Fic by Proxy: In Your Place.
Title: In Your Place
Rating: NC17
Summary: A world turned upside-down, where Nick Clegg is Prime Minister, where David Cameron never became leader of the Conservatives and works as a SpAd – and keeps finding himself having private meetings with the Prime Minister.
Warning: If you're squicked by rimming don't read this.
Author's Notes: My one and only clameron fic. I wrote two endings for it, so you can have the other, not so pleasant, ending here, rather than the happy one I posted to the meme. Since I've agreed to let Lizzy post this, I'm going to have her post the version of it that I much prefer.
Disclaimer: Obviously not real. Written with no implication that it could ever be true. Like anyone needs this in a fic where Nick is PM.
It's going to be another of those meetings. David can tell as soon as he walks into the Prime Minister's office and sees him sat behind his desk, brown hair glinting auburn in the sunlight and yellow tie slung across the back of his chair. He can tell as soon as the Prime Minister looks up at him, lips curling into a predatory smile.
'Close the door,' the Prime Minister says, words careful and calm.
David turns with his heart hammering in his chest and pushes the door closed, takes one last fleeting glimpse of the corridor outside, and then bare brown wood fills his vision. He doesn't turn back, doesn't need to for the moment, waits there to see what order will follow the one just spoken.
'Not talkative today?' the Prime Minister enquires with a sardonic laugh. 'No important advice for me?'
'No,' David answers curtly. 'Just get on with it.'
'All business, aren't you?'
The creak of the Prime Minister's chair indicates that he's got to his feet, but David doesn't hear the footsteps that follow, muffled to silence by the carpet. David flinches without meaning to as the Prime Minister steps up behind him and stands close against his back.
'I thought you liked our meetings,' the Prime Minister purrs in his ear.
Like is an understatement; can't live without is closer to the truth, not that David will admit it to the smug-faced and self assured man who is standing behind him. But he doesn't want to dance around the reason why he's here, not today, not when the Prime Minister has been overseas for more than a week and there haven't been meetings of any kind. What he wants is to be roughly ravished, fucked against the Prime Minister's desk, or door, or wall, or anywhere; he doesn't care as long as it happens, and happens soon.
'I have other things to do today,' David hisses. He doesn't, this is his last meeting of the day, he'd made sure of it before he even knocked on the door. 'I'm not at your beck and call.'
'Perhaps not...' Fingers curl themselves in David's hair, brushing lightly at the back of his head with blissful, torturous slowness. 'I can always give you a new job.'
'You'd like that wouldn't you?' David laughs dryly. He'd like that too, but he's not about to give his hand away; likes the pretence, the mock fight for dominance even when he knows he has none, not here.
'Look at me,' is the answer, and David twists to see the Prime Minister smiling at him, one corner of his mouth curled upward and blue eyes clearly showing amusement. 'If you'd rather talk politics, I can certainly oblige you.'
'How was the trip to America?' David asks immediately, watching the smile grow on the Prime Minister's lips as he speaks. 'Did you settle the issue with the extradition-'
'Take off your shoes,' the Prime Minister interrupts.
'What?'
'Your shoes, take them off.'
The Prime Minister steps back enough that David can follow the instruction, bending over clumsily and lifting first one leg and then the other as he pulls his shoes from his feet. He hesitates for a moment with his head level to the Prime Minister's waist, and then slips off his socks too, balling them up and shoving them into his left shoe, and stands up again.
'Jacket too, and trousers, but not your shirt.'
David slides out of his jacket, tossing it to one side and then fumbling with his trousers until he can push them down over his legs. They join the jacket on the floor, and David stands silently, feeling the Prime Ministers gaze travelling his body while the man strokes a thumb across his chin in apparent thoughtfulness. It's enough to make David feel self conscious, although nothing more than his legs and feet are visible, the rest hidden by his shirt.
'Wait by my desk,' the Prime Minster orders.
'Yes, Prime Minister.'
The meek response earns David a throaty chuckle, and he smiles while he's sure it can't be seen, darting across the floor to the front of the Prime Minister's desk and turning so he can watch as the Prime Minister picks up the discarded clothing, folding the jacket and trousers, and placing them carefully on one of the low chairs against the wall. He doesn't take off any of his own clothes before walking to David, stepping right up to him and pushing David further back against the desk, hands grabbing the waistband of David's underwear.
'The President and I managed to see eye to eye on the issue,' he says impossibly lightly, before ducking his head and nibbling behind David's ear.
