Author: tigersilver
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: H/D
WC: 2,500+/-
Warnings/Summary: Unspeakable!Draco (First Class), Consultant!Harry. Pure PWP. For aydenclare* , who long ago wanted sex-in-the-office.
HD Slither
Sex Charms were ace. Magicked mirrors, poles rising from the middle of the mattress, velvet-lined manacles, leather garb and oiled plumes. A simple snap of the fingertips brought them into, er, 'play'; Malfoy usually spent his morning tea break tracking the buggers down in the DOM's Wandless & Augmented Nonverbal Charms, Mumbo-jumbo & Exorcisms Depository. This, familiarly known as the 'Wank Me!' Section, was off-limits to the public as it was an integral part of the Unspeakables' private Library; the very Unspeakables, who were, to the last man, afflicted with truly unutterably horrendous ideas of what constituted actual humour. Harry spent his time employing them—these antique incantational gems Malfoy dredged up—when he wasn't actively employed elsewhere.
'Harry Potter: Dilettante, Entrepreneur, Investor, Investigator', read his card. Malfoy's read 'Unspeakable, First Class, Head, R & D', and neither occupation was so inflexible they couldn't be…er, flexible. As to what constituted, say, a professional business luncheon or perhaps a third-party expert consultation to the Unspeakable Department's Head R & D Wizard. Harry, for example, was often called upon to 'consult' directly with Unspeakable Malfoy (First Class) over these self-same Charms, Mumbo-jumbo and Exorcisms found in the Wank Me! Section, being a known expert on the Wandless bit.
Take now, for instance: Malfoy's office cubicle, grey and deadly dull but with a sturdy locking mechanism; he shared it with Ron (Second Class, Assistant). Ron was off on a routine call with an intern tagging after his heels shotgun and Malfoy was all about catching up the past-due paperwork. Malfoy was always all about pulling the cake jobs, the sod, but Harry didn't care. Hah! As if! As Malfoy was also all over oiling up Harry's arse, at the moment. They'd a taste for cocoanut-based oil these days: the office reeked of the South Seas ambiance and cruise ships, rather, and the parchment piles rucking up into crinkles under Harry's knees were all smeared to hell and gone. Likely could be fixed up later; no one really cared at the moment, now did they?
Well, Ron (Second Class) would, yes, but he'd not say much, being an Unspeakable. Bit of pleasant irony, that. Harry enjoyed irony; he relished consulting more.
Harry, currently deeply engaged in the act of consulting, shuffled about on his twinging knees under Malfoy's hand, the one that wasn't guiding that git's sweet, sweet wand to the, erm, mark. Mark being Harry's bared arse, naturally. Short-tem goal: penetration of small round orifice presented with said wand. Long-term goal: massive orgasm, mutual. Preferably multiple, if that could be managed, given the Ministry's outdated views on extending employee's luncheon hours past the one hour point. Oh, and the official point of this consultation? Not that anyone would dare enquire (Unspeakable, First Class, Head), it was to provide reliable data as to the degree of enhancement of, ah, object-aided incantation derived from certain arcane wandless spells developed by the somewhat (ahem) more erotic and exotic Wizards and Witches of the Victorian era, for potential future use by Unspeakable operatives. Mata Haris, Malfoy called them; Harry had a brilliant chuckle over that, as he was cast as 'the' Mata Harry in the pilot proceedings.
Hah, very hah. Yes, to continue…
It all made sense, if a person cocked his chin just so and eyed it squint-wise: DOM had funded it unanimously, Harry's rather substantial fee, and Malfoy had justified the fee spent in a series of brilliantly complex, addended cost analyses, so…yes, effectively the old sots who ran the place had bought in on their bit of fun. It was an allowable budget item simply because Malfoy had decreed it to be, with the aid of one of those Muggle lazy pointer-jigs on a giant floating white erase board in the Minister's Privy Chamber. For two interminable hours, he'd droned on, till all the old pussies were fast asleep on their benches and agreeable to anything short of a sweeping political reform movement. Circular logic? Yes, but handy. Rather similar to an unlimited expense account, Harry's fee. Malfoy argued he deserved material recompense for saving their fat old arses; Harry found he couldn't argue that and stay sober-sided. In any case, it kept the Head of R&D happy, and all the other Unspeakables rather desperately wished for that outcome, even Ron (Second Class).
The desk itself (lest it be forgot, it was broad, mahogany and parchment-papered in layers) was springy under his kneecaps (Malfoy was not entirely a git; he did think of Harry's comfort during their meetings. Only the best Prince Wladimir tea the DOM had cached away in the elves' pantry was served at meetings and there always a soft surface provided to prevent unsightly bruising.) Malfoy was in actuality currently living up to his job description, refraining from emitting words and focusing more on pleased grunts and the occasional meditative snort as he went about his pre-penetration ministrations. It was up to Harry to bear the brunt of conversation:
"Well?" he demanded. "What're you waiting for, prat? I'm due at Gringott's in the hour. I'm oiled, I'm loose; hurry the feck up!"
"Meh," Malfoy sniffed. "Weedy wanker; no care for procedure. Right, I'm ready. You are still, er, game, Potter? This one could be…quite shocking."
"Duh! Yes, Malfoy. That would be the whole point of this. Carry on, git."
"Fine," Malfoy replied tersely. "On my mark, then. One,two, three, here goes nothing! Ss-ssHTHthahah—tth-ssllliiitthhhherus Serpens!"
