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Bruce Joker

I think it's time to claim these fics!

Posted on 2011.06.29 at 05:34
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So, a couple of years ago, I wrote some fics for an exchange. I couldn't claim them then, because that would have spoiled the fun! But, I think I want to claim them now, because I like them.

The first fic here is Hancock/Thomson, rated R. Really not my cup of tea. However, it was a request, and I think I pulled it off pretty well. Yes, I know now that there was another 1776 fic by that name. I'm not plagiarizing that fic. ;)


John Hancock did not admire many men. He had little reason to do so. After all, he sat in Congress day after day with the greatest writers, thinkers, orators, and statesmen of his time, and yet he had the power (if not always the ability) to silence them all with a single bang of his gavel. Moreover, he had seen these men in action, or, rather, in inaction—sleeping, fighting, chatting, yelling, droning, reading, daydreaming, flirting, eating, drinking, and passing notes—all while they were supposed to be working together to legislate according to what was best for this budding union of theirs. He had seen them bully and pressure their fellow delegates, defend despicable practices in the name of tradition, shrink from action to defend their wealth, chase after fire wagons like small children, and waste precious time debating over dead mules. No, Hancock no longer held much affection for “great men.”

However, Hancock could still admire good men—good men like the Congressional Secretary, Charles Thomson. Thomson was forced to listen to the same inane drivel as Hancock day in and day out; but, unlike the President of the Congress, Thomson never snapped, yelled, or attempted to hit anyone with a fly swatter. As a matter of fact, more than once he caught Thomson smiling fondly over these men, these same men who ordered him about and wasted his time. And while Hancock sighed and rolled his eyes with the rest of the Congress over General Washington’s gloomy Dispatches from the Depths of Hell, Thomson was never too frustrated or too drained to sympathize with the General.

Before too long, Hancock began to watch the stern-looking secretary. He began to notice that Thomson’s eyebrows arched when the Congressmen said something stupid and furrowed when they said something lewd. He noticed that the man’s lips would quirk when he thought a joke was funny and pout when he was taking exceptionally quick notes. Most of all, he noticed that Thomson looked wounded, just for a split second, whenever a delegate would refer to “Mr. President” when making a request that should have been directed to the secretary—as though Thomson wasn’t even there. Sure, Edward Rutledge would refer to the secretary by name; but, then again, Hancock thought Rutledge, with all his proper etiquette and high maintenance, was over-bred and over-trained, not unlike a prized poodle.

It was this image that led to Hancock’s first real conversation with Mr. Thomson. The arguments were grueling, the sun was scorching, and the chamber was as stuffy as ever. Thomson’s quill was scratching furiously to record the minutes, and, like always, the delegates passed over him when making requests. Though no one else noticed, it was clear to Hancock that the man next to him was exasperated. Thomson started in his seat when Hancock poked him in the ribs with a slip of paper—a sketch of a poodle in Mr. Rutledge’s attire, with “Can you tell the difference?” scrawled underneath. Thomson’s lips quirked. Hancock knew that they would.

After the meeting was over, Hancock was packing up to leave when he heard a high voice behind him.

“The answer is no, Mr. President.”

Hancock spun on his heel. Behind him, he saw Mr. Thomson wearing a sly grin.

Hancock raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. “I beg your pardon?”

Thomson raised a hand, in which was clutched a piece of paper. “To the question you wrote to me in Congress, Mr. President. The answer is no.”

Hancock broke into a smile and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Oh…good. I suppose that makes two of us.”

“May I keep it?” Mr. Thomson asked.

“If you like,” replied Hancock. “Though I can’t for the life of me see why you’d want to. I’m certainly no artist, Mr. Thomson.”

“Charles,” the secretary corrected. “It was just nice to receive. That’s all”

Hancock saw the soft smile that crossed Charles’ face, the only one he had ever seen that reached his eyes. He decided he couldn’t let the man retire to lonely quarters.

“Well, sir, if I’m to call you Charles, then I suppose I’ll have to let you call me John,” Hancock reasoned. “I’m going to Bunch O’ Grapes for dinner and drinks, Charles. If you would like to accompany me so as to spare me the joys of dining with the other delegates, I would be eternally grateful.”

