I wondered how long it would take me to ship it.

Despite my vast dislike of the coalition, it took under 12 hours.

It hurts so good.

When I saw this I weirdly expected Nixon and JFK.

...

...

Can has?

>>39841
FUCK YEAH PUTIN.

>>39881
All those super-macho bear wrestlin' pictures they have of him really make me want to see him tied up.

Unfortunately prime minister bondage is not a popular genre :(

>>39885
>All those super-macho bear wrestlin' pictures they have of him really make me want to see him tied up.
Are you me?

>>39926
Eh, in my experience there's about two types of folk who like strong men.

1. The type who like the idea of a big strong guy protecting and cherishing them
2. The type who like the idea of a big strong guy gasping and squirming beneath them

We're just type 2 is all.

Man, even the BBC ship it. Any report on them has so many references to marriage and weddings and honeymoons.

http://ssquirrel-fic.livejournal.com/176531.html

If anyone missed it.

Daww....

CLEGGERON: THE MEDIA SHIPS IT

http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/seealso/2010/05/daily_view_nick_clegg_and_davi.html
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/politics/article7124607.ece
http://www.spacemag.org/world/latest-news/383-clegg-to-be-used-as-camerons-gimp
http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/culture/lucyjones/100008116/nick-clegg-and-david-cameron-star-in-the-bromance/
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-1278266/COALITION-GOVERNMENT-The-new-politics-More-like-Brokeback-Mountain.html
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/8679224.stm
http://ihwsports.com/cached/seven-signs-he-s-you57.html
http://uk.news.yahoo.com/blogs/talking_politics/a-star-crossed-coalition-p115770.html
http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2010/may/12/clegg-cameron-steps-downing-street-conversation

Does Rahmbamarama count? Also, I have a weak spot for Rahm/Anderson Cooper. There are only like, two fics out there. I've read a nice Rahm/Tony Stark once too.

>>39948
Pleeeeeease tell me there's fic based on naked Rahm accosting people in the shower. IT MUST EXIST.

I....er, I....um....


...I have no words.

>>39945
Wow.... this... wow...

>>39945

Oh my God, because of you I'm now shipping them.

