Black Coffee on a Lonely Night by femmequixotic
Here's my second rec for Feb. I hope to get a couple more in the next week. I hope you enjoy it.
Title: Black Coffee on a Lonely Night
Author: femmequixotic
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 21,658
Warnings: Non-magical AU
Summary:
Draco owns a café in the city. Harry's a MP who comes in every morning, newspapers in one hand, BlackBerry in the other, and orders a triple espresso macchiato.
Why I loved it:
OMG…there are a thousand reasons why this fic is one of my all-time favorites. First of all I love, love, love, femmequixotic's Draco. He is always perfect - even when the story is non-magical. Now I know some of you are thinking non-magial??? Is she insane? No, I'm really not. Femme has created this world of Harry and Draco and even without magic its…well magical. She's incorporated so many of the HP characters we know and love and set them in Muggle London. They don't play Quidditch - they play cricket. They work at the Parliament - but the characters are there and they are so rich and the story of Draco unfolds so wonderfully - I really didn't miss the magic and spells at all. I hope you'll give it a chance and perhaps one day before I'm old *well older, as I'm already old* Femme really will write me a sequel. ♥
Oh and there is FANTASTIC art by glockgal and commissioned by femme that goes with the story and can be found Here
Excerpt:
The day my wife dies, I'm half a world away, having my cock sucked in the filthy loo of a Brisbane pub.
I'd like to say I knew somehow, that in some mystical, primal way I felt the last breath she ever took, but the bald fact of the matter is that, at the precise minute in the middle of a rainy English spring afternoon that Astoria slides across the M25 in a metallic scream of tangled steel and burning rubber, my hands are twisted in Oliver Wood's hair, my prick is wetly fucking a mouth made for cocksucking, my hips are slamming backwards against the metal side of a loo stall as Oliver pressed his tongue against my slit, and the only bloody thing I'm cognizant of is an overwhelming need to spurt spunk down the back of his throat until I'm breathless and shaking.
Does that make me a twat? Some people would say yes. Even among my circle of friends. I don't think Blaise will ever forgive me, but then again, I'm fairly certain he's been in love with Astoria for years, even if he'll shag anything that walks past.
Don't get me wrong. It's not as if Astoria doesn't--didn't--know about Oliver. Or Roger. Or any of the others. We had an arrangement, she and I. The test matches and one-day games England played out of country--well, she didn't particularly care whom I pulled, sucked or fucked off British soil as long as I was discreet and came back and told her every sordid detail afterwards, buried inside of her as we rolled across our wide bed, tangling the sheets with every eager thrust.
Title: Black Coffee on a Lonely Night
Author: femmequixotic
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 21,658
Warnings: Non-magical AU
Summary:
Draco owns a café in the city. Harry's a MP who comes in every morning, newspapers in one hand, BlackBerry in the other, and orders a triple espresso macchiato.
Why I loved it:
OMG…there are a thousand reasons why this fic is one of my all-time favorites. First of all I love, love, love, femmequixotic's Draco. He is always perfect - even when the story is non-magical. Now I know some of you are thinking non-magial??? Is she insane? No, I'm really not. Femme has created this world of Harry and Draco and even without magic its…well magical. She's incorporated so many of the HP characters we know and love and set them in Muggle London. They don't play Quidditch - they play cricket. They work at the Parliament - but the characters are there and they are so rich and the story of Draco unfolds so wonderfully - I really didn't miss the magic and spells at all. I hope you'll give it a chance and perhaps one day before I'm old *well older, as I'm already old* Femme really will write me a sequel. ♥
Oh and there is FANTASTIC art by glockgal and commissioned by femme that goes with the story and can be found Here
Excerpt:
The day my wife dies, I'm half a world away, having my cock sucked in the filthy loo of a Brisbane pub.
I'd like to say I knew somehow, that in some mystical, primal way I felt the last breath she ever took, but the bald fact of the matter is that, at the precise minute in the middle of a rainy English spring afternoon that Astoria slides across the M25 in a metallic scream of tangled steel and burning rubber, my hands are twisted in Oliver Wood's hair, my prick is wetly fucking a mouth made for cocksucking, my hips are slamming backwards against the metal side of a loo stall as Oliver pressed his tongue against my slit, and the only bloody thing I'm cognizant of is an overwhelming need to spurt spunk down the back of his throat until I'm breathless and shaking.
Does that make me a twat? Some people would say yes. Even among my circle of friends. I don't think Blaise will ever forgive me, but then again, I'm fairly certain he's been in love with Astoria for years, even if he'll shag anything that walks past.
Don't get me wrong. It's not as if Astoria doesn't--didn't--know about Oliver. Or Roger. Or any of the others. We had an arrangement, she and I. The test matches and one-day games England played out of country--well, she didn't particularly care whom I pulled, sucked or fucked off British soil as long as I was discreet and came back and told her every sordid detail afterwards, buried inside of her as we rolled across our wide bed, tangling the sheets with every eager thrust.