(no subject)
Apologies to everyone who saw the non-LJ-cut version of this post. LJ hates me. Gah. It keeps making my cuts disappear!
Title: Office Politics
Author: stillaseeker
Rating: Lightish. Hmmm. R?
Words: 1000-ish
Summary: Harry and Draco are in a mutually satisfying relationship. Susan Bones is a menace, and is fond of owls.
Warnings: Terrible singing. Terrible, I warn thee.
Disclaimer: JKR owns, I dream (and plot)
ETA: God, I'm such a fiddler. Ok, I've just removed parts of the fic, thinking it would suit another plot-bunny better, and this is now a lil one-shot.
Harry gritted his teeth.
He glanced at the office’s inflatable clock, a present from the Weasley twins, and watched its bulbous orange hand move infinestimally toward the ‘Home, Suckers!’ dial.
It was at least - he squinted - 10 minutes till he could rightfully pack up, wave discreetly at Ron, who was snoozing two tables over, give Goyle a cosh to the head and hightail it home.
(Goyle required something harder than a gentle tap on the shoulder to wake him up from his post-tea-time nap.)
The tinny wisp of a melody, which had been silent for the past half-second, picked up again.
‘Ooo… oooo… yea, trill me, baby … ruffle my feathers.. oooooo!’
Harry gritted his teeth so hard he felt his jaw lock.
The Weird Sisters, he surmised, were the cause of much evil (of the non-Voldemort variety) in the world. Not content with their stranglehold monopoly over the unbearded musically-inclined Wizarding population, they were now apparently branching out to embrace alternative music genres.
This included what Harry euphemistically called pet-themed music, with their direct appeal to the cooing Hufflepuffs cowering inside of Wizards everywhere. The hit song Your Randy Night Owl, a case in point, had an unprecedented number of hoot-like ‘Oooo.. oooos’.
Hedwig didn’t like it, and Harry stood staunchly by her opinion, as he did on all things.
Susan Bones, on the other hand, oh she of the squeaky voice who could not grasp the concept of singing in tune, was another matter.
‘Oooooooooooo… you make my heart take flight, I wanna give you a bite, I’m your randy night……..Owl!’
Harry suppressed the urge to bang his head, repeatedly, on the table.
‘Ooooo.. you make me want to… chirp all night! Ooooo..’
He liked her, really he did, but at ten-to-five on a Monday why did she have to sing under her breath, as she had been doing for thirty minutes straight, and tempt him into thinking that really, homicide was a brilliant idea. Sterling. The short-cut to peace of mind. Where was his wand?
Harry shook his head, got a firm grip on himself, and sulked through two more verses of Owl-loving.
Ron, the toad, was still dozing, and wasn’t available to commiserate.
Keeping an eagle eye on the clock, and determinedly pretending he was deaf, Harry sneaked his hand toward his inbox of parchment, quietly removing them and stuffing them into his briefcase… just in time for…
‘Going somewhere, Potter?’
Fuckity-fuck. Fuck.
Malfoy had no business looking so cool and crisp and… and slim-hipped on an August afternoon when every other person had sweat permanently proliferating in their underarms. It was more than 33 degrees outside, for Chrissakes. Harry looked at Malfoy broodingly. Malfoy looked back at him, eyebrow raised to a haughty little point.
Susan Bones adjusted the white bubbles around her ears (the Wizarding version of the Ipod, namely, the Ebulli-Ipodus Charm) and cheerfully wheezed-hummed,
‘Ooo you’re my nocturnal delight, I give others a fright, I’m your randy night…..’
Malfoy nonchalantly took out his wand, charmed Harry’s quill, turned it into a handful of Owl food pellets, and sent them whizzing straight toward Susan’s head.
‘Owl…Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!’ Susan whipped her head around indignantly.
‘Right. You were saying? I think’s its time to go.’ In an enviably smooth motion, Draco grabbed Harry’s arm, picked up his briefcase, and whisked Harry out of the room, stopping by to whack Goyle unceremoniously on the head.
::
Harry was blushing. A deep, delicious blush that spread its tendrils all the way up his chest and stiffened his nipples.
Draco remembered their first time.
Well, he sort of remembered it. It had been two years ago, after all, and it’s not like he remembered every detail…
Just, most.