>>39957
HELL YES MY WORK HERE IS DONE. here have some anonporn from the meme, prompt: Clegg does PMQ in Cameron's absence while Cameron 'distracts' him with remote vibrating device. (from http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=195673#t195673)

~~~~~~
David supposes he should feel bad about this plan. But the emphasis in that thought is on should and David has never been much of a should-ey person. Should-ey people are people who never implement policy, who just invent impossible tax cuts without actually taking the initiative to do anything about it. David is very much a will person, a yes person, a now person, in his opinion, and the only minister who has ever accused him of being the opposite is currently rebuking some small, pointless inaccuracy in the pay cuts with David Miliband, who has been insufferably smug ever since he crushed his own brother into the ground.

Nick is a very pretty politician, very handsome and ernest in his approach towards the PMQs. David can't feel bad when he sees his boy (and Christ he is his boy in every sense of the word) working so hard to push this coalition out of the mockery of The Daily Mail and into proper government. It wasn't hard to pretend The Prime Minister had a meeting in Ireland, which was cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances. The idea of this deception was one of the party Spin Doctor; letting Nick stretch his debating skills to keep him happy as close to the election as possible, so those Liberal voters wouldn't think the Conservative party have absorbed the Liberal Democrats completely.

David, in essence, has a day off. When this plan had been announced, David had first thought of a glass of wine and a good book, but a more detailed and delicious plan soon arrived in his mind. It was very easy to acquire a television with BBC News for the Deputy Prime Minister's office in the House of Commons. It was also incredibly easy to persuade a civil servant for the key. The wine was already chilled, the only crucial item left was getting Nick into the compromising position he now finds him in. And that was easy. After all, Nick is a Liberal through and through.

They had had sex before this, Nick scrambling for grip in the sheets of Downing Street's luxurious master bedroom as David pressed into him with the patience of a saint. Nick gets ridiculously needy whenever he's hard, begging and pulling and desperate for anything David will give; a continual stream of please, please, please. Nick holds the back of his neck to force him every inch closer when he gets like that, desperate for that white-noise, blissed-out expression that wipes his face to a shudder when David finally pushes against that spot inside him, an addict reaching their high.

David's teased him about it, how his sex-addiction is on par with his previous leader's alcoholism, but Nick always shoots him a pale, pleading look with his round, eager eyes when he needs fucking, and David forgets how to be commanding, falling into Nick's trap and throwing caution to the wind as Nick begs him for his dick, harder, faster, more, more until David gives up control and thrusts fast, coming deep inside him and letting Nick kiss his orgasm away and into a dull plateau.

Post-orgasm Nick is always far too tired to complain about anything, which is a benefit. It's the one time David can speak without being interrupted. David takes this time to get dressed usually, put on the aftershave and the demeanour of a man who isn't cheating on his wife with a man who could ruin everything with one phone call to The Guardian. But this was a special day, so he remained close, but not touching, to Nick in the bed.

He had a plan for his Deputy.

David sweetly kissed Nick's neck, eliciting a couple of sleepy swats from Nick's strong hands and a fumbling of gruff protests. David's hands moved slowly beneath the sheets, shaking with the incredibly powerful control of owning someone like this, especially someone like Nick, who has always been the wild child of government, never grasping the ego for a real politician but wanting to change the country so badly regardless. David pushed his fingers into the dark, wet heat of Nick's stretched hole, earning himself a pale whimper from Nick, far too tired for another session. David was far too tired, his spent cock only rousing a small amount in sympathy for Nick's noises. For once, however, David didn't want anything more than this, teasing at the mess of lube and come from inside Nick's body, stretching him a little more. David waited until Nick opened his eyes, blurry and intense, and kissed the corner of his mouth.

"I have an idea," David had smiled as Nick slowly started to fuck himself down on David's fingers, resigning to coming a second time. David pressed upwards more firmly as he pushed a flat hand over Nick's stomach, Nick's cock pressing lightly against the side of his hand. Nick sighed and pressed his forehead to the side of David's neck, hitching his breath with every stroke inside him, falling effortlessly into the rhythm with every kick of his hips.

"Idea?" Nick asked, his voice far too pale. David took pity on him, stretching his fingers until Nick cried out, laughing at how simple it was to control him. Nick wanted power, like any politician, but his addiction will always take him over at times like this, when Nick Clegg Member of Parliament for Sheffield Hallam will fade away into the mess of human want.

"Do you want to be open for me? When you do my job today?" Nick didn't say anything, just bit down on his lip and squeezed his eyes closed, pressing the line of his cock against David's stomach. David's chances of getting hard again were low to non-existant after that display, but Nick seemed to have a superhuman ability which age played no part in.

David gave him a quick squeeze around his dick to bring him back from his sexual coma-state, grunting impatiently. Nick nods frantically, pushing through the ring of his fingers.

"Yes, good god, oh fuck, come on."

David smiled before he fumbled for the bedside cabinet, pulling out a smooth, black plug which he couldn't help but order, albeit over three different internet proxies and to an abandoned house in Wiltshire which Conservative MPs have used for centuries as a drop off point for their sexual toys. Nick was still relaxed and open from their marathon fuck, so David barely had to push before the toy was held snugly between Nick's arse cheeks. Nick panted a little, but David knew the Liberal Democrat party well enough to assume that Nick would understand everything he agreed to.

"Are you going to keep it in for me?" David asked, licking the salt of sweat from Nick's neck. "Keep all my come in there until I get back? Keep yourself stretched open for me?"

"Yes, oh god," Nick reached between them for David's hand and entwined their fingers around his cock, pulling both their hands down with a satisfied grunt. "Get me off, you bastard. Or I swear to god, we're getting the Euro."

David laughed into his skin and pumped Nick's skin into another scorching orgasm, swiftly and efficiently, Nick's legs tensing around his thighs and his fingers tight around David's hands and his own cock as he cried out.

David knows now, half-hard from the memory and smirking in the Deputy Prime Minister's office, that Nick could have taken the toy out as soon as David had left for the "cancelled" flight. But he's betting on Nick's sex addiction and his determination to win that he hasn't, that he's still stretched and open underneath that suit, the plug holding him open. David doesn't know whether Nick knows it vibrates, or that David's has the control nestled in his palm, and is inches away from making this one of the more eventful PMQs. He can't feel bad about this, though. Not when Nick needs it so much, and David wants to give it to him so badly.

If David presses the button and nothing happens, Nick would never know. But if he presses the button and something does, it's equally Nick's fault for wearing such equipment while on official business. It's a wonderful, twisted circle of blame which, if worse comes to worse, will only backfire on David's Deputy, and not The Prime Minister.

David waits until the television shows Nick sitting down, to mocking laughter from the Labour party, as usual. Nick has a wonderful, charming fixed grin on his face, backed by the largest party he has ever known, faced by a ruined opposition. David feels a wave of incredible contentment, watching his boy, his Nick, face such opposition and smile at it. David rubs his finger around the button lovingly before placing his wine glass on the table.

He presses down for a short burst thinking, in some way, this would be Nick's reward for a job well done.

Nick reacts, which pleases David immensely, but if he hadn't been watching intently, he wouldn't really have noticed. Nick swallows and closes his eyes, shaking his head before blinking with a slightly confused expression. He sneakily pats this thigh, no doubt checking for a vibrating Blackberry, finding none and frowning.

David pulses again, a bit deeper and certainly more longer. Nick tenses on his seat and rubs a hand over his face. David can see him mouth something and his ears tinge red, but Nick pushes his backside further into the seat instead of excusing himself.

Fuck, he wants it. When does this man never not want it?

"Slut," David mutters, his fingers itching over his own belt. The door to the office is lockable, but open, and David can't tear his eyes away from Nick squirming in his seat, to all unknowing eyes due to a pompous, irrelevant question about Parliamentary expenses. David leans forward in his chair and pushes the button in three, smooth movements, the same slow rhythm David uses to open Nick up when he's begging for it faster.

It must be torture for Nick, but that idea is just getting David harder, watching Nick bite his lip to a red flush and stare a hole into a dispatch box. David still presses slowly, thrumming the rhythm, his fingers pushing deeply on the black button of the control, despite the absence of a pressure sensor, as if he's pressing directly against Nick's prostate instead of letting the vibrating plug do that for him.

Nick tenses with every delayed push and David can hear the elevation of his breath in his back brain, so used to Nick falling apart underneath his hands.

Nick stands up the instant Alistair Darling is finished with his rant, which surprises David a little. Nick's eyes are fuzzy but he's standing, using the Table of the House to cover the middle of his body, his arms braced on the surface. David is briefly worried that Nick will stroke, start rutting against the table, or not be able to say anything at all, but Nick laughs, he actually laughs, then responds in fantastic form.

David can't really believe it. He's close to coming in his pants at the sheer audacity of Nick's performance, using every jab to his body to make his speech more powerful. David has a wild revelation that, far from repressing his sexuality to protect his politics, Nick uses it to drive his arguments, his intense sex drive harnessed for his control.

Nick finishes his reply with a boom of Conservative and Liberal Democrat applause, sitting down in his chair and crossing his arms, smirking.

But then, Nick stares up at one of the cameras, directly into David's eyes, and smirks. David knows what he's saying.

Did I do good?

-

They barely make it to the bed before Nick is on his knees, sucking on David's cock with such force that David is sure he wants to choke on it. He makes a few porn star passes with a wet tongue and eager mouth before jacking with one hand, licking the saliva off his lips and grinning up at David's face. His eyes have never looks so good. Hell, Nick has never looked so good. David brushes a hand into his hair, affection be damned, before pulling them both across the room and onto the bed. They mouth at each other for a few brief moments, Nick straddling David's waist, before Nick wrenches his trousers and underwear off and onto the floor, reaching for David's hands and moving them to the plug still stuck in his backside.

"That was cruel," Nick smirks, opening his mouth to a wide grin as David pushes the plug further in, toying with it, his heart racing.

"You expected anything less?" David ventures, pulling out the toy and dropping it onto the floor, rolling Nick over and beneath him, his fingers flexing against Nick's wrists.

"No," Nick admits, his eyes rolling back into his head as David pushes into his waiting, open hole. "But I bet you expected less of me. Now, fuck me, god, now."

>>39950
not the guy you are talking too but I also have read a rahm/anderson cooper AND IT WAS AWESOME.

I hope I can find the link. It is basically a fic where rahm calls and yells at anderson cooper over the phone all the time much to andersons bewilderment and ends calls with things like "ok talk to tomorrow! <3".
He even calls him up and when anderson answers he goes "I don't have time to talk to you today!!" and hangs up.
Anderson cooper just has a what the fuck is going on? face the whole fic.
But apparently those phone calls are rahm serenading anderson. Hilarious.

>>39977
http://archiveofourown.org/works/20779
pretty sure this is it

I love this thread!

>>39988
This thread loves you too! Have some fluffy Cleggeron anonporn from the meme (http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=327001#t327001)

They’ve shaken hands before of course, several times, but David’s acutely aware that none of them ever felt like this. Standing on the doorstep of Number 10, hands clasped together, David feels something jump in his throat. It’s the excitement, the possibilities he thinks to himself. And maybe it is, but that doesn’t stop him clapping his hand to Nick’s back in an attempt to prove his superiority. Nick just smirks at him as the door closes behind them and David suddenly realises that the next five years are going to be very interesting indeed.