'That's...' David falls silent for a moment as his underwear is slid over his hips and down his legs, and mumbles, not quite sure of what he means, when a hand roves over his already hardening cock. '...Good.'
'Indeed,' the Prime Minister agrees at his throat, tongue fluttering over the steady beat of David's carotid. 'But I didn't expect to have any trouble. Obama is quite reasonable, it was easy to persuade him of the government's position on the matter.'
'Shut up,' David responds gruffly.
'I thought you wanted to talk politics?'
There's another laugh, and the Prime Minister's chest shakes against David's. All part of this game, whatever it is, that they're playing. David can't really complain, since he's the one who started it, taking up the challenge when they'd been over by the door, but with the hand on his cock moving, agonisingly slow, David can't keep his thoughts clear enough to keep up with a conversation about extradition treaties.
'I thought you didn't,' David says.
'I said I'd oblige you,' comes the soft-spoken answer. The hand on David's cock strokes faster for a few seconds and then slows again.
'Do you get off on politics or something?'
'I think the more relevant question is whether you do. You're the one who-'
'Shut up!'
David follows the outburst with a rough nip at the Prime Minister's earlobe, but the Prime Minister simply laughs again.
'A right tomcat today. I take it you missed me?'
'Not in a million years.'
'Oh,' the Prime Minister answers with one hand now on David's back, 'I think you did.' As if to prove the point, the Prime Minister jerks his hand a few times, causing David to yell loudly. 'Quiet.'
Quiet, David thinks hazily, through the cascading shivers rippling their way up his spine. The Prime Minister's hand is hot around his bare flesh. How could anyone stay quiet when someone is doing that to them?
He closes his mouth, breathing in great bursts through his nostrils, and whimpers in the back of his throat. This, every time this; he wouldn't change it for anything, wouldn't want anything else, not when those hands reach for him and set his skin aflame with their touch, the low, long and hard grazing of fingernails along his thigh.
Still shivering, David fastens his mouth to the Prime Minister, sucking and biting, dragging his lips across the harsh scrape of emerging stubble on the skin of the Prime Minister's neck, prickly sharp against the sensitive flesh of his tongue.
'Turn around.'
The command comes from somewhere near David's hairline, and he obeys instantly, twisting until he is facing the desk, planting his feet firmly on the expensive carpet and curling his toes into the springy, twisted strands that compose its surface, feeling them tickle between his toes. The Prime Minister presses himself against David's back, hands and arms curling around David's waist possessively; he's hard, the knot of arousal firm against David's rear. David arches back for more contact, more of that hardness swelling so close to his bare skin, and hears a sharp intake of breath at his ear, a hard grunt that is the only crack in the Prime Minister's steady composure.
Pleasure and pride, in equal measure, flare in David at the noise, bright and blinding at having finally pierced that icy stance and found something lurking in the depths beneath, something that David has wanted to see or to hear, and wants to again. He pushes back once more, flicking his hips in a grinding circle, and is rewarded with another groan, but his sense of having some advantage over the man behind him lasts only a fraction of a second before it is ripped away. The Prime Minister's hand skates under David's shirt and finds the hard stub of a nipple, and his other slides down across David's belly, gripping tight and moving slow, leaving David panting and trapped between the want to push forward into that hold or back into the tempting hardness.
A mouth falls upon David's neck, devouring the skin while hands taunt and tease, working David to a pitch of ecstasy. He throws his head back against the Prime Minster's shoulder, gasping into the air above him and biting back moan after moan after moan, sensations racking his body, drawing it this way and that under the Prime Minster's burning touches.
'Didn't miss me at all?' the Prime Minister asks quietly against his skin. 'Not even a little?'
'N-not f-or a s-se-cond,' David insists brokenly.
Not a second, no... Every second, of every minute, of every day; the whole week of impatient waiting for him to get back, and then two more before today when their meeting was written in to David's schedule along with innumerable others.
'That really is a shame.' The hands on David's body move to his shirt, unfastening the buttons before peeling it away from his upper body. 'I've been thinking of doing this all week.'
'Have you?'
'Oh yes.'
The low, sultry tone of the reply goes straight to David's groin, as does the sentiment. It's not only himself who pictures this, who wants and waits, who feels the fire burning through him the second he steps over the threshold of the Prime Minister's office, sweeping him away, like a path of lava running hot, boiling over every millimetre of his skin.
