A/N: I swear to Merlin, I think I've lost it. For Amber, because she is a shameless hussy who requests the oddest things. Warning for enough sexiness to make me slightly uncomfortable. *tugs at collar*

Pairing: Kingsley Shacklebolt/Percy Weasley

Prompt: 30. Celebrate

"Congratulations, Minister," he says softly, and he looks the height of professionalism, all grey, sweeping robes and not a hair out of place, but you can see the rise of a blush on his cheeks, the way his lips lie parted as he breathes softly, anticipating.

"Thank you, Weasley," you drawl, your low voice dropping even lower, so that it swoops to the pit of his stomach, makes his spine tingle, just the way he likes it; you see his lips quirk into a half-smile, his ears almost glowing bright red. "Do you like my office?"

"It's wonderful, Minister," he murmurs. His voice catches on your new title and you revel in the thrill of it, of having him below you, of this power you have. "What a n – nice desk."

You quirk your eyebrow towards the sturdy desk in the centre of the room, before looking back to where Percy stands, flustered and nervous and beautiful. "Yes," you say softy. "It would be a shame if something were to…happen to it…"

"Minister?" he asks, quirking his head innocently, as if he doesn't know that you will have him bent over that desk in mere moments, as if he isn't waiting to relish in the cool wood against his hot skin, as if it was not his idea to celebrate your victory by writhing like animals in this, the Holy Grail, the Minister for Magic's Office.

"Weasley, please ensure that the door is locked behind you," you say formally, standing up as straight as you can with your shoulders rolled back. This is your 'official' voice, and you know he fucking loves it. He never was one for denouncing authority.

"Yes, Minister," he says breathily, and you turn to the desk, clearing it with a flick of your wand. You run your hand along the polished surface, clear and clean, and smile.

"When you're ready, Mister Weasley, I want you to brace yourself on that desk, hands flat, and wait. Do you understand?"

"Wait for what, Minister?" he asks, but even as he does he is walking towards the desk, resting his hands on the smooth wood. You can see the mark his sweaty palms have left on its surface already and you chuckle.

"If your Minister tells you to wait, Weasley," you whisper, walking slowly around so that you stand behind him, so that your mouth finds the curve of his ear, "then you fucking wait. Do I make myself clear?"

You lean closer to him, pressing your lips against his neck, kissing the soft skin of his jaw as he trembles beneath your touch.

"Y – yes."

"Yes, who?" you growl, nipping sharply at his earlobe. He yelps, pants, moans around the word: "Minister. Yes; yes, Minister."

"That's right," you mutter, hearing the huskiness of your own voice as your fingers tiptoe along his spine. "Now, I think it's high time, we got these celebrations underway, don't you, Weasley?"

"Oh, Merlin, yes," he sighs, and you chuckle as you tug his robes over his shoulders roughly, baring his pale back. He lets you slip them off over his head before his hands are back on that desk and you are behind him again, worshipping every inch of him you can reach; his back, his neck, his sides, his thighs; until you have him bent over your desk, knuckles white as he clutches the edges and screams for his Minister.

You wonder if they'll ever get this desk clean again. Somehow, you doubt it.