FIC: (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction
Oct. 30th, 2011 08:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zaubraFandoms: UK Politics
Title: (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction
Ship(s): William Hague/Jeremy Browne
Word Count: 1,500
Rating: NC-17
Content: Explicit sex.
Summary: William's flight home from Australia is delayed, so he calls Jeremy. On a secure line. For this prompt at the meme.
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.
(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction
Jeremy is frowning over the latest report from Nepal when Alice knocks on his door. “The Minister’s on the line for you, Jeremy.”
Jeremy looks at his silent office phone, confused.
“It’s on the secure line,” Alice says, apologetically. “You’ll have to take it in his office.”
Jeremy’s not sure what’s going on, but he gets up nonetheless. Halfway out the door, he realises he’s still holding the Nepal report, and has to go back to put it away. Soon enough, though, he’s sliding into William’s chair and picking up William’s secure phone.
“Hello?”
“Jeremy,” William’s voice says, flat and familiar.
Jeremy finds himself smiling. He is totally not sappy or anything like that, but it’s reassuring, somehow, to hear William’s voice again. Foreign Office Questions without William were a surreal experience; Jeremy doesn’t dislike Lidington and Burt, exactly, but they don’t have even a fraction of William’s quiet competence. He’s sure of William’s ability to defuse any question or situation – he’s not at all sure of Lidington and Burt’s.
He doesn’t tell William any of this. He’s sure William already knows. “Aren’t you travelling right now?”
“That was the idea,” William says. “The Qantas strike has delayed our departure.”
“Sucks,” Jeremy says, lining William’s pens up in a row on top of the desk.
“An eloquent appraisal,” William says, and Jeremy can hear the raised eyebrows.
“So do you need a summary of what’s happening here?” Jeremy asks. “It’s pretty quiet. Saturday, you know. I’m just in to look at the new report on Nepal, which is boring. Although I suppose that’s good.”
Now William definitely sounds amused. Jeremy is secretly rather proud of his ability to decode the shades of dryness in William’s voice. “Alistair sent me an update an hour ago.”
Then why are you calling? Jeremy thinks.
“I’m calling,” William says – and that’s freaky – “because the delay may prevent our meeting tomorrow afternoon.”
Jeremy translates this for himself. Ah. “I’m sure we can find some time to meet on Monday.” It’s a secure line, so he’s not sure why William’s sticking to the code, but it always makes a shiver run down his spine, so he’s not complaining. (The code can also cause awkwardness when other people talk about legitimate meetings, but very few of them have a Yorkshire accent, so it’s a manageable problem.)
“I thought,” William says, “that we might meet now.”
Jeremy side-eyes the phone. “You’re in Australia.”
“I’m on a secure line,” William says, “and alone.”
It takes Jeremy a minute, but he gets it. He isn’t stupid. “Oh.”
“Oh indeed,” William says, and it sounds like he’s mocking, but Jeremy knows he’s not. Not maliciously, anyway.
“Lock the door,” William says. Jeremy sets the phone down and does as he’s told.
When he returns, he takes a deep breath before settling into William’s chair and picking up the phone again. “I’m here.”
“Open your shirt,” William says, without prelude.
Jeremy uses his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear, and undoes his buttons.
“Touch your right nipple,” William says. When Jeremy’s breath hitches – Jeremy can hear it himself, it must be louder over the phone – William adds, “Circle it, slowly. Imagine that it’s my mouth there.”
Jeremy shuts his eyes, lets himself imagine. When William says, “Pinch it, hard, like it’s my teeth,” Jeremy hears his own ragged inhale, harsh in the silence of William’s office, even with William’s voice in his ear.
“Good,” William says, and it’s not fair, it’s not fair, William knows how Jeremy can be reduced to incoherence by a few touches of his nipples and a strategic bite, it’s not fair that he can do this from across the world.
“I need...” Jeremy says, but William cuts him off.
“Did I say you could talk?”
“Mmngh,” is all Jeremy can manage, free hand sliding helplessly down to press at his cock, already straining against constricting fabric. It’s the voice, the voice, it destroys him.
