[fic] office party.
it's like...one of many. i just can't seem to get my muse back, i'm sorry this took so long.
for toomuchx3
mao/mei
pg-13ish? idek.
office parties at dunder mifflin are the worst ever.
-
Being at a very, very lame Christmas Party was the last place that Zhoucheng wanted to be. His completely, horribly bland job at Dunder Mifflin was torture enough, but when Ensheng had skipped up to him and handed him the prettily embossed gold-red-and-green invitation, he couldn’t say no. Saying no to the Korean intern that was made of all things cute and adorable would be a crime. Zhoucheng tried, of course, making up some excuse, like having to meet someone for dinner and the sort, but the blooming pout on the younger man’s lips and the glowering eyes of both Mao, Xueyang and his boss Yuan piercing into his back convinced him quickly.
And so there he was, with the most bored expression manageable on his face and a lopsided party hat. Amusement level? Zero.
Or maybe not completely zero. It seemed that someone (probably Jonghyun or Key) had mixed in a little-or a lot-of alcohol into the pretty festive red punch, and nearly every worker in the office was either a) completely smashed and barfing, b) dancing on the tables or making out and/or grinding, or c) passed out somewhere.
Except Zhoucheng, of course. There was a little something called class.
Then again, he sold packages of paper over the phone every day for eight hours.
If that wasn’t fucking fabulous, nothing was.
Zhoucheng snorted, kicking his feet up on his desk and spinning his iPhone in between his middle finger and thumb. His thoughts were interrupted when Mao popped up next to him, looking relatively sober-just buzzing, probably, Mei concluded from the flushed cheeks and reddened lips that looked so absolutely wonderful and kis-jeez, who had offered to get him a drink earlier? Thinking such weird things could only be a result of already sketch punch being mixed with god-knows how much alcohol and what sort.
“Dance with me,” he said with a cheeky signature grin, holding his hand out. Zhoucheng could hear Jingle Bell Rock blare out from the speakers on someone’s desk and he bit his lower lip, hesitant, before scoffing.
“As if,” he scoffed, nose upturned. Mao rolled his eyes at him, pulling the younger man up with him anyways despite protest, tugging him rather forcefully around the makeshift dance floor, turning awkward tugs into rather grand spins, and before he knew it, Zhoucheng was actually having fun.
By the time they both collapsed in a fit of giggles on one of the couches in the empty staff room, Zhoucheng had lost track of how much time they’d spent dancing the night away. The hustle and bustle of the rowdy party on the other side of the door could still be heard even as late as he assumed it would be.
The laughter both faded from their lips, content smiles resting on them instead, and Zhoucheng turned to say something to Mao, but the words died on his lips when he caught sight of the tender grin that was on Mao’s face. Zhoucheng can’t help but let his cheeks flush in shyness, eyes darting around the room as he loosens his tie a little more. Was it just him or did it get exceptionally hot in the room?
Mao undid the topmost buttons of his shirt slowly, letting his head lean back against the cold cushions of the couch, hair gently falling over his forehead in the most perfect manner.
There Zhoucheng went again with the tipsy thoughts. They were tipsy, weren’t they? Of course they were. Thoughtlessly, he let his tongue slip out of his mouth, running it along the plump flesh of his lower lip. Since when had Mao been so hot?
Oh, right. Since forever.
“Zhoucheng?” The sound of his name snapped the young salesman from his thoughts and admiration of the smooth skin of Mao’s chest and how he would really like to see what else was under that shi--
Someone was talking to him. Right.
“Mm?” Mao inched closer, eyes darting upwards toward the ceiling, where there hung a bough of mistletoe from the ceiling. If the scent of Mao mixed with sweat and cologne and soap hadn’t been so intoxicating, Zhoucheng would have been scrunching his face in distaste recalling the various couples that would have made out on this very couch, but oh, his lips were so very soft…
“Merry Christmas, Mr Grinch,” Mao murmured, the feeling of a smile pressing against Zhoucheng’s lips leaving him giddy.
