obstinatrix (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
obstinatrix) wrote2010-05-24 01:15 pm
obstinatrix) wrote2010-05-24 01:15 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Productive Negotiations (NC-17)
Title: Productive Negotiations
Pairing: Clegg/Cameron. I am sorry.
Rating: NC-17 (I KNOOOOW)
Summary: From a prompt by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
starcrossedgirl , of course. 'Much as I love this meme and all the fic on it? I still loathe Cameron with a passion, IRL. Hence: I wish there to be fic wherein Nick does so, too.' Nick teaches David a lesson. Prompt here.
Disclaimer: Alas, not true. Alas? Thankfully? I don't even know any more.
Warnings: dub-con. oh god. *goes straight to hell, does not pass GO*
He should have expected that look on Nick's face, really he should have. After all, it isn't as if he's never seen suggestions of it, shadows of discontent gathering like stormclouds on the boyish brow as David adjusted a policy here, postponed (evaded) fulfilling a campaign promise there. He shouldn't be surprised to find Nick unhappy, really, as this champion of Lib Dem policies falls prey beneath his fine-cut Savile Row boots.
He is almost ashamed to admit, as he watches the blue eyes narrowing, the brow pulling tight and unrelenting above them, that he is. He is surprised by this evident anger, the edge of steel unsheathed as he has never seen it. Nick is his Deputy, his subordinate, his puppet. He's there to do as he's told, to placate the Liberals and the dream-driven housewives with his clean-cut, open-faced smile. Nick isn't supposed to object like this, to protest. David is sure he's been irritated before, or frustrated, but he never quite expected him ever to show it like this. And this isn't something he's realised, before today.
Nick could not be described as frustrated now, his face stony and unwavering even as David moves towards him, hands outstretched in the gentling gesture his PR people taught him so well. The softly-softly strategy, approaching the opponent as one might an unbroken animal, does not appear to be working. David is smiling, ready to brush it off again; ready to move them both past this into the easy territory of post-Parliament lunches, ham sandwiches and tea and The Times. But Nick is angry, beyond all doubt, and he does not want to be moved.
David finds that he doesn't know how to combat this. He has chosen the role of Mohammed, here, and so he must keep moving, but Nick remains mountainous, tight-lipped and white-faced even as David's outstretched fingers brush his sleeve; even as David says, "Nick, come on - I'll make it up to you. Nick."
Nick is mountainous: stony, unscalable, cold. For the first time, David feels a flicker of fear.
"Nick," he repeats, his voice eminently reasonable, all careful enunciation and that lopsided smile that at least half the nation found to be more charming than oily.
The look on Nick's face suggests that Nick belongs to the other half.
David sighs. The flicker leaps again in the pit of his stomach, a tight pull running like stocking-stitch along the edges of his muscles, and he frowns. He has no reason to be afraid of Nick. This is child's play, adolescent, the silent treatment. He'll shake him out of it soon enough, he is sure.
But the flicker only sparks again, defying him. David's mouth twists, and he reaches for Nick's elbows.
"Look," he begins, something eloquent forming under his tongue as he moves, something about other opportunities and deficit and next time. He is going to calm Nick, to convince him, to console him.
Except that the words, somehow, do not ever make it out of his mouth, because the next thing he knows, he is not facing Nick any more, but is, it transpires, pressed thigh-flat to the vast oak desk, Nick's fingers girdled iron around his wrists. He exhales, sharply, to protest, but that dies too when the restraining grip does not yield to his jerking hands, and he falls silent, confused and winded. The rock has moved, and David finds himself trapped, pinned between it and a hard place.
"Nick," he tries again, when he has found his breath. The fear is more tangible now, burning up the back of his throat like cheap liquor. Then Nick's face is suddenly pressed very close to the back of his neck, the jut of his jawline hard and sharp, and David realises that Nick brings the feeling with him. It shivers down David's spine as Nick breathes out against it, at the fierce brush of his voice to David's ear - "Don't you ever shut up?"
David swallows, twisting his wrists again in Nick's grip. Perhaps he will try again what he was planning to say. It would be a shame, after all, to waste all that energy, that coiled-up, speech-ready enthusiasm. "Look," he tries again, going for brightness.