David's shirt falls to the floor, and then the Prime Minister's mouth is once again on his neck, nipping, biting, licking. David leans forward, hands meeting the desk with a thump, fingers tense and twitching, as the Prime Minister's tongue presses forward, slides in a damp line all the way down David's spine and lower, and slips to a place that makes a strangled cry wrench its way from David's throat. He looks down at his hands, fingers splayed out across the leather-covered surface of the desk, sweaty dampness showing in an outline whenever he curls his fingers, seeking purchase that cannot be found.
The Prime Minister's hand presses firm on the small of David's back, urges him forward until he is lying on the cool surface in front of him, arms stretched out above his head, hands grasping the far edge of the desk as that tongue dances, slick and slippery, pushing inside him. He clenches his teeth against a wail, inhales the smell of leather and paper and ink, rocking back in desire and desperation, legs shaking and sweat dripping from his brow.
'P-p-pr--'
He can't get the words out, can't cling to the formality of titles, like some obscure barrier, in the hope that it will keep his head from swimming, not when he's naked across the Prime Minister's desk; not when the Prime Minister is on his knees behind him; not when that mouth is doing what it is.
'Nick,' he gasps eventually, the shorter word falling easily from him, drifting out and hanging in the air; it's never been said before, never once in all of David's lusty utterings has that word been spoken. There is no answer except for a quick flick and dart of tongue, a harder push that has David trembling against the desk.
He arches, back and back, pushing against the glorious heat, begging silently for more of that; don't stop, don't stop, I'd give anything.
The cry David gives, unintentional and filled with furious need, when the Prime Minister pulls away, is met with two words, hushed against his thigh.
'Shh, David.'
David realises then that he has been begging out loud, words slipping in a chaotic mess from his lips, accidental, with meaning like never before, or meaning that he has desperately tried to deny, and to conceal from the man behind him.
'Nick, please,' David gasps out helplessly, fingers tightening on the edge of the desk, nervousness curling through his stomach when the Prime Minister doesn't immediately respond. David feels him stand up, cloth brushing against David's bare skin, and then a warm hand is sliding slowly over David's back to his shoulder, grasping firmly and gently urging him to turn over. With eyes closed, David obeys, biting down on his lip and breathing hard, settling nearer to the middle of the desk than he was before.
There's a moment of shuffling, the sound of a belt being unbuckled, and then the rough scrape of leather against wood, and before David fully registers what is happening the Prime Minister has climbed onto the desk, straddling David's waist, his lower half now bare except for his socks and shoes. David looks up, and sees blue eyes looking at him intently, a soft smile playing on the Prime Minister's lips.
'I think that's enough preamble, don't you?' the Prime Minister whispers seductively.
God, yes, David thinks, remaining silent as the Prime Minister fumbles quickly in his pocket before sliding his jacket and shirt off and throwing them carelessly onto the chair behind his desk. He quickly rips open the packet he'd taken from his pocket, slips the condom onto David, then positions himself, pulling David up so that they are touching chest to chest.
Christ, Nick is tight, and hot. His hands are clamped on David's shoulders, fingers pinching hard into David's skin as he pushes himself down slowly, so fucking slowly that David can't breathe, pausing after each movement and gasping rapidly in David's ear.
'Fuck, Nick,' David breathes.
'That's the idea, yes,' is the half-laughed response. The Prime Minister stills for a few seconds, a few short groans escaping into the air at the side of David's face. He shivers, and then he moves, thighs straining under David's palms as he pulls himself up and then pushes down again.
'Oh, oh God,' David gasps, hands clinging to the Prime Minster's hips and guiding his movement gently, not wanting him to go too fast and have this end, because he is close, so close to the brink already, teetering on the edge and trying desperately to keep himself from toppling over. With uncharacteristic submission the Prime Minister follows the directions of David's hands, slows his pace to match, leaving David in awe of this change in dynamic, this new-found and subtle level of control that he now has. This is a tiny glimpse of the man behind the minister, the person who is hidden beneath the bravado of the game of dominance they play with each other.
'Kiss me, David,' the Prime Minister whispers roughly, his mouth pressing against David's, hands sliding into David's hair. His mouth is musky and hot; David devours it hungrily, not caring that he can taste a lingering bitterness, dragging his lips against Nick's and hearing a series of desperate whimpers rise in response. It's a victory greater than any David has ever known, to have broken the Prime Minister's guard so completely, to have those hard, short grunts give way to the soft and pleading sounds Nick is now making, and David doesn't care; this is no longer a game of who can get the upper hand.