Charles accepted. John knew that he would.

The next day in Congress, John’s head was buzzing, not so much from the wine that he had consumed at dinner the previous evening, but from the company he had enjoyed. It became clear to him that his secretary was not as stodgy and stern as he had previously thought. As Charles rang the opening bell, John could not stop thinking about him at the dinner—about how his hair grew more unruly as he ran his fingers through it during an awkward pause in conversation; about how his eyes would shift in a sneaky glance when he was about to make a bawdy pun on something John had said; about how his lips, which only quirked in Congress, would part and reveal straight teeth and deep dimples when John would tell a joke; about how his fingers, now daintily chiming that silver bell, would tease the rim of his wine glass, but only when the two were looking fully at each other; about how his slender legs would cross and uncross underneath the table, occasionally bumping John’s own legs, always tempting John to glance between them as they parted.

John was not so much surprised as dismayed; he had, after all, nursed such affections for his own gender before, although he had thought that he had grown out of it during his studies. He simply had no reason to believe that Mr. Thomson—Charles—entertained any such proclivities. John sighed and let his head fall back against the headrest of his chair. He would simply have to do what he did best: watch.

Three stifling, sweaty, frustrating, and oh-so-BORING hours later, Hancock had gathered no observations that would point him toward one conclusion or the other. As a matter of fact, the only thing that he had gleaned from his research was that Charles took notes. Copious notes. Quite possibly endless notes. And he read correspondences from General Washington. Copious correspondences. Quite possibly endless correspondences. And occasionally, between note-taking and correspondence-reading, he would yawn or wipe the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. So, after three hours of fruitless observation, it was with no little ire that John annihilated with his swatter the first fly that dared to place its hairy legs upon his desk.

The pop resounded throughout the chamber. For once, all went silent. John Adams and John Dickinson stood slack-jawed and paralyzed in the middle of the room, probably wondering whether someone had just fired off warning shots to end their eternal debate. Thomas Jefferson lifted his nose out of his book long enough to make eye contact with the Congressional president. Stephen Hopkins choked on his rum, quickly washing it down with more rum. Edward Rutledge broke into an attack of sneezing and sniffling, looking a bit worse for the wear with watery eyes and snuff smeared under his nose. Dr. Lyman Hall was hiding an obvious grin behind his fist. Even The Great Dr. Benjamin Franklin woke up for this one. Best of all, John noted, Charles was now staring at him, and not just any stare. His cheeks were ruddy, and his breathing was a bit heavier than normal; he looked as though he were devouring John with his eyes.

Reluctantly, John diverted his eyes away from the Congressional secretary and back to the Congressional floor. “Carry on, gentlemen,” he sighed. “Now that everyone is awake, perhaps we can actually have a discussion.”

Within moments, the Second Continental Congress was once again bickering, squabbling, and, effectively, paying absolutely no heed the president or secretary. However, John noted with relish that Charles still had not broken his stare; he decided to give the man a show worth his attention. He held the swatter in one hand and slid the middle finger of the other up to the business end of the instrument. He bent the weapon back at a pace that would have tried the patience of most land tortoises, drinking in the sight of Charles’s chest rising and falling ever more heavily with each millimeter. Finally, when the swatter could bend no more, he would release it against his leg, producing a “thwap” that only he and Charles could hear. Over and over he did this, and over and over, Charles’s breathing would deepen, hasten, stop, and release. Charles crossed his legs and scooted farther under his desk, glaring at John.

The triumphant president reclined in his chair and allowed his mouth to break into a smug grin. Just as he turned to taunt Charles with that grin, John realized, to his horror, that Charles was sporting his own self-satisfied smirk. Before he could even raise his eyebrow in question, the secretary lifted his quill pen to his lips, allowing the very tip to splay against them. Deft fingers dragged that quill back, forth, and around, a path followed by John’s leering eyes. It was John’s turned to blush; as he crossed his own legs, he shot Charles a glare that promised him the most painful evening of pleasure imaginable, just as soon as Congress adjourns. Just as soon as Congress adjourns…

Even as John’s arousal was pulsing in his breeches, the roar of Congressional cacophony was pulsing in his ears. He could stand no more. All eyes were on the President for a second time that evening as Hancock gave three sharp bangs of the gavel right in the middle of one of John Adams’s famous rants.

