fic: A Meditation on Loathing (Dominique/Sarkozy, R)
Title: A Meditation on Loathing
Author: V.M. Bell
Disclaimer: Neither Dominique nor Sarko are mine. Shame - they would be so much fun to play with.
Summary: We are enemies, they say to each other, and I commit to you no less than my greatest and deepest loathing.
Rating: R for wall!sex (yay), dubious consent
Pairing: Dominique de Villepin/Nicolas Sarkozy (the French just do it better)
Word Count: 708
Author's Notes: For dominiquelechic, who I promised a Domi/Sarko fic ages ago. It's still in progress and I mean to finish at one point! In the meantime, this popped into my head - I offer it to you as both an appetizer and an apology. Also for jessica_v_darcy, who has taken to Domi/Sarko...*is NOT a vile enabler, really*
All feedback, concrit, and reviews are welcome!
--
The sun refracts through the windows of Matignon, and Dominique imagines a world without Nicolas.
-
The tricolors fly as Dominique rides to the presidency, ushered by a thundering roar of support from a UMP awed by his record as prime minister. The media, the Socialists, the doubters can only stand, submissive, as they stare at the man they once vilified. He’s a snob, a patrician, they sneered as he rose to leadership. Intellectual énarque and sheltered elitist, he is not a politician of the people.
Now he stands in the shadow of the Élysée Palace, in the shadow of glory in his grasp.
-
This is the world Dominique imagines. This is the world without Nicolas.
Nicolas, Dominique thinks as he sets himself to work on his memorandums on unemployment. Out of the corner of his eye he spots a crisply dressed man exiting a nondescript car and strolling to the gates. There is the characteristic scratching of metal on concrete. A door is opened, closed in the distance, a dull thud echoing through his office.
Dominique places his pen on the table and leans back in his chair.
Nicolas. The populist heckler. The little stable boy in king’s clothes. The poor dreamer possessed by the delusion that he - the little worm! - he was destined to rule France.
Dominique drums his fingers on the armrest, one by one, deliberate, always hovering in the air before bringing them down upon the hard leather with a shattering finality.
He waits and imagines his world, his world with Nicolas.
-
The first glances are traded across a crowded room, so indifferent as to be almost unnoticeable by both - but only almost. For Dominique, it is long confirmed even before he learns the name of the Right’s rising star, and when they look at each other again, Dominique squares his jaw and stares. It hardly surprises him when Nicolas stares back, a crafty twinkle shining in his dark eyes. He nods; Dominique returns the gesture.
They seal the agreement in a blood-red wax, red like revolution. We are enemies, they say to each other, and I commit to you no less than my greatest and deepest loathing.
-
The second glances are traded across a table as Jacques, in strained but quietly furious tones, insists that France never submit herself to the demands of the unilateralist Americans. To do so would be to undermine French prestige in the world, a prestige cultivated assiduously for all of her history, he reminds his cabinet. Dominique, though jetlagged from the constant travel between New York and Paris, is alert enough to affirm the president’s sentiments with a hard disposition.
That is when Nicolas catches his eye and interrupts. “It seems that our approach is, ah, antagonizing the Americans. Is that a wise thing to do, antagonizing the world power? Shouldn’t we be pursuing a policy similar to their in, oh, the name of international solidarity?”
“International solidarity does not always translate into international blindness before the faulty doctrine of preemptive aggression in Iraq,” Dominique replies coldly. “Besides, I believe I am speaking correctly when I say that foreign affairs, Monsieur Sarkozy, is not your area of expertise.”
A broad smile tickles Nicolas’s face. “Oh, you are correct.”
-
The next glances are traded across a desk, a mere surface of wood and silence separating them. More glances are traded as Dominique grabs Nicolas by the neck, holding his face so that all he can hear is their syncopated breathing, ragged in its unstable duet, and all he can taste is the brutal kiss on his mouth, lathered with a passion white and dripping. When Dominique pushes him against the wall, Nicolas cries but not does refuse. When Dominique takes him from behind and burns against the soft flesh of his colleague, Nicolas moans but does not refuse. When their energies expire and they collapse to the floor in a stew of moisture and strangled yells, still Nicolas does not refuse.
And he will never refuse, Dominique realizes as the proud Interior Minister walks away, defiance outlined in his every stride. No, Nicolas will never refuse because there is a promise to keep, and once released, the specter of hatred is not one to cross.
--
oh, God, I'm getting my wisdom teeth removed tomorrow morning. I've been entertained today by stories and started tearing up during lunch - I can't stand the idea of surgery. At least I'll be getting general anesthesia done as opposed to Novacaine. In any case, let's hope this doesn't cause excessive pain as I have finals for the next two weeks, including four days of chem examination, and simply cannot afford to miss school. Someone will carry me in on a stretcher if need be but I am not missing school!
