She had considered trying the subtle approach. But that hadn’t worked out in her favour with Luka so far. And given his record of being a total and complete idiot about the whole Marinette situation…
She didn’t want to give him any opportunities to weasel himself out of the talk they were about to have.
“When are you going to ask Marinette out?” she asked, plopping down onto the sofa.
Luka jumped. “Jeez, don’t sneak up on me like that!” He narrowed his eyes at her. “And what do you mean, ‘when am I going to ask Marinette out?’”
“I mean,” she said, not bothering to hide the way she rolled her eyes, “when are you going to ask Marinette out?”
And she was going to meet her secret admirer, and they were going to have a great time, and…ok, so if her admirer ended up wanting to kiss her…
Her hand lifted to hover above her heart, her fingertips brushing over the embroidered notes stitched there. She had been telling herself all day – all week – that it didn’t matter if it wasn’t Luka she was meeting at the dance. And maybe she almostbelieved it, so she pushed out a breath and shoved any thoughts of her stupid…of the stupid guitarist out of her head. If her admirer wanted to kiss her, she might just let him. She might even enjoy it.
“Pansy, I’m telling you, it might be the best one I’ve ever seen, by a mile,” Draco, says, turning on the sofa to face his friend.
“Fine,” Pansy shakes her head, regarding Draco with scepticism. “I suppose you arean Arse Man, when all is said and done,” she says, thoughtful, as she sits curled up in Blaise’s large, velvet armchair. They’re both nursing a glass of wine each and Draco has just finished telling her about the Department of Mysteries’ latest employee acquisition. Or rather, an impressive asset of his.
“Correct,” Draco says with an air of authority. He did indeed have the expertise; eight long years spent ogling his fellow students in the Quidditch lockers (when he wasn’t busy doing a madman’s bidding) had made Draco quite an expert on the matter, and his new co-worker is a truly superb specimen. The Unspeakables switching from their usual haughty, vicar-ish robes to those tight black jackets was a true godsend, too (he religiously adjusts his own every morning, just a little on the snug side—alas, it has gone tragically unnoticed as of yet).
Draco has had a new partner for a few weeks now, and the man’s arse is one of undeniable beauty, pert and firm, and always tightly clad in a pair of delicious, albeit non-designer, black trousers. Those enticing buttocks have become Draco’s calling, the core of his obsession, and the air of mystery only adds to his fully-established fantasy of what exactly he would do with a handful of that.
It begs to be squeezed, and slapped, maybe even bitten, and Draco feels he’s the man for the job. And he would, if only it weren’t for the solid shell of numerous Glamours and Concealment Charms the Department insists on slapping over their employees’ faces on a daily basis.
Draco stares ahead with the empty gaze of a starving man and slowly shakes his head. “Merlin, I would gladly bury my face there and not come up for a week,” he says gravely, christening the statement with a gulp of wine.
Pansy makes a disgusted sound and Draco points his glass at her, the drink sloshing dangerously close to the edge. “Oh, don’t you give me that”—he mimics the sound with a grimace—“shite. You once made me listen to a, frankly horrifying, recount of Blaise eating you out in eighth year so I think we’re past the point of shame.”
“Still got it!” Blaise shouts from the kitchen, and Pansy laughs, and drinks to that. Draco rolls his eyes.
“Can we focus on me? This is a crisis,” Draco cuts in with irritation. “How do I fall into an illicit sex affair with my secret coworker if I can’t learn his identity? I don’t know his name, just his arse, and not nearly as well as I’d like to.”
“Well, you could try and talk to him,” Blaise says as he enters the room, Levitating a generously stacked charcuterie board and a new bottle of wine in front of him.
“Or,” Pansy says, snatching the bottle and looking at Blaise pointedly, “you could actually not put your cock where it shouldn’t go.” She uncorks the wine and puts her wand aside. “You’re going to get yourself fired.”
“See, there’s the catch,” Draco says wryly. “How would I know I worked with him, if I, say, stumbled upon him in a pub?”
“Yes, that’s brilliant,” Blaise nods, “I’m sorry boss, I tripped and fell. On his cock. Fifty times,” he says, mocking Draco’s posh drawl.
Pansy laughs, meanly, and Draco stares daggers at both his best friends, the memory of that mysterious, magnificent arse still fresh in his mind. For now, the plan is to wait and see.
