V for Vendetta one-shot
Title: Shine On
Fandom: V for Vendetta
Other characters/pairings: Random OC/Dietrich
Rating: R, bordering on NC-17
Warnings: Slash, innuendo, alcohol, and reminiscing about the good old days.
Disclaimer: I only own V for Vendetta on DVD. I don’t own Gordon Dietrich or Stephen Fry who brought him to life on screen.
Summary: Gordon’s lost his appetite and mourns it.
The champagne bubbles and fizzes in his mouth like a playful and frisky friend. It tickles his nose and brings a small smile to his face. Champagne is familiar; he knows where he stands when it comes to himself, the flute, and a casual evening at home. There are no secrets hidden inside the frosted green bottle with its enticing gold foil.
No excitement. No temptation. Just golden bubbles crawling up the glass in a regular and reliable fashion.
He makes an early evening of it, not bothering with the news or the radio-wave after wave of noise firing out of the twin audio cannons making his ears bleed. None of that, not tonight. The carbonated wine bounces and tumbles down his throat. His head is light, ready to drift away and float to the ceiling on a haze of alcohol infused bubbles.
Strong arms wrap around his shoulders and anchor his body to the plush seat. Grounding his head, but not his elation. The arms continue to hold him, hug hum, hide him from the horrors outside. Deitrich’s a big boy with an important job, but he’s never too old to be held by a loved one.
“Come to bed,” the sultry whisper begs. Teases. Promises. He abandons the champagne flute for a bedroom with silken sheets and an excited partner. He feels the warmth growing in his belly and wonders if the champagne is responsible for the giddy tickle of froth and foam in his stomach.
“Naughty, you know I slide right out of those sheets when I get sweaty,” he says, mirth tilting his mouth into a smug grin.
“It was never my intention to keep you hidden under them for long, anyway,” his partner replies playfully, a similar, frisky expression on his face.
The room is filled with the sound of growling and moaning. Yips of surprise. Low whispers. His anchor is dissolving and sending him spiraling upwards with a heady updraft of sweat, pain and sex. His wounds weep red while clear drops of salt water mingle and set tooth marks on fire.
He loves every second of it.
“Harder. Faster. Harder,” someone pants. He can’t get the rhythm-he’s too far out of his head-but he’s found it doesn’t matter. His body reacts just fine, unhindered by fantasy and flight. For a brief, sparkling moment, he can see time stop right at the moment before the universe explodes, sending shards of light to illuminate its distant corners.
He comes violently, mimicking the rhythm of the world with its pulsating stars and shining sparks. They tumble and bounce about his head while someone moans aloud. It might be him, it might be his partner. When it’s over, they hold each other and forget the riots raging outside their windows. They had each other, their love as regular and reliable as ever.
Gordon glances at the muted telly, gently rolling the champagne flute in his fingers. The drink fizzes innocently and Gordon’s mind fizzes right along with it to the night, so long ago now, that his love could be explained in a neat apostrophe to a glass of carbonated wine. Champagne doesn’t challenge you or love you, but it is safe and all Gordon has these days. Just himself, the flute, and a quiet evening at home, the bubbles twinkling like miniature stars in the dim light.
Fandom: V for Vendetta
Other characters/pairings: Random OC/Dietrich
Rating: R, bordering on NC-17
Warnings: Slash, innuendo, alcohol, and reminiscing about the good old days.
Disclaimer: I only own V for Vendetta on DVD. I don’t own Gordon Dietrich or Stephen Fry who brought him to life on screen.
Summary: Gordon’s lost his appetite and mourns it.
The champagne bubbles and fizzes in his mouth like a playful and frisky friend. It tickles his nose and brings a small smile to his face. Champagne is familiar; he knows where he stands when it comes to himself, the flute, and a casual evening at home. There are no secrets hidden inside the frosted green bottle with its enticing gold foil.
No excitement. No temptation. Just golden bubbles crawling up the glass in a regular and reliable fashion.
He makes an early evening of it, not bothering with the news or the radio-wave after wave of noise firing out of the twin audio cannons making his ears bleed. None of that, not tonight. The carbonated wine bounces and tumbles down his throat. His head is light, ready to drift away and float to the ceiling on a haze of alcohol infused bubbles.
Strong arms wrap around his shoulders and anchor his body to the plush seat. Grounding his head, but not his elation. The arms continue to hold him, hug hum, hide him from the horrors outside. Deitrich’s a big boy with an important job, but he’s never too old to be held by a loved one.
“Come to bed,” the sultry whisper begs. Teases. Promises. He abandons the champagne flute for a bedroom with silken sheets and an excited partner. He feels the warmth growing in his belly and wonders if the champagne is responsible for the giddy tickle of froth and foam in his stomach.
“Naughty, you know I slide right out of those sheets when I get sweaty,” he says, mirth tilting his mouth into a smug grin.
“It was never my intention to keep you hidden under them for long, anyway,” his partner replies playfully, a similar, frisky expression on his face.
The room is filled with the sound of growling and moaning. Yips of surprise. Low whispers. His anchor is dissolving and sending him spiraling upwards with a heady updraft of sweat, pain and sex. His wounds weep red while clear drops of salt water mingle and set tooth marks on fire.
He loves every second of it.
“Harder. Faster. Harder,” someone pants. He can’t get the rhythm-he’s too far out of his head-but he’s found it doesn’t matter. His body reacts just fine, unhindered by fantasy and flight. For a brief, sparkling moment, he can see time stop right at the moment before the universe explodes, sending shards of light to illuminate its distant corners.
He comes violently, mimicking the rhythm of the world with its pulsating stars and shining sparks. They tumble and bounce about his head while someone moans aloud. It might be him, it might be his partner. When it’s over, they hold each other and forget the riots raging outside their windows. They had each other, their love as regular and reliable as ever.
Gordon glances at the muted telly, gently rolling the champagne flute in his fingers. The drink fizzes innocently and Gordon’s mind fizzes right along with it to the night, so long ago now, that his love could be explained in a neat apostrophe to a glass of carbonated wine. Champagne doesn’t challenge you or love you, but it is safe and all Gordon has these days. Just himself, the flute, and a quiet evening at home, the bubbles twinkling like miniature stars in the dim light.