'Nick,' he says softly when Nick breaks the kiss, his head falling to David's shoulder, the rush of his uneven breaths coursing against David's skin as he continues to move, shaking and trembling. David wonders how he has never noticed that Nick's apparently nonchalant manner is as false as his own, that Nick hides behind the pretence of indifference just as much as David does, perhaps more.
'Fuck, I missed you,' Nick pants hotly in his ear, quick and quiet.
'I missed you too,' David admits, delighting when the words make Nick whimper again, his hands shaking, his whole body quivering slightly.
'Did you?' Nick asks, the tone of his voice something close to frantic.
'Yes,' David insists, moving his hands so he can hold Nick's face and kiss him again, look him in the eye as he adds, 'I couldn't wait to see you.'
'D-david.' Nick closes his eyes, stuttering madly and moving just a fraction faster. David gasps breathlessly and returns his hands to Nick's hips to slow him once more. 'David, please.'
He's never seen Nick like this, this out of control, this willing to give himself up to what David wants. Nick moves and rocks, pushing back against David for more, tries to go faster, and when David refuses to allow it, Nick begs; pleads and whimpers and moans, and oh God, it's intoxicating, every second of it sends David's head spinning. Whatever game they had been playing before, it is over now, it has long been over; there is nothing but the two of them in this office, not the Prime Minister and the political advisor, just him and Nick, with no lies carefully placed between them to shield the truth.
I love him, David thinks, and the thought breaks his resolve. He moves his hands faster, urging Nick to do the same, and says, 'Moan for me, Nick. I love to hear you.'
'Dav-id,' Nick stammers. He's slamming himself down roughly between each word, every movement sending a cacophony of sensation skittering up David's spine, his arms are wrapped around David's neck and he is just clinging on as if his very life depends on keeping that hold. 'Oh, don't stop, don't fucking stop, David. I love you too.'
It's those last four words more than anything else that make David give one last cry of Nick's name, his head swims with them as he hears Nick's desperate yes, David, yes and the last few frantic seconds of movement cease. He flops back on the desk, Nick falling on top of him in a sprawling heap that must be uncomfortable, and wraps his arms tightly about Nick's shoulders, breathing heavily.
Neither of them speaks for what seems like a long time. Nick repositions himself carefully, lying half on the desk and half on top of David, head resting against David's chest and his fingers stroking softly across David's stomach. David lies in a state of bliss, smiling because Nick loves him and things will be different from now on, he won't have to hide his own feelings anymore, not when Nick feels the same.
At length, Nick gets up, sliding off the desk and beginning to put his clothes on. He still doesn't speak and, curiously, his face is back to being impassive and detached, shoulders set squarely as he pulls up his trousers and buckles the belt. David gets down from the desk and grabs at his crumpled shirt, quickly buttoning it and crossing the room to retrieve trousers and jacket. The silence is stretching out like an ocean before him; something is wrong but David can't fathom what it is, why Nick is now acting the professional statesman again after his admission of love.
When he looks up after tying his shoes, Nick is looking at him, biting his lip fiercely, a look of devastation marring his handsome features.
'My wife,' he says quietly, and David can see his lip tremble. 'My wife, she knows. Not who, but she knows there's someone-'
Nick takes a deep, despairing breath, looks down at the floor.
'I can't see you anymore, David.'
'Nick,' David says, whimpers it in a desperate rush of breath as he goes to where Nick is standing. No no no...
'You'll liaise with someone in the Treasury Office from now on,' Nick tells him.
'Nick, don't do this,' David pleads, grabbing Nick's shoulders frantically and pulling him so they are pressed together. For a second he sees Nick's resolve breaking, one tiny second where he can see all of Nick's pain, all of his longing, reflected in those beautiful blue eyes, before that too vanishes, slips back behind the mask of Prime Ministerial dignity, and Nick steps away from David's hold on him.
'It's already done.' The Prime Minister sits down at his desk, meeting David's heartbroken expression with a steady stare.
'I love you,' David whispers, but turns away when the Prime Minister remains silent, when there's no sign of the man he knows lives beneath the cold surface of the Prime Minster's steadfast professionalism.
'Goodbye, David,' the Prime Minster says. David nods then, gulping down his misery and heading for the door.
'Goodbye, Nick,' he says as he closes it, bare brown wood filling his vision, and blurring as tears fill his eyes.
