zaubra: (red hair sitting dock)
[personal profile] zaubra
Fandom: UK Politics
Title: Amateurs
Ship(s): Chris Bryant/Alastair Campbell
Word Count: 670
Rating: PG-13
Summary: One of the lesser-known items in Alastair's job description is to keep MPs from using casual sex sites, even if this occasionally means he has to take matters into his own quite capable hands. Flashfic for a prompt at the meme that wanted Alastair Campbell/Chris Bryant.
Disclaimer: This is a creative work of fiction, composed of fictional characters inspired by the public personas of living people. No injury or disrespect is intended to the persons named. If you've found this by googling yourself or someone you know, stop playing on the Internet and go run the country.


“So you’d love a good long fuck, would you? Drop your trousers and get over the desk.”

Alastair never has believed in starting meetings with small talk.

Gaydar wanker gapes at him, before assuming an injured manner. “I find that joke offensive.”

Alastair snorts. “What’s offensive is you being so incredibly fucking stupid and bringing the Party into disrepute. A fucking sex site? You need a fuck, you come to me.”

“I’m leaving,” Gaydar says. Bryant, that’s it. Not that Alastair fucking cares what his name fucking is at this exact moment.

“Go ahead,” Alastair says.

As Alastair expected, Bryant doesn’t dare. He stands there in a mix of affronted dignity and terror.

When it becomes clear that Bryant is staying put, Alastair reaches for his belt, pulls it out, and slaps it down on the desk. “I’m serious. Get over the desk. I only have half an hour until a meeting with Tony.”

Bryant, recovering from his flinch at the sound of Alastair’s belt hitting the desk, seems unsure how to respond, but belligerence begins to form. “You can’t just...” he starts, before being overcome by his own splutters. “It doesn’t work like that!”

Alastair raises an eyebrow, because he’s fucking eloquent like that, and he doesn’t always need to fucking swear to get his point across. “Says the man who went on the Internet for casual sex.”

Bryant crosses his arms. “That’s different.”

Alastair doesn’t have time for this. He gets up.

“What are you doing?” Bryant says, and the alarm in his voice makes Alastair want to grin. He doesn’t, though, because he knows just how devastating his grins can be, and the last thing he needs right now is Bryant running out into the corridors shrieking about how Alastair wants to fuck and/or murder him.

Instead, he walks straight into Bryant’s personal space, backing him against the wall and watching as Bryant’s throat convulses.

“What…” Bryant begins again, but they’ve been through that, so Alastair cuts him off by clashing their lips together.

Bryant makes an indignant noise, but kisses back. Truly desperate. Or too competitive to back down. Alastair presses closer, bringing his body flush against Bryant’s, sliding a possessive hand around the back of his neck.

Bryant’s hands on his shoulder push him back. “What do you think you’re doing?” Bryant’s voice is relatively calm, although with a hectic edge, and his lips are already swollen.

The time for eloquent fucking eyebrows is over. “What do you think I’m doing, you fucking moron?”

Bryant’s face is flushed and confused. “But…I didn’t know…you’re…”

Alastair sighs. “I’m not gay, but I’m not opposed to fucking people if they need it. And you need it. Because you are never going on that fucking website again, or I will shove your computer so far up your arse. Which will also have the delightful small side effect of meaning that no one will ever want to fuck you again, so that problem will happily be solved. Of course, you will no longer be able to shit without a doctor to put your intestines back in, but I'm not you, so that's not my problem.”

Bryant’s eyes are wide. Some of Alastair’s spittle has landed on his cheek, which is a little disgusting, but nothing new.


Alastair gives him points for being able to talk in the presence of full Campbell wroth. Coherence would be too much to be expected.

“There’s a perfectly good desk in this office, or there’s the sofa, or I can turn you around and fuck you against the wall. Your choice.”

Bryant’s eyes are still wide, but he is rock hard against Alastair’s hip, and his fingers tighten in Alastair’s shirt.

After a moment, when no choice is forthcoming, Alastair adds, “The sofa is a perennial favourite. Now move. I don’t keep Tony waiting.”

Bryant’s eyes glitter rebelliously, but he swallows, unclenches his fingers from Alastair’s shirt, and moves.

Alastair follows him.

MPs. They take so much fucking hand-holding.




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June 2012

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