Viggo looked up from the magazine he was paging through at the low buzz from his phone. A glance confirmed that the indicator light was flashing, and he looked beyond it -- past the rows of cubicles filled with his coworkers, receivers pressed to ears, lips moving in a series of intimate aural dances -- towards Cate at the dispatch desk, nodding at her even as he picked up the handset.
He pitched his voice low and soft. "Knight Moves Chatline. This is Karl, primed and ready to make all your fantasies come true."
Down the line came the telltale hesitation, the mark of a first-time caller, and then, out of the blue, a rush of, "What're you wearing?"
Viggo glanced down at his shirt, a favourite of his, a nice shade of red and worn in all the right places. The faintest traces of mustard -- the remnants of lunch -- lingered on in the beginnings of a stain, a casualty of his malfunctioning sandwich. "Tight jeans, and nothing else." He licked his lips, tasting leftover pickle juice, and reached for a paper napkin. "I like the feel of denim on bare skin, don't you?"
A ragged, rolling groan was his only reply. He smiled as he wiped his lips, tossing the balled up napkin into his wastepaper basket like he was shooting hoops. Swish. "I can tell you agree. What's your name, hmm?" Viggo leaned back in his chair, casting a glance at the ceiling. It was already obvious this guy was going to need some coaxing. Oh well, the shy ones were usually easier to keep on the phone, their shyness dragging their heels and drawing out the by-the-minute charges. "Tell me your name, and we can get a little better acquainted, hmm?"
Slowly, reluctantly, the response came. "...Harry," the voice said, that one word carrying the faintest tinge of foreignness, of a life lived across the Pond. Mmm. It was always easier when they sounded a little like his boyfriend, a vision of clean sheets and warmth, a solid wall of muscle moving against him, fucking him into their mattress while the first rays of the day filtered through the drapes and dappled his skin.
To his surprise, Viggo felt his cock twitch against his fly. As much as he enjoyed his job, it was rare to get off on it anymore. The scripts each caller wanted were surprisingly similar; their tastes, even the extreme ones, falling over and over into what had become a gentle, soothing pattern of patter. It had to be the familiarity of the man's accent, tickling at the bits of his brain inhabited by his own Brit that was to blame. "Harry, hmm? I like that name. Strong. Masculine. What is it you'd like to do, Harry? What is it you'd like to do to me?" He waited a beat or two, then jumped right back in. "Do you want me to undress? Or maybe you want to undress me? ...Do you like to fuck or be fucked, Harry? I'll take you any way you'll have me."
If it weren't for the ragged sound of breathing, Viggo'd think the call had been cut off. He rolled his eyes and bit back a rebuke at the other man's silence. Think of home, his brain supplied. Think about those warm sheets and the way he arches his back when you suck his cock, and-- "I'd love to suck your big, hard cock, Harry. I'd love to get down on my knees in the dirt and tug down your pants and swirl my tongue over the head. Do you think you'd like that? Is that what you'd want?"
"What I'd like," the voice suddenly purred, "is for you to pick up a pint of milk on your way home. Some biscuits, too, if you have a mind. The chocolate dipped ones."
Viggo blinked, momentarily knocked sideways. Did the caller have some odd domestic kink, and expected Viggo to play along? Was he supposed to be the dutiful lover, returning home with eggs and bread in tow? He licked his lips. There were plenty of eroticised and charged scenarios he was happy to act out, but something in him rebelled at the idea of pretending to play house. Not when he had his own very happy home and no desire to associate the most mundane memories of it with a stranger's peculiar peccadilloes.
"...Viggo?" His heart jumped in his chest, snapping him back to awareness. How did this man know his real name? Fuck, was he a stalker? Was this like the time young Orlando had been terrorized by a wayward client with an impressive talent for hacking computerized records? His mouth felt dry, his throat closing. He should tell someone, warn them. Maybe there was a way to trace the call or call the cops, or--
"Viggo? Viggo, love, it's me. Are you there?" An all too familiar sigh filtered into Viggo's ears. "Good god, lad, do you have me on the clock? I told Cate it was me."
Viggo groaned as relief washed over him. He rubbed at his forehead, his stomach gratefully unknotting. "Sean. Fuck, Sean, why didn't you tell me it was you? 'Harry', really? Real imaginative."
Sean's chuckle teased Viggo's senses, warming him from within. "Because 'Karl' is so exotic. What are you supposed to be, the boy next door?"
"As a matter of fact, I am." Viggo's chest puffed out. He was damn good at his job and not afraid to admit it. "It's a nice baseline name. Karl can be your backdoor boy, or the businessman who's going to bend you over and bugger you senseless." He felt himself flush a little more at Sean's appreciative moan. "If you play your cards right," he dropped his voice to something far more intimate, "I might do just that once I walk through the door."
"Mmm. I'll be here and waiting. Just... don't forget the milk."
Viggo snorted. "You're the most annoying Englishman ever, you know that? Calling me at work just to see to your tea-related needs."
The smile was obvious in Sean's voice. "Yorkshireman, love. And I have my needs. One of which is a proper tea."
There was no help for it; Viggo tipped his head back in a full-throated laugh. Trust him to find himself a man so hopelessly addicted to tea, of all things. If they both didn't watch out, it'd end up being the gateway to midafternoon lunchings in fancy, overpriced hotels, tiny one-bite crustless sandwiches on doilies and tiered trays, surrounded by old retired ladies dressed in their very best frocks and none too well-primed for Sean's filthy tongue.
Yet somehow he was sure he would find a way to stomach it, even if Sean found himself spiralling further down into the seamy underbelly of proper Sunday teas.
He grinned as he found his breath, the laughter tamped down for the moment. "Ok, ok. Milk, and a box of those cookies you like." He cut off the question he knew was next at the knees. "Yes, I'm writing it down as we speak." He rummaged around on his desk, sighed, and gave up looking for a pen. He'd have to simply remember, but even so, he mimed writing his list with his fingertip in the air.
"Good. Maybe make it two packets. Once you get into them, there's not a one left for me."
Viggo shook his head, snickering. "Two, then. Now get the hell off the phone, will you? You might not be on the clock, but I am, and I need to be able to earn a little cash to pay for your milk, don't I?"
The answering chuckle curled low in his belly. "Of course. Get back to the salt mines, love, and make sure you please all those men so you can come home and please me. I'll see you then, ok? Usual time?"
"Of course."
"Great. I love you, Karl." There was the faint sound of a wet smack of lips, a sticky kiss aimed his way.
It was hard to stifle the snort. "I love you too, Harry. Now go the hell away."
Viggo terminated the call, but even then the silly smile on his lips wouldn't fade. As much as they were discouraged from taking personal calls, there was something comforting in the way the odd one or two were allowed to slip in under the radar. He straightened up in his chair, arched his back, rolled his shoulders, and tried to refocus. He cracked his knuckles, wiggled his fingers, and worked on getting his head back in the game.
Yet his cock had its own ideas, pressing rather insistently against his pants. Fuck if it wasn't amazing how a couple minutes of talking about errands with the sexiest accent in the world did more for him than all the hours of dirty talk he went through in a day. He sighed, pushing back from his desk, getting up and turning towards the washroom. A couple minutes in a quiet stall, a head full of memories of golden skin, and he should be right as rain.
After all, he'd be no good at getting anyone else off if he didn't get himself off first.
Summary: Viggo, professional Phone Sex Operator, gets a call he wasn't expecting.
Rated: R
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1548 Read: 1067
Published: 01 Mar 2012 Updated: 01 Mar 2012