Rating: NC17
Summary: A world turned upside-down, where Nick Clegg is Prime Minister, where David Cameron never became leader of the Conservatives and works as a SpAd – and keeps finding himself having private meetings with the Prime Minister.
Warning: If you're squicked by rimming don't read this.
Author's Notes: My one and only clameron fic. I wrote two endings for it, so you can have the other, not so pleasant, ending here, rather than the happy one I posted to the meme. Since I've agreed to let Lizzy post this, I'm going to have her post the version of it that I much prefer.
Disclaimer: Obviously not real. Written with no implication that it could ever be true. Like anyone needs this in a fic where Nick is PM.
It's going to be another of those meetings. David can tell as soon as he walks into the Prime Minister's office and sees him sat behind his desk, brown hair glinting auburn in the sunlight and yellow tie slung across the back of his chair. He can tell as soon as the Prime Minister looks up at him, lips curling into a predatory smile.
'Close the door,' the Prime Minister says, words careful and calm.
David turns with his heart hammering in his chest and pushes the door closed, takes one last fleeting glimpse of the corridor outside, and then bare brown wood fills his vision. He doesn't turn back, doesn't need to for the moment, waits there to see what order will follow the one just spoken.
'Not talkative today?' the Prime Minister enquires with a sardonic laugh. 'No important advice for me?'
'No,' David answers curtly. 'Just get on with it.'
'All business, aren't you?'
The creak of the Prime Minister's chair indicates that he's got to his feet, but David doesn't hear the footsteps that follow, muffled to silence by the carpet. David flinches without meaning to as the Prime Minister steps up behind him and stands close against his back.
'I thought you liked our meetings,' the Prime Minister purrs in his ear.
Like is an understatement; can't live without is closer to the truth, not that David will admit it to the smug-faced and self assured man who is standing behind him. But he doesn't want to dance around the reason why he's here, not today, not when the Prime Minister has been overseas for more than a week and there haven't been meetings of any kind. What he wants is to be roughly ravished, fucked against the Prime Minister's desk, or door, or wall, or anywhere; he doesn't care as long as it happens, and happens soon.
'I have other things to do today,' David hisses. He doesn't, this is his last meeting of the day, he'd made sure of it before he even knocked on the door. 'I'm not at your beck and call.'
'Perhaps not...' Fingers curl themselves in David's hair, brushing lightly at the back of his head with blissful, torturous slowness. 'I can always give you a new job.'
'You'd like that wouldn't you?' David laughs dryly. He'd like that too, but he's not about to give his hand away; likes the pretence, the mock fight for dominance even when he knows he has none, not here.
'Look at me,' is the answer, and David twists to see the Prime Minister smiling at him, one corner of his mouth curled upward and blue eyes clearly showing amusement. 'If you'd rather talk politics, I can certainly oblige you.'
'How was the trip to America?' David asks immediately, watching the smile grow on the Prime Minister's lips as he speaks. 'Did you settle the issue with the extradition-'
'Take off your shoes,' the Prime Minister interrupts.
'What?'
'Your shoes, take them off.'
The Prime Minister steps back enough that David can follow the instruction, bending over clumsily and lifting first one leg and then the other as he pulls his shoes from his feet. He hesitates for a moment with his head level to the Prime Minister's waist, and then slips off his socks too, balling them up and shoving them into his left shoe, and stands up again.
'Jacket too, and trousers, but not your shirt.'
David slides out of his jacket, tossing it to one side and then fumbling with his trousers until he can push them down over his legs. They join the jacket on the floor, and David stands silently, feeling the Prime Ministers gaze travelling his body while the man strokes a thumb across his chin in apparent thoughtfulness. It's enough to make David feel self conscious, although nothing more than his legs and feet are visible, the rest hidden by his shirt.
'Wait by my desk,' the Prime Minster orders.
'Yes, Prime Minister.'
The meek response earns David a throaty chuckle, and he smiles while he's sure it can't be seen, darting across the floor to the front of the Prime Minister's desk and turning so he can watch as the Prime Minister picks up the discarded clothing, folding the jacket and trousers, and placing them carefully on one of the low chairs against the wall. He doesn't take off any of his own clothes before walking to David, stepping right up to him and pushing David further back against the desk, hands grabbing the waistband of David's underwear.
'The President and I managed to see eye to eye on the issue,' he says impossibly lightly, before ducking his head and nibbling behind David's ear.
'That's...' David falls silent for a moment as his underwear is slid over his hips and down his legs, and mumbles, not quite sure of what he means, when a hand roves over his already hardening cock. '...Good.'
'Indeed,' the Prime Minister agrees at his throat, tongue fluttering over the steady beat of David's carotid. 'But I didn't expect to have any trouble. Obama is quite reasonable, it was easy to persuade him of the government's position on the matter.'
'Shut up,' David responds gruffly.
'I thought you wanted to talk politics?'
There's another laugh, and the Prime Minister's chest shakes against David's. All part of this game, whatever it is, that they're playing. David can't really complain, since he's the one who started it, taking up the challenge when they'd been over by the door, but with the hand on his cock moving, agonisingly slow, David can't keep his thoughts clear enough to keep up with a conversation about extradition treaties.
'I thought you didn't,' David says.
'I said I'd oblige you,' comes the soft-spoken answer. The hand on David's cock strokes faster for a few seconds and then slows again.
'Do you get off on politics or something?'
'I think the more relevant question is whether you do. You're the one who-'
'Shut up!'
David follows the outburst with a rough nip at the Prime Minister's earlobe, but the Prime Minister simply laughs again.
'A right tomcat today. I take it you missed me?'
'Not in a million years.'
'Oh,' the Prime Minister answers with one hand now on David's back, 'I think you did.' As if to prove the point, the Prime Minister jerks his hand a few times, causing David to yell loudly. 'Quiet.'
Quiet, David thinks hazily, through the cascading shivers rippling their way up his spine. The Prime Minister's hand is hot around his bare flesh. How could anyone stay quiet when someone is doing that to them?
He closes his mouth, breathing in great bursts through his nostrils, and whimpers in the back of his throat. This, every time this; he wouldn't change it for anything, wouldn't want anything else, not when those hands reach for him and set his skin aflame with their touch, the low, long and hard grazing of fingernails along his thigh.
Still shivering, David fastens his mouth to the Prime Minister, sucking and biting, dragging his lips across the harsh scrape of emerging stubble on the skin of the Prime Minister's neck, prickly sharp against the sensitive flesh of his tongue.
'Turn around.'
The command comes from somewhere near David's hairline, and he obeys instantly, twisting until he is facing the desk, planting his feet firmly on the expensive carpet and curling his toes into the springy, twisted strands that compose its surface, feeling them tickle between his toes. The Prime Minister presses himself against David's back, hands and arms curling around David's waist possessively; he's hard, the knot of arousal firm against David's rear. David arches back for more contact, more of that hardness swelling so close to his bare skin, and hears a sharp intake of breath at his ear, a hard grunt that is the only crack in the Prime Minister's steady composure.
Pleasure and pride, in equal measure, flare in David at the noise, bright and blinding at having finally pierced that icy stance and found something lurking in the depths beneath, something that David has wanted to see or to hear, and wants to again. He pushes back once more, flicking his hips in a grinding circle, and is rewarded with another groan, but his sense of having some advantage over the man behind him lasts only a fraction of a second before it is ripped away. The Prime Minister's hand skates under David's shirt and finds the hard stub of a nipple, and his other slides down across David's belly, gripping tight and moving slow, leaving David panting and trapped between the want to push forward into that hold or back into the tempting hardness.
A mouth falls upon David's neck, devouring the skin while hands taunt and tease, working David to a pitch of ecstasy. He throws his head back against the Prime Minster's shoulder, gasping into the air above him and biting back moan after moan after moan, sensations racking his body, drawing it this way and that under the Prime Minster's burning touches.
'Didn't miss me at all?' the Prime Minister asks quietly against his skin. 'Not even a little?'
'N-not f-or a s-se-cond,' David insists brokenly.
Not a second, no... Every second, of every minute, of every day; the whole week of impatient waiting for him to get back, and then two more before today when their meeting was written in to David's schedule along with innumerable others.
'That really is a shame.' The hands on David's body move to his shirt, unfastening the buttons before peeling it away from his upper body. 'I've been thinking of doing this all week.'
'Have you?'
'Oh yes.'
The low, sultry tone of the reply goes straight to David's groin, as does the sentiment. It's not only himself who pictures this, who wants and waits, who feels the fire burning through him the second he steps over the threshold of the Prime Minister's office, sweeping him away, like a path of lava running hot, boiling over every millimetre of his skin.
