Feelings and Other Atrocities

The day certainly is beginning to look up. While Draco had been cross to have binned another round with Nigel in favor of coming to work and not getting demoted, rendering Weaselby speechless does wonders to improve his mood. The best part of the whole thing is that Draco has hardly to do anything. Either terrorizing Weasley has become easier and easier as time goes by, or Weasley's mind is somewhere else.



As Draco's eyes lay on the Topside Talking Tinder on the corner of Weasley's desk, he decides that the latter must be today's winner. Granger had seemed terribly insistent about something, though Draco didn't see how that was different from any other day in her life. Whatever it was she'd been on Weasley's case about, he wasn't thrilled. Judging by the way Weasley's mumbling to himself and grunting and tsking and making all manner of annoying noises, he still isn't thrilled. This is all fine by Draco, as when Weasley is miserable on account of something that is not directly Work (ie, Draco)-Related, he hasn't the inclination to climb on Draco's back like the fuck-all monkey he is.



Damn, Weasley must really need to get fucked. That's why he couldn't be bothered to retort to Draco's little jibe.



"It's a beautiful day, isn't it, Weasley?" Draco drawls, not bothering to hide a broad, amused grin as he swivels in his chair.



"I wouldn't know. I'm still seeing spots from staring into the flames of FIVE DOZEN FLAME-SPEWING KETTLES." To punctuate his sentence, Weasley takes to pounding a fist on his desk like some sort of stupid beast.



The frame on Draco's desk teeters from side to side, the corners clicker-clattering as it rocks left-right-left. "I know you haven't any pride in your own possessions, Weasley, but I happen to have pride in mine, so mind you–"



The door, which Draco had left slightly ajar, bursts open, interrupting his Very Important Request. Weasley finally looks up from his in tray as something whistles past his ear and dives so hard into Draco's desk that a few wood shavings hit him in the cheek.



"Damned Urgent inter-office memos." Lip curling in distaste, Draco extracts the paper Peregrine Falcon (Ministry of Magic stamped in silver on both its wings) from the unseemly divot on his desk and unfolds it.



"What is it?" Weasley demands.



There go Draco's hopes for a boring, uneventful afternoon.



"More flame-spewing kettles and a few airborne biting waffle irons," Draco mumbles, his eyes scanning the messy joined-up writing on the memo.



"Brilliant. I've only just managed to charm off the last of the heat blisters I got this morning."



"Heat blisters?" What he wouldn't give for one of those asinine, childish Skiving Snackbox things Weaselby's brothers sold to schoolchildren right about now.



"The kettles WERE spewing flames, Malfoy. You'll see. Where's the raid this time?" Weasley pinches the bridge of his long nose and sighs, and Draco silently curses. There he goes again, polluting more of Draco's air in the confines of their cupboard-sized office.



"Tarring Neville."



Pulling dragon hide gloves out of a desk drawer, Weasley starts tapping himself with his wand, Transfiguring his robes into Muggle attire. Of course, it's all dreadfully outdated and homespun, and Draco dies a little on the inside. Damned Potter for his Saving People Thing and his testifying and his securing Draco a Prestigious Job at the Ministry (though if this is prestigious, Draco would hate to see what a Crap Job at the Ministry would consist of). It's all Potter's fault Draco must be seen in public--Muggle public!–with an argyle-wearing Weasley.



If he's lucky, maybe one of the airborne biting waffle irons will gnaw him to death, putting him out of his misery.



*****



The Norfolk jacket he'd Transfigured out of his travelling cloak looks quite sharp on Draco. He takes pains to walk far behind Weasley as they make their way past an overflowing skip, a few pubs, and some run-down office buildings. Though he is hard pressed to decide what he loathes about his job the most, Draco definitely detests using non-Magical means of transportation while on the job. Unless business would be extremely dangerous or require travel over great distances, Misuse of Muggle Artefact employees are prohibited from Apparating, Flooing, Flying, Portkeying, and otherwise Popping from place to place. It's stupid, really, and wastes valuable time in the workday. If Draco could simply use magic to get from point A to point B, he would free up more than enough time to complete the mountain of paperwork that accrues each day.