The next thing he knows is the desk's smoothness flat to his cheek, and a sharp pain travelling up his arms from wrist to elbow. The desktop smells of leather, old wood and prestige, and David thinks bitterly that this would never have happened to Churchill. It feels like being at school again, like being a lower-former at Eton, with some older boy tracking him to an empty classroom, wanting - wanting -
Nick's breath is rough in his ear, quickening. David realises, as the world reforms around him into something he must admit is reality, that he is hard against his backside, unmistakable and sure. The jolt that travels down his spine then is two parts desperation and one part disgust, but the desperation is indistinct, undirected, and the other part - the final part -
David is hard, too, against the unyielding wood, even as he presses his fingernails into Nick's wrists where he can reach, even as he twists against the pressure on his back. Whatever Nick wants, it is obscene, and he isn't going to get it; but the firm surface of the desk is a bizarrely welcome assurance, and David doesn't know how to even begin processing that.
No, he thinks, bitterly, as he gathers his strength to push back again against his unexpected oppressor, this would never have happened to Churchill.
"Nick," he says, weakly. "Come on. Stop it."
For a long, quiet moment, there is nothing. Nick is pressed against him chest to waist, to thigh, to knee, and David finds himself waiting rather anxiously for a response. Stupid, to be so anxious, as if Nick might ever hurt him. As if nobody would stop him. And yet, he is, and Nick's words, when they come, do not reassure him.
"If I let go of you," he breathes, silken heat over sharpness at David's throat, "you must promise me not to try to move."
He pauses. The silence gives off a heat like an unshielded fire. David tries to steel himself against it; finds himself melting, instead, swift as lead. He hears himself say: "All right."
For a frenzied moment, he cannot believe Nick will do it; thinks he will renege upon his promise, surely, in the purest act of Biblical revenge. An eye for an eye.
But Nick does let go, after a moment; hands leaving David's wrists, only for one of them to trace a path, curiously gentle, up the length of his arm, ghosting across his shoulder, his neck. It comes to rest over the lower part of David's face, slender fingers holding his mouth closed. There is no force there, no fierceness, but David knows, with a sudden surety, that if he resists, there will be. And it will hurt.
He goes limp, after a moment, this knowledge firm and heavy at the base of his skull. Nick's smile is tangible against his cheek, the other hand brushing soft touches against David's waist through his shirt, and David almost dares to relax, to steady himself. And then Nick is fumbling the shirt out of his trousers, tugging it free and returning his hand to warm naked skin, and then the panic surges up again in his throat, sudden and swift and human, like vomit or blood.
He breathes out hard against Nick's hand, something wordless, but vocalised, and twists. Nick gentles him, pets him, but his voice is firm.
"Hush," he says, carefully, softly. "Let me." He tracks his fingertips across the small of David's back; draws a soft line down over the lower vertebrae of his spine, circling slightly just beneath the waistline of his trousers. "Let me, and we're even. Do you understand?"
David swallows; twists again under Nick's weight. Nick leans closer, closer, careful. He nods slightly, not daring to think about what he is agreeing to, even though he cannot but know. Nick's mouth at the base of his jaw is soft for a moment, and then turns fierce, teeth nipping sharply at the skin beneath his ear. "You owe me," he goes on, voice barely more than a whisper. "You owe me so much more than this, Cameron. How many times have you screwed me over?"
The hand dips lower; slips around to thumb the edge of his hipbone; goes efficiently to work on his trouser-buttons. David could scream now, he thinks. Could scream, and it would be heard, even through the barrier of Nick's hand; and is Nick stupid, or something, trying this hear? Doesn't Nick know that David could end this right now, if he wanted?
It is only when another ten seconds have passed, and his trousers are open and Nick's hand is snaking inside, that it occurs to David that Nick must have known he wouldn't want to.
And he's damned if he's capable of dealing with that knowledge right now.
Indeed, David isn't sure he is capable of anything beyond obeying the directions of Nick's warm hands, his clever fingers; directions soft as suggestions, but unmistakably identifiable as orders, the kid gloves of Nick's gentleness not concealing the iron underneath. David finds himself shifting wordlessly as Nick tugs and rearranges; raises his hips obediently so that Nick can push his trousers down over his backside.
