FIC: Please
Nov. 12th, 2011 07:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zaubraFandoms: UK Politics
Title: Please
Ship(s): John Bercow/Peter Mandelson
Word Count: 1,454
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Peter and John, control and a fucking machine. 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.
Please
“Are you ready?”
John closes his eyes, breathing through his nose, finding his centre. He can smell the faint mustiness that comes from being underground; the Palace of Westminster is well-maintained, but it is still an ancient palace, and the parts which did not burn in 1834 still betray their age, at the edges.
The secret parts most of all.
Keeping his eyes closed, John reaches for his tie, pulling it loose and sliding it off. He holds it blindly out, and it is taken from him. Next, his shoes. His socks (these are not taken, and he lets them fall from his hands, to land on the cold floor). His Speaker’s robe. His suit jacket. His trousers. His shirt. His vest. His pants.
At last, he is naked.
Resisting the urge to shiver in the cool dampness of the air, John keeps his eyes closed. At his call, his magic swirls up to greet him: cheerful and serene, vivid and professional. The colours play behind his eyelids, still as heady as they were all those years ago, when they first woke. He calms them, wordlessly; they still at his direction, and submit to being tucked away, dormant for a space.
A space is all he needs, here, tonight.
John breathes in again, clearing his head, letting go, becoming.
He opens his eyes. “Ready.”
~//~
John never knows what his lover has in store for him, on these nights where they set everything else aside and become simply two men, together.
Tonight, it seems that a particularly acrobatic programme is contemplated.
Resting his weight on his forearms, his arse high in the air, John turns a wary eye to the contraption lurking in the corner. It is not The Machine; he thinks Peter would find using The Machine in an assignation to be vaguely distasteful. But it is perhaps the Machine’s bastard son, or a distant cousin, and its hard angles look intimidating.
Peter brings his hand down, hard, and John jerks, a moan tripping out in his surprise.
“Your mind’s wandering.”
“Forgive me,” John says, suppressing another moan as Peter slips a second finger inside him to join the first.
“Do you deserve forgiveness?” Peter asks.
“Please,” John says, dropping further into the space he can reach on these nights, the space that Peter opens for him, into the willing cession of control – the relaxation – the joy and safety of Peter’s hands. His magic chunters restlessly, but it can assert control again in the morning; he will be Speaker again in the morning. For now – “Please,” he says again, turning a flushed cheek into the cool touch of the table.
Peter fucks him with those talented fingers, slowly, slowly; leans down to press his lips to the base of John’s spine; bites down on the curve of John’s arse, and soothes it with a kiss when John yelps.
~//~
“Are you ready?”
John doesn’t know, he sincerely doesn’t know. He’s strapped in, legs spread obscenely wide, arse carefully prepared. By rights he should be ready. Peter has done his job well.
And yet he doesn’t feel ready. His cock, aching and full minutes ago, has flagged as he looks at the mounted monstrosity set to breach him, set to fuck him. (Perhaps it is not quite a monstrosity. Peter would not give him a task he was not equipped to bear. But common sense has a tendency to flee when one is strapped down, about to fucked by a mass of metal and a giant dick, at the push of a button by one’s lover, who – John might add – is still wearing far too many clothes.)
He thinks his safeword. Even the thought of it is enough to alert the magic loitering dejectedly behind its closed door. It sits up and begins cracking its metaphorical knuckles. Down, he tells it.
“Or perhaps…” Peter says thoughtfully. He turns, and rummages in a cupboard, emerging with a blanket.
John temporarily forgets to breathe, as Peter fastidiously lays the blanket on the floor and goes to his knees between John’s spread legs.
Peter traces his fingers down the inside of John’s thigh, and John shudders, feeling his cock begin to take heart again.
“Please,” he hears himself say, voice hoarse.
Peter smiles up at him, teeth and promise, then ducks his head.
John’s breath sobs out, as his hands tense helplessly in their bonds.
~//~
“Ready,” John says, and is proud to hear that his voice does not waver.
Peter presses the button.
~//~
The machine has no remorse, no mercy, no feelings.
It doesn’t hear John’s little gasps, as it pushes inexorably in, as it pulls shatteringly out. It doesn’t feel the sentient gaze of The Machine, watching the little upstart across the room fuck Its master’s lover. It doesn’t see the way Peter’s fingers dance across John’s chest, the way Peter’s teeth pinch John’s nipple, the way Peter’s lips descend on John’s, stealing the air from his lungs.
John is lost in a world of pressure and feeling and sensation, a world that maxes out his receptors and leaves him drifting in a mass of impossible colours, among touches that almost take corporeal form.
“Give in to it,” Peter says against his ear, breath shivering across the hair on the back of his neck. “Let it take you.”
John is beyond words, but he closes his eyes, and lets himself be taken.
~//~
It must be minutes later, although it feels simultaneously like a moment and eternity, when the machine grinds to a stop.
John mewls, thigh muscles tensing disconsolately against the loss.
“I think,” Peter says – and his voice is not entirely steady – “that it’s my turn.”
“Please,” John manages.