All too quickly it’s a year and a half in and it’s bye-election time. There are only a few seats up for grabs, and David and Nick have broken with tradition and are holed up in David’s office watching the results come in. They’re good; in fact they’re very good. Between them the Tories and Lib Dems have absolutely decimated the Labour Party; and the two men are grinning at each other in delight. It’s time for the big one, and David moves to stand in front of Nick, wide-eyed and biting his lip just a little as they wait for the announcement. This is the strongest Labour constituency, the one they never thought they had a chance at, but with tonight’s results anything is possible and the excitement is almost too much. The returning officer starts reading out the numbers, and David watches as Nick’s face turns from joy to flat-out amazement. They’ve done it they’ve done it; and David, drunk on triumph and just a little too much claret grabs Nick by the shoulders and brushes their lips together. It’s nothing that kiss, it’s just the tiniest press of mouth on mouth and it’s over in a second. It’s nothing, and it’s so much more, and David steps back, wide-eyed, shocked at what he’s done. But then Nick’s hand grips his chin, guiding him back in, and this kiss is everything the other wasn’t, and David finally knows what winning really means.

They don’t have sex that night. David is still too skittish, too full of educated shame, and anyway there are people to congratulate and statements to make. It doesn’t happen that night, but as he leans in to take one last kiss before they leave the office David looks into Nick’s eyes and he knows that it will. He’s almost ashamed at how unashamed he feels. No, they don’t have sex that night, but they will eventually, and David almost burns up with the knowledge.

Eventually, it turns out, comes a week later. Nick’s spent the day in Sheffield doing some constituency work, and David is on his way back from Scotland and another desperate attempt to get Salmond to listen to him. It’s getting late, and they do have things to discuss, so David gets his driver to pull off the motorway and take him to Nick’s house. It’s an unplanned visit, and David keeps the car waiting while he makes sure it’s alright for him to be there. It is. “Of course it is” Nick smiles, and David can’t help but smile back. He sends the driver away to a hotel with assurances that he’ll phone when he needs to set off but that they’ve got a lot of work to do and he may just spend the night in Nick’s spare room. The driver nods, completely unsuspicious, and David is left alone with Nick, really truly alone for the first time.

Nick deposits him on the sofa with a brief kiss and offers him a drink. Tea? Coffee? Beer? David asks for the beer and Nick nods, telling him to make himself at home, as he passes into the kitchen. David reaches for his briefcase; they really do have to work tonight, and frankly work is the only thing keeping him from running out that door right now. He slips off his jacket and tie, determined to at least look like he’s in control, and picks up the top sheaf of papers. No matter how calm he wants to appear, he knows he’s sitting ramrod straight on the edge of the sofa, and he hates that he knows Nick will notice. Nick wanders back in, dressed in jeans and a casual shirt David suddenly realises, and hands him a beer before opening one for himself, tactfully keeping silent on the subject of David’s nerves. David takes a swig and smiles, it’s not his favourite but it’s perfectly drinkable. His smile widens when he realises Nick is drinking something totally different: the kind of Dutch lager David hates, and he finds himself strangely touched that Nick knows what he’d prefer without having to ask.

The work is tedious and simple, but necessary, and David is almost glad of the monotony. They work together, passing sheets and making comments, and David supposes this is the expected value of a Deputy Prime Minister. Providing a sense of security and happy peace isn’t in the job description, but Nick does it anyway. Nick’s always done it, but it’s only now that he can admit it to himself. They’re almost done; Nick offers him another beer and he smiles and nods his acceptance. He doesn’t want to get drunk, but a second bottle won’t be a problem, and a bit more relaxation will probably help. Nick grins widely and pushes himself up from the sofa, with a hand on David’s knee for leverage. David swallows as he looks at Nick’s long fingers, pale against the dark fabric of his trousers, and his lips part involuntarily. Nick takes the opportunity, (steals it David thinks to himself) to press their mouths together and dart his tongue in. It’s oh so quick and oh so tender, and Nick’s on his feet before David can even start to gather his thoughts; but he realises there is no way he could stop this now, even if he wanted to.

They step through the doorway and Nick switches on the light and fiddles with the dimmer switch until he’s satisfied it’s perfect. David smiles, the thought of doing this under stark white lighting fills him with dread, but the soft ambient glow makes everything feel warmer, and he knows he’ll need to look at Nick tonight. He turns away from the door and starts undoing the buttons on his shirt, but he hasn’t got very far before Nick’s at his back, spinning him round and kissing him again. It’s not until he feels their mouths meet that David realises how much he needed that kiss. He was starting to tense up again, and it’s so obvious to him that if he panics and messes up tonight he will never have the courage to come back. That thought alone is almost enough to send him fleeing from the room, but then he realises Nick has opened his shirt and is casually circling a nipple with his thumb, occasionally flicking it in a way that makes David gasp and his hips flick upwards without permission. Nick just smiles and kisses him again, strong and slow and deep, and they glide towards the bed. They lie side by side kissing and undressing, calloused hands stroking over ribs and thighs, grinning like loons whenever they have to part for breath. It seems to go on and on, but eventually Nick has both their cocks in his firm grip and they’re panting as they thrust softly against each other. There’s no warning when Nick gives a special little twist of his hand and pulls away. David’s left gasping, desperate for more contact, but then Nick’s face comes back into view above his, a teasing smirk in place, and David feels the package from the lounge pressed into his hands. He’s unsurprised to realise it contains condoms and lube. Nick lies back on the pillows, placing one under his hips for assistance, before reaching his hand out to guide David. David may have no practice at this, but he understands the mechanics, and he’s happy that Nick has a little. Nick’s previous experience is sufficient to help them through it, but not enough to make him jealous. Regardless, it’s clearly been a while, and David’s happy to wait as Nick relaxes around his fingers. Then finally it’s time. David pushes in, slowly, slowly, letting Nick relax around each inch before moving deeper. His eyes close involuntarily, and he sighs, but they’re wide open again when he feels Nick clench deliberately around him. He looks down, and his colleague, his friend, his lover is lying beneath him, arms looped around his neck, with such an expression of bliss and trust on his face that David realises what ‘partner’ really means.

*cough* I'll just leave this here...

Is there any Rahm Emanuel/Malcolm Tucker around?

>>39989

Oh boy how sweet homosexual partnership between politicians can be so hot.

I was beginning to wonder when this thread would show up, seeing how long ago Putin was declared the King Of /y/.

Are there any non-con fics of this stuff?

>>39948
>Rahm/Anderson Cooper

THIS MUST BE DONE.

>>40057
The shouting, my god, the shouting.
I want this very very badly.

>>40067

Oh YES man that's good.

>>40089
You're in luck!
>>39979 This is a good one that's already been posted. And here:
http://community.livejournal.com/rahmbamarama/tag/fanfic:%20rahm/anderson
is a link to all the tagged rahm/anderson posts in the rahmbamarama comm. You have to join to see them, but it's worth it. If I get motivated I might look into posting some on here... There are at least 20 posts (most of them fics) with that tag, so there are quite a few.

>>40129 Alright, here's a fun one:

Title: Back-room dealings
Author: lady_deirdre
Word count: 500
Pairing: Rahm/Anderson.
Warnings: if you can read this at work, then I want your job.

Anderson gripped the bed’s headboard with both hands. “You know, it’s considered common courtesy to offer a reach-around.”

Rahm completely ignored this remark, kicking Anderson’s knees further apart to bring him down to the shorter man’s level. “Anderson, you fucking have no ass. And it’s pasty white. You really are a goddamn albino.” His hands were on Anderson’s hips, guiding the deep strokes of his cock into Cooper’s ass with far more enthusiasm than his words suggested. Anderson’s grip on the headboard slipped, his hands slick with sweat like the rest of his body.

“Rahm!”

“Okido.” Rahm put some extra force between his thrusts. “File away for future reference: Anderson Cooper likes it rough. And I thought you just had a thing for pretty young mocha sissy-boys,” every syllable was emphasized by a deep, hard thrust, causing sparks to go off behind Anderson’s eyeballs, “but you have a filthy streak. Born with a fucking silver spoon in your mouth, and you happily offer up your ass to a scumbag like me.” Anderson wanted to reply, but his brain wasn’t working properly. There seemed to be nothing in the world except Rahm’s cock sliding in and out of his ass. Reality frayed at the edges while the heat in his belly intensified. He really could do with that reach-around right now.

Why had he agreed to this in the first place? The man was a maniac, a machine. He had taken charge the moment he’d stepped into the room, barking orders and simply expecting them to be fulfilled. Anderson wasn’t even attracted to his type, or to that kind of attitude. So why did this feel so good? Why hadn’t the thought of saying no even entered his mind when those brown eyes had stared into his? Why didn’t it still?

Anderson took one hand off the railing, deciding if his hard-on wasn’t getting any attention, he’d have to do it himself. His fist closed around his painful cock, throbbing with need. Just at that moment, in a move so fluent he must have done it a thousand times, Rahm deftly swiped Anderson’s other hand from the headboard, pulled his ass further up towards him and pushed the news anchor’s upper body onto the bed. Anderson grunted, but his protestations were muffled in the pillows. The next thrusts were noticeably deeper. Dear God.

Just as he was sure his prostate was going to explode, Rahm’s slender but strong fingers closed around Anderson’s erection and started working him. The firm strokes, now from both ends, soon tipped him over the edge and his spine filled with liquid fire.

When the world asserted its presence again, Rahm was fully dressed. He shrugged into his coat, his eyes already glued to his Blackberry, and walked out. And all Anderson could think was, will he come back? Will he call? Was I good enough?

He realised he was in way over his head when he found himself wondering if he should take a pregnancy test.

>>40129 And another:

Title: Sexting
Pairing: Rahm/Anderson
Rating: R?
Disclaimer: To my knowledge, this never happened.
Summary: ANDERSON WAS CHECKING HIS BLACKBERRY AN AWFUL LOT…
Inspired by tonight’s AC360, in which Anderson couldn’t keep his hands off the BlackBerry on the stalkercam. And the Campfire. This is what poured out of my brain.



Rahm Emanuel leans back in his chair and glances back at his computer monitor.

God, Andy, he starts texting. Fucking hell, this is creepy.

He presses send and watches the Anderson on his screen pick up a vibrating BlackBerry, before typing back.

???

Your webcam Rahm explains. Everyone can see you. I can see you.

Rahm grins as Anderson glances up at the webcam, startled. Just for a second, and then he composes himself.

Fucking hell.

Rahm, I’m working. Stop it.

Rahm’s grin just widens.

~ ~ ~

Once again, Anderson’s BlackBerry vibrates and he turns his attention back to it. Normally he pays rapt attention to anything Gergen is saying, but Rahm’s being so… distracting.

Damn him.

This is fucking hot the newest text says. Fuck, your ears are turning pink.

This just serves to make Anderson blush harder, and the next message doesn’t help at all.

So fucking gorgeous. Want to fuck you, Andy. Pin you up against your desk and fuck you, while you’re still broadcasting.

Anderson chokes back a whimper, thanking God that he convinced CNN not to install a microphone on that webcam.

The BlackBerry vibrates again. Anderson notices his hand has been slowly moving up his knee, and moves it back by his side.

I’ll take that tie and bind your hands behind your back, so you’re completely helpless and at my mercy, and then I’ll fuck you.

Erica says something about playing with his BlackBerry.

“Work,” Anderson manages, before turning his attention back to it as it vibrates against his sweating palms.

Slow, first, to make you beg and plead until you’re crying with need… and then, and only then, I’ll fuck you hard against the desk, pounding into you, bruising grip on your hips

Erica raises an eyebrow at him. Anderson glares.

Fuck, you’re flustered.

Well, what do you expect? Anderson texts back.

Just for that, you can’t come until I have, until I let you… and I only will if you’re very fucking good.