This, he thinks, in a final moment of clarity, is ridiculous. This is not something that should ever happen to the Prime Minister of The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.
And then Nick's hand closes around his cock; slips upwards until his palm drags over the slick tip of it, and the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom is no longer capable of any kind of thought at all.
There is no brutality in Nick, even in his anger. The press of his fingers into David - one, first, and then a second, scissoring carefully, stretching - is uncomfortable, ill-prepared as they are, but he has at least the grace to slip them into David's mouth beforehand, thrusting them against his tongue until they shine with his saliva. David, having no wish to be taken dry, submits mutely. There is an easy way to go about this, and a hard one. Somehow, David knows from the certainty in Nick's every movement that the hard way is not something he will like.
This, though. Nick knows what he is doing, fingers finding all the right places inside of David in a way that suggests he has done this at least occasionally since graduating Cambridge's hallowed halls. David finds himself gasping despite himself, the bite of his teeth into his lower lip no protection against the spike of pleasure that shoots through him as Nick straightens his fingers and presses. "Oh," he manages, involuntary, the word gasped harsh and hot as Nick's fingers twist and thrust inside him.
"Oh," Nick echoes, sardonic, amused. "You like this, do you?"
He pulls out without warning; repositions himself and then presses back inside of him, cock stretching David beyond his fingers' promise, the burn of it bleeding slowly deep into the core of him. David, despite himself, cries out. Nick laughs against his ear, not quite unkind, but amused.
"Well," he says, as he pulls out slowly; thrusts back in. "If you enjoy it so much, maybe I should always be the one doing the screwing, hmm?"
His fingers find David's cock again. They twist him expertly, guiding the arch of his body into the touch.
"What do you think of that proposal, Prime Minister?"
The world feels as if it is dissolving around them, the only remaining certainties the warm solidity of Nick splitting him open, and the hard pressure of the desk supporting them both. Nick works him thoroughly, as he works everything, and for a long moment, David simply finds himself dissolving, too. And then he feels Nick's smooth palm for a moment against the curve of his backside; and a moment later, an explosion of heat as it strikes a swift blow against his flesh.
"Prime Minister?"
He realises a response is indicated.
"Yes," he rasps out, not knowing what he is agreeing to, and not caring. Perhaps if he simply does as he is told, Nick will stop this, will finish this; will stop teasing and slam back into him and it is then that David realises that it is the finishing that he wants, and not the cessation. Nick surges back into him again in the aftermath of his acquiescence, and David finds himself pushing back, no longer resisting, but encouraging; and he doesn't know quite when the one became the other but nor does he exactly care.
"Good," says Nick, voice still enviably steady as he braces himself on David's hips, and David can only whimper in response.
It is at this point that things truly begin to blur. Nick, to this juncture, has been unbending as iron, voice as clipped and authoritative as a schoolmaster's, chiding in David's ear. Now, though, finally, he has begun to waver, the rhythm of his hips pounding against David escalating with his breathing. Somewhere along the way, David finds himself shivering; his arms, still trapped between them at strange angles, have begun to ache, but somehow, for some inexplicable reason, he almost welcomes this, the edge of pain rasping ferric under his tongue. Like the whole situation, it is nonsensical; and like the situation, it is real. David presses his heated cheek to the smooth leather of the desktop, and arches his back for more of this insanity.
Nick thrusts inside of him with all the force of an unsuspected explosive, channelled and detonated at last. David, swept up under it, can only hold on as his energy becomes erratic, as the words he pants into David's ear acquire an edge of madness.
"You like that," he breathes, "you like that, don't you?" as he grips David's pelvis and thrusts hard enough that the jolt of it sparks white blindness behind his eyes.
"Yes," he manages, muffled against the desk. "Nick, come on - "
"Come on what?" Nick seizes, the scrape of it coiling hot over the nape of David's neck. "What do nice boys say, Prime Minister?"
"Please," he capitulates, his voice breaking over the words, as he breaks himself under the irresistible onslaught of Nick. "Please, Nicky, for Christ's sake. Is that what you want?"
"Not while you can still form words," Nick tells him, the laughter twisting hot in his voice through his arousal. And then there is his hand again, thumb flickering back and forth over the leaking, sensitised tip, and then David is screaming and Nick is still half-laughing as he comes.