“If you talk, I stop talking,” William says, and damn the man, he sounds like he knows exactly what his voice does to Jeremy, even from far-away Australia - but Jeremy supposes that they’ve been ‘meeting’ together for five months now, which is surely enough time for William to note the effect of his voice.
“Take your hand off your cock,” William says, and the order, combined with the casual dirtiness, pulls a half-voiced moan from Jeremy. He hardly thinks he can, but he does, somehow, though his cock is screaming at him to disobey.
“Touch your face,” William says, and Jeremy tips back his head, still holding the phone trapped between his ear and his shoulder, and obeys. “Slowly, like I would – just brush your fingers over your jaw and your lips, as if I have you on your knees at my feet, where you belong.”
He does belong there, he does, and as he ghosts his fingers down his jawline he shudders, warmth flooding over him, as if the caress truly is William’s.
“Good,” William says again, and sounds proud. Jeremy can hear the creak of what sounds like a sofa spring, and is abruptly even harder, at the thought of William in a hotel room somewhere, sitting on a sofa and calling Jeremy on the secure line. Is he touching himself? Or is he ignoring his own arousal, focusing all the terrible effect of that legendary concentration on reducing Jeremy to wordless need?
Jeremy lets a broken sound out, not quite a word but more than a breath, and hears William’s own breath catch.
“Touch yourself,” William says, and oh, Jeremy’s more than willing. “Pull your cock out of your pants and touch yourself, hard and fast, like it’s my hand.”
Jeremy’s hand knows William’s touch, and echoes it. There’s no slow laziness to this, not like Jeremy’s own solitary wanking habits, which turn frenetic only at the end. William is overwhelming, in every sense of the word, and his hand makes Jeremy sob within seconds, makes Jeremy bite William’s shoulder to keep from screaming.
There is no shoulder here today, so Jeremy bites his own lip, tasting the coppery tang of blood, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, because his-or-William’s hand is flying, and his-or-William’s breath is harsh, and his-or-William’s blood is singing.
“Listen to you,” William is saying, and the voice wraps around Jeremy like a blanket, like a caress, like the masterful claiming pressure of his kisses, “Listen to you, fucking your hand in my chair, in my office, with my secretary right outside the door.”
Jeremy couldn’t care less if the entire secretariat of Whitehall was outside the door, not in this moment, not with William’s voice in his ear, and his-or-William’s hand on his cock.
“Who do you belong to?” William asks.
“You,” Jeremy half-gasps, half-sobs, and he’s coming, hard enough that he forgets to breathe for a moment, hard enough that he’s spattering the top of William’s desk, hard enough that even William’s voice fades to white for a long moment.
When he slowly regains self-awareness, he finds himself slumped in William’s chair, the phone still miraculously caught between his ear and his shoulder.
He’s made a bit of a mess, but he can’t be arsed to care, not at the moment, not when William’s breath is suspiciously short, not when William’s gone silent, but for the tell-tale little gasps.
“Come on,” Jeremy finds himself saying, “Come on, Mr. Foreign Secretary, fuck me. Push me down over your desk and fuck me, fast and hard, just the way I like it.”
He knows he sounds ridiculous, and that his own voice is nothing like William’s, but in the languidness of the post-orgasm sprawl it seems worth a try. “Oh god, oh god, right there.”
And William’s breath is catching harder, and then it’s breaking, with a half-voiced “Fuck,” and Jeremy wishes with all his heart that he was in Australia, because he’s never lost the thrill he gets from seeing William Hague come.
He lets William recover, and wonders idly whether being turned on by the sound of someone’s breathing is a bit strange. (Not physically turned on, not at the moment – Jeremy doesn’t think he could manage that quite yet, he’s not a teenager any longer, although if anyone could reduce him to that state it would be William – but in all other ways turned on to eleven.) But perhaps breathing is a subset of vocalisation, and Jeremy already knows he’s a hopeless case when it comes to that.
“I expect you to clean my desk,” William says eventually. His voice would sound identical to almost everyone. Jeremy, however, can hear the ever-so-slight raggedy edge, and feels a rather smug smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Of course,” he says. “And I expect you to fuck me over it when you get back.”
William laughs, and Jeremy’s smile grows, until he’s grinning himself silly.
“It wouldn’t be a Monday without the afternoon meeting,” William says.