Maybe office parties weren’t so bad, he thought, diving in for another kiss.
for toomuchx3
mao/mei
pg-13ish? idek.
office parties at dunder mifflin are the worst ever.
-
Being at a very, very lame Christmas Party was the last place that Zhoucheng wanted to be. His completely, horribly bland job at Dunder Mifflin was torture enough, but when Ensheng had skipped up to him and handed him the prettily embossed gold-red-and-green invitation, he couldn’t say no. Saying no to the Korean intern that was made of all things cute and adorable would be a crime. Zhoucheng tried, of course, making up some excuse, like having to meet someone for dinner and the sort, but the blooming pout on the younger man’s lips and the glowering eyes of both Mao, Xueyang and his boss Yuan piercing into his back convinced him quickly.
And so there he was, with the most bored expression manageable on his face and a lopsided party hat. Amusement level? Zero.
Or maybe not completely zero. It seemed that someone (probably Jonghyun or Key) had mixed in a little-or a lot-of alcohol into the pretty festive red punch, and nearly every worker in the office was either a) completely smashed and barfing, b) dancing on the tables or making out and/or grinding, or c) passed out somewhere.
Except Zhoucheng, of course. There was a little something called class.
Then again, he sold packages of paper over the phone every day for eight hours.
If that wasn’t fucking fabulous, nothing was.
Zhoucheng snorted, kicking his feet up on his desk and spinning his iPhone in between his middle finger and thumb. His thoughts were interrupted when Mao popped up next to him, looking relatively sober-just buzzing, probably, Mei concluded from the flushed cheeks and reddened lips that looked so absolutely wonderful and kis-jeez, who had offered to get him a drink earlier? Thinking such weird things could only be a result of already sketch punch being mixed with god-knows how much alcohol and what sort.
“Dance with me,” he said with a cheeky signature grin, holding his hand out. Zhoucheng could hear Jingle Bell Rock blare out from the speakers on someone’s desk and he bit his lower lip, hesitant, before scoffing.
“As if,” he scoffed, nose upturned. Mao rolled his eyes at him, pulling the younger man up with him anyways despite protest, tugging him rather forcefully around the makeshift dance floor, turning awkward tugs into rather grand spins, and before he knew it, Zhoucheng was actually having fun.
By the time they both collapsed in a fit of giggles on one of the couches in the empty staff room, Zhoucheng had lost track of how much time they’d spent dancing the night away. The hustle and bustle of the rowdy party on the other side of the door could still be heard even as late as he assumed it would be.
The laughter both faded from their lips, content smiles resting on them instead, and Zhoucheng turned to say something to Mao, but the words died on his lips when he caught sight of the tender grin that was on Mao’s face. Zhoucheng can’t help but let his cheeks flush in shyness, eyes darting around the room as he loosens his tie a little more. Was it just him or did it get exceptionally hot in the room?
Mao undid the topmost buttons of his shirt slowly, letting his head lean back against the cold cushions of the couch, hair gently falling over his forehead in the most perfect manner.
There Zhoucheng went again with the tipsy thoughts. They were tipsy, weren’t they? Of course they were. Thoughtlessly, he let his tongue slip out of his mouth, running it along the plump flesh of his lower lip. Since when had Mao been so hot?
Oh, right. Since forever.
“Zhoucheng?” The sound of his name snapped the young salesman from his thoughts and admiration of the smooth skin of Mao’s chest and how he would really like to see what else was under that shi--
Someone was talking to him. Right.
“Mm?” Mao inched closer, eyes darting upwards toward the ceiling, where there hung a bough of mistletoe from the ceiling. If the scent of Mao mixed with sweat and cologne and soap hadn’t been so intoxicating, Zhoucheng would have been scrunching his face in distaste recalling the various couples that would have made out on this very couch, but oh, his lips were so very soft…
“Merry Christmas, Mr Grinch,” Mao murmured, the feeling of a smile pressing against Zhoucheng’s lips leaving him giddy.
Maybe office parties weren’t so bad, he thought, diving in for another kiss.