Afterwards, as David comes slowly back to himself, the aches in his limbs and the burn inside of him making themselves agonisingly known, the first thing he thinks is that he has surely failed the Office in some fundamental way.
The second thing is that he has never come so hard in his life.
As Nick withdraws, refastens himself; helps David up and shoves him back into his trousers, he finds himself wondering whether the two things are really so incompatible.
From the look on Nick's face, he is, at least for now, honour-satisfied. David opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and closes it again. Nick laughs.
"My God," he says, "can it be that I've actually had some effect?"
David arches an eyebrow. "I'll say you have," he concedes. He looks at the desk, and wrinkles his nose. No cleaner must ever see it in this state. He casts about for a box of Kleenex, and begins the judicious application of tissue.
"So," Nick says, voice still audibly tinged with amusement, "might I actually ask for your word that you won't screw me over again, after that, and dare to hope I can believe your answer?"
David pauses in the act of tossing away the (rather vile) handful of tissue. His mouth twitches. He knows he should just say yes, and move on. But then he remembers the heat spiralling out from the centre of him, the force of it blasting everything else from his mind. It would be stupid, surely, to remove himself from the reach of so useful a relaxation technique. It would be stupid, and definitely unstrategic.
He says, "On one condition."
For a moment, he thinks he may have made a wrong move. Nick's brow begins to cloud. But the clouding stops at a certain point. There is still room to manoeuvre. Nick says, "Oh?" A pause. "What condition?"
David smirks. "I will stop screwing you over," he says, slowly, "if you promise to screw me over thoroughly, from time to time, in return." He pauses. "Over my desk," he clarifies.
He's rather fond of the desk. It seems oddly fitting, possibly exactly because it is so wildly inappropriate.
Nick's brow, he is pleased to note, swiftly clears. The smile that breaks out on his face is like sunshine. The housewives' special.
"I think," he says, "I can happily second that motion."
David smiles back. And it appears that this time Nick - to judge by the answering warmth in his eyes - approves.
Pairing: Clegg/Cameron. I am sorry.
Rating: NC-17 (I KNOOOOW)
Summary: From a prompt by
starcrossedgirl , of course. 'Much as I love this meme and all the fic on it? I still loathe Cameron with a passion, IRL. Hence: I wish there to be fic wherein Nick does so, too.' Nick teaches David a lesson. Prompt here. Disclaimer: Alas, not true. Alas? Thankfully? I don't even know any more.
Warnings: dub-con. oh god. *goes straight to hell, does not pass GO*
He should have expected that look on Nick's face, really he should have. After all, it isn't as if he's never seen suggestions of it, shadows of discontent gathering like stormclouds on the boyish brow as David adjusted a policy here, postponed (evaded) fulfilling a campaign promise there. He shouldn't be surprised to find Nick unhappy, really, as this champion of Lib Dem policies falls prey beneath his fine-cut Savile Row boots.
He is almost ashamed to admit, as he watches the blue eyes narrowing, the brow pulling tight and unrelenting above them, that he is. He is surprised by this evident anger, the edge of steel unsheathed as he has never seen it. Nick is his Deputy, his subordinate, his puppet. He's there to do as he's told, to placate the Liberals and the dream-driven housewives with his clean-cut, open-faced smile. Nick isn't supposed to object like this, to protest. David is sure he's been irritated before, or frustrated, but he never quite expected him ever to show it like this. And this isn't something he's realised, before today.
Nick could not be described as frustrated now, his face stony and unwavering even as David moves towards him, hands outstretched in the gentling gesture his PR people taught him so well. The softly-softly strategy, approaching the opponent as one might an unbroken animal, does not appear to be working. David is smiling, ready to brush it off again; ready to move them both past this into the easy territory of post-Parliament lunches, ham sandwiches and tea and The Times. But Nick is angry, beyond all doubt, and he does not want to be moved.
David finds that he doesn't know how to combat this. He has chosen the role of Mohammed, here, and so he must keep moving, but Nick remains mountainous, tight-lipped and white-faced even as David's outstretched fingers brush his sleeve; even as David says, "Nick, come on - I'll make it up to you. Nick."
