Piers Tears
Title Piers Tears
Pairing Piers Morgan/His Hand, Piers Morgan/Samir Nasri
Rating NC-17
WC 2062
Disclaimer Not true... *snickers*
Warning Piers Morgan. That's all the warning you need.
Summary Crack that isn't crack that totally is crack. Piers Morgan has a massive hate!boner for Samir Nasri.
AN Thank you albion_lass for beta'ing. This is for you and for tempered_rose.
He stands in front of the mirror and makes sure every piece of clothing is properly fitted and nothing is out of place. Looking sharp, being well dressed is important to him. His image is important to him. Living in the public's eye, Piers takes pride in his appearance.
The TV is on mute behind him; light blue confetti and fireworks exploding across the screen. As Vincent Kompany lifts the trophy above his head, Piers scowls. The camera pans out and Piers sees the grin, the elation, on their faces. His eyes flicker toward the red jerseys in the back of his closet. Hidden among them, he can see a sliver of baby blue.
The trophy is passed around for all the players to lift and his anger grows. This is torture, one that is easily avoidable, but Piers puts himself through it. As the cameras switches angles and views, a familiar stirring begins in his lower belly. As that face flashes on screen, toothy smile taunting him, he curses and stalks into his closet and pulls the blue jersey off its hanger. He palms himself through his slacks as he runs his fingers over the '19' on the jersey.
Pulling his cock out of his pants, he licks his hand and wraps his fingers around it. Thinking of every insult, every snapped comment in interviews and every testy twitter exchange, he's hard and breathing heavily within a number of moments. Collapsing back on his bed, his hand moves faster and faster as they replay player interviews. When the French accented words float into his ears, his anger explodes and with a snarl he comes all over his hand.
Reaching for his checkbook he writes out a check for ten thousand pounds and places it in an envelope so he remembers to post it in the morning.
*
Sometimes it's hard to be famous. People hate him for his success and he knows he can't stop their jealousy. He doesn't let the criticism he faces stop him or affect him because he knows it comes from lesser people who can only dream of having the power he holds. Some call him an egomaniacal narcissist- he's just being truthful. Piers deserves everything he has because he has worked for it.
Someone once tweeted 'haters gonna hate' at him. Those are words he lives by.
*
England scores in the 30th minute. A smile curls its way onto his lips. He wishes it wasn't someone who played for that team, but England is England and against France he'll take any goal they can get.
Nine minutes later, he's not allowed even ten minutes of hope, France equalize. His expression turns ugly as he grits his teeth together when he sees who scored. As Nasri runs across the pitch in his celebration, he looks at the camera and puts his finger in front of his lips as if to silence his naysayers.
Piers knows that gesture is for him. The coy look on Nasri's face says everything; Piers is thankful he is alone in his hotel room. His words say one thing, but his body's betrayal is the only truth he needs.
*
Travel is part of his job. He spends most nights alone in beds that feel cold because of their size. The nights don't have to be lonely, he could always find a prostitute or something, but he prefers it this way. The media fallout of being caught with a prostitute is one thing, but the damage the negative attention would cause on his bank account is his real concern. Money is power and Piers likes the power he has. A scandal would be his ruin- he's alienated more people than he cares to admit and rebuilding his empire would be near impossible.
It's inevitable on lonely nights such as these that he explores the darkest corners of his mind. He closes his eyes and lets his imagination sweep him away.
It always starts the same- he's in his office, wearing an immaculately pressed suit, and reading through some papers. A knock comes at his door and Samir walks in. He's wearing jeans that leave little to the imagination and his City jersey. The sight of the jersey makes Piers rage; the cocky grin on Samir's face amplifies it. Sauntering over to his desk, Samir perches on the top, leaning back and propping himself up on his elbows, legs spread tantalizingly apart. Piers' eyes roam Samir's face, take in every centimeter of that smile, the way his eyes look at him suggestively. His imagines what those full lips would look like and feel like around his cock.
The jersey is gone first, destroyed as Piers tears it from Samir's body and rips it to shreds. Papers fly off of his desk as he pushes Samir down and he delights in the sound of his head hitting the wood. The infuriating smile is still on his lips and Piers wants it gone. Samir reaches up and grabs his tie, pulling him down and brushing his lips against his cheek. A French phrase he doesn't understand is murmured into his ear and it makes his heart race and he feels pinpricks across his skin. Resting a hand on Samir's hip, he grips him hard enough to bruise, hard enough for that smile and the arrogance in his voice to disappear. They don't disappear though; if anything the pain seems to make Samir's leer grow.