Somehow they make it through the Shot, which seems to be just an excuse to embarrass Anderson (if he didn’t know they’d planned it, he’d think she was using it as revenge for him constantly ignoring everyone). Somehow Anderson manages to ignore his constantly vibrating phone, gripping it in his hand so it won’t make noise against the desk’s glass surface.

And then it ends, and Anderson’s eyes snap back to the BlackBerry, and Erica smiles fondly.

You better not fucking dance for anyone else is the first one, and the second makes Anderson force down a grin.

Fuck it, Andy. I’m coming to NY

Anderson’s eyes widen.

What? Rahm—You’re needed in DC

Barack won’t miss me for one night.

Anderson knows it’s useless to argue.

He makes a mental note to thank the bastards who installed the blasted webcam.

>>40089

Anderson left his Blackberry on, but refused to answer any calls before he'd taken a long, hot shower. None of it helped to send his horrific, traumatic day swirling down the drain however, and he gave up after nearly half an hour under the lukewarm spray. Walking back into his small but clean little hotel room with a thick towel around his waist and another in his hand as he rubbed his hair dry, he cringed when his phone buzzed for the third time since he'd gone into the bathroom. He sat down on the edge of his bed, answering it with a sigh that spoke more than his usual exasperated "yeah?" ever could.

"Barack was worried about you. He wanted me to get in touch." Rahm wasn't one for pointless bullshit pleasantries like "hello" or "how are you" or "don't make me punch you in the throat," either. No one ever got a warning before he punched them in the throat.

"I'm fine." Anderson let himself flop backwards onto his bed, throwing his arms out to either side and bracing the phone against his ear with his chin.

"I wanted to feel bad for you, getting sent off to Iraq to cover the war zones again, but then I realized something about you."

"Oh, do tell."

"You request that shit, don't you? You crave it, you don't really feel alive unless snipers are aiming at your head and there's at least a fifty percent chance that the spot you're standing in is about to be bombed."

"Mommy used to hit me with sticks, too. I don't know how to love."

"No really, fuck you. I'm serious."

"Rahm. This is my job, in case you've forgotten. War zones and natural disasters and losing my composure with asshole senators on live TV...that's what I do. There's no grand psychological conspiracy behind it. Are you bored or something? Why are you even sitting around thinking about this?"

"Barack called your boss at CNN. He asked him to bring you home, as a personal favor."

"What?"

"Seems he's gotten pretty fond of you over the time you spent together, when you were doing all those interviews with him before the election. He knows how dangerous the area you're in is right now, and he's worried about you."

"So what, I'm stuck doing human interest stories about puppies traveling across Nebraska by their lonesome to find their lost families now, because he'd prefer to keep me safely tucked away? I don't care what country he's running, he does not dictate my career. I'll come home when I'm done with this story."

"It's not like that. Barack has the utmost respect for you, unlike me."

"I know you're just dying to elaborate."

"You're a prissy little bitch, Cooper. You saunter around all mysterious and shit, like you've got some awesome secret that makes you superior to the rest of us. You're aloof and uptight, and a little flamboyant, frankly. Deep down, I think you're just a spoiled little rich boy who likes not having to answer to anyone. I don't like people like you."

"Flamboyant? There's one I've never been accused of before. It's cute how you think you know fuck all about me, though. We've talked, what? All of three or four times?"

"You are flamboyant. It's your laugh, you sound like a lovesick twelve-year-old fucking schoolgirl. And the way you wear Ralph Lauren ties to go grocery shopping and shit."

"So classy is equivalent to flamboyant now?"

"Not in general, but you make it gay."

"I think I'll hang up now."

"Just be ready by ten o' clock tomorrow morning, we've sent a plane to pick you up."

"Kiss my albino ass!" Anderson shot back, but Rahm had already beaten him to the hanging up part. Furious, he snapped his phone shut and proceeded to grind his teeth until he fell asleep with a headache.


* * *



He really had intended on flipping off whatever pilot Rahm and Obama had sent to get him in the morning, but an exasperated phone call from his boss at CNN ended that plan. "Andy, this is the president goddamn elect asking a personal favor of us. To spit in his face would be damn stupid. No one's asking you to never cover a death-defying story again, Barack just feels better knowing you're not currently in a direct line of fire."

"I don't care what helps him to sleep at night!" Anderson insisted, though this was far from true. "He has no right to dictate how I live my life or what I do in my career."

"Andy. Get on the plane."

He was already on it, he realized then, with no end to his frustration. Slamming his phone shut, he proceeded to pout for the entire trip home, brooding in his seat and refusing the bag of salted sunflower seeds that the pilot offered him.

Rahm was waiting for him at the landing strip. Unlike an airport, there was only a moderately sized, slightly shabby lobby and a four-level parking complex. A rental car was waiting to take him back to his hotel, and in spite of Anderson pointedly ignoring him as he stalked toward it, Rahm followed. He wasn't talking to him though, in favor of lifting his suddenly-ringing cell phone to his ear.

"Yeah, he's here. Right on time, I told you this guy was good. Yeah, I'm taking him back to his place now. No, I know. I promised, remember? Yeah. Okay. Later."

Anderson whirled around, un-gritting his teeth to speak in a vicious hiss. "Taking me back to my place? Contrary to what you and Barack seem to believe, I'm perfectly capable of finding my own damn apartment without assistance. Go away."

Rahm's smile was a hundred times more infuriating than any cruelty he could have utilized. "Sorry, Andy. Barack sent me to babysit you tonight, to make sure you didn't bail and hop a plane right back to Iraq once everyone's back was turned."

"I...you..." Anderson was literally speechless with righteous indignation. He couldn't remember ever having felt so patronized, so demeaned, in his life. "No. Hell no."

"Yes. Hell yes."

"Why would he send you, then? Why not some random Service agent?"

"Because I'm far more likely and willing to incapacitate you where you stand if you try anything stupid. The Secret Service consists mostly of big softies, but if they find out you know that, they'll kill you. Besides," Rahm's wolfish smile widened, "tonight's going to be fun. We can paint each other's toenails, watch Titanic and talk about cute boys."

"I...despise you. With the fury of a thousand suns. Rahm, do you understand what I am saying to you right now? Every fiber of my being is now dedicated to suppressing my searing hatred for you."

"Fucking A, you're a drama queen." Rahm opened the door to his nondescript rental car, on the driver's side. "Get in, Garbo."

A fairly substantial part of Anderson wanted to shout and kick and protest, to bolt into the darkness in the hopes that Rahm wouldn't just calmly start the car, hunt him down with it, and then run him over when he found him. The primary problem with this urge was that he was quite aware that this was exactly what Rahm would do in that situation. Repeatedly, most likely.

He got into the car.

He was angrily silent while they drove back to his penthouse apartment in New York, but he couldn't help but watch Rahm as he drove. He was not at all a large man, but there was a definite masculine strength in the angular lines of his profile. His heavy-lidded eyes were so dark, and he hummed nonchalantly to himself as they approached his place. The stub of his right middle finger jutted out slightly from where the rest of them were wrapped around the steering wheel. Had the situation been very, very different, and Rahm a different man, Anderson begrudgingly accepted that he might have been rather attractive.

"Honey, we're home," Rahm announced cheerfully, parking in his apartment's lot.

"Someday, I'll kill you in your sleep for this. You won't know when it's coming, but..."

"Goddamn, do you really intend to keep up this bullshit all night? It was kind of funny at first, but now it's getting old. And annoying." Rahm got out of the car, rolling his eyes. "So fucking melodramatic. Let's just go inside, as long as I can see you I'll leave you alone."

"Really?"

"Until I get bored."

Anderson groaned, but unlocked his door all the same. His apartment was exactly what one might have expected of him - all clean, pale blues and whites and solid black, silvers and the occasional touch of deep red to shake things up. It was pristine in there - a result of both his fussiness and the fact that he was rarely home. Molly bounded up to them once he was inside, and to his horror she greeted Rahm first. Rahm grinned, rubbing her head, which was maybe kind of cute only not at all, and Anderson made a beeline for the bottle of wine under his sink.

"Pour me some of that. What's his name?" Rahm gestured to Molly, settling down on the couch with an uncanny ease for someone who had never been in there before.

"Her name is Molly."

"So Molly, you as much of a bitch as this guy?" Rahm jerked his thumb in Anderson's direction, snickering at his own joke as Molly rested her head in his lap. "Yeah, I didn't think so."

Anderson wasn't entirely sure why he was actually pouring Rahm a drink, but he brought both glasses over to the couch and joined him. Sitting as far away as he could get without perching on the arm, of course. For a moment, they sipped in silence, and then Anderson spoke.

"This is just a one-time thing, right? I really - in all seriousness - will go stark raving insane if Barack intends to use you as my babysitter on a regular basis."

Rahm rolled his eyes again. "He would, only I have an actual job. I know it's not nearly as crucial to the progression of the world as being CNN's resident pretty-boy pundit, but I occasionally fuck around with this whole Chief of Staff gig. Mostly when I'm wrecked."

There was no stopping it. Anderson's high-pitched, nasal laugh broke free, and Rahm groaned.

"Do you have any idea how annoying and endearing that is at the same time? It's like, you're all professional and aloof and shit, and then you laugh like that, and it's so fucking cute I just want to rip out your voice box."

Anderson arched an eyebrow. "Again?"

Rahm leaned forward, pushing Molly out of the way to completely violate Anderson's personal space. "I'm stuck with you all night. Your laugh is really cute, and you piss me off, but everyone does. I like your ties. Let's fuck."

"Totally," it was out of Anderson's mouth before he realized how much he'd been hoping for this, and he clamped a hand over his mouth and made a strangled sound. "Not to, you know. Sound like a whore."

"I called it, too!" Rahm was gleeful now. "I was like, "Anderson Cooper is one of those guys who you [/i]think[/i] you couldn't get into bed until you're alone with him, and then he just transforms into this filthy fucking whore. Zero to sixty in point two seconds." That is totally what I said to Barack."

"What?" But Rahm's mouth was crushed against his so suddenly he went dizzy with it, immediately going limp as a pair of surprisingly strong arms circled him. He sagged against his chest, letting Rahm hold him up as an insistent tongue pushed its way into his mouth. There was a pair of hands in his hair, messing it up, but he could feel the thick, blunt stub of his half-missing finger pressing against his scalp and he moaned. Rahm sucked on his tongue, pressing their bodies flush together. They were making out on his couch like a couple of teenagers, Anderson realized as Rahm pulled away and took his face into both hands - now he could feel the stub pressing against his cheek, and he wondered why he'd become so fixated on it - and tilted his head to one side. He was like a sculptor, molding and shaping him to his liking.

>>40151

Once he was satisfied that Anderson's head was properly tilted, Rahm moved in to press his lips to the side of his neck. He wasted no time in sinking his teeth into the soft flesh there and sucking in a mouthful of it, applying suction hard enough to hurt. Anderson moaned, realizing in that moment that Rahm had been right. Sometimes, he really was a whore. But when Rahm pulled away, leaving a swollen and stinging dark bruise on his neck, he shivered at the realization that he'd been marked. He wasn't done however, and it wasn't long before Rahm found the tender spot behind his ear that turned him to jelly.

"C'mon." Rahm was tugging him to his feet, already loosening his tie. "Where's your bedroom?"

Dazed, Anderson led the way. His bedroom was as neat and color-coordinated as the rest of his place, but Rahm didn't seem to notice. He flicked on the light by the door, flooding the room in 70-watt brightness, and they both winced. Turning it back off, Anderson opted for the small lamp on his bedside table, and regretted the move a moment later because it meant that he missed watching Rahm unbuttoning his crisp white business shirt. He sat down on the edge of his bed, pulling his own dark sweater over his head and tossing it to the floor. Rahm was already down to his boxers, and he sank to his knees in front of Anderson, kneeling on the floor in front of the foot of the bed.

"Fucking...you're all pale and silver and blue-eyed and shit. You're like goddamn diamonds."

