Bad. Fucking. Day.<\/p>\n
I don’t even know what I want when I go in. Well, that’s not true. I do have a pretty good idea. I want to hit someone, to drink to excess, and to fuck a willing beauty to sweaty satