Fic: and we'll all come praise the infanta (Dominique de Villepin/Nicolas Sarkozy, R)
Title: and we'll all come praise the infanta
Author: V.M. Bell
Summary: Nicolas thinks he can control the universe if he sets his mind to it. Dominique wants to prove him wrong.
Disclaimer: I own neither Dominique (*sigh*) or Sarko, and this fic is not to be taken as fact, 'kay? No lawsuits, plz.
Rating: R for implied non-con, a few kinky things...erm
Pairing: Dominique de Villepin/Nicolas Sarkozy
Word Count: 583
Author's Notes: Written per semperoccultus's request. For those who don't know, Dominique de Villepin is the French Prime Minister, Nicolas Sarkozy is the French Minister of the Interior, and they've got this big political rivalry thing going on. That, logically, leads to the conclusion that there must be hate!sex. *nods*
right, this is just a bit disturbing. Title snagged from The Decemberists' "Infanta," which was just too ironic to pass up.
--
He is hailed by the press, the polls, the pundits, as the future of France. His message of fundamental reform, of modernization, rings powerfully with the voting public. If matters go his way, they say, the political landscape of France - and through repercussion, Europe - will be unalterably changed. He is not blind to this atmosphere in which he now functions. He grows increasingly independent, a self-crowned monarch spewing populist rhetoric. All signs point to his path, at some point, passing through the presidency.
The world sees a future leader in Nicolas Sarkozy.
Dominique de Villepin sees a weak and arrogant man.
Nicolas thinks he can control the universe if he sets his mind to it.
Dominique wants to prove him wrong.
-
Prime Minister and Minister of the Interior. Two very interrelated positions. Very simple, perfunctory-seeming meetings to arrange anywhere they please. Yes, Nicolas, let’s talk of immigration, of radical Muslim clerics, of trade unions. But Dominique knows where the conversation will lead next: to his political ambitions. They have been through this before.
The center-right is the ruling bloc in the French government. Their ultimate goal ought to be one and the same, that of the preservation of center-right power and majority. As Nicolas begins expounding on the need for economic liberalization, his eyes alight, Dominique knows that goal has long since ceased to exist. It is the government’s best-known secret.
They never speak of their mutual dislike, yet it is written in every action of their tenuous relationship. Nicolas blasts the president for being a Louis XVI of the twenty-first century. Dominique defends the French social tradition. And so forth. It is a long rally of tennis, both sides content with merely hitting the ball over the net, but Dominique is content no more, not when the mediocre has risen so far.
The time has come to issue a warning.
-
His skin is unblemished, like a child’s. Appropriate, Dominique thinks, smiling to himself, for a man so naïve. It is beautiful - yes, beautiful to deflower.
He places the leather crop at the base of Nicolas’s neck, smiling as the younger man squirms and attempts to escape. It is an action futile at best, seeing as his wrists and ankles are bound firmly to the bedposts. Slowly, deliberately, he draws the crop down the other’s back in a soft, feathery zigzag. A moan escapes Nicolas, reluctant and mewing. Dominique sighs and halfheartedly wonders what the papers would say if they ever found their darling in such a state, utterly at the mercy of another.
The crop is first applied lightly, almost teasingly. More moans. Nicolas is having too much fun with this, Dominique decides. So he begins adding a bit more force behind the blows - gradually, of course, lest the little boy be unable to handle it. And then…there it is, that subtle change when pleasure becomes pain or is caught somewhere in the middle, and the sounds issuing from Nicolas’s mouth are tinged with alarm and fear, and the shaking of the bed as he grinds himself against the sheets, seeking desperately for release but not finding it -
And then they stop, the thwacks against his skin. Into each other’s eyes the two political greats of France stare, hatred dripping from their gazes.
Dominique pockets the leather.
Nicolas fixes a smirk on his face.
The prime minister’s hands jerk towards the crop. Instantly, his rival’s smarmy features evaporate.
Dominique laughs. Sometimes, even kings need to be put in their place.
--
I'll take care of the rest of the drabble requests ASAP, and you can still file for one here, if you're interested!
After much struggle and pain, I finally finished my calc project, which is incidentally due next Monday. *headdesk* For all intensive purposes, I basically did the project twice after entirely losing it the first time. that just shows you the true nature of my boundless intelligence, no? I might take a picture of it to show all of you the fruits of my brilliance.
Will go and relearn all of the nifty features of paid account now. This time, I swear to take full advantage of it!