"Who's being melodramatic now?"

Rahm smiled almost affectionately, flipping him off with his stub. Then he got to work unbuttoning the fly of Anderson's jeans, tugging them down his slender legs and leaning back so he could kick them off, along with his shoes. Then he crawled up onto the bed, lying on his side beside Anderson and bracing his head up with one hand. "So how do you want to do this? You're not into tender words and cuddling and shit, are you? Because what I just said a minute ago is about as good as it gets with me. I suck at that shit, but I'll fuck you stupid."

Anderson laughed. "Just promise me you won't belch, pat my ass and roll over when we're done, and I'm good."

"Any weird fetishes, kinks, shit that seems fairly normal but you absolutely can't stand, et cetera?"

"Nah."

"Damn. I'm out fifty bucks. I'd been counting on you being a closet furry."

Anderson closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "You'd better fuck me fast, because you are rapidly becoming less and less attractive to me."

Ram grinned, rolled over so that he was lying directly on top of Anderson. "Condoms? Lube?" he asked, and Anderson reached out with one arm for the bedside table. In the little drawer there, he located both and handed them to Rahm. They were plain condoms, unscented lube. Rahm exhaled in relief when he saw them. "You know, I'd pegged you for the type to have mint-julep flavored lube or something." He expertly rolled on the condom.

Anderson didn't dignify that with a response, spreading his legs instead. Rahm paused before pouring the lube over his hand, lifting it to Anderson's face. The stub of his finger was nudging against his lips now, and with a quiet moan Anderson instinctively opened his mouth and took it in. It was disarmingly smooth and warm, this proof that the man on top of him was human despite his persona. There was a deep sort of intimacy involved in doing this, and Anderson curled his tongue around the stub, sucking at it eagerly before Rahm pulled it back.

"I saw you looking at it earlier," he explained, settling himself between Anderson's milky-pale thighs and finally spreading the lube over his fingers. With his free hand, he traced idle patterns up Anderson's belly and chest, stroking and then tugging sharply on his aching nipples. Anderson's eyes rolled back in his head, his back arching and a helpless sound escaping him. Rahm pushed his index finger into him without warning, pressing past tight flesh and working his way knuckle-deep before pausing again. "Yeah?" he asked, crooking his finger. Anderson nodded, spread his legs wider. Rahm pushed the rest of the way into his ass, added another. Stars exploded behind Anderson's clenched eyelids.

"Yeah," Rahm confirmed, mostly to himself, as he carefully scissored his fingers. He didn't speak any more, not even when he added a third - his half-missing middle finger. Anderson's cry sounded nearly anguished in his own ears, his head swimming and his body singing. Rahm smirked, pulled his fingers out and wiped them on his sheets. Then he was gripping Anderson's ankles, hauling his legs up to drape them over his shoulders. Anderson was bent nearly in half when Rahm slammed into him.

He'd needed this so bad, he thought with a feverish sort of frenzy, feeling himself stretch open even further with the new slick heat of Rahm's lubed cock. All the stress he'd been under lately, working the war zones...he loved it, needed that too, but he'd been nearing his breaking point as of late. He wondered belatedly if Barack hadn't picked up on that.

Then Rahm hit the spot deep inside of him that flooded him with lust, a desperate craving for more of that feeling. Upon finding it, Rahm's triumphant smirk broadened and he leaned forward, pressing more deeply into his body. "Fuck yeah, that's good," he murmured, shoving his hips forward so that his cock kept slamming against Anderson's prostate. He didn't waste time starting out slow - this was a hard, deep fuck, and he wasn't trying to create a pretense. Anderson's own cock, neglected until now, was stiff and aching, leaking precome all over his belly where it lay pressed flat.

With his left hand, Rahm reached between them and lifted it into his hand, curling his fingers around it. Anderson actually whimpered, but didn't have time to be embarrassed because Rahm was gripping his cock while thrusting in and out of him like he was trying to break him in half, harsh grunts escaping him every few seconds. Muttered swearing. Beads of sweat breaking out over his solid chest, and Anderson couldn't help but run his hand over it. His head lolled back onto his pillow after a moment though, his entire body pliant and open for this. Rahm thumbed the head of his cock for a bit, silently admiring how goddamn pretty it was - long and slender and pale, just as he'd expected. His own was thicker, darker, filling Anderson up inside in an intensely satisfying way.

His thrusts were increasing in pace now, his eyes clenching shut. "Ah, hell yeah," he mumbled, his head tipping back and his graceful dancer's neck exposed in a surprising and instinctive gesture of trust. Both hands were now gripping Anderson's waist, leaving finger-shaped bruises that Anderson wished would never fade, as his whole body went still and tense for a long moment. He expected screaming, swearing, but instead Rahm just exhaled heavily as he came. Anderson could feel the condom filling up, and in a wild, fleeting moment wished Rahm wasn't wearing it so he could experience the hot rush of an orgasm happening inside of him.

He smiled weakly, lowered his legs from Rahm's shoulders, feeling his cock give one last jerk, pulsing out one last spurt of come before Rahm pulled out. With one hand, he rolled off the condom, tied it off and tossed it into the little black wastebasket by the bed. Anderson expected the standard moment of him collapsing next to him and reaching for his cock with a sweaty hand, mumbling something like "let me take care of this for you." But instead, Rahm was taking his legs into his hands again, bending them at the knee with his feet flat on the surface of the bed. Then he dipped his head, unexpectedly taking Anderson's cock into his mouth.

Anderson laughed breathlessly, lifting his head for a moment to stare incredulously, and then let it drop back onto the pillow. "Fuck," he said quietly, feeling the sparking heat build up all over his skin again, his hips jerking upward of their own accord. Rahm was able to handle it though, as he swirled his tongue around the head and took about half of it in with one grand swallow. He didn't choke or back off either, instead flicking his tongue over the underside and lowering his head even further, until his nose was pressed against the short curls at the base of his cock. It took Anderson a moment to realize that Rahm Emanuel was deepthroating him, and he nearly came all at once at the sensation of his throat muscles working around his erection.

It only took about two minutes of this treatment before Anderson was giving Rahm the courtesy tap on the top of the head. Rahm pulled away a little, but not much, bobbing his head up and down quickly now. He didn't forget to use his tongue still, making the whole affair messy and glorious. Anderson cried out when he came, a choked sort of "angh!" sound. Rahm swallowed, but a bit of his come leaked out of the corner of his mouth and dripped down his chin. He laughed, gathered it up with his index finger, which he then lapped at with his tongue. The air around them smelled like sex, and Anderson settled bonelessly, languidly against his comforter.

Rahm relaxed on his back next to him, and didn't pull away when Anderson rolled over to drop his head against his chest. He even slid an arm around his shoulders, but didn't speak. For a while, they let their hearts steady, their breathing getting slower and more even.

Anderson kissed the hollow of Rahm's throat. "I'm still mad at you," he informed him. "And Barack."

"Damn Andy, I hope you're always mad at me, then."

"Yeah, it was pretty good."

"I'd hit it again." Rahm gave Anderson's naked, sweaty form an approving once-over, and Anderson laughed and pushed him.

"I need a shower. Don't follow me or we'll never get out. You can take one when I'm done."

"Oh sure, now you're all in charge and shit." Rahm allowed another kiss to his lips before Anderson got up though. In the shower, he kept going weak in the knees and stumbling a bit, but he couldn't stop smiling. When he got out, Rahm had dozed off but his phone was vibrating in the pocket of his discarded pants. Curiously, Anderson flipped it open to reveal a text from Barack.

He's a furry, isn't he? I know he's a furry, he totally is. GET BACK TO ME, I HAVE MONEY ON THIS.

Intrigued with this interesting new development, Anderson considered messaging Barack as Rahm and informing him that they'd dressed up like the crab and the seagull from The Little Mermaid and banged to "Under the Sea" playing on his stereo. But considering that Rahm had actually been decent about the sex thing, he simply turned it off and slipped it back into his pants. When he woke up a few hours later, Rahm was gone but his bathroom had been used again and a text was buzzing on his Blackberry.

Thanks to this thread, I now am frustratingly infatuated with Anderson Cooper in all his faggy, giggling glory. I would like to go back to three days ago when I found him pompous and insufferable. Curse you, /coq/.

>>40434
I don't even pay attention to politics. I actually had to look up who the hell Rahm Emanuel was.

This thread did what the American public school system failed to do; make me wish I paid attention in civics class.

>>40434
I feel as though I have served my purpose in life.

>>40454

As a Canadian interested in politics, I'm intimately acquainted with the American political system. I wish we had exciting, disgustingly alluring assholes like Emanuel.

But damnit, I hate people like Cooper. WHY IS HE SO ADORABLE?

Ah, poorly calculated photo ops....

Any more Rahm/Anderson? Or anything at all? I'll even take British politics. I tried to join Rahmbamarama two days ago and they still haven't approved it.

>>40725

What's been posted seems to be pretty much it, which is quite sad.

Fake News Fanfiction has a lot of Anderson stuff, just look for his name in the tags - http://community.livejournal.com/fakenews_fanfic/tag/

Unfortunately, nothing is quite the same as the scumbag himself belittling and fucking CNN's little golden boy.

>>40725 Alright, I found a few more on the comm. These next few little ones all come from this post: http://community.livejournal.com/rahmbamarama/43161.html
and are by karanguni

"Rahm and Anderson and tie"

Anderson gets his - stiff satin and neat, thin lines - off of Ralph Lauren or Black Label, whoever wants to sponsor him first. They give him pinstripes and broad strokes and black and grey and deep, deep blue accented by greys. He ties them in front of the mirror, unconsciously articulating the triangle the way he's done since he was a child in the shadow of his family's empire. He's older now, but old habits die hard. He wants it at his throat, where it sits like affirmation and respectability in an age where no one really gives a fuck.

Rahm calls him out on it, standing there in the elevator with Anderson after a dinner spent watching the world turn by the hands of politicians and barons. 'Mine come off the racks of any shitty departmental store I happen to walk into. Why put so much thought into it, Cooper?' Rahm reaches out, snags Anderson's tie between his fingers and pulls. 'Why put so much money on a goddamned leash?'

Rahm/Anderson, pretty boy is tougher than he looks

He gets orders from Amy, sometimes, to take Rahm away for a weekend so that he can be "brought back sane"; so Andereson does it, lets Rahm take the reigns and bring them out somewhere remote to bike and swim and scream obscenities into the empty, easy air.

More often than not, that's all it takes - a day, half a day even, spent outside and in the sun so that Rahm doesn't feel like he's a "fucking vampire". Rahm yells at him and calls him names and rattles off swear word after swear word and a manic smile that gets calmer and more incisive every time he lets it show. Rahm follows him down trails and up hills and then back to whatever in-the-middle-of-nowhere-cabin that they've rented or borrowed, and Rahm will sit there, panting and thrumming and distilled, and inevitably, Rahm will say something stupid.

It's not enough for Rahm to come out onto the edge, he needs to take everyone with him, needs to push everyone to their envelope and say what you give me isn't enough. Anderson's patience isn't enough, Rahm wants his opinion: 'What are you doing at CNN now? Flashing fucking floating pie charts at the screen again? Is that what you're going to be doing for the midterms? Smiling stupidly while Blitzer stands by a big board and rattles off any suggestion that your piss-ass writers come up with in the back?'

Anderson shakes his head and says, 'No. That's just what they tell me to do -'

'So that's why you do it? What happened to "being down on the ground" and "finding the facts", Cooper?' Rahm's eyes burn, and not cold and not flat, just dark with coal and anger about human futility and the refusal of those around them to live life by the fingertips the way he does. 'Where's the human response? What happened to saving the news?'

'No one ever said anyone was saving the news,' Anderson manages, but Rahm doesn't let him.

'So you hit the studio and play with caculators and stupid little numbers because those are so much better than asking the electorate what they think? The guy on the street too fucking good for the Vanderbil--'