“Gentlemen,” Hancock sighed, “as it is almost time for the evening meal, and as we have established nothing new in this meeting other than a new record for ‘longest rant on a single topic,’ the Chair moves that we adjourn this meeting and reconvene tomorrow morning, when we shall continue this debate.”

Hancock attempted to telegraph a wordless apology to John Adams using only facial expression. Adams, however, did not seem to get the message. Hancock had to fight back a laugh as his fellow statesman opened and closed his lips in much the same manner as a goldfish, all the while chanting, “The man’s from Massachusetts!” as though it were his new mantra. The Chair was met with no other opposition, however, and, as expected, Congress quickly filed out the door and into the various restaurants and taverns of Philadelphia. Only John, Charles, MacNair, and the boy wearing the leather apron (whose name John could never seem to recall) were left in the chamber.

Although John new this could not be true, it seemed as though the custodian and his young assistant were purposely cleaning the chamber at a glacial pace on this evening of all evenings just to torture him. He heard Charles snickering to the right of him and knew that he must have been pouting. When John fixed him with another glare and made a mock-threatening motion with the fly swatter, however, his jovial partner fell silent once again, his cheeks turning as most intriguing hue of pink.

“Mr. Hancock?” MacNair queried, jolting John out of the appealing haze that had clouded his mind. “Aren’t you going to get something to eat?”

John gripped the bridge of his nose in irritation. “No, Mr. MacNair,” he groaned. “Mr. Thomson and I have some notes to go over. You and your assistant may leave if you wish.”

“Alright then,” said MacNair. “Did you want the windows opened or closed, Mr. Hancock?”

Hancock pinched the bridge of his nose even harder. “At this point, Mr. MacNair, it matters very little to me how the windows are arranged. Just leave them as they are, in whatever manner that is, and take your assistant for a nice dinner.”

“Yes, sir.” Hancock did not look upon his secretary again until he saw both men leave the chamber and heard the door click shut.

Immediately, John went about closing the shades over all the windows. He only wished that his feet could race as his heart was.

“Mr. Hancock?” Charles asked.

“John,” Hancock interrupted.

“John,” Charles corrected. “What exactly is it that you wanted to go over with me?”

John relished the slight tremor in his secretary’s voice. “Well,” John began, trying to appear nonchalant, “I was thinking we could start with you face—your eyes, your ears, your cheeks, your lips. Then, we could move on to your neck—maybe branch off to your shoulders, your arms, your hands. From there we could progress to your chest and your stomach…” John’s voice trailed off as he began to stalk toward his prey, who had felt it necessary to sit down and loosen his cravat a bit. Slowly, slowly he approached Charles’s chair as he continued.

“I thought perhaps we could then go over your back—and backside—conduct a thorough examination of those thighs, calves, feet, and then…” John entrapped Charles in the chair, leaning over him and placing one hand on either side of his head on the desk behind him. Finally, he placed one knee in the chair and ground it between the secretary’s spread legs. “To the crux of the matter.”

Charles thrust into the pressure and let his head roll back. He took a few deep breaths and finally managed to form words.

“John?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“Shouldn’t we be…” Charles gulped in tension and anticipation. “…doing this in one of our homes?” Hancock smirked and ran his tongue over his lips. He checked the windows once more to see that every one was drawn.

“No.” Charles gasped. John seized the opportunity to lean in and claim the open mouth, slipping his tongue between the parted lips.

The two men’s tongues stroked and caressed each other; their lips moved surely and steadily. With a grunt, Charles allowed John to pull him up from his chair. Now on even ground, the two flew at each other. Frantic fingers tangled themselves into cravats and bruised themselves on stubborn waistcoat buttons in their rush. Desperate hands peeled off coats, shirts, and waistcoats, tossing them haphazardly onto the floor or onto the delegates’ tables and chairs. However, as Charles reached out to unbutton his partner’s breeches, John gripped his hand.