Sooner than he would have liked, they arrive at the underground station. The escalator is busy this time of day, and Draco has the misfortune of standing beside Weasley for the descent into the heart of the station. Since the station is one layer above the centre of the Earth, he has the misfortunate for a sadistic and cruel length of time. Around the time Draco considers committing a no-no around Muggles and withdrawing his wand to gouge out his eyes so he no longer has to look upon the knitted nightmare, the ground comes rushing up; they're finally in the station. As Draco and Weasley simultaneously step off the stairs, a girl who appears to be a few years younger crosses in front of them, pausing to get a good look at Weaselby's jumper.



"Nice jumper," she says, and Weaselby beams.



"Clearly you're blind," Draco tells her as politely as he can manage, which isn't much at all, taking hold of Weasley's elbow to drag him to the automatic ticket machines.



"It's a brilliant jumper," Weasley protests, and Draco knows that somewhere the sheep who had shorn the yarn imprisoned in the argyle apocalypse is turning over in his little sheep-like grave. Baa. Baaaad.



"If by 'brilliant' you mean Horrid, Dated, and Offensive, then yes, Weasley, it's a brilliant jumper." Rolling his eyes, Draco pokes Weasley in the chest. "Pay up. You're the one with the petty Muggle funds."



"'Brilliant' as in wicked, actually." Weasley digs a few quid out of his pocket and Draco's nose wrinkles. Paper money. How quaint and common of the Muggles.



Weasley inserts a few bills into the machine, out spits the tickets, and Draco wrenches his out of Weasley's hand. Inspecting it, he announces, "I'll meet you at the stop," and heads to the platform. The more distance between the accursed argyle and himself, the better.



Mercifully, Draco doesn't have to wait long before his train arrives. The doors open, and before stepping inside he pushes himself to the tips of his toes, spotting Weasley's red head among the crowd of Muggles funneling into the door of the next car down.



The car isn't overly crowded, for which Draco is grateful. At least the Muggles have the decency to afford him with one small courtesy. Sitting carefully on one of the seats (upholstered in a tacky blue befitting a smarmy Ravenclaw, and springy to boot), he avoids returning the kindly smile of the old woman across from him in favour of studying the line map toward the edge of the roof, where the curve to accommodate headspace begins.



Merlin, but their stop won't be for ages, and in the close quarters of the car it's hotter than the kitchen ovens of Malfoy Manor. Former Malfoy Manor kitchens, a voice in Draco's head pipes up (one that sounds annoyingly like Zabini in a snit), and he promptly tells it to cease and desist.



It does, and Draco passes the time watching people file in and out as the train makes a few stops.



Around the third or fourth stop, things get Interesting.



The doors open, a few Muggles exit as though they're shuffling off this mortal coil, and one Muggle steps into the car.



Even though Draco has been all but stripped of his Good Name (or, at least, the prestige that had once come with Being a Malfoy) and is poorer than a speck of dirt in a Weasley house, he still appreciates the finer things in life. This Muggle is one of those things.



He hasn't a hair out of place, shiny golden halo framing his heart-shaped face. His eyes are a glorious green that remind Draco of Slytherin and fresh grass on the Quidditch Pitch, and his lips... His lips are full and inviting, and Draco licks his own unconsciously. It's been 110 minutes since he'd last put his cock to use, not that he's been counting.



All right, so he's been counting. Many of his former friends (those who aren't dead or incarcerated, that is) don't have time to spare for a social pariah, but there are still quite a few people out there who don't mind, quite a few people who value fitness and physique above all else. Draco loves these people, as they are all too willing to while away their hours worshiping the body of a fine specimen such as himself. He is all too willing, in turn, to allow them to worship him. It's empowering, the feeling he gets knowing people want him, and he thrives on it. Even if they are Muggles.



The moment he locks eyes with this Muggle creature, Draco knows the fellow wants him. He doesn't need Legilimency to validate it, either. The want is plain in the slant of and sparkle in his eyes, in the way the tip of his tongue darts out to wet the corner of his mouth.