Signing off, V.M. Bell
Author: V.M. Bell
Summary: Nicolas thinks he can control the universe if he sets his mind to it. Dominique wants to prove him wrong.
Disclaimer: I own neither Dominique (*sigh*) or Sarko, and this fic is not to be taken as fact, 'kay? No lawsuits, plz.
Rating: R for implied non-con, a few kinky things...erm
Pairing: Dominique de Villepin/Nicolas Sarkozy
Word Count: 583
Author's Notes: Written per semperoccultus's request. For those who don't know, Dominique de Villepin is the French Prime Minister, Nicolas Sarkozy is the French Minister of the Interior, and they've got this big political rivalry thing going on. That, logically, leads to the conclusion that there must be hate!sex. *nods*
right, this is just a bit disturbing. Title snagged from The Decemberists' "Infanta," which was just too ironic to pass up.
--
He is hailed by the press, the polls, the pundits, as the future of France. His message of fundamental reform, of modernization, rings powerfully with the voting public. If matters go his way, they say, the political landscape of France - and through repercussion, Europe - will be unalterably changed. He is not blind to this atmosphere in which he now functions. He grows increasingly independent, a self-crowned monarch spewing populist rhetoric. All signs point to his path, at some point, passing through the presidency.
The world sees a future leader in Nicolas Sarkozy.
Dominique de Villepin sees a weak and arrogant man.
Nicolas thinks he can control the universe if he sets his mind to it.
Dominique wants to prove him wrong.
-
Prime Minister and Minister of the Interior. Two very interrelated positions. Very simple, perfunctory-seeming meetings to arrange anywhere they please. Yes, Nicolas, let’s talk of immigration, of radical Muslim clerics, of trade unions. But Dominique knows where the conversation will lead next: to his political ambitions. They have been through this before.
The center-right is the ruling bloc in the French government. Their ultimate goal ought to be one and the same, that of the preservation of center-right power and majority. As Nicolas begins expounding on the need for economic liberalization, his eyes alight, Dominique knows that goal has long since ceased to exist. It is the government’s best-known secret.
They never speak of their mutual dislike, yet it is written in every action of their tenuous relationship. Nicolas blasts the president for being a Louis XVI of the twenty-first century. Dominique defends the French social tradition. And so forth. It is a long rally of tennis, both sides content with merely hitting the ball over the net, but Dominique is content no more, not when the mediocre has risen so far.
The time has come to issue a warning.
-
His skin is unblemished, like a child’s. Appropriate, Dominique thinks, smiling to himself, for a man so naïve. It is beautiful - yes, beautiful to deflower.
He places the leather crop at the base of Nicolas’s neck, smiling as the younger man squirms and attempts to escape. It is an action futile at best, seeing as his wrists and ankles are bound firmly to the bedposts. Slowly, deliberately, he draws the crop down the other’s back in a soft, feathery zigzag. A moan escapes Nicolas, reluctant and mewing. Dominique sighs and halfheartedly wonders what the papers would say if they ever found their darling in such a state, utterly at the mercy of another.
The crop is first applied lightly, almost teasingly. More moans. Nicolas is having too much fun with this, Dominique decides. So he begins adding a bit more force behind the blows - gradually, of course, lest the little boy be unable to handle it. And then…there it is, that subtle change when pleasure becomes pain or is caught somewhere in the middle, and the sounds issuing from Nicolas’s mouth are tinged with alarm and fear, and the shaking of the bed as he grinds himself against the sheets, seeking desperately for release but not finding it -
And then they stop, the thwacks against his skin. Into each other’s eyes the two political greats of France stare, hatred dripping from their gazes.
Dominique pockets the leather.
Nicolas fixes a smirk on his face.
The prime minister’s hands jerk towards the crop. Instantly, his rival’s smarmy features evaporate.
Dominique laughs. Sometimes, even kings need to be put in their place.
--
I'll take care of the rest of the drabble requests ASAP, and you can still file for one here, if you're interested!
After much struggle and pain, I finally finished my calc project, which is incidentally due next Monday. *headdesk* For all intensive purposes, I basically did the project twice after entirely losing it the first time. that just shows you the true nature of my boundless intelligence, no? I might take a picture of it to show all of you the fruits of my brilliance.
Will go and relearn all of the nifty features of paid account now. This time, I swear to take full advantage of it!
Signing off, V.M. Bell