“Not yet,” he ground out. Charles raised a skeptical eyebrow—the way he always does when he hears someone say something that seems exceedingly stupid. John kissed the raised eyebrow and then bent to tease his partner’s earlobe with his tongue.

“Trust me, Charles,” he whispered, and with no further words, he backed the secretary into the wall behind the president’s desk. John rolled his hips into the entrapped man’s pelvis, and Charles bucked into the pressure. Their groins ached from the dual friction of hardened members and finely made breeches. Charles wrapped his legs around John’s waist and grazed his neck with his teeth, making the president quiver. John was able to bear the secretary’s weight—albeit, a bit shakily—against the wall as he lapped at his neck and shoulders. Charles was forced to regain his footing, however, when John let go of his legs and clasped his fly button.

“Now we can take these off,” he breathed. He needn’t have said anything, as his fingers were already working the buttons out of their holes by the time he got out the first word, and Charles was following his lead before his sentence was finished. When their breeches pooled around their ankles, the men toed them off, along with their shoes and stockings. John pulled Charles in for another kiss, and the two continued kissing as John turned them around and walked them slowly, slowly, until Charles’s back touched the edge of John’s desk. John turned the secretary around and leaned into his back, kissing his shoulder blades and then up and down his spine. He bent Charles over the desk and whispered into his ear, “Don’t look behind you. I have a surprise for you.”

Charles heard the padding of feet behind him. He heard some rummaging, and then the footsteps were drawing closer again. His eyes flew wide open as he felt the firm “thwap” on his buttocks, and he couldn’t resist turning around. There stood John, swatter in hand, a wicked grin playing across his lips. Charles groaned and pressed his face once again to the desk and awaited the next pop. When he finally did feel the familiar sting, his thigh muscles began to quiver under the pain and pleasure. After a third “thwack,” Charles spun around and stilled his partner’s hand.

“Please,” he begged. John held the other man’s face in his hands and smiled tenderly. Judging by the impossibly hard erection that was brushing against his leg, he could infer that Charles was not begging for mercy, but for release.

“On the desk,” John ordered gently, kissing the secretary’s forehead before he could manage to scamper away.

Charles lay on his back on the desk awaiting the warm weight of John’s body. The moment he felt it, he knew he would not have to wait long for his release. John rocked his hips against Charles, and neither man could hold back a deep moan. Faster and faster they thrust against each other, ravenous for each other’s pleasure as well as for their own. Finally, John decided to have compassion on his writhing partner and rolled his hips against his groin, in the manner that he did when he had them pinned against the wall. Charles bucked his hips and arched against him at the same time that John rolled his hips again. Both men spasmed and shuttered, and they found their release in choked moans, raking of flesh, and grazing of teeth. John wound his hand into Charles’s now-sweaty hair and pulled him in for a languid, if somewhat sloppy kiss. The two grazed their fingernails against each other’s flushed skin as they basked in their afterglow. It was Charles who spoke first.

“John?”

John groaned sleepily and buried his head into his partner’s shoulder. “Mmmph, yes?” he gave his muffled reply.

“How did you know?”

John lifted himself up onto his forearms and looked Charles in the eyes. “Know what, Charles?”

Charles thought carefully. “Everything. What would make me laugh. That I’d like to have more company. That I prefer the company of men. That I prefer your company to that of other men. That I prefer your company more if you have your fly swatter,” Charles added that last part with a blush. “We hadn’t spoken outside of Congress before yesterday. How could you possibly have known?”

John stared down at his desk. He tried to pick the perfect words, the words that conveyed the accuracy and precision with which he observed every little detail of the secretary’s habits, the devotion with which he stored the minutia that he collected into hidden corners of his memory for safe keeping. After discarding every version of the story he came up with (and maybe a few that he hadn’t come up with yet), he decided to simply tell Charles the truth. He owed him that.

“I watch you.”

Charles paused. He clenched his hands together across his abdomen, as though suddenly unsure.

“You watch everybody.”

John chuckled softly, and then gathered his lover’s face into his hands once more.