Am scared to death, though. *whimpers*
Signing off, V.M. Bell
Author: V.M. Bell
Disclaimer: Neither Dominique nor Sarko are mine. Shame - they would be so much fun to play with.
Summary: We are enemies, they say to each other, and I commit to you no less than my greatest and deepest loathing.
Rating: R for wall!sex (yay), dubious consent
Pairing: Dominique de Villepin/Nicolas Sarkozy (the French just do it better)
Word Count: 708
Author's Notes: For dominiquelechic, who I promised a Domi/Sarko fic ages ago. It's still in progress and I mean to finish at one point! In the meantime, this popped into my head - I offer it to you as both an appetizer and an apology. Also for jessica_v_darcy, who has taken to Domi/Sarko...*is NOT a vile enabler, really*
All feedback, concrit, and reviews are welcome!
--
The sun refracts through the windows of Matignon, and Dominique imagines a world without Nicolas.
-
The tricolors fly as Dominique rides to the presidency, ushered by a thundering roar of support from a UMP awed by his record as prime minister. The media, the Socialists, the doubters can only stand, submissive, as they stare at the man they once vilified. He’s a snob, a patrician, they sneered as he rose to leadership. Intellectual énarque and sheltered elitist, he is not a politician of the people.
Now he stands in the shadow of the Élysée Palace, in the shadow of glory in his grasp.
-
This is the world Dominique imagines. This is the world without Nicolas.
Nicolas, Dominique thinks as he sets himself to work on his memorandums on unemployment. Out of the corner of his eye he spots a crisply dressed man exiting a nondescript car and strolling to the gates. There is the characteristic scratching of metal on concrete. A door is opened, closed in the distance, a dull thud echoing through his office.
Dominique places his pen on the table and leans back in his chair.
Nicolas. The populist heckler. The little stable boy in king’s clothes. The poor dreamer possessed by the delusion that he - the little worm! - he was destined to rule France.
Dominique drums his fingers on the armrest, one by one, deliberate, always hovering in the air before bringing them down upon the hard leather with a shattering finality.
He waits and imagines his world, his world with Nicolas.
-
The first glances are traded across a crowded room, so indifferent as to be almost unnoticeable by both - but only almost. For Dominique, it is long confirmed even before he learns the name of the Right’s rising star, and when they look at each other again, Dominique squares his jaw and stares. It hardly surprises him when Nicolas stares back, a crafty twinkle shining in his dark eyes. He nods; Dominique returns the gesture.
They seal the agreement in a blood-red wax, red like revolution. We are enemies, they say to each other, and I commit to you no less than my greatest and deepest loathing.
-
The second glances are traded across a table as Jacques, in strained but quietly furious tones, insists that France never submit herself to the demands of the unilateralist Americans. To do so would be to undermine French prestige in the world, a prestige cultivated assiduously for all of her history, he reminds his cabinet. Dominique, though jetlagged from the constant travel between New York and Paris, is alert enough to affirm the president’s sentiments with a hard disposition.
That is when Nicolas catches his eye and interrupts. “It seems that our approach is, ah, antagonizing the Americans. Is that a wise thing to do, antagonizing the world power? Shouldn’t we be pursuing a policy similar to their in, oh, the name of international solidarity?”
“International solidarity does not always translate into international blindness before the faulty doctrine of preemptive aggression in Iraq,” Dominique replies coldly. “Besides, I believe I am speaking correctly when I say that foreign affairs, Monsieur Sarkozy, is not your area of expertise.”
A broad smile tickles Nicolas’s face. “Oh, you are correct.”
-
The next glances are traded across a desk, a mere surface of wood and silence separating them. More glances are traded as Dominique grabs Nicolas by the neck, holding his face so that all he can hear is their syncopated breathing, ragged in its unstable duet, and all he can taste is the brutal kiss on his mouth, lathered with a passion white and dripping. When Dominique pushes him against the wall, Nicolas cries but not does refuse. When Dominique takes him from behind and burns against the soft flesh of his colleague, Nicolas moans but does not refuse. When their energies expire and they collapse to the floor in a stew of moisture and strangled yells, still Nicolas does not refuse.
And he will never refuse, Dominique realizes as the proud Interior Minister walks away, defiance outlined in his every stride. No, Nicolas will never refuse because there is a promise to keep, and once released, the specter of hatred is not one to cross.
--
oh, God, I'm getting my wisdom teeth removed tomorrow morning. I've been entertained today by stories and started tearing up during lunch - I can't stand the idea of surgery. At least I'll be getting general anesthesia done as opposed to Novacaine. In any case, let's hope this doesn't cause excessive pain as I have finals for the next two weeks, including four days of chem examination, and simply cannot afford to miss school. Someone will carry me in on a stretcher if need be but I am not missing school!
Am scared to death, though. *whimpers*
Signing off, V.M. Bell