole body curling around him. He's a jump away, past rhythmic, and when he stills against her, barely able to hear or see or recognize her, it's her voice in his ear that brings him all the way back.
Back to this fucking bathroom on the backside of Gulfstream. Reality pushing in unwanted.
“Okay?” she asks, and he doesn't know what she means so he just nods yes.
This is what you do, after all. This is how you forget the bitter feeling of months of hard work lost. You fuck it all away and pretend it's all fine, because isn't it? There's next year. There's other horses. It's one race. You're fucked anyway, right? Enjoy it all now, while you still have it in your hands.
Brad Townsend nods, and he means it.
He pulls away, tosses the condom. She pushes down her dress, keeps her toes curled. He can see the start of a yellowish bruise on her neck, but doesn't say a word about it. Instead he produces her panties, and she lifts an eyebrow.
They both can't help grinning.