“No,” Jeremy says, satisfied.
~//~
Title: (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction
Ship(s): William Hague/Jeremy Browne
Word Count: 1,500
Rating: NC-17
Content: Explicit sex.
Summary: William's flight home from Australia is delayed, so he calls Jeremy. On a secure line. For this prompt at the meme.
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.
(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction
Jeremy is frowning over the latest report from Nepal when Alice knocks on his door. “The Minister’s on the line for you, Jeremy.”
Jeremy looks at his silent office phone, confused.
“It’s on the secure line,” Alice says, apologetically. “You’ll have to take it in his office.”
Jeremy’s not sure what’s going on, but he gets up nonetheless. Halfway out the door, he realises he’s still holding the Nepal report, and has to go back to put it away. Soon enough, though, he’s sliding into William’s chair and picking up William’s secure phone.
“Hello?”
“Jeremy,” William’s voice says, flat and familiar.
Jeremy finds himself smiling. He is totally not sappy or anything like that, but it’s reassuring, somehow, to hear William’s voice again. Foreign Office Questions without William were a surreal experience; Jeremy doesn’t dislike Lidington and Burt, exactly, but they don’t have even a fraction of William’s quiet competence. He’s sure of William’s ability to defuse any question or situation – he’s not at all sure of Lidington and Burt’s.
He doesn’t tell William any of this. He’s sure William already knows. “Aren’t you travelling right now?”
“That was the idea,” William says. “The Qantas strike has delayed our departure.”
“Sucks,” Jeremy says, lining William’s pens up in a row on top of the desk.
“An eloquent appraisal,” William says, and Jeremy can hear the raised eyebrows.
“So do you need a summary of what’s happening here?” Jeremy asks. “It’s pretty quiet. Saturday, you know. I’m just in to look at the new report on Nepal, which is boring. Although I suppose that’s good.”
Now William definitely sounds amused. Jeremy is secretly rather proud of his ability to decode the shades of dryness in William’s voice. “Alistair sent me an update an hour ago.”
Then why are you calling? Jeremy thinks.
“I’m calling,” William says – and that’s freaky – “because the delay may prevent our meeting tomorrow afternoon.”
Jeremy translates this for himself. Ah. “I’m sure we can find some time to meet on Monday.” It’s a secure line, so he’s not sure why William’s sticking to the code, but it always makes a shiver run down his spine, so he’s not complaining. (The code can also cause awkwardness when other people talk about legitimate meetings, but very few of them have a Yorkshire accent, so it’s a manageable problem.)
“I thought,” William says, “that we might meet now.”
Jeremy side-eyes the phone. “You’re in Australia.”
“I’m on a secure line,” William says, “and alone.”
It takes Jeremy a minute, but he gets it. He isn’t stupid. “Oh.”
“Oh indeed,” William says, and it sounds like he’s mocking, but Jeremy knows he’s not. Not maliciously, anyway.
“Lock the door,” William says. Jeremy sets the phone down and does as he’s told.
When he returns, he takes a deep breath before settling into William’s chair and picking up the phone again. “I’m here.”
“Open your shirt,” William says, without prelude.
Jeremy uses his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear, and undoes his buttons.
“Touch your right nipple,” William says. When Jeremy’s breath hitches – Jeremy can hear it himself, it must be louder over the phone – William adds, “Circle it, slowly. Imagine that it’s my mouth there.”
Jeremy shuts his eyes, lets himself imagine. When William says, “Pinch it, hard, like it’s my teeth,” Jeremy hears his own ragged inhale, harsh in the silence of William’s office, even with William’s voice in his ear.
“Good,” William says, and it’s not fair, it’s not fair, William knows how Jeremy can be reduced to incoherence by a few touches of his nipples and a strategic bite, it’s not fair that he can do this from across the world.
“I need...” Jeremy says, but William cuts him off.
“Did I say you could talk?”
“Mmngh,” is all Jeremy can manage, free hand sliding helplessly down to press at his cock, already straining against constricting fabric. It’s the voice, the voice, it destroys him.
“If you talk, I stop talking,” William says, and damn the man, he sounds like he knows exactly what his voice does to Jeremy, even from far-away Australia - but Jeremy supposes that they’ve been ‘meeting’ together for five months now, which is surely enough time for William to note the effect of his voice.