David's shirt falls to the floor, and then the Prime Minister's mouth is once again on his neck, nipping, biting, licking. David leans forward, hands meeting the desk with a thump, fingers tense and twitching, as the Prime Minister's tongue presses forward, slides in a damp line all the way down David's spine and lower, and slips to a place that makes a strangled cry wrench its way from David's throat. He looks down at his hands, fingers splayed out across the leather-covered surface of the desk, sweaty dampness showing in an outline whenever he curls his fingers, seeking purchase that cannot be found.
The Prime Minister's hand presses firm on the small of David's back, urges him forward until he is lying on the cool surface in front of him, arms stretched out above his head, hands grasping the far edge of the desk as that tongue dances, slick and slippery, pushing inside him. He clenches his teeth against a wail, inhales the smell of leather and paper and ink, rocking back in desire and desperation, legs shaking and sweat dripping from his brow.
'P-p-pr--'
He can't get the words out, can't cling to the formality of titles, like some obscure barrier, in the hope that it will keep his head from swimming, not when he's naked across the Prime Minister's desk; not when the Prime Minister is on his knees behind him; not when that mouth is doing what it is.
'Nick,' he gasps eventually, the shorter word falling easily from him, drifting out and hanging in the air; it's never been said before, never once in all of David's lusty utterings has that word been spoken. There is no answer except for a quick flick and dart of tongue, a harder push that has David trembling against the desk.
He arches, back and back, pushing against the glorious heat, begging silently for more of that; don't stop, don't stop, I'd give anything.
The cry David gives, unintentional and filled with furious need, when the Prime Minister pulls away, is met with two words, hushed against his thigh.
'Shh, David.'
David realises then that he has been begging out loud, words slipping in a chaotic mess from his lips, accidental, with meaning like never before, or meaning that he has desperately tried to deny, and to conceal from the man behind him.
'Nick, please,' David gasps out helplessly, fingers tightening on the edge of the desk, nervousness curling through his stomach when the Prime Minister doesn't immediately respond. David feels him stand up, cloth brushing against David's bare skin, and then a warm hand is sliding slowly over David's back to his shoulder, grasping firmly and gently urging him to turn over. With eyes closed, David obeys, biting down on his lip and breathing hard, settling nearer to the middle of the desk than he was before.
There's a moment of shuffling, the sound of a belt being unbuckled, and then the rough scrape of leather against wood, and before David fully registers what is happening the Prime Minister has climbed onto the desk, straddling David's waist, his lower half now bare except for his socks and shoes. David looks up, and sees blue eyes looking at him intently, a soft smile playing on the Prime Minister's lips.
'I think that's enough preamble, don't you?' the Prime Minister whispers seductively.
God, yes, David thinks, remaining silent as the Prime Minister fumbles quickly in his pocket before sliding his jacket and shirt off and throwing them carelessly onto the chair behind his desk. He quickly rips open the packet he'd taken from his pocket, slips the condom onto David, then positions himself, pulling David up so that they are touching chest to chest.
Christ, Nick is tight, and hot. His hands are clamped on David's shoulders, fingers pinching hard into David's skin as he pushes himself down slowly, so fucking slowly that David can't breathe, pausing after each movement and gasping rapidly in David's ear.
'Fuck, Nick,' David breathes.
'That's the idea, yes,' is the half-laughed response. The Prime Minister stills for a few seconds, a few short groans escaping into the air at the side of David's face. He shivers, and then he moves, thighs straining under David's palms as he pulls himself up and then pushes down again.
'Oh, oh God,' David gasps, hands clinging to the Prime Minster's hips and guiding his movement gently, not wanting him to go too fast and have this end, because he is close, so close to the brink already, teetering on the edge and trying desperately to keep himself from toppling over. With uncharacteristic submission the Prime Minister follows the directions of David's hands, slows his pace to match, leaving David in awe of this change in dynamic, this new-found and subtle level of control that he now has. This is a tiny glimpse of the man behind the minister, the person who is hidden beneath the bravado of the game of dominance they play with each other.
'Kiss me, David,' the Prime Minister whispers roughly, his mouth pressing against David's, hands sliding into David's hair. His mouth is musky and hot; David devours it hungrily, not caring that he can taste a lingering bitterness, dragging his lips against Nick's and hearing a series of desperate whimpers rise in response. It's a victory greater than any David has ever known, to have broken the Prime Minister's guard so completely, to have those hard, short grunts give way to the soft and pleading sounds Nick is now making, and David doesn't care; this is no longer a game of who can get the upper hand.