Nick is mountainous: stony, unscalable, cold. For the first time, David feels a flicker of fear.
"Nick," he repeats, his voice eminently reasonable, all careful enunciation and that lopsided smile that at least half the nation found to be more charming than oily.
The look on Nick's face suggests that Nick belongs to the other half.
David sighs. The flicker leaps again in the pit of his stomach, a tight pull running like stocking-stitch along the edges of his muscles, and he frowns. He has no reason to be afraid of Nick. This is child's play, adolescent, the silent treatment. He'll shake him out of it soon enough, he is sure.
But the flicker only sparks again, defying him. David's mouth twists, and he reaches for Nick's elbows.
"Look," he begins, something eloquent forming under his tongue as he moves, something about other opportunities and deficit and next time. He is going to calm Nick, to convince him, to console him.
Except that the words, somehow, do not ever make it out of his mouth, because the next thing he knows, he is not facing Nick any more, but is, it transpires, pressed thigh-flat to the vast oak desk, Nick's fingers girdled iron around his wrists. He exhales, sharply, to protest, but that dies too when the restraining grip does not yield to his jerking hands, and he falls silent, confused and winded. The rock has moved, and David finds himself trapped, pinned between it and a hard place.
"Nick," he tries again, when he has found his breath. The fear is more tangible now, burning up the back of his throat like cheap liquor. Then Nick's face is suddenly pressed very close to the back of his neck, the jut of his jawline hard and sharp, and David realises that Nick brings the feeling with him. It shivers down David's spine as Nick breathes out against it, at the fierce brush of his voice to David's ear - "Don't you ever shut up?"
David swallows, twisting his wrists again in Nick's grip. Perhaps he will try again what he was planning to say. It would be a shame, after all, to waste all that energy, that coiled-up, speech-ready enthusiasm. "Look," he tries again, going for brightness.
The next thing he knows is the desk's smoothness flat to his cheek, and a sharp pain travelling up his arms from wrist to elbow. The desktop smells of leather, old wood and prestige, and David thinks bitterly that this would never have happened to Churchill. It feels like being at school again, like being a lower-former at Eton, with some older boy tracking him to an empty classroom, wanting - wanting -
Nick's breath is rough in his ear, quickening. David realises, as the world reforms around him into something he must admit is reality, that he is hard against his backside, unmistakable and sure. The jolt that travels down his spine then is two parts desperation and one part disgust, but the desperation is indistinct, undirected, and the other part - the final part -
David is hard, too, against the unyielding wood, even as he presses his fingernails into Nick's wrists where he can reach, even as he twists against the pressure on his back. Whatever Nick wants, it is obscene, and he isn't going to get it; but the firm surface of the desk is a bizarrely welcome assurance, and David doesn't know how to even begin processing that.
No, he thinks, bitterly, as he gathers his strength to push back again against his unexpected oppressor, this would never have happened to Churchill.
"Nick," he says, weakly. "Come on. Stop it."
For a long, quiet moment, there is nothing. Nick is pressed against him chest to waist, to thigh, to knee, and David finds himself waiting rather anxiously for a response. Stupid, to be so anxious, as if Nick might ever hurt him. As if nobody would stop him. And yet, he is, and Nick's words, when they come, do not reassure him.
"If I let go of you," he breathes, silken heat over sharpness at David's throat, "you must promise me not to try to move."
He pauses. The silence gives off a heat like an unshielded fire. David tries to steel himself against it; finds himself melting, instead, swift as lead. He hears himself say: "All right."
For a frenzied moment, he cannot believe Nick will do it; thinks he will renege upon his promise, surely, in the purest act of Biblical revenge. An eye for an eye.
But Nick does let go, after a moment; hands leaving David's wrists, only for one of them to trace a path, curiously gentle, up the length of his arm, ghosting across his shoulder, his neck. It comes to rest over the lower part of David's face, slender fingers holding his mouth closed. There is no force there, no fierceness, but David knows, with a sudden surety, that if he resists, there will be. And it will hurt.
He goes limp, after a moment, this knowledge firm and heavy at the base of his skull. Nick's smile is tangible against his cheek, the other hand brushing soft touches against David's waist through his shirt, and David almost dares to relax, to steady himself. And then Nick is fumbling the shirt out of his trousers, tugging it free and returning his hand to warm naked skin, and then the panic surges up again in his throat, sudden and swift and human, like vomit or blood.