Anderson can't take that, won't take that. He's not a proponent of violence, not a proponent of wearing things on his sleeve - but he's been to Baghdad and he's been on the ground and he's watched people cry as they stand in line waiting to take their vote; he's spent hours of his life in sleepless transit between one state and the next, searching for facts that politics likes to cover up. He has Rahm up against the wall before he can think, long fingers clenched too tightly against Rahm's collar, and Rahm fucking laughs and Anderson slams him backwards again. 'I do as much as I can,' Anderson growls. 'And then I do what I have to do. The two don't always correlate.'

Rahm says, 'But are you going to fucking try to make them?'

And Anderson knows this is where the world starts to fall apart beneath his feet; because good enough isn't good enough for Rahm Emanuel, and it'll take a colder day in hell than this for Anderson to stop chasing after the same dream that this man has. He pushes his hands flat out against the wall next to Rahm's head and breathes, inhaling calm and exhaling frustration. 'What do you think?' Anderson says.

Rahm puts his hand on Anderson's shoulder, his fingers splayed against the stretch of muscle and tension. 'Everything is sometimes just not good enough.'

'Really?' Anderson says, and his eyes are always going to be colder than Rahm's, always going to be something different. He leans in, saying, 'Fine, then have more.'

Gucci cufflinks and Armani ties


'Fuck you,' Anderson pants, fingers drumming a frenetic beat against the wall until he forces them to stop, stop, stop - 'Fuck you fuck you fuck you,' all in one breath because he doesn't do this, he doesn't take stupid risks, he doesn't talk about himself and that means he doesn't give anyone else anything to talk about.

He doesn't want to come out of any fucking closet and he doesn't want to risk anything - not his job or anyone else's - by acting like a goddamned fucking family breaker and he doesn't want to be incoherent and he wants his calm back but no --

Everything about this is fucked up except that it's not: it's Rahm's idea, the way everything's Rahm's idea, the way he fucking visits their family on weird obscure holidays during which Amy will smile at him and take the children out to the park or to a musuem for a few convenient hours; it's the way Rahm is too damned much for anybody. It's the way blood heats.

'Shut up,' Rahm says softly from the floor, and Anderson can barely look at him there down on his knees. His own legs are shaking, but Rahm's perfectly calm, calm like sneaking away into huge stupid expansive, expensive excutive washrooms in the middle of something mind-numblingly political and superficial isn't social suicide.

Anderson's nails ache from where he'd pressed them against the wall as Rahm went down and opened up his pants and then sucked; he still can't breathe properly, he doesn't know which side of hyperventilation he's on anymore, just adrenaline now and fear and loathing and maybe a bit of love and hate and admiration and liberity like sweet, sweet air. 'Fuck you,' he says, one more time in between gasps for air.

'For a pretty put together kid, you can be fucking loud,' Rahm murmurs, low and amused as he brings Anderson's belt back together and slides the leather through the buckle chink-chink-chink and Anderson thinks this has to be sensory overload; he wants to beat Rahm's hands off him but can't, won't. 'Hold still, Cooper,' Rahm orders, pushing Anderson's trembling arm off his shoulder and fixing his cuffs, pushing Anderson's cufflinks through the French folds and god, god, god it's been too many nights of talking and talking and talking and no action and tours of duty as they watch the troops come home and now DC seems a bit too much for Anderson.

Too much, like how Rahm slid his fingers against the angles of his hips and dug in with nails and left fading bruises; too much, like how Rahm hummed and pushed down, down, down like he could fuck the senselessness out of him; too much, like coming back to something real and inviting and full of a desire for him, him, not anything on television but him.

Anderson knows he needs to calm down, but he doesn't know how to do that when Rahm is back up on his feet and pushing his chin back with the back of his hand, pushing his chin back and tying his stupid, fucking expensive Armani tie back around his neck in a knot that isn't Anderson's own.

Sorry to break the Cooperahm fest, but I'll just dump this Putin stuff here and slither out.

>>40869
Nonsense, Putin is always acceptable.

>>40742 You are a queen.
>>40762 DAMN! Newscaster's aren't supposed to be that pretty.
>>40870 Agreed, this thread could always use Putin. Or any thread, actually.

>>40906
>You are a queen.
Haha, thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed.

Bringing recs from the UK politics meme - I tend to prefer the crackfic-with-a-side-of-porn genre, but there's some serious stuff here as well.

Forced to get married - a WiP but the concept alone is solid gold
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=32089#t32089

The classic zombie apocalypse story
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=16473#t16473

"Brown/Clegg, Cameron/Clegg - which one gave Nicky the best bj?"
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=8537#t8537

very well written "kissing for charity" fic, also a WiP
http://abluestocking.livejournal.com/678.html

Cameron/Osborne/Hague threesome
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=125017#t125017

in which Cameron most certainly does not bake Clegg a cake
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=288601#t288601

somnophilia (sleeping kink) - noncon, naturally, but extremely hot
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=329561#t329561

Clegg reminds Cameron who calls the shots
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=183129#t183129

sharing a bath crackfic
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=366425#t366425

public school AU, multiple pairings
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=438617#t438617

hot/depressing fic in which Clegg is a sex addict
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=472921#t472921

RHPS crackfic
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=525913#t525913

Cameron drunkenly hits on Colin Firth
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=548441#t548441

dubcon with Clegg as the aggressor
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=616537#t616537

survival fic, this one ends a bit abrupt but it's still lovely
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=626521#t626521

Clegg is handcuffed to his desk, UST ensues
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=767833#t767833

short dystopian angst
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=791897#t791897

Milicest 8D
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=955993#t955993

Hillary Clinton catches on to the secret affair thanks to her highly refined who's-fucking-whodar
http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/601.html?thread=990297#t990297

>>40962
>"Brown/Clegg, Cameron/Clegg - which one gave Nicky the best bj?"
Loved this one.
>Experienced (wanted to ask him about that, but was afraid he'd punch me)
>:)
Just brilliant.
The dubcon one is also great if you still love Clegg and hate Cameron.

I found this campaign pin in a local antiques mall, this thread instantly came to mind.

Dredging up an aging thread to tell y'all it looks like we've got a new kinkmeme, if anyone's interested around these parts:

http://community.livejournal.com/newskink_meme/709.html

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/europe/article7147709.ece
>Mr Blair recalled a press conference in France when he said in French: “I desire your Prime Minister in many different positions.”

And Guido Westerwelle is canon gay. Just saying.

>>42259 I kinda really wish I had me one of those now.
Thats a lucky find, bro.

I don't care how.

http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/3600.html?thread=3013648#t3013648

Fic in which Boris Johnson gets a fabulous unicorn.

>>39927
>>39932
I think I'll die if I don't get some kind of source for these two (I assume they're of the same artist?)

oh forgot to offer some putinmedvedev in return for source

photos are okay, y/n?

Not porn, but I thought this badass Putin art that's like #2 in popularity/rating for the day on Pixiv had to be posted

have some porn

>>39885

:o

bumping with some silliness.

Argh, damn you lot. Now I have to go listen to "I'm with Stupid" by Pet Shop Boys.

>>50866 This one so reminds me of Russia from Hetalia... So yandere....

Any Putin fic?

>>51337

Swimming is an interesting sport. Think about it: the basic motions are very simple; even engraved in our minds from birth, as those strange studies with paddling toddlers show. Yet it serves many different purposes. Some use it to keep in shape. Some use it for relaxation, and alright, I’ll admit it: swimming is quite poetic. For centuries, it was the closest men could get to the sensation of floating in space (until our brave countrymen reached the real thing, of course). Letting yourself be carried by the waves is one of the gentlest, most loving feelings in the world, a mother’s embrace.

But I digress: on top of exercise and leisure, some might derive a rather particular kind of pleasure from it. As you know, it is recommended to wear, shall we say, minimal clothing while swimming, and some take advantage of this by floating around the end of the pool, ducking underwater every time a well-built swimmer goes by.

It’s needless to say that sport swimmers like myself find these ‘floaters’ absolutely revolting, and I can have a laugh with the other athletes about how sad the lives of those people must be, reduced to peeping in the public swimming baths.

So you can imagine that when I found myself in exactly that position, I was anything but thrilled. I felt quite disgusted with myself, really, but I couldn’t help it. It was my one chance of getting a good look at him, and I knew I had to grasp it. And, I swear to God, watching him, there was much more I wanted to grasp.

We were mostly alone, except for the bodyguards in the tribunes and outside, along with limited pool staff. I had my arms propped up on the ledge of the pool, my back to the wall and my feet lightly kicking to keep me bobbing along and ease the pressure on my upper body. He was busy in the next lane, sliding through the water with the speed and agility of a dolphin, whirling around and launching himself into another lap in seconds. It was fascinating to watch from above water, so can you blame me for wanting to take an underwater look? Of course not. I can’t imagine who wouldn’t have done the exact same thing.

I ducked my head under and slowly opened my eyes, gradually adjusting to the chlorine. My vision cleared just in time to see him mid-flip, right when he was about to start his crawl at full steam. His eyes were covered with dark goggles, though the only other thing he had on was a black Speedo, as he didn’t bother with a swimming cap.
I’d like to take a short moment to thank Alexander MacRae, creator of the Speedo brand. Thank you for inventing such a remarkable garment, one which combines style and practicality effortlessly. But above all, thank you for making them so deliciously tight.
I could read everything. Every line and curve translated into ripples down my spine. The way it firmly held his manhood in place was hypnotizing, and I wished for a minute I could have my hands take its place.

These thoughts were quickly chased away, of course. I’d never dare assume anything in our relationship. He could do whatever he wanted to me, but I didn’t have a say. It pleased me.

I eventually had to go up for air or I’d have evolved gills from staying underwater so long. His voice was immediately heard from the other side of the pool:

‘Dima!’ he shouted, passing a hand over his face to remove the excess water, ‘Dima, how many laps?’

I breathed out. ‘Who do you mean?’

He rolled his eyes, the biggest display of emotion I thought I’d be seeing all morning, and yelled back: ‘You, of course! I don’t need my boss to count my laps.’

My boss. I heard a tinge of irony in his comment.
I replied I’d done fifty, and he smiled at me (shocking, I know). He said something about just having done his eightieth, and that we should be heading out for my gym session. I pretended to get out, sneakily shooting a glance at him as he pushed himself out of the water, all of his back muscles protruding and working like clockwork, water running down the length of his smooth body. He had little body hair, and what he had was blonde. I thought we made quite an amusing contrast.

As we walked back to the showers, I couldn’t help but think back to the rainy day he had first truly touched me. It had been brief: a quick ruffle of my hair, a few strokes over my lap, some chaste rubbing. Never real skin contact apart from our foreheads touching, our breaths mingling but our lips never touching. And then he left me, dazed and desperate, hungrier than I had ever felt before. That night, I made love to my wife for the first time in months, needing to relieve the pressure. It worried me that even the usual pleasure I derived from sex with Svetlana paled in comparison to what I had felt earlier in the day from his secret strokes.

As I lay in bed while she washed, I thought this through. It made me feel disgusted. I just didn’t understand how I could want to be kissed, to be fondled, to be loved by this man more than by my childhood friend and love, my angel. The mother of my son.