“Take your hand off your cock,” William says, and the order, combined with the casual dirtiness, pulls a half-voiced moan from Jeremy. He hardly thinks he can, but he does, somehow, though his cock is screaming at him to disobey.
“Touch your face,” William says, and Jeremy tips back his head, still holding the phone trapped between his ear and his shoulder, and obeys. “Slowly, like I would – just brush your fingers over your jaw and your lips, as if I have you on your knees at my feet, where you belong.”
He does belong there, he does, and as he ghosts his fingers down his jawline he shudders, warmth flooding over him, as if the caress truly is William’s.
“Good,” William says again, and sounds proud. Jeremy can hear the creak of what sounds like a sofa spring, and is abruptly even harder, at the thought of William in a hotel room somewhere, sitting on a sofa and calling Jeremy on the secure line. Is he touching himself? Or is he ignoring his own arousal, focusing all the terrible effect of that legendary concentration on reducing Jeremy to wordless need?
Jeremy lets a broken sound out, not quite a word but more than a breath, and hears William’s own breath catch.
“Touch yourself,” William says, and oh, Jeremy’s more than willing. “Pull your cock out of your pants and touch yourself, hard and fast, like it’s my hand.”
Jeremy’s hand knows William’s touch, and echoes it. There’s no slow laziness to this, not like Jeremy’s own solitary wanking habits, which turn frenetic only at the end. William is overwhelming, in every sense of the word, and his hand makes Jeremy sob within seconds, makes Jeremy bite William’s shoulder to keep from screaming.
There is no shoulder here today, so Jeremy bites his own lip, tasting the coppery tang of blood, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, because his-or-William’s hand is flying, and his-or-William’s breath is harsh, and his-or-William’s blood is singing.
“Listen to you,” William is saying, and the voice wraps around Jeremy like a blanket, like a caress, like the masterful claiming pressure of his kisses, “Listen to you, fucking your hand in my chair, in my office, with my secretary right outside the door.”
Jeremy couldn’t care less if the entire secretariat of Whitehall was outside the door, not in this moment, not with William’s voice in his ear, and his-or-William’s hand on his cock.
“Who do you belong to?” William asks.
“You,” Jeremy half-gasps, half-sobs, and he’s coming, hard enough that he forgets to breathe for a moment, hard enough that he’s spattering the top of William’s desk, hard enough that even William’s voice fades to white for a long moment.
When he slowly regains self-awareness, he finds himself slumped in William’s chair, the phone still miraculously caught between his ear and his shoulder.
He’s made a bit of a mess, but he can’t be arsed to care, not at the moment, not when William’s breath is suspiciously short, not when William’s gone silent, but for the tell-tale little gasps.
“Come on,” Jeremy finds himself saying, “Come on, Mr. Foreign Secretary, fuck me. Push me down over your desk and fuck me, fast and hard, just the way I like it.”
He knows he sounds ridiculous, and that his own voice is nothing like William’s, but in the languidness of the post-orgasm sprawl it seems worth a try. “Oh god, oh god, right there.”
And William’s breath is catching harder, and then it’s breaking, with a half-voiced “Fuck,” and Jeremy wishes with all his heart that he was in Australia, because he’s never lost the thrill he gets from seeing William Hague come.
He lets William recover, and wonders idly whether being turned on by the sound of someone’s breathing is a bit strange. (Not physically turned on, not at the moment – Jeremy doesn’t think he could manage that quite yet, he’s not a teenager any longer, although if anyone could reduce him to that state it would be William – but in all other ways turned on to eleven.) But perhaps breathing is a subset of vocalisation, and Jeremy already knows he’s a hopeless case when it comes to that.
“I expect you to clean my desk,” William says eventually. His voice would sound identical to almost everyone. Jeremy, however, can hear the ever-so-slight raggedy edge, and feels a rather smug smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Of course,” he says. “And I expect you to fuck me over it when you get back.”
William laughs, and Jeremy’s smile grows, until he’s grinning himself silly.
“It wouldn’t be a Monday without the afternoon meeting,” William says.
“No,” Jeremy says, satisfied.
~//~