He and Harry had been squabbling at their office, which Draco technically owned and was the boss of (after the success of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, Harry decided to launch a venture capital fund for interesting enterprises and Draco, scenting a quick kill, swooped in with his Malfoy millions and business acumen and took over the management when Harry realised not dying really wasn’t going to help much).
They had been squabbling over - oh he didn’t know, Weasel getting paternity leave or some such.. when Harry, in a fit of pique, had grabbed onto Draco’s shirt and Draco had lost his balance and Harry had moved closer to make his point and Draco moved his head to berate him for being such an ungainly dunderhead and…
They kissed.
Or, slid lips, that is to say.
And that was the start of their non-relationship. Which involved much mutual mortification, threats of blackmail, bickering like eleven-year-olds and rather splendid sex.
Draco’s grin was lascivious as he trailed his fingers over his prick, pink and leaking onto his linen trousers, as he leant back against his mahogany office desk.
For some reason, Harry really liked him on that mahogany desk. Some weird Freudian fixation upon awe-inspiring power and elegance that he would never ever have, Draco was sure.
Harry’s lips ghosted over his prick, mouthing the tip as his hands unwrapped it more fully from its Calvinus Klein bindings, and Draco gulped.
There was a rule - minimal snark during sex, but Draco figured running inner monologues didn’t really count.
‘Mmmh.’
‘You want this?’ Harry was licking - a long, slow, wet swipe - lingering over the thick vein on the underside of Draco’s cock. Draco’s arse clenched in reflex.
‘Mmmm.’
‘Really, really?’
Draco fought to urge to slap Harry’s head - the insufferable git. He nudged his hips forward, demandingly.
‘Mmmmmmmmm. Come on!’
Harry thumbed the slit consideringly, hiding a smile. He opened his mouth, and there was a soft pop as he fitted the head of Draco’s cock into his reddened mouth.
Draco moaned, and arched back, his loosened arms hanging over the edge of his power-desk.
So, fuck-buddies. That’s what they were. It was a relationship of mutual suspicion, irritation and spine-tingling satiation.
At least he wasn’t the one giving his boss a blow-job. Ha.
A/N: Inspired by my sister's horrendous singing. Go, sis!
Title: Office Politics
Author: stillaseeker
Rating: Lightish. Hmmm. R?
Words: 1000-ish
Summary: Harry and Draco are in a mutually satisfying relationship. Susan Bones is a menace, and is fond of owls.
Warnings: Terrible singing. Terrible, I warn thee.
Disclaimer: JKR owns, I dream (and plot)
ETA: God, I'm such a fiddler. Ok, I've just removed parts of the fic, thinking it would suit another plot-bunny better, and this is now a lil one-shot.
Harry gritted his teeth.
He glanced at the office’s inflatable clock, a present from the Weasley twins, and watched its bulbous orange hand move infinestimally toward the ‘Home, Suckers!’ dial.
It was at least - he squinted - 10 minutes till he could rightfully pack up, wave discreetly at Ron, who was snoozing two tables over, give Goyle a cosh to the head and hightail it home.
(Goyle required something harder than a gentle tap on the shoulder to wake him up from his post-tea-time nap.)
The tinny wisp of a melody, which had been silent for the past half-second, picked up again.
‘Ooo… oooo… yea, trill me, baby … ruffle my feathers.. oooooo!’
Harry gritted his teeth so hard he felt his jaw lock.
The Weird Sisters, he surmised, were the cause of much evil (of the non-Voldemort variety) in the world. Not content with their stranglehold monopoly over the unbearded musically-inclined Wizarding population, they were now apparently branching out to embrace alternative music genres.
This included what Harry euphemistically called pet-themed music, with their direct appeal to the cooing Hufflepuffs cowering inside of Wizards everywhere. The hit song Your Randy Night Owl, a case in point, had an unprecedented number of hoot-like ‘Oooo.. oooos’.
Hedwig didn’t like it, and Harry stood staunchly by her opinion, as he did on all things.
Susan Bones, on the other hand, oh she of the squeaky voice who could not grasp the concept of singing in tune, was another matter.
‘Oooooooooooo… you make my heart take flight, I wanna give you a bite, I’m your randy night……..Owl!’