"Oh-FUCK!" Harry yelped at Malfoy's quaint approximation of Parseltongue. No, gasped, nearly swallowed his tongue and choked on it, simultaneously, as he was electrified. Malfoy's rather excellent cock (First Class) had just done the most amazing thing it had ever done: it rippled. It vibrated whilst shimmying, whumped its distended head about the interior of Harry's channel and then—and then, it bloody fucking well spun!
The effect on Harry's arse was amazing. Beyond words, amazing. It was all Harry could do to hold up, stay up, grit his teeth, bite the inside of his cheeks and not come instantly. Yesterday—no, last week!
"Oh-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-bloody-bleeding-Hells-MALFOY!"
Shrieking was an important coping mechanism in his effort, he discovered.
"Er…y-yes, P-Potter?" the git responded, faintly, perhaps thirty seconds later, thrusting madly and nearly jittering Harry right off his perch on the desktop. "Y-You r-rang-gah!"
Harry, bearing down like the dickens to stay planted and only barely capable of sending the briefest of glances over his naked shoulder, caught a glimpse of a pale and perspiring Malfoy, grimly gripping his (Harry's, 'Dilettante, etcetera') hips and barely respiring. His partially bared hips (pelvic girdle, arse and upper thighs visible where he dropped drawers in prep) were all going at it in a concerted lunge at a mile a minute, arching forward and back at mind-blurring speed. Ergo, Malfoy's bloody cock (his manly wand not being one a body could quibble over) had literally gone from a mere 'more than passable to roger Harry into bliss, thanks' to 'supersonic missile of extra-ordinary pleasure, don't mind if I do'.
"'—gh!—" Harry, impressed, was forced to comment. Barely.
This tiny noise represented a great and huge approval of the efficacy of the 'Slytherus Serpens' incantation, a dusty gem dug up from the annotated indices of Wilde's Wizards: Being the Erotick Diarie of an English Country Gentleman. Aeptimus Wilde, as it turned out, was second cousin twice-removed to the Muggle of same surname fame, and just as bent as his blood relative. All the apples in that tree had pretty much fallen on the same fertile ground: the old tosser had been a first-class, grade-A closet poufter. And his Diarie was most rightfully contained in the Restricted 'Wank Me!' Section, being quite the incendiary document. The pages thereof actually steamed, when casually riffled through.
Hermione, well used to the exposures of Dark Magic, Wild Magic and sundry, had all but fainted when Harry shared an excerpt from the Diarie. Had noted a few things down, too, that ever-practical Witch, for her own lines of study…private study, though likely Ron Weasley, Unspeakable (Second Class) would be invited to aid her in her quest for additional learning.
But…yep, yea and yea, verily, old Eppie (as he'd been known to his intimate peers) was a…real bounder. A scoundrel, a deviant, an arse bandit—nay, an arse-pirate!—and a…an extremely perspicacious Wizard, to think up a simple Wandless Charm that would produce this sort of mind-melting, insides-scrambling effect!
"Urh!" Malfoy groaned his admiration.
"Ah-aah-ah!" Harry whinged his concurrence, right through his flared nostrils. Then he growled.
"Grgh! Pot—eeeer!" Malfoy shouted. "Har-Har-Harreee!"
"Oh-oh-hohohoho-OH-woooow!" Harry agreed. "Dr-Dr-Dr-Fucking gawd!"
"Frkng c'mnnngggghhh!" Malfoy informed him. "Harrrreeeeee!"
"Oooooo!" Harry retorted, adding, "mmmpph—nhhhh!" This last only because he was chewing on the inside of his forearm.
Without further warning Malfoy orgasmed, explosively, with the accompanying sound of a helium balloon exploding in the very high stratosphere. Harry joined him in that state precisely one point two seconds after, with no audible sound at all but the heady gush of torrents of semen overlaying excess cocoanut oil, overlaying mussed, touseled pieces of parchment and then ultimately dripping, just a bit. Plop, plip-plop. Like that.
Malfoy's cock finally slowed in its unearthly, inhuman spin; halted; it literally popped out of Harry's arsehole with a sibilant hiss. Malfoy, still spasming, went splat, falling forward and crushing his consultant's spent and heaving person nearly through the smeared mahogany surface. Indeed, Harry's favoured Unspeakable liaison could be observed to sag and stagger in place, he was that winded. And, er, rendered temporarily daft. Blissed out.
Harry went splat, as well. Forced to, really, what with Malfoy's entire weight bearing down upon him. Fell off his spread knees, his elbows collapsed; nose nearly smushed flat by a sneaky Muggle stapling device and freaking official parchment everywhere, flying off merrily, only to waft to the floor with gentle 'fffft's' and the lingering odour of suntan lotion.
Silence thoughtfully reigned in the offices of Draco Malfoy, Unspeakable (First Class, Head—right, that's the drill.) After a bit; at first it was only the silence. Then, after a pause of staggering duration and much heavy breathing, thought arrived, tardily.
"Oh, I say, Malfoy," Harry said. Panted and made a feeble and highly unsuccessful effort to remove his person from beneath Malfoy's. "W-Wotcher think?"
"Mmm?" Malfoy's lips brushed Harry's nape; this tickled and Harry shivered, mostly in pleasure. But he, being a true professional, remained undiverted by such passing distractions. It was one of the reasons Malfoy had retained him, that…his go-getter attitude. His eye on the ball.
"Would happen if, say, a real Parselmouth incanted that one?"
Thought reigned. For a lengthy, long drawn-out pause. Pulses, which had slowed, quickened once more. Eyeballs went wide and staring. Brilliant minds whirred, ticking over possible outcomes…calculating, calculating, calculating.
"I say," Malfoy replied dryly, rising like an Inferi from the still prone body of his fallen comrade, "I say, get the fuck up off my desk, Potter! My turn!"
Finite