He breathes out hard against Nick's hand, something wordless, but vocalised, and twists. Nick gentles him, pets him, but his voice is firm.
"Hush," he says, carefully, softly. "Let me." He tracks his fingertips across the small of David's back; draws a soft line down over the lower vertebrae of his spine, circling slightly just beneath the waistline of his trousers. "Let me, and we're even. Do you understand?"
David swallows; twists again under Nick's weight. Nick leans closer, closer, careful. He nods slightly, not daring to think about what he is agreeing to, even though he cannot but know. Nick's mouth at the base of his jaw is soft for a moment, and then turns fierce, teeth nipping sharply at the skin beneath his ear. "You owe me," he goes on, voice barely more than a whisper. "You owe me so much more than this, Cameron. How many times have you screwed me over?"
The hand dips lower; slips around to thumb the edge of his hipbone; goes efficiently to work on his trouser-buttons. David could scream now, he thinks. Could scream, and it would be heard, even through the barrier of Nick's hand; and is Nick stupid, or something, trying this hear? Doesn't Nick know that David could end this right now, if he wanted?
It is only when another ten seconds have passed, and his trousers are open and Nick's hand is snaking inside, that it occurs to David that Nick must have known he wouldn't want to.
And he's damned if he's capable of dealing with that knowledge right now.
Indeed, David isn't sure he is capable of anything beyond obeying the directions of Nick's warm hands, his clever fingers; directions soft as suggestions, but unmistakably identifiable as orders, the kid gloves of Nick's gentleness not concealing the iron underneath. David finds himself shifting wordlessly as Nick tugs and rearranges; raises his hips obediently so that Nick can push his trousers down over his backside.
This, he thinks, in a final moment of clarity, is ridiculous. This is not something that should ever happen to the Prime Minister of The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.
And then Nick's hand closes around his cock; slips upwards until his palm drags over the slick tip of it, and the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom is no longer capable of any kind of thought at all.
There is no brutality in Nick, even in his anger. The press of his fingers into David - one, first, and then a second, scissoring carefully, stretching - is uncomfortable, ill-prepared as they are, but he has at least the grace to slip them into David's mouth beforehand, thrusting them against his tongue until they shine with his saliva. David, having no wish to be taken dry, submits mutely. There is an easy way to go about this, and a hard one. Somehow, David knows from the certainty in Nick's every movement that the hard way is not something he will like.
This, though. Nick knows what he is doing, fingers finding all the right places inside of David in a way that suggests he has done this at least occasionally since graduating Cambridge's hallowed halls. David finds himself gasping despite himself, the bite of his teeth into his lower lip no protection against the spike of pleasure that shoots through him as Nick straightens his fingers and presses. "Oh," he manages, involuntary, the word gasped harsh and hot as Nick's fingers twist and thrust inside him.
"Oh," Nick echoes, sardonic, amused. "You like this, do you?"
He pulls out without warning; repositions himself and then presses back inside of him, cock stretching David beyond his fingers' promise, the burn of it bleeding slowly deep into the core of him. David, despite himself, cries out. Nick laughs against his ear, not quite unkind, but amused.
"Well," he says, as he pulls out slowly; thrusts back in. "If you enjoy it so much, maybe I should always be the one doing the screwing, hmm?"
His fingers find David's cock again. They twist him expertly, guiding the arch of his body into the touch.
"What do you think of that proposal, Prime Minister?"
The world feels as if it is dissolving around them, the only remaining certainties the warm solidity of Nick splitting him open, and the hard pressure of the desk supporting them both. Nick works him thoroughly, as he works everything, and for a long moment, David simply finds himself dissolving, too. And then he feels Nick's smooth palm for a moment against the curve of his backside; and a moment later, an explosion of heat as it strikes a swift blow against his flesh.
"Prime Minister?"
He realises a response is indicated.
"Yes," he rasps out, not knowing what he is agreeing to, and not caring. Perhaps if he simply does as he is told, Nick will stop this, will finish this; will stop teasing and slam back into him and it is then that David realises that it is the finishing that he wants, and not the cessation. Nick surges back into him again in the aftermath of his acquiescence, and David finds himself pushing back, no longer resisting, but encouraging; and he doesn't know quite when the one became the other but nor does he exactly care.
