"Can I photograph you?" The words blurt out, unexpected by either the man who speaks them or the one who hears them; Viggo sees a veil of suspicion draw over his eyes. "I'm an artist. No, really." This isn't going well already, but he fumbles in his wallet and draws out his card. Respectable evidence of respectable intent.
"I'll think about it." The guy takes the card and takes Viggo's keys and Viggo reminds himself that this is a very classy restaurant and that it probably isn't regarded as socially acceptable to spend the length of the meal standing around talking to the man from valet parking, so he tears himself away.
The spitting image of him. Well, not quite, of course. Nothing could rival that sunny smile or sharp face, but this youngster comes close as anyone Viggo's ever seen-- something hawk-like about his features, something about the set of his shoulders and the ease of his walk and the sun-bleached tips of his dark blond hair.
Viggo doesn't taste his meal or his wine or the coffee he sips with his dessert. He is far away.
~~*~~
"What kind of pictures?" Interest, still with a little suspicion. Viggo doesn't tell that he likes candid photos, not poses. He doesn't reveal that he prefers slice of life to still life. He doesn't bat an eyelash as he lies like a rug.
"Artistic nudes." He pauses until he can see the question on the tip of the man's tongue. "I pay $50 an hour sitting fee." It wasn't a huge amount for a well-conditioned nude, not in New York, but it wasn't chicken feed, either, especially not to a parking valet, and he could see greed overcoming caution in the man's eyes.
"When?"
"Tomorrow afternoon, four till dusk?" The man nods. Viggo smiles. "Come to the address on the card."
His heart is thumping as he drives away.
~~*~~
He doesn't do much with his studio. A chair or two with white sheets over them, the blinds drawn high to let the light slant in. He leaves paintbrushes and half-painted canvases scattered around, and sets his cameras up on tripods in the center of the floor. He leaves a few pots of tempera and a blank canvas, wondering if the valet will have the initiative to try them.
The man shows up right at four, like he said. Viggo doesn't ask his name. He gives a downpayment in cash for the first hour, letting his model see the roll of bills in his wallet. He's not afraid of having them taken from him.
"What should I do?"
Viggo shrugs. "Whatever you want. Just get undressed."
The valet shrugs, and he turns away. Viggo starts clicking the shutter as he peels down. Perfect. Pale skin, just the right build-- Viggo's seen enough, rented enough movies, to be sure. Too young, but there's nothing to be done about that.
Naked, the man is uneasy. He keeps half turned away from the camera at first, which is fine with Viggo; it's not the face he's after, not so much as that fleeting resemblance, that trace of elusive perfection. The face helps some, but it also distracts from the illusion if you see too much of it.
Predictably, the man checks out the furniture, then the window. After a while he starts to relax; he examines the paint pots and looks at the brushes on the floor, but he doesn't paint with them.
"How do you want me to pose?"
"Do something dirty." Viggo is deliberately vague, then shocked in a delightful way when the man shrugs and bends over to touch the floor, his ass pointed almost straight towards the camera. White hips and thighs make Viggo's body tighten. The guy runs his hands up the backs of his thighs, and Viggo clicks the shutter.
"That dirty enough?"
Viggo doesn't answer; he keeps capturing the moment on film as his model stands and palms his cock, jerking it towards the floor with crisp, insolent motions. Its tip is pink and he is cut. That isn't exactly right, but Viggo is charitable.
"Blow you for a hundred." The man looks sly; he's onto Viggo. He knows this photo shoot isn't about film. Maybe someone has told him: 'You know, you look a lot like that man. The one who died in the movie.' Maybe he knows who Viggo is.
Viggo doesn't answer; a press of his finger captures the predatory poise of the body and the bird of prey's cunning in the similar face.
"Fuck me for two."
Viggo busies himself reloading the cameras. He fills each one with a thirty-six exposure roll. He sets each timer to click every thirty seconds. That's fifteen minutes.
"I'll blow you," he says. "And you can fuck me. For three." The words taste electric and terrifying in his mouth.
"That's a deal." Swift and eager.
The cameras click, staggered, as he steps forward; he turns his model to show his profile-- the profile that first captured him, the profile that reminded him the most of the man this isn't.
He has condoms and lube in little packets tucked inside the pocket of his jeans. He rolls one onto the man and goes down on him fast, tasting bitter latex. The cock in his mouth feels good; he closes his eyes. He moves the model's hand, once, so it won't hide his face. He knows he can suck cock like a pro; one of his crudest lovers said he could suck a golf ball through a garden hose, and he conjures a face in his mind that inspires him to give of his best, worshipping cock and balls with hands and fingers and mouth and tongue.
"Not yet, hey." A little shaken, a little startled, the voice isn't the one he expects, and it breaks the spell he's woven over his own mind. "I get to fuck you, remember?" The clicking shutters patter like rain.
Viggo applies a new condom and drops his trousers, reaching inside himself for the face again, finding it, diving into the well of memory. Another packet rips and slick fingers touch him. He moans. The guy gives it to him quick and hard, and it hurts like hell; Viggo lets the pain open him. It only eclipses the void in his heart for the time it takes his body to adjust.
Everything he wanted and nothing, the fucking drives through him on gusts of pain and pleasure, forcing him down-- first from his feet to his knees, then to his elbows, and finally he is sprawled on the floor with his lover covering him, driving in a last few bittersweet thrusts before he curses, body going rigid, breath whistling between his teeth, and Viggo sees it all in the eye of his mind, sees the face of the man he wants contort, sees it go slack even as his lover's muscles go limp and the air crushes out of Viggo's lungs.
They lie there till the shutters stop clicking, then Viggo squirms, and the guy gets up. He puts on his pants and starts buttoning his shirt before he looks at Viggo. "Hey, you didn't come." He sounds a little ashamed of himself.
Viggo shrugs; he's already peeling off bills.
"But you didn't--" bewilderment, a little hurt, a little shame, growing into anger as Viggo presses money into his hand and ushers him towards the door.
"What the hell ever, man. You don't wanna come, you don't come. Your three hundred bucks, okay?" The door clicks and the bolt slides shut. An exasperated curse punctuates the encounter, and footsteps fade.
Viggo doesn't care; he didn't even notice. There will be plenty of time to come when the pictures line his walls-- pictures with the angle just so; pictures with the face cropped away, pictures of a body just anonymous enough to be cruel.
Summary: Viggo meets a doppelganger.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1318 Read: 901
Published: 08 Aug 2009 Updated: 08 Aug 2009
Story Notes:
Website: The Lair of the Evil Bitches