I’m a bit ashamed to say those moralizing thoughts didn’t even come close to entering my mind as we showered and went towards our cabins to change. I was very busy meditating on urgent matters (‘it’s like white silk’), and he startled me by suddenly dropping whatever conversation we were having and turning to me. His wet hair stuck to his head and made him look vaguely like a seal.

‘Dima,’ he started, glancing into my eyes and walking in time with me now, ‘would you say I’m becoming old?’

I couldn’t reply for some time, perplexed. Was I now so important I was worthy of asking personal questions to?

‘You’re completely fit for your job, and you certainly needn’t worry about your physical condition.’

I must admit I foolishly blushed right after saying that last part, but he didn’t seem to take that into account, merely shrugging.

‘I don’t know, Dima. I wake up and I’ll look in the mirror and it’s like my age has caught up with me. I get sporadic muscle aches sometimes, and I definitely don’t look like I did at the beginning of my presidency.’ He sighed. ‘My body’s changed into that of an old man.’

‘Don’t say things you know aren’t true,’ I replied, feeling a little more daring than usual. Probably because I knew we were alone and not being waited for. ‘You’re a role model to many people, and if you compare yourself to other world leaders, it’s obvious you’re superior. Even in those recent pictures-‘

I couldn’t finish that sentence. My face had been turning progressively redder after the ‘superior’ comment, and by the time I even mentioned the photographs I felt a complete fool. The problem was that the end of my little diatribe was exactly what he seemed interested in.

‘What of the pictures?’

‘Well... they’ve become quite popular on the internet. Caused quite a stir in some sites, actually.’

Note here my great skill at avoiding embarrassing subjects. Isn’t it surprising I was never considered for spy work?

‘What sort of sites, Dima?’

‘Oh, just... sites.’ A regular James Bond, me.

‘And why would you know of these particular sites, Dmitry?’ his tone was soft, yet demanding, and I couldn’t do anything but look over at him nervously and dry-swallow more times than I care to mention, especially when our thighs brushed against each other. My heart nearly sprung out of my throat.
I suddenly noticed we’d passed my cabin and backtracked, only to have him follow me. I didn’t say anything and started fumbling for the key I had on a rubber band around my wrist.

I nearly scratched away half the door in surprise when I felt his lips on my shoulder. It certainly couldn’t have been an accident like him slipping or something, seeing as he’s quite a bit taller than me. He trailed around to the right and nibbled the base of my neck.

‘Am I cashing my rain check?’ I stuttered, still messing with the key.

He didn’t say anything and licked up my neck, gently sucking on my earlobe before giving it little insistent bites. I eventually managed to open the door (a hard task to perform with someone’s tongue in your ear) and almost fell in, every part of me pink and hardened. My clothes were all heaped up in a corner, half-folded. I briefly considered how neat he must have left his cabin, wishing I could somehow go back in time to tidy everything up.

I stopped thinking about that when I felt myself being pushed against the wall, his body pressing against mine, his strong hands travelling over the bare skin of my back. I wrapped my arms around him and pushed my face into his collarbone, the faint smell of chlorine invading me.

A small jolt of pain and the sudden lack of his skin against my mouth as my head was tilted back against the wall alarmed me, but I found myself staring into those grey eyes and that customary emotionless face, cheeks tinted with red, and my heart skipped a beat. It restarted full power when he tentatively kissed the corner of my mouth in a virginal peck, and I clutched him tight against me and forced our lips together.

Our first kiss.

I wasn’t ready for it. I just wasn’t ready for it. I never had thought that even if we were to kiss, it would be while we were both wet and writhing in a tiny cabin and in our generously small Speedos. Our hips were moving against each other and I could feel his erection as I knew he could mind, and as he was usually always in control, feeling his body break his frigid barrier made me grow even more aroused, my member solid against his thigh as I furiously met his tongue with mine.

His hands shifted all over me, starting at my face, one hand on either side, feeling my hair through his fingers. They moved around to the back of my skull, sliding down my spine, tracing the outline of my swimming pants, slipping a few fingers under the elastic and edging them towards the front, my heart thudding harder and harder as he carefully avoided my hardness and followed the trail of hair that went up to my navel and then my chest. When his thumbs slipped over my nipples, I leaned towards his ears and breathed, ‘Fuck me. Please, fuck me.’

I felt him shudder in my arms, a during his brief moment of hesitation I grasped at him through the black material of his Speedo and moved my hand up and down, only to be rewarded with a sharp shove.

‘It’s nice to see even an old man like me can provoke such a reaction, Dima,’ he breathed, take a pained step towards the door, ‘wait.’

And he darted off. I could hear him move a couple of cabins down, cursing silently as he tried the hand holding his key under control. I plumped myself down on the bench that had been digging into the back of my legs only seconds before and let my head bonk against the wall with a dull ‘thud.’ It was spectacular. The halogen light seemed brighter, the white tiling looked whiter, the pain in my legs felt sweet. It was like a dream, but unlike in a dream I could feel everything and everything felt absolutely perfect.

He came back seconds later, small tube of lubricant between his closed lips and his right hand fiddling with the strap on his waterproof watch. The fact that he could still think about things like punctuality and time in a situation like this was so typical of him. It made me smile. And when shortly after it hit me that he’d planned all of this from the beginning, my smile broke into a large grin.

He glanced at me and took the tube out of his mouth, placing it on the bench opposite the one I was sitting on. For the first time, he seemed hesitant, awkwardly stopping in front of me.

‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’

And I knew why he was asking, of course. It was clear as daylight. He didn’t want me to tell. He didn’t want me to go off and blab about our scandalous affair. Both our reputations would suffer harsh blows, and he’d probably never be re-elected. I’m sure he could eventually manage with enough effort, but all of his opponents, right or left-wing, would use their accusations of rape to the best of their abilities, tossing us like footballs in their political games.
He was asking purely out of self-interest, to put himself in the safe zone.

And I didn’t care.

I leaned forward and hungrily pulled him towards me, my face ending up level with his navel, which I couldn’t resist poking my tongue into.

‘I did ask you to fuck me, didn’t I?’

>>51543

A little strangled moan came from him, making me smile more. I gently got down on my knees, pushing him back a little, and licked his swollen member through the swimming briefs, kissing the tip and rubbing my lips around the head. I looked up at him and hooked my fingers under the fabric around his hips, progressively pulling them down. The first time I saw his penis, it practically sprang out at me, liberated from its cotton restraint. It was a strangely fascinating sight, and I immediately felt the urge to touch it, so I encircled it with my hand, my fingers just long enough to be able to hold his girth.

And that’s when I realized I had no idea what to do next. I’d never been intimate with another man’s genitals before, and it was a pathetic moment of utter loneliness on my side. I couldn’t ask him about it either, I had to show I could at least do this by myself!
Then I noticed his short grunts, merely from my hot breath on his member. It brought me back to reality. I’d just have to do what I liked Svetlana to do to me, and I’d be fine. Hopefully.

Urged on by this new surge of confidence, I tentatively licked the tip and trailed down to the base, stroking it at the same time. When the first throaty moan passed his lips I decided to chuck sense out of the window and try to take him in my mouth.
And by God, I tried. I really did. I got a good couple of centimetres in before I risked choking, which wouldn’t have been very sexy, so I limited myself to what I could do. I worked up a steady rhythm, alternating between using my mouth and my wrist. I felt myself shudder as the precome dripped down my throat, but I kept up what I was doing, worshipping it, aching for it to be mine. I was surprised when he gently pushed my head back, until he pronounced those words.

‘Turn around.’

I shakily did as he asked, the taste of flesh still fresh in my mouth, and bent over the bench as well as I could, considering the limited space. I hear the sound of the small plastic cap fall on the floor and a small pause as he spread it on himself. A wave of electricity coursed through me when he put a hand on my hip, and another one when his fingers brushed against my skin as he pulled down my briefs. What now? Would he prepare me, or didn’t he think it would be necessary? Did he even care whether I could take him or not? He wasn’t huge, but he was certainly average or slightly above, and that’s still intimidating if you’re getting it for the first time.

I felt him bend over me, and his left hand wrapped itself around my side, the tips of his fingers barely rubbing my nipple. The amount of pleasure that little nub can bring is pretty amazing. I started wishing he’d kissed it, licked it, given it any of the same devotion I’d just given him.

‘Oh. Oh, oh God.’

I couldn’t manage much more than God’s name as I felt the head make its way inside of me (I couldn’t help thinking of Chechnya). It was so painful, at first, and I had to bite down on my hand not to embarrass myself.

He managed to work himself up halfway, and our fumbling, heavy breathing could probably be heard all the way down the corridor, but I could only listen to his strangled cries and feel the grip he had on my chest.
When he first thrust into me, I didn’t scream, biting down hard enough to nearly draw blood. I let out a whimper, a short cry. Quite soon, however, the joy I felt overrode it completely, and the pain quickly melted away. He wasn’t doing this for the first time, obviously. He pushed himself over the spot over and over again, running his hand down my chest to my hardness and skilfully matching his hand’s rhythm with his thrusts to take me to a level I’d never felt before.

‘You’re tight,’ he strained. Always nice to know.

He straightened up and put his hands on my buttocks and started grinding his hips upwards, managing to hit everything just right. My back arched down and I whimpered, breathing in sharply and whispering nonsensical approval, like he’d listen. I felt the pressure building up and tried to say something about it, but he interrupted me with a groan of ‘I’m going to come.’

His tone rose, and with a final lunge, hard grab at my side and contained cry he pulled himself out, and I soon felt hot spurts on my lower back. I stayed in my position; bent over the bench on my knees, mouth against my hand and still hard. He crawled over to me, panting, and pushed me off the bench, laying half on top of me on the floor.

He gently kissed me on the lips before giving the lower one a sharp nip. I nudged him closer and opened his mouth with mine, seeking his tongue. I let out a muffled cry when he stroked my member, carefully cupping his hand so the head was always in contact with his palm. He moved lower and trailed kisses to my chest until he got to my nipple, which he lightly licked and sucked.

When he started nibbling on it, I came, spilling myself into his hand. The orgasm shook me and left me shuddering for a long time, while he held me. I don’t know how long we stayed like that, a few minutes, perhaps. He sat up, pushing me with him.

‘I’ll clean this while you take a shower, Dima.’

I nodded and kissed him one last time before hobbling over to the bathroom, collecting my thoughts and removing all traces of what had happened. At least, I thought I’d removed everything: when I passed in front of the mirror, I noticed he’d left a bruise on my side, where he’d been so desperately clutching at me minutes before. Having a left-over of our time together made me smile, and I touched it, wincing, to assure myself it had all happened. And it had.

I’d have to be careful undressing around Svetlana for a few days.

I passed him on my way back to the cabin and tried to approach him, but he walked past quicker than I could manage to limp, duly re-Speedo-ed and managing to look dignified and impressive even flushed and come-stained. When I walked into the, as it were, ‘scene of the crime’, only to find everything spick and span and all my clothes neatly laid out, I wanted to run after him and restart the whole thing, but I decided I’d give my lower body a rest for now.

‘Dmitry Anatolevich suffered a most atrocious cramp.’

That was what he told out bodyguards, who were patiently waiting outside. They shrugged, his guard looking a little too used to it, and we all got into the black Presidential limousine, them in the front, quietly chatting with the driver, us in the back.

I knew we’d never be in a relationship. I knew all future encounters would be like this, or, well, hopefully in hotel rooms or other places with beds and padded floors (spare my knees a bit). Maybe even in one of his dachas.
I knew we weren’t in love.