Harry suppressed the urge to bang his head, repeatedly, on the table.
‘Ooooo.. you make me want to… chirp all night! Ooooo..’
He liked her, really he did, but at ten-to-five on a Monday why did she have to sing under her breath, as she had been doing for thirty minutes straight, and tempt him into thinking that really, homicide was a brilliant idea. Sterling. The short-cut to peace of mind. Where was his wand?
Harry shook his head, got a firm grip on himself, and sulked through two more verses of Owl-loving.
Ron, the toad, was still dozing, and wasn’t available to commiserate.
Keeping an eagle eye on the clock, and determinedly pretending he was deaf, Harry sneaked his hand toward his inbox of parchment, quietly removing them and stuffing them into his briefcase… just in time for…
‘Going somewhere, Potter?’
Fuckity-fuck. Fuck.
Malfoy had no business looking so cool and crisp and… and slim-hipped on an August afternoon when every other person had sweat permanently proliferating in their underarms. It was more than 33 degrees outside, for Chrissakes. Harry looked at Malfoy broodingly. Malfoy looked back at him, eyebrow raised to a haughty little point.
Susan Bones adjusted the white bubbles around her ears (the Wizarding version of the Ipod, namely, the Ebulli-Ipodus Charm) and cheerfully wheezed-hummed,
‘Ooo you’re my nocturnal delight, I give others a fright, I’m your randy night…..’
Malfoy nonchalantly took out his wand, charmed Harry’s quill, turned it into a handful of Owl food pellets, and sent them whizzing straight toward Susan’s head.
‘Owl…Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!’ Susan whipped her head around indignantly.
‘Right. You were saying? I think’s its time to go.’ In an enviably smooth motion, Draco grabbed Harry’s arm, picked up his briefcase, and whisked Harry out of the room, stopping by to whack Goyle unceremoniously on the head.
::
Harry was blushing. A deep, delicious blush that spread its tendrils all the way up his chest and stiffened his nipples.
Draco remembered their first time.
Well, he sort of remembered it. It had been two years ago, after all, and it’s not like he remembered every detail…
Just, most.
He and Harry had been squabbling at their office, which Draco technically owned and was the boss of (after the success of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, Harry decided to launch a venture capital fund for interesting enterprises and Draco, scenting a quick kill, swooped in with his Malfoy millions and business acumen and took over the management when Harry realised not dying really wasn’t going to help much).
They had been squabbling over - oh he didn’t know, Weasel getting paternity leave or some such.. when Harry, in a fit of pique, had grabbed onto Draco’s shirt and Draco had lost his balance and Harry had moved closer to make his point and Draco moved his head to berate him for being such an ungainly dunderhead and…
They kissed.
Or, slid lips, that is to say.
And that was the start of their non-relationship. Which involved much mutual mortification, threats of blackmail, bickering like eleven-year-olds and rather splendid sex.
Draco’s grin was lascivious as he trailed his fingers over his prick, pink and leaking onto his linen trousers, as he leant back against his mahogany office desk.
For some reason, Harry really liked him on that mahogany desk. Some weird Freudian fixation upon awe-inspiring power and elegance that he would never ever have, Draco was sure.
Harry’s lips ghosted over his prick, mouthing the tip as his hands unwrapped it more fully from its Calvinus Klein bindings, and Draco gulped.
There was a rule - minimal snark during sex, but Draco figured running inner monologues didn’t really count.
‘Mmmh.’
‘You want this?’ Harry was licking - a long, slow, wet swipe - lingering over the thick vein on the underside of Draco’s cock. Draco’s arse clenched in reflex.
‘Mmmm.’
‘Really, really?’
Draco fought to urge to slap Harry’s head - the insufferable git. He nudged his hips forward, demandingly.
‘Mmmmmmmmm. Come on!’
Harry thumbed the slit consideringly, hiding a smile. He opened his mouth, and there was a soft pop as he fitted the head of Draco’s cock into his reddened mouth.
Draco moaned, and arched back, his loosened arms hanging over the edge of his power-desk.
So, fuck-buddies. That’s what they were. It was a relationship of mutual suspicion, irritation and spine-tingling satiation.
At least he wasn’t the one giving his boss a blow-job. Ha.
A/N: Inspired by my sister's horrendous singing. Go, sis!