'Nick,' he says softly when Nick breaks the kiss, his head falling to David's shoulder, the rush of his uneven breaths coursing against David's skin as he continues to move, shaking and trembling. David wonders how he has never noticed that Nick's apparently nonchalant manner is as false as his own, that Nick hides behind the pretence of indifference just as much as David does, perhaps more.
'Fuck, I missed you,' Nick pants hotly in his ear, quick and quiet.
'I missed you too,' David admits, delighting when the words make Nick whimper again, his hands shaking, his whole body quivering slightly.
'Did you?' Nick asks, the tone of his voice something close to frantic.
'Yes,' David insists, moving his hands so he can hold Nick's face and kiss him again, look him in the eye as he adds, 'I couldn't wait to see you.'
'D-david.' Nick closes his eyes, stuttering madly and moving just a fraction faster. David gasps breathlessly and returns his hands to Nick's hips to slow him once more. 'David, please.'
He's never seen Nick like this, this out of control, this willing to give himself up to what David wants. Nick moves and rocks, pushing back against David for more, tries to go faster, and when David refuses to allow it, Nick begs; pleads and whimpers and moans, and oh God, it's intoxicating, every second of it sends David's head spinning. Whatever game they had been playing before, it is over now, it has long been over; there is nothing but the two of them in this office, not the Prime Minister and the political advisor, just him and Nick, with no lies carefully placed between them to shield the truth.
I love him, David thinks, and the thought breaks his resolve. He moves his hands faster, urging Nick to do the same, and says, 'Moan for me, Nick. I love to hear you.'
'Dav-id,' Nick stammers. He's slamming himself down roughly between each word, every movement sending a cacophony of sensation skittering up David's spine, his arms are wrapped around David's neck and he is just clinging on as if his very life depends on keeping that hold. 'Oh, don't stop, don't fucking stop, David. I love you too.'
It's those last four words more than anything else that make David give one last cry of Nick's name, his head swims with them as he hears Nick's desperate yes, David, yes and the last few frantic seconds of movement cease. He flops back on the desk, Nick falling on top of him in a sprawling heap that must be uncomfortable, and wraps his arms tightly about Nick's shoulders, breathing heavily.
Neither of them speaks for what seems like a long time. Nick repositions himself carefully, lying half on the desk and half on top of David, head resting against David's chest and his fingers stroking softly across David's stomach. David lies in a state of bliss, smiling because Nick loves him and things will be different from now on, he won't have to hide his own feelings anymore, not when Nick feels the same.
At length, Nick gets up, sliding off the desk and beginning to put his clothes on. He still doesn't speak and, curiously, his face is back to being impassive and detached, shoulders set squarely as he pulls up his trousers and buckles the belt. David gets down from the desk and grabs at his crumpled shirt, quickly buttoning it and crossing the room to retrieve trousers and jacket. The silence is stretching out like an ocean before him; something is wrong but David can't fathom what it is, why Nick is now acting the professional statesman again after his admission of love.
When he looks up after tying his shoes, Nick is looking at him, biting his lip fiercely, a look of devastation marring his handsome features.
'My wife,' he says quietly, and David can see his lip tremble. 'My wife, she knows. Not who, but she knows there's someone-'
Nick takes a deep, despairing breath, looks down at the floor.
'I can't see you anymore, David.'
'Nick,' David says, whimpers it in a desperate rush of breath as he goes to where Nick is standing. No no no...
'You'll liaise with someone in the Treasury Office from now on,' Nick tells him.
'Nick, don't do this,' David pleads, grabbing Nick's shoulders frantically and pulling him so they are pressed together. For a second he sees Nick's resolve breaking, one tiny second where he can see all of Nick's pain, all of his longing, reflected in those beautiful blue eyes, before that too vanishes, slips back behind the mask of Prime Ministerial dignity, and Nick steps away from David's hold on him.
'It's already done.' The Prime Minister sits down at his desk, meeting David's heartbroken expression with a steady stare.
'I love you,' David whispers, but turns away when the Prime Minister remains silent, when there's no sign of the man he knows lives beneath the cold surface of the Prime Minster's steadfast professionalism.
'Goodbye, David,' the Prime Minster says. David nods then, gulping down his misery and heading for the door.
'Goodbye, Nick,' he says as he closes it, bare brown wood filling his vision, and blurring as tears fill his eyes.