And as he squeezed my knee and whispered government secrets into my ear, I realized I’d never been happier.

The sound of rain against the window was lulling me to sleep, interfering with my writing.
In spite of what is though abroad, Russia is not always cold. Quite the opposite, in fact: sometimes it gets so warm that people die of heatstroke. I know this better than anyone. After all, knowing these things is my responsibility.

Of course, in the unheated houses of distant Siberian villages, many succumb to the cold. These parts are forgotten even by God, and the average person has never heard of them. But I know all about those trifling matters – it is my job.

I was examining the figures, which concerned the falling population in Russia, while at the same time listening to Pink Floyd’s Division Bell, the music being played quite loudly, louder than was allowed.
He didn’t know, and I’m not quite sure myself, but I perhaps did this intentionally.

Purposely in order to attract his attention.

And, whether I did it involuntarily or not, I succeeded. As the first notes of Poles Apart began to play, my office door carefully edged open. Slowly and deliberately. Everything he did was very much deliberate, never just for show. It was easy to see he was in a bad mood, since he didn’t knock. As a rule, he was irreproachably polite, so any deviation from his nature was a sign of alarm.

‘Dmitry,’ he said, his usual impassive expression firmly in place, ‘if you’d be as kind as to turn off that howling noise. You are not in your car.’

‘Of course, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

I was acting foolishly. After all, wasn’t his attention what I wanted?

‘I was trying to concentrate, and you had to distract me. This isn’t even music, just filth.’

I could see Putin was set on receiving an answer to this.

But what could I say? ‘Forgive my interfering with you work, I shall proceed to expiate my fault through any means necessary?’
I didn’t know what he wanted to hear, and didn’t give this matter much thought. We stared at each other as the minutes floated by, him keeping his hand on the doorknob, as if ready to go at any moment but held back by some invisible force. He was waiting for a reaction from me. I was sitting at my desk in my comfortable leather armchair; the monitor’s light flickering, and desperately hoping he wouldn’t hear my thudding heart. Vladimir quit working for the secret services long ago, but being in the KGB is a lot like riding a bike: you never forget how the motions go. Intimidating people and suppressing their will is already a fully automatic habit in him.

‘It’s not filth,’ I finally answered, ‘I brought this music along because I thought you might enjoy it.’

Surprise flashed on his face, but his expression smoothed over in half a second. It was still a rare manifestation of emotion, which in itself was unique. And valuable – to me.

‘How can you assume such things? Since when do you know what I “might enjoy”?’

I shrugged.

‘Well, I don’t know. Everyone likes it. Everyone I know’

‘Interesting comparison. And here I thought I was quite unique,’ Putin smiled, but his icy grey eyes remained cold.

Uniqueness goes hand in hand with solitude, I thought, but he remained silent. It was obvious that something was irritating him, and I hoped with all my might that neither I nor my music had caused this reaction.

‘I was told that you again ordered your subordinates to neglect the rumour about our association.’

I considered the answer about a second. In these cases, pensiveness was of no use.

‘Yes. I thought about this while at the IMET, and denying it makes sense. It will prevent rumours about our supposed close connection. About the fact that I’m assumed to belong to you, like some doll.’

This made him smile, as I knew it would.

‘I wonder if some people speculate,’ he started, finally going away from the door and heading towards the window. I followed his movement with my eyes, and saw that the rain still flowed outside, making for quite a depressing view, ‘because of things such as my physical talents and your exploits in yoga. Why, people might be scared I’m wearing you out. Dolls have limits too, you know, and will cave in if pushed right.’

The ambiguous joke made me redden and bury my face back into the computer screen. I couldn’t bear to look at him. The tension was too high.
Four months of abstinence had also put their strain on me – Svetlana, because of the female disease, did not allow me to come close to her. She would complain endlessly to feel better, usually while she ran herself a bath, and in moments like that, accompanied by the sound of flowing water that was omnipresent on this rainy day, his features would appear behind my eyelids; a mocking gaze, a flipped nose, wide arms, strong hands… I had to restrain myself from moaning there and then from the rushed excitement, vicious, shameful, so sharp and alive and impossibly forbidden.
The imagination sketched unmentionable pictures as I stole glances at him, and as time went by, they pushed the limit of decency further, again and again, until I couldn’t look at him without being reminded of even the smallest details of my fantasies, from the intermittent wheezes and the trembling, to the feeling of being engulfed in convulsing ecstasy, every shred of energy torn from me.

And now, imprisoned in my office with him, I wondered how much of the queer way I acted he could interpret, and the question tormented me – could he understand just how much I desired him? I was completely immersed in such thoughts and jumped when he coughed lightly.

‘By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask, how are you taking your new way of life?’

I looked up from my webcam, set up to film my video blog, and gave an imperceptible shrug. Well, imperceptible to most, he likely saw it all.

‘It’s alright,’ I answered, trying to sound unaffected. The diet prescribed to me hadn’t been easy, and I especially remember the sleepless nights caused by the lack of food and comments about my candidacy made by foreign political writers. But the meals, sports and cosmetic procedures brought about due results. ‘I’m much more relaxed. Floating in the water a couple of hours per day is very nice,’ I added, remembering the pool.

‘I’m considering taking up swimming as well,’ he stated, moving away from the window and towards me, ‘Judo, wrestling – all of this is good, of course, but they’re not the ways to keep me in shape. Age, as you know, no longer permits it. But swimming – that’s another matter. It’s suited for all, young and old.’

I strongly doubted that his complaints about age were based on any real issues. I saw those photographs with the prince of Monaco. Weeks in a row, I would look at them every evening about ten minutes before going to bed.
A picture of his form, half-naked, suddenly flared into my mind, and I was unable to make it disappear in time. His smooth, bronze and sunburnt body, stressed muscles, thick boots, the bulge in the trousers… remembering this, I felt myself trembling from excitement, my face turning a deep shade of beetroot red.

‘Are you feeling alright?’ he asked, more our of politeness than our of any real concern for my well-being.
‘I’m fine. Just fine.’

All I wanted then was for him to leave, immediately. My trousers were feeling tight, and this caused a real inconvenience.

‘Could I take a look at this?’ he quickly walked over to me, and was nearly bent over me, studying the documents on the screen. I grasped in the smell of his cologne, the edge of his jacket scratching my cheek. The excitement had overstepped its boundaries and became intolerable. ‘Is there any way I can help?’
‘Leave,’ I mentally begged, but instead said, attempting to speak in a flat tone, ‘No, thank you. I’m just studying statistics here… about Siberia, just routine checks. I was thinking whether it would be worth it to write down sequential records for my video blog?’
I knew I wasn’t losing anything, rejecting his aid. Even though he was one of the smartest people I had ever met in my life, I can’t say he’s very gifted in the area of computers, and the Internet, in particular.

‘Ah, to try and bring attention to the more isolated people? Good idea.’

He moved to close, inadmissibly close. My heart was nearly beating out of my chest. I closed my eyes.

‘You should mention the Siberian health resorts, so that tourists from Europe will be interested. They all think it’s just an eternal stretch of frozen ground, that…’

I was no longer listening. His proximity, his voice, his smell intoxicated me; my trousers nearly tearing from the strain. He had only to glance down to see the effect his presence had.

He bent nearer to the screen in order to read the small type without glasses, and in order to hold his equilibrium, he leaned on my elbow.
‘God, what torture!’ I sobbed, no longer able to keep control.

Several seconds passed, seemingly becoming an eternity, and I hoped he hadn’t heard. I knew how foolish of me this was, because he would note far less obvious things – he would probably note one damaged grain in a bag of rice – but I tried to tell myself a miracle could have occurred. After all, I hadn’t been very loud. Maybe he’d accept this as a sigh or a cough.

I understood how stupidly I was acting when he suddenly jerked the chair and made me spin around several times before I slowly stopped in front of him.

Have you ever had a moment in your life where you felt completely alone and defenceless? For instance, forgetting the words of a play when on stage. Or making a joke, only to have no one laugh. I was in that same situation, except a hundred times worse.

I tried to rise from the chair in order to leave, to run away from his questioning stare, the stare that made me feel like a butterfly, being pierced with a pin. He was looking at my trousers, focusing on one spot very obviously under a significant amount of stress, further fuelled by the shame and excitement his look was giving me.
But he wouldn’t allow me to escape. He stretched out his hand, and I thought he would strike me, my body positioning itself to receive the blow, but he only pushed me back into the armchair, and then… he caressed the back of my head. His hand was affectionate and warm, but I felt myself shaking, and my forehead was quickly covered in perspiration.
He stroked me again. I don’t know what reaction he was waiting for, but what came of his actions was a moan.

He then slightly shifted my position, and placed a second hand on the bulge of the trousers. I instinctively embraced him, my head burying into his breast. His skilful fingers moved quickly, causing sweet sensations. I didn’t last long – when he applied some pressure, I almost died. And from the side, his own constrained moan of inexpressible enjoyment was clearly heard.

I do not know how much time we spent against each other, or when he slowly removed his hands from me, but I was awoken from my lethargic state when he spoke.
‘The rain seems to have stopped.’

I opened my eyes.
‘I will go back to my office,’ he was already near the door, reaching to the knob, ‘I’ll let you carry on.’
When he turned away, shutting the door and leaving me alone with the aftermath of the best orgasm I had ever experienced and the most stunned feeling in the world, I couldn’t help but think I saw a shining smile on his face.

I stand on the podium in the Andreev hall of the Kremlin, and you’re next to me, pale and stressed.

Every word in my speech is planned out, and I read its contents in a deep voice that took many hours of rehearsing to get right. But the excitement is so strong I keep almost stuttering. Edits are made in necessary spots, and the show goes on, dictated by an invisible director.

I have long known of you feelings for me, and I have always taken your devotion to be sincere. But how did you know how to play me right, so I could no longer live without you? And, when I was advised to say we were close and had made all these decisions together, I suddenly realized that it wouldn’t be a lie. These seventeen hard years of my rise, I always felt you were near. You did everything for us to spend more time together, and you knew how to become so irreplaceable that when your hand touched mine, I could no longer keep my balance.

Silence – always there during our encounters, as though we fear someone will hear. I bury my face in your hair, inhaling the smell of perfume and your own, barely noticeable. I thrust myself against you and am surprised at the diminutiveness of your body. The small sigh, when I carefully enter you, is the only sound to be heard, except for the almost noiseless rustle of the sheets. I move into you with increasing desperation, and a hot wave begins to appear deep in my stomach and it suddenly washes over me, bringing me to a climax.

‘I will give you the whole world,’ I breathe, crumpling on you. You turn towards me, hazel eyes trusting and serious, ‘I can’t give you anything…’

Is he serious? The mockery, which will be in so many eyes, the tabloids, the stupid claims of announcers; is he really willing to endure it for me, just so I can profit off him and remain in charge?!

But I merely shook my head, driving away unnecessary thoughts. It is simple – you’re convinced what you’re doing is for the good of Russia.

He goes down the red path. In his eyes, desperation and determination. The little fellow goes to pick up his crown. The world will come later, but Russia I have already laid at your feet.

>>51544

What's this? Putin porn?

>I couldn’t manage much more than God’s name as I felt the head make its way inside of me (I couldn’t help thinking of Chechnya).

Oh god, this is why politics porn does to me what Jesus fucking Satan porn must do to someone who's still got religion.

Well, I'm just gonna sit here in the dark, now, feeling guilty and fapping.

>>39864
fuck yes do want