With a growl, Piers pulls him off of the table and pushes him down on his knees. Samir looks up at him and licks his lips before pressing them together as if to deny Piers what he wants. Piers isn't taking any cheek from the fucker today and grabs him by his hair, delighting in the surprised little gasp. Sitting down in his chair he stares at Samir and nods to where is cock is already straining against the fabric of his pants. He bites his lower lip as Samir unzips his pants and takes him in his hand. Slowly he moves his hand up and down, teasing Piers like the whore he is, until he is at full hardness.
Slapping Samir's hands away, he growls at him to put his hands behind his back. Piers stands up and takes his dick in his hand and rubs the head of it against Samir's cheeks, across the bridge of his nose. Samir never stops looking at him in that way, that way that says to Piers 'You need me and you're not fooling anyone'. It enrages him, how even in his mind Samir taunts him like this. He runs himself over those wildly grinning lips, hissing when Samir's tongue flicks out against him.
He doesn't stop Samir from reaching up and clutching his cock as he licks the underside from the base to the tip. Collapsing back in the chair, Piers fists his hands as Samir swallows him down. Samir's tongue is hot against him, smooth in its rough ministrations; he licks the tip like it is his favorite thing to do and it shows on his face. Piers reaches out and grabs his hair, holding Samir down until his face is red and he gags around his cock. The smile becomes darker, more uninhibited and Piers has to stop himself from slapping it off of his face. He settles for slapping his cock across Samir's face instead.
'Does that make you feel like you've won something?' Samir's words are soft, his accent strong and tone condescending; his tongue darts out the side of his mouth right where Pier's cockhead is resting. 'Or is that defeat?'
Piers snarls as he grabs Samir by the neck and forces him up. Clearing his desk with a sweep of his arm, he bends Samir over it. Undoing the button and zipper of Samir's jeans, he yanks them down. For his part, Samir is pressed down into the desk but still manages to push his ass back into Piers and grind against him.
'You're a fucking money grubbing whore,' Piers bites off; Samir just laughs at his words and Piers rakes his nails down Samir's back and finds satisfaction in the way Samir hisses.
There's a bottle of lube in the back of one of the drawers in his desk. Grabbing it, he lubes up a finger and presses it roughly into Samir. Samir groans and pushes back against his finger, and he adds another one, stretching him and making him cry out.
'Is this what you like?' Piers leans over him and whispers into his ear, biting the tip of it to hear Samir gasp. 'How much is this going to cost me?'
'You couldn't afford me,' Samir is writhing beneath him, his voice is dark and heavy. 'You're just charity.'
Piers doesn't bother lubing himself- there was enough on his fingers and if not, well, he's not going to be the one feeling it. Lining himself up, he pushes himself in with a quick stroke and for a minute, he stands there and lets himself revel in how tight and submissive Samir is below him. Samir is pushing against him, willing him to move, but Piers stays a moment longer just to see Samir's muscles tighten in frustration. He runs a hand down his back along the red marks his fingernails dug into him; there's a light sheen of sweat over the top of them and his hand slides quickly.
'Beg for it,' Piers tells him as he begins to squirm.
'I thought you were catching your breath, old man,' Samir responds with that cocky little voice and Piers has to count backward to keep his cool. 'If this is too much for you, I have others I can go to'.
No. The thought of someone else touching Samir, someone else marking and defiling what belongs to Piers infuriates him. He pulls his cock nearly out and slams it back in. With his fingers pressing bruises into Samir's hips, he pistons into him without abandon. It's warm, almost electric, whatever it is that passes between them, and it's so wrong. Piers feels fire surround him and draw him under.
Samir falls apart beneath him, groaning like a whore, back arching up as he pushes up from the table, lips curled into a beautiful pained ecstasy. That's the smile, the smile that Piers put there, the smile that is for him and no one else. Piers bites down on Samir's shoulder so he doesn't cry his name when he orgasms deep inside him.
'Get out.'
When Piers regains the ability to speak, he pulls away from Samir and doesn't look at him. He grabs a few tissues and wipes himself off before tucking himself back into his pants. He tosses a few towards Samir before sitting down in his chair. Samir is still laying on the desk, but now on his back as he looks at Piers; he cleans himself up and sits up.
'You should stop doing this to yourself,' Samir's words have lost their taunting edge and Piers pulls away from him as he cups his face. 'You know this isn't right.'
Samir stands and starts to leave the room.
'Stay?'
Samir turns; his smile isn't as bright and Piers knows he's the reason why.
'You know I can't.'
Piers opens his eyes.
He's not in his office; he's still alone in his hotel. With a frown on his face, he gets up and starts a shower. As he cleans himself off, he swears at himself for this obsession. He tells himself no man is perfect, that every great man has an achilles' heel, but he wonders why he is cursed with his particular affliction.
As he lays his head on the pillow to sleep, his mind taunts him with accented word and the vision of the smile he wants to keep for himself. He dreams of nights spent not alone.