He stands against the large line map next to the door, and Draco's eyes flicker to it as he stands, stretching lazily. Draco can feel his gaze follow him, and one corner of Draco's mouth quirks as he brushes past him. Slowly, as though he has all the time in the world, Draco meanders along the length of the train until he reaches the end. There are no other passengers in the car, and he leans against the wall behind the last row of seats. The window shows nothing but grey and white blurs, but he looks out it as though it's incredibly fascinating.



A light hand on his shoulder draws his attention away from the window, and he (barely) resists the urge to chuckle. That didn't take long at all.



Not bothering to get his name - it wasn't like he'd remember it - Draco leans forward, seizing his mouth, moaning as he pushes his tongue in past the fellow's teeth. His hands slide down Draco's chest and work open the button and zip of his trousers. Tipping his head to the side, Draco drags the tip of his tongue over the smooth ridges of his teeth, gasping against his mouth as his fingers part the flap in Draco's pants to curl around the length of his cock.



"Take it out," Draco says against his ear. He doesn't have to ask twice, which pleases him immensely. Draco hates it when they're slow.



"You're a needy thing, aren't you?" the fellow asks with a throaty laugh, leading Draco's cock out the slit in his pants, pulling it past the placket of the trousers so Draco can see it when he looks down.



"Not as needy as some," he says, pressing his shoulders against the wall. Christ, but it's hot in here. Draco's clothes feel too close as it is; the way his blood is beginning to boil with desire is not helping matters. If this Muggle doesn't service him right now, he's about to become entirely disagreeable.



Reaching for his hand, Draco guides the Muggle's thumb to the head of his cock, rubbing it over the tip. Draco twitches, brushing the pads of his fingers over his knuckles. "Suck it."



"With pleasure," the fellow says with a wicked smile, giving Draco a naughty wink that makes him smirk as his tongue darts out to lick the head of Draco's cock. A pointed forward push of the hips is all it takes to get him to swallow Draco to the root. Winding his fingers in the fellow's hair, Draco yanks hard, and he begins to work the underside of his cock with his tongue, one of his hands squeezing and rolling and pinching Draco's sac.



"Fuck yes," Draco gasps, fingers tightening in his hair, hips bucking with abandon and–



"Malfoy!"



Shit, just the thing Draco doesn't want to hear when a fellow's got his lips wrapped round Draco's cock and he's having it off: the voice of a Weasley.



His companion falls back gracelessly on his arse, and Draco doesn't bother to tuck himself in as Weasley glowers at him.



"I should have KNOWN you binned me to pull," Weasley grinds out, and the fellow on the floor climbs to his feet, backing up against a row of seats.



"Oy, this your man?" he asks, and Draco would laugh if he isn't so offended by the implication; Weaselby's eyes round like saucers and his skin goes a touch peaky.



"No. No! This is my partner!" Weasley blurts.



"That's what I said." The fellow's brow furrows, and Draco steps between him and Weasley, rearranging his own pants and trousers.



"Business partners. Work associates," Draco explains, and Weasley gets a little less green.



"I'm not gay!" Weasley announces, recovering enough to glare at the fellow. Draco frowns as Weasley begins to haul him away by the forearm.



"You are a huge prat," he complains, glancing down at the noticeable tent in his trousers as they move up the cars. Elbowing Weasley hard in the ribs, he adds in a whisper, "I've not got off yet!"



"Our stop's next," Weasley snaps.



Draco sighs. No use in trying to get back to the fellow to finish things, then.



"Stop that!"



"What?"



"That 'I'd Rather Be Shagging' sigh thing you're doing! Why the sodding hell can't you just do your job and do it right for once?"



"I can do my job and do it right, Weasley. I simply choose not to do so."



"Why not?" Weasley demands, and Draco responds by unceremoniously shoving him out the door when the train stops. It's easier to do that than it would be to explain to Weasley that he resents having to work at all, that he resents the Ministry, that he...damn, he doesn't want to think about it.



This is going to be a shit afternoon.



What he wouldn't give for one of the airborne biting waffle irons to really gnaw him to death....