“I watch you most,” he explained. “I love you most.”

Charles drew John closer to him, as though assuring him without words that he loved him too. John smiled to himself; the move seemed oddly appropriate for the introverted secretary for whom he had quite suddenly fallen. The two lay together without speaking for several minutes until Charles once again broke the silence.
“John?”

“Yes?”

Charles blushed and averted his eyes. “I like it when you watch me.” John grinned. It was he had ever heard Charles speak without first being spoken to.

“I know,” he replied. The two drifted off once again into their post-coital haze, each hoping that the other felt as strongly as he did and each hoping that they stayed awake long enough to bring themselves to get dressed and off the desk before Congress reconvened in the morning.

This one is Dickinson/Wilson, one-sided with BDSM themes. Rated PG-13.

The little man in gray recoiled back into his seat. He had done it again. How many times had he been told that one simple rule: “Pennsylvania cannot second its own motions”?

He hated John Dickinson. He hated John Dickinson for what President Hancock had correctly pointed out as his “desire to be loved” by him. He hated John Dickinson for making his thoughts so preoccupied that he forgot basic parliamentary procedure, thus making him endure the taunts and jeers of the entire Second Continental Congress. He hated John Dickinson for all the whispers he heard behind his back: “whore,” “coward,” “puppet,” “boot-licker.” He hated John Dickinson for being so worthy of his affection that he was compelled to give up everything—his pride, his vote, even his thoughts—to win it. Mostly, he hated John Dickinson because John Dickinson made him hate his own body.

It should have made Judge James Wilson—a man who had held in his hands the power deal out justice for some and retribution for others—nauseous to see Dickinson’s condescending nod of approval; to feel Dickinson’s hand on his back, patting him as though he were a sporting dog after a particularly long hunt. But—and this is why Wilson hated Dickinson and, moreover, himself—it didn’t. The entire disdainful scene didn’t make him reflect over the dignity that he had lost as a man in power or the integrity that he had lost as a representative of his constituency. Instead, the commanding glare, the curled lip, the posture so relaxed that it seemed to dare him to make due without Dickinson’s approval, made him think of something else; something outside the Congressional chamber.

In Wilson’s thoughts, he was on hands and knees before his master, who was commanding his body with words as he had been doing with his mere presence. He was wearing a collar, sometimes a bit and bridle. Dickinson always wielded a riding crop. Wilson’s thoughts, Dickinson was towering over him, running his hands through his hair. In Wilson’s thoughts, Dickinson was stroking his back with the triangle of leather at the end of that riding crop. If Wilson was good, Dickinson would stroke him with his hands. If he was very good, Dickinson would caress him with his lips.

Wilson took a shuddering breath, which he tried to pass off as a small cough. He couldn’t think about this here; better to wait until Congress adjourned. The judge swallowed a bitter lump in his throat. He supposed the only real difference between Congress and his fantasy was that in his fantasy he was rewarded for his unwavering obedience. That, and he was naked in his fantasy. Dickinson, however, remained fully clothed in green. The man looked splendid in green.

Suddenly, there was a murmur of something else drilling a whole into his reverie. A voice. A voice that was seizing control of his ears and his mind. It was Dickinson’s voice, of course; no other voice could do that. It was asking him something—ah, yes, whether he thought the King was a tyrant.
“Sometimes.” Judge Wilson needed only to say that word, and he could reclaim his own independence. “Sometimes.” With that one little word, he could put aside any reason he had to hate John Dickinson and merely see him as a friend and statesman worthy of admiration. “Sometimes.” Now was his chance…he honestly disagreed with the other delegate…

“Well,” he started, “I don’t know. I think—“

And he was cut off with a glare. That glare. The glare that promised punishment for a transgression but gave no guarantee of a reward for submission. The glare that made him cringe at himself for being unable—or, worse yet, unwilling—to part with his own state of mental slavery.

“No,” Wilson finished resolutely. “The King is not a tyrant.” Dickinson’s lips twisted into a smile. He approved.

Wilson hated John Dickinson. But the man really did look splendid in green.