Pairing Piers Morgan/His Hand, Piers Morgan/Samir Nasri
Rating NC-17
WC 2062
Disclaimer Not true... *snickers*
Warning Piers Morgan. That's all the warning you need.
Summary Crack that isn't crack that totally is crack. Piers Morgan has a massive hate!boner for Samir Nasri.
AN Thank you albion_lass for beta'ing. This is for you and for tempered_rose.
He stands in front of the mirror and makes sure every piece of clothing is properly fitted and nothing is out of place. Looking sharp, being well dressed is important to him. His image is important to him. Living in the public's eye, Piers takes pride in his appearance.
The TV is on mute behind him; light blue confetti and fireworks exploding across the screen. As Vincent Kompany lifts the trophy above his head, Piers scowls. The camera pans out and Piers sees the grin, the elation, on their faces. His eyes flicker toward the red jerseys in the back of his closet. Hidden among them, he can see a sliver of baby blue.
The trophy is passed around for all the players to lift and his anger grows. This is torture, one that is easily avoidable, but Piers puts himself through it. As the cameras switches angles and views, a familiar stirring begins in his lower belly. As that face flashes on screen, toothy smile taunting him, he curses and stalks into his closet and pulls the blue jersey off its hanger. He palms himself through his slacks as he runs his fingers over the '19' on the jersey.
Pulling his cock out of his pants, he licks his hand and wraps his fingers around it. Thinking of every insult, every snapped comment in interviews and every testy twitter exchange, he's hard and breathing heavily within a number of moments. Collapsing back on his bed, his hand moves faster and faster as they replay player interviews. When the French accented words float into his ears, his anger explodes and with a snarl he comes all over his hand.
Reaching for his checkbook he writes out a check for ten thousand pounds and places it in an envelope so he remembers to post it in the morning.
*
Sometimes it's hard to be famous. People hate him for his success and he knows he can't stop their jealousy. He doesn't let the criticism he faces stop him or affect him because he knows it comes from lesser people who can only dream of having the power he holds. Some call him an egomaniacal narcissist- he's just being truthful. Piers deserves everything he has because he has worked for it.
Someone once tweeted 'haters gonna hate' at him. Those are words he lives by.
*
England scores in the 30th minute. A smile curls its way onto his lips. He wishes it wasn't someone who played for that team, but England is England and against France he'll take any goal they can get.
Nine minutes later, he's not allowed even ten minutes of hope, France equalize. His expression turns ugly as he grits his teeth together when he sees who scored. As Nasri runs across the pitch in his celebration, he looks at the camera and puts his finger in front of his lips as if to silence his naysayers.
Piers knows that gesture is for him. The coy look on Nasri's face says everything; Piers is thankful he is alone in his hotel room. His words say one thing, but his body's betrayal is the only truth he needs.
*
Travel is part of his job. He spends most nights alone in beds that feel cold because of their size. The nights don't have to be lonely, he could always find a prostitute or something, but he prefers it this way. The media fallout of being caught with a prostitute is one thing, but the damage the negative attention would cause on his bank account is his real concern. Money is power and Piers likes the power he has. A scandal would be his ruin- he's alienated more people than he cares to admit and rebuilding his empire would be near impossible.
It's inevitable on lonely nights such as these that he explores the darkest corners of his mind. He closes his eyes and lets his imagination sweep him away.
It always starts the same- he's in his office, wearing an immaculately pressed suit, and reading through some papers. A knock comes at his door and Samir walks in. He's wearing jeans that leave little to the imagination and his City jersey. The sight of the jersey makes Piers rage; the cocky grin on Samir's face amplifies it. Sauntering over to his desk, Samir perches on the top, leaning back and propping himself up on his elbows, legs spread tantalizingly apart. Piers' eyes roam Samir's face, take in every centimeter of that smile, the way his eyes look at him suggestively. His imagines what those full lips would look like and feel like around his cock.
The jersey is gone first, destroyed as Piers tears it from Samir's body and rips it to shreds. Papers fly off of his desk as he pushes Samir down and he delights in the sound of his head hitting the wood. The infuriating smile is still on his lips and Piers wants it gone. Samir reaches up and grabs his tie, pulling him down and brushing his lips against his cheek. A French phrase he doesn't understand is murmured into his ear and it makes his heart race and he feels pinpricks across his skin. Resting a hand on Samir's hip, he grips him hard enough to bruise, hard enough for that smile and the arrogance in his voice to disappear. They don't disappear though; if anything the pain seems to make Samir's leer grow.