"Good," says Nick, voice still enviably steady as he braces himself on David's hips, and David can only whimper in response.
It is at this point that things truly begin to blur. Nick, to this juncture, has been unbending as iron, voice as clipped and authoritative as a schoolmaster's, chiding in David's ear. Now, though, finally, he has begun to waver, the rhythm of his hips pounding against David escalating with his breathing. Somewhere along the way, David finds himself shivering; his arms, still trapped between them at strange angles, have begun to ache, but somehow, for some inexplicable reason, he almost welcomes this, the edge of pain rasping ferric under his tongue. Like the whole situation, it is nonsensical; and like the situation, it is real. David presses his heated cheek to the smooth leather of the desktop, and arches his back for more of this insanity.
Nick thrusts inside of him with all the force of an unsuspected explosive, channelled and detonated at last. David, swept up under it, can only hold on as his energy becomes erratic, as the words he pants into David's ear acquire an edge of madness.
"You like that," he breathes, "you like that, don't you?" as he grips David's pelvis and thrusts hard enough that the jolt of it sparks white blindness behind his eyes.
"Yes," he manages, muffled against the desk. "Nick, come on - "
"Come on what?" Nick seizes, the scrape of it coiling hot over the nape of David's neck. "What do nice boys say, Prime Minister?"
"Please," he capitulates, his voice breaking over the words, as he breaks himself under the irresistible onslaught of Nick. "Please, Nicky, for Christ's sake. Is that what you want?"
"Not while you can still form words," Nick tells him, the laughter twisting hot in his voice through his arousal. And then there is his hand again, thumb flickering back and forth over the leaking, sensitised tip, and then David is screaming and Nick is still half-laughing as he comes.
Afterwards, as David comes slowly back to himself, the aches in his limbs and the burn inside of him making themselves agonisingly known, the first thing he thinks is that he has surely failed the Office in some fundamental way.
The second thing is that he has never come so hard in his life.
As Nick withdraws, refastens himself; helps David up and shoves him back into his trousers, he finds himself wondering whether the two things are really so incompatible.
From the look on Nick's face, he is, at least for now, honour-satisfied. David opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and closes it again. Nick laughs.
"My God," he says, "can it be that I've actually had some effect?"
David arches an eyebrow. "I'll say you have," he concedes. He looks at the desk, and wrinkles his nose. No cleaner must ever see it in this state. He casts about for a box of Kleenex, and begins the judicious application of tissue.
"So," Nick says, voice still audibly tinged with amusement, "might I actually ask for your word that you won't screw me over again, after that, and dare to hope I can believe your answer?"
David pauses in the act of tossing away the (rather vile) handful of tissue. His mouth twitches. He knows he should just say yes, and move on. But then he remembers the heat spiralling out from the centre of him, the force of it blasting everything else from his mind. It would be stupid, surely, to remove himself from the reach of so useful a relaxation technique. It would be stupid, and definitely unstrategic.
He says, "On one condition."
For a moment, he thinks he may have made a wrong move. Nick's brow begins to cloud. But the clouding stops at a certain point. There is still room to manoeuvre. Nick says, "Oh?" A pause. "What condition?"
David smirks. "I will stop screwing you over," he says, slowly, "if you promise to screw me over thoroughly, from time to time, in return." He pauses. "Over my desk," he clarifies.
He's rather fond of the desk. It seems oddly fitting, possibly exactly because it is so wildly inappropriate.
Nick's brow, he is pleased to note, swiftly clears. The smile that breaks out on his face is like sunshine. The housewives' special.
"I think," he says, "I can happily second that motion."
David smiles back. And it appears that this time Nick - to judge by the answering warmth in his eyes - approves.
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THIS IS SO WRONG WRONG WROOOONG SELF!no subject
Oh, God, tell me about it. :\no subject
I know, it's so wrong!no subject
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*so wrong so wrong and yet...*
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this would never have happened to Churchill
haha I love the way he keeps thinking that!
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Holy moly. That was so hot and so hot and....
Yeah, capacity for coherent speaking has left me just now.
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