This one is Courier/Leather Apron. It's also PG-13, and I really like this one. I couldn't think up names for the boys, hence the title...

The weathered mail courier sat beside his small campfire on the battleground. It was peaceful now. The smoke from the gunfire had cleared, and the stars had crept out from behind their hazy curtain. The courier poked at the smoldering embers with a long stick, trying to keep the fire lit. Probably no point to it, he thought. He was sure to be called away at any minute with an urgent letter from General Washington to the Congress. After all, he had been back for hours from delivering the last dispatch.

The boy (and he was a boy, really—at least, he should have been, were it not for the carnage that he had seen) dug around in his coat pocket until he unearthed what he had been looking for. A simple quill pen. A reminder of the other boy—the boy who truly was a boy, who naively announced, eyes sparkling with youthful exuberance, that he planned to sign up for the army straightaway; who listened with rapt attention, mouth slightly open, as the courier spoke of his friends’ deaths and their mothers’ futile searches.

The courier ran the white feather through his fingertips, ruffling it, smoothing it. The boy in the leather apron had given it to him the last time that they had met. The courier remembered that day vividly. The leather apron, desperate for an escape from the banality of Congress and (for God’s sake) the custodian, had practically latched onto the courier, insisting that he seat him and pour him a rum. They talked, at first about the war, but then about other things: their families, the weather, the food they’d eaten recently, anything really.

The courier ran the feather between his index and middle fingers and examined it by the light of the campfire. White. Like snow. Snow that had not yet been marred by mud, by ash, by blood. The courier smiled to himself. He remembered how everything that the leather apron said that he considered particularly interesting, he would punctuate with a smile and a touch—just an innocent hand on the shoulder or the knee. But the courier hadn’t been touched by anyone in so long…

He remembered the touch that started it all. The leather apron had lunged forward, gripping his knee once again, but this time, the courier covered it with his hand. As the other boy looked up at the courier’s face in fascinated confusion, the courier drew the hand slowly to his mouth and gently kissed it on the knuckles.

The courier brought the feather to his lips, stroking them with it. They tingled, just as they had when he drew the quivering boy into his arms and placed the first chaste kiss on his lips. The courier moved closer to the fire, seeking its warmth just as his tongue had sought the warmth of the leather apron’s mouth.

The courier traced his jaw line with the feather, now grinning as he remembered how it had come into play. The leather apron always carried a store of them in his pockets, in case one of the nation’s brightest decided to break or lose one in the course of a meeting. He remembered how the leather apron finally took the initiative, tracing his jaw, his eyes, his lips with the feather. He remembered how they later used that same quill to tease each other’s nude bodies, to map out in their memories exactly which places made the other moan, squirm, giggle, gasp. He remembered how the leather apron was ticklish on his ribs, but not on the bottom of his feet. He remembered how the courier gasped and arched for whisper-soft touches on his neck, shoulders, stomach, and nipples, but preferred strong fingers kneading into the flesh of his back, hips, buttocks, and thighs. He remembered how a light, teasing touch with the feather preceding a few rough strokes just there would make him moan from deep in his chest and spill into the courier’s hand.

The courier reluctantly dragged his thoughts away from the leather apron. It wouldn’t do to have flushed cheeks and a throbbing erection in the middle of a battlefield; people might ask questions. He examined the quill once more before stuffing it back into his pocket. The leather apron had said it was supposed to be a token of his affection, a substitute for a handkerchief. The courier had been so touched by the gesture that he didn’t bother to tell the boy that the mere memory of the boy’s body—and the fact that his own body was sure to be firmly planted in the boy’s memory—was enough to keep him warm at night and draw him, without complaint, back to Philadelphia come the next dispatch.

The courier laughed to himself. It struck him as fortunate, yet funny, that the two boys knew each other’s bodies so well. They had never learned each other’s names.

Comments:


Hannah
penhaligonblue at 2011-06-30 07:20 (UTC) (Link)
You're BACK! I read the courier/leather apron story, which was delightful. I like their metonymous nicknames, and how the quill becomes a sort of talisman for the courier. And the end is very 'Name of the Rose', no? Anyway, I enjoyed it!
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