With a growl, Piers pulls him off of the table and pushes him down on his knees. Samir looks up at him and licks his lips before pressing them together as if to deny Piers what he wants. Piers isn't taking any cheek from the fucker today and grabs him by his hair, delighting in the surprised little gasp. Sitting down in his chair he stares at Samir and nods to where is cock is already straining against the fabric of his pants. He bites his lower lip as Samir unzips his pants and takes him in his hand. Slowly he moves his hand up and down, teasing Piers like the whore he is, until he is at full hardness.
Slapping Samir's hands away, he growls at him to put his hands behind his back. Piers stands up and takes his dick in his hand and rubs the head of it against Samir's cheeks, across the bridge of his nose. Samir never stops looking at him in that way, that way that says to Piers 'You need me and you're not fooling anyone'. It enrages him, how even in his mind Samir taunts him like this. He runs himself over those wildly grinning lips, hissing when Samir's tongue flicks out against him.
He doesn't stop Samir from reaching up and clutching his cock as he licks the underside from the base to the tip. Collapsing back in the chair, Piers fists his hands as Samir swallows him down. Samir's tongue is hot against him, smooth in its rough ministrations; he licks the tip like it is his favorite thing to do and it shows on his face. Piers reaches out and grabs his hair, holding Samir down until his face is red and he gags around his cock. The smile becomes darker, more uninhibited and Piers has to stop himself from slapping it off of his face. He settles for slapping his cock across Samir's face instead.
'Does that make you feel like you've won something?' Samir's words are soft, his accent strong and tone condescending; his tongue darts out the side of his mouth right where Pier's cockhead is resting. 'Or is that defeat?'
Piers snarls as he grabs Samir by the neck and forces him up. Clearing his desk with a sweep of his arm, he bends Samir over it. Undoing the button and zipper of Samir's jeans, he yanks them down. For his part, Samir is pressed down into the desk but still manages to push his ass back into Piers and grind against him.
'You're a fucking money grubbing whore,' Piers bites off; Samir just laughs at his words and Piers rakes his nails down Samir's back and finds satisfaction in the way Samir hisses.
There's a bottle of lube in the back of one of the drawers in his desk. Grabbing it, he lubes up a finger and presses it roughly into Samir. Samir groans and pushes back against his finger, and he adds another one, stretching him and making him cry out.
'Is this what you like?' Piers leans over him and whispers into his ear, biting the tip of it to hear Samir gasp. 'How much is this going to cost me?'
'You couldn't afford me,' Samir is writhing beneath him, his voice is dark and heavy. 'You're just charity.'
Piers doesn't bother lubing himself- there was enough on his fingers and if not, well, he's not going to be the one feeling it. Lining himself up, he pushes himself in with a quick stroke and for a minute, he stands there and lets himself revel in how tight and submissive Samir is below him. Samir is pushing against him, willing him to move, but Piers stays a moment longer just to see Samir's muscles tighten in frustration. He runs a hand down his back along the red marks his fingernails dug into him; there's a light sheen of sweat over the top of them and his hand slides quickly.
'Beg for it,' Piers tells him as he begins to squirm.
'I thought you were catching your breath, old man,' Samir responds with that cocky little voice and Piers has to count backward to keep his cool. 'If this is too much for you, I have others I can go to'.
No. The thought of someone else touching Samir, someone else marking and defiling what belongs to Piers infuriates him. He pulls his cock nearly out and slams it back in. With his fingers pressing bruises into Samir's hips, he pistons into him without abandon. It's warm, almost electric, whatever it is that passes between them, and it's so wrong. Piers feels fire surround him and draw him under.
Samir falls apart beneath him, groaning like a whore, back arching up as he pushes up from the table, lips curled into a beautiful pained ecstasy. That's the smile, the smile that Piers put there, the smile that is for him and no one else. Piers bites down on Samir's shoulder so he doesn't cry his name when he orgasms deep inside him.
'Get out.'
When Piers regains the ability to speak, he pulls away from Samir and doesn't look at him. He grabs a few tissues and wipes himself off before tucking himself back into his pants. He tosses a few towards Samir before sitting down in his chair. Samir is still laying on the desk, but now on his back as he looks at Piers; he cleans himself up and sits up.
'You should stop doing this to yourself,' Samir's words have lost their taunting edge and Piers pulls away from him as he cups his face. 'You know this isn't right.'
Samir stands and starts to leave the room.
'Stay?'
Samir turns; his smile isn't as bright and Piers knows he's the reason why.
'You know I can't.'
Piers opens his eyes.
He's not in his office; he's still alone in his hotel. With a frown on his face, he gets up and starts a shower. As he cleans himself off, he swears at himself for this obsession. He tells himself no man is perfect, that every great man has an achilles' heel, but he wonders why he is cursed with his particular affliction.
As he lays his head on the pillow to sleep, his mind taunts him with accented word and the vision of the smile he wants to keep for himself. He dreams of nights spent not alone.