He can’t see well from this position, but he can hear the sound of Peter’s zipper, the sound of Peter’s footfalls, as he steps away to lay his folded trousers on a chair.
And then, at long long last, he feels the throbbing warmth of Peter’s cock.
“Do you know what I’m going to do?” Peter asks, running his fingers down the inside of John’s knee, canted helplessly outward.
“Tell me,” John says. The hair on his legs prickles.
Peter smiles, small and amused, a sharp twinkle in his eye. “I’m going to fuck you.”
Despite the obviousness of the statement, the obscenity nonetheless goes straight to John’s cock.
But Peter is not done. “Then I’m going to come in you.”
They’ve been fluid-bonded for a while now, but it still makes John shiver, the combination of trust and filthiness, the way the words fall off Peter’s tongue.
“And then,” Peter says, reaching down to give John’s cock a quick stroke, and John arches his back the couple of inches his bonds allow, and Peter’s smile widens, and John makes a noise he’s not sure is entirely human, “I’m going to have the machine fuck my come into you.”
Peter’s hand on his cock is warm and teasing, loose enough to drive a man mad, and there’s a roaring in John’s ears, and he thinks he can smell, taste, see the lust pouring off his own body.
“What do you say to that?” Peter asks, mildly, but with a whisper of something more, lingering somewhere deep in his voice, as John’s magic lurks somewhere deep in his brain.
John summons the only one he’s reliably sure is English.
“Please.”
~//~
Peter lets him come in the end, when John is flying so high he is almost blind. He shouts something incoherent, as Peter’s hand tips him over the edge, the machine still pumping obediently on.
Peter kisses the shout out of his mouth.
~//~
His freed hand strokes Peter’s hair, gently, erratically, as if it’s almost forgotten how to be free.
The Machine watches. The other machine sits, inert and silent.
Above them, the vast expanse of Parliament rears its head. Tomorrow morning John will walk those halls once more, as cries of “Speaker!” go before him. Tomorrow he will take his seat and call the Commons to order. Tomorrow he will shoulder his burden again.
Tonight, his lover’s head is pillowed on his shoulder. He traces the shell of Peter’s ear, and bends to press a kiss to the top of his head.
Peter rumbles, a little like a cat, and settles his hand more firmly on John’s hip.
Around them, John’s magic stretches its wings again. He feels it fly free, soaring into the rafters; he watches it move, in all its ethereal and fantastic almost-there colours.
Control, responsibility, power – all will be the easier for having temporarily given them up.
Here, in the space between relinquishing control and taking it up again, in the world between the evening and the morning, John holds his lover, and smiles.
~//~
Title: Please
Ship(s): John Bercow/Peter Mandelson
Word Count: 1,454
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Peter and John, control and a fucking machine. 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.
Please
“Are you ready?”
John closes his eyes, breathing through his nose, finding his centre. He can smell the faint mustiness that comes from being underground; the Palace of Westminster is well-maintained, but it is still an ancient palace, and the parts which did not burn in 1834 still betray their age, at the edges.
The secret parts most of all.
Keeping his eyes closed, John reaches for his tie, pulling it loose and sliding it off. He holds it blindly out, and it is taken from him. Next, his shoes. His socks (these are not taken, and he lets them fall from his hands, to land on the cold floor). His Speaker’s robe. His suit jacket. His trousers. His shirt. His vest. His pants.
At last, he is naked.
Resisting the urge to shiver in the cool dampness of the air, John keeps his eyes closed. At his call, his magic swirls up to greet him: cheerful and serene, vivid and professional. The colours play behind his eyelids, still as heady as they were all those years ago, when they first woke. He calms them, wordlessly; they still at his direction, and submit to being tucked away, dormant for a space.
A space is all he needs, here, tonight.
John breathes in again, clearing his head, letting go, becoming.
He opens his eyes. “Ready.”
~//~
John never knows what his lover has in store for him, on these nights where they set everything else aside and become simply two men, together.
Tonight, it seems that a particularly acrobatic programme is contemplated.
Resting his weight on his forearms, his arse high in the air, John turns a wary eye to the contraption lurking in the corner. It is not The Machine; he thinks Peter would find using The Machine in an assignation to be vaguely distasteful. But it is perhaps the Machine’s bastard son, or a distant cousin, and its hard angles look intimidating.
Peter brings his hand down, hard, and John jerks, a moan tripping out in his surprise.
“Your mind’s wandering.”
“Forgive me,” John says, suppressing another moan as Peter slips a second finger inside him to join the first.
“Do you deserve forgiveness?” Peter asks.
“Please,” John says, dropping further into the space he can reach on these nights, the space that Peter opens for him, into the willing cession of control – the relaxation – the joy and safety of Peter’s hands. His magic chunters restlessly, but it can assert control again in the morning; he will be Speaker again in the morning. For now – “Please,” he says again, turning a flushed cheek into the cool touch of the table.
Peter fucks him with those talented fingers, slowly, slowly; leans down to press his lips to the base of John’s spine; bites down on the curve of John’s arse, and soothes it with a kiss when John yelps.
~//~
“Are you ready?”
John doesn’t know, he sincerely doesn’t know. He’s strapped in, legs spread obscenely wide, arse carefully prepared. By rights he should be ready. Peter has done his job well.
And yet he doesn’t feel ready. His cock, aching and full minutes ago, has flagged as he looks at the mounted monstrosity set to breach him, set to fuck him. (Perhaps it is not quite a monstrosity. Peter would not give him a task he was not equipped to bear. But common sense has a tendency to flee when one is strapped down, about to fucked by a mass of metal and a giant dick, at the push of a button by one’s lover, who – John might add – is still wearing far too many clothes.)
He thinks his safeword. Even the thought of it is enough to alert the magic loitering dejectedly behind its closed door. It sits up and begins cracking its metaphorical knuckles. Down, he tells it.
“Or perhaps…” Peter says thoughtfully. He turns, and rummages in a cupboard, emerging with a blanket.
John temporarily forgets to breathe, as Peter fastidiously lays the blanket on the floor and goes to his knees between John’s spread legs.
Peter traces his fingers down the inside of John’s thigh, and John shudders, feeling his cock begin to take heart again.
“Please,” he hears himself say, voice hoarse.
Peter smiles up at him, teeth and promise, then ducks his head.
John’s breath sobs out, as his hands tense helplessly in their bonds.
~//~
“Ready,” John says, and is proud to hear that his voice does not waver.
Peter presses the button.
~//~
The machine has no remorse, no mercy, no feelings.
It doesn’t hear John’s little gasps, as it pushes inexorably in, as it pulls shatteringly out. It doesn’t feel the sentient gaze of The Machine, watching the little upstart across the room fuck Its master’s lover. It doesn’t see the way Peter’s fingers dance across John’s chest, the way Peter’s teeth pinch John’s nipple, the way Peter’s lips descend on John’s, stealing the air from his lungs.
John is lost in a world of pressure and feeling and sensation, a world that maxes out his receptors and leaves him drifting in a mass of impossible colours, among touches that almost take corporeal form.
“Give in to it,” Peter says against his ear, breath shivering across the hair on the back of his neck. “Let it take you.”
John is beyond words, but he closes his eyes, and lets himself be taken.
~//~
It must be minutes later, although it feels simultaneously like a moment and eternity, when the machine grinds to a stop.
John mewls, thigh muscles tensing disconsolately against the loss.
“I think,” Peter says – and his voice is not entirely steady – “that it’s my turn.”
“Please,” John manages.
He can’t see well from this position, but he can hear the sound of Peter’s zipper, the sound of Peter’s footfalls, as he steps away to lay his folded trousers on a chair.
And then, at long long last, he feels the throbbing warmth of Peter’s cock.
“Do you know what I’m going to do?” Peter asks, running his fingers down the inside of John’s knee, canted helplessly outward.
“Tell me,” John says. The hair on his legs prickles.
Peter smiles, small and amused, a sharp twinkle in his eye. “I’m going to fuck you.”
Despite the obviousness of the statement, the obscenity nonetheless goes straight to John’s cock.
But Peter is not done. “Then I’m going to come in you.”
They’ve been fluid-bonded for a while now, but it still makes John shiver, the combination of trust and filthiness, the way the words fall off Peter’s tongue.
“And then,” Peter says, reaching down to give John’s cock a quick stroke, and John arches his back the couple of inches his bonds allow, and Peter’s smile widens, and John makes a noise he’s not sure is entirely human, “I’m going to have the machine fuck my come into you.”
Peter’s hand on his cock is warm and teasing, loose enough to drive a man mad, and there’s a roaring in John’s ears, and he thinks he can smell, taste, see the lust pouring off his own body.
“What do you say to that?” Peter asks, mildly, but with a whisper of something more, lingering somewhere deep in his voice, as John’s magic lurks somewhere deep in his brain.
John summons the only one he’s reliably sure is English.
“Please.”
~//~
Peter lets him come in the end, when John is flying so high he is almost blind. He shouts something incoherent, as Peter’s hand tips him over the edge, the machine still pumping obediently on.
Peter kisses the shout out of his mouth.
~//~
His freed hand strokes Peter’s hair, gently, erratically, as if it’s almost forgotten how to be free.
The Machine watches. The other machine sits, inert and silent.
Above them, the vast expanse of Parliament rears its head. Tomorrow morning John will walk those halls once more, as cries of “Speaker!” go before him. Tomorrow he will take his seat and call the Commons to order. Tomorrow he will shoulder his burden again.
Tonight, his lover’s head is pillowed on his shoulder. He traces the shell of Peter’s ear, and bends to press a kiss to the top of his head.
Peter rumbles, a little like a cat, and settles his hand more firmly on John’s hip.
Around them, John’s magic stretches its wings again. He feels it fly free, soaring into the rafters; he watches it move, in all its ethereal and fantastic almost-there colours.
Control, responsibility, power – all will be the easier for having temporarily given them up.
Here, in the space between relinquishing control and taking it up again, in the world between the evening and the morning, John holds his lover, and smiles.
~//~
