Fake Empire
Jan. 31st, 2012 07:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
theproperpoisonCharacters: Andrew Ryan, Sander Cohen
Prompt: "The first time they met. Or the first time they had sex. OR BOTH."
Rating: I guess like a really soft R
Warnings: Sex
They met in New York. It was a hot summer night, the kind that would fry an egg on the sidewalk, if he'd been one for using dried up old cliches, which he wasn't.
Later, the artist had told him that it had been love at first sight.
That wasn't the way the industrialist remembered.
It had been at an art show, packed to the rafters with the snobby artistic elite and the pretentious New York Times art critics and the unsuccessful artists who'd come there to be jealous and catty and the successful artists who'd come there to be superior and condescending. It wasn't a place he would have been, normally, but he'd heard things.
"He's the best artist in the city."
"In the city? Hell, maybe on the entire east coast."
"Maybe in the entire world."
They'd talked him up to the point that when he'd stopped by the refreshments table to pick up one of those ridiculous little tea sandwiches and met the eye of a dark-haired, dark-eyed, shy-looking man in his late thirties or early forties, he hadn't recognized him at all.
Introductions were made. He set the tea sandwich on a napkin, feeling somehow stupid for not recognizing the star of the show, the person whose art he was ostensibly here to see in the first place. They shook hands. The handshake lingered for just a beat too long.
Later that night, when he'd bent the up-and-coming artist over his desk, back in his penthouse apartment, the industrialist had pretended that he'd known who he was all along. He had asked the artist to come with him and he hadn't meant it just in the heat of the moment, in the torrid and hasty sexual way that he rasped it out as he took another swig from the open bottle beside the naked man who lay beneath him.
He wanted him in his city. He'd always wanted to decorate it with the prettiest things.
The artist was desperate for love, for affection, for fame, for the safety and security of the arms of a multimillionaire industrialist wrapped around him, and he accepted what he had to, accepted the trickery and the subterfuge and everything that went into keeping that steamy New York night under wraps.
They had been drunk. They had been high on success. They had mistaken each other for what they needed.
Prompt: "The first time they met. Or the first time they had sex. OR BOTH."
Rating: I guess like a really soft R
Warnings: Sex
They met in New York. It was a hot summer night, the kind that would fry an egg on the sidewalk, if he'd been one for using dried up old cliches, which he wasn't.
Later, the artist had told him that it had been love at first sight.
That wasn't the way the industrialist remembered.
It had been at an art show, packed to the rafters with the snobby artistic elite and the pretentious New York Times art critics and the unsuccessful artists who'd come there to be jealous and catty and the successful artists who'd come there to be superior and condescending. It wasn't a place he would have been, normally, but he'd heard things.
"He's the best artist in the city."
"In the city? Hell, maybe on the entire east coast."
"Maybe in the entire world."
They'd talked him up to the point that when he'd stopped by the refreshments table to pick up one of those ridiculous little tea sandwiches and met the eye of a dark-haired, dark-eyed, shy-looking man in his late thirties or early forties, he hadn't recognized him at all.
Introductions were made. He set the tea sandwich on a napkin, feeling somehow stupid for not recognizing the star of the show, the person whose art he was ostensibly here to see in the first place. They shook hands. The handshake lingered for just a beat too long.
Later that night, when he'd bent the up-and-coming artist over his desk, back in his penthouse apartment, the industrialist had pretended that he'd known who he was all along. He had asked the artist to come with him and he hadn't meant it just in the heat of the moment, in the torrid and hasty sexual way that he rasped it out as he took another swig from the open bottle beside the naked man who lay beneath him.
He wanted him in his city. He'd always wanted to decorate it with the prettiest things.
The artist was desperate for love, for affection, for fame, for the safety and security of the arms of a multimillionaire industrialist wrapped around him, and he accepted what he had to, accepted the trickery and the subterfuge and everything that went into keeping that steamy New York night under wraps.
They had been drunk. They had been high on success. They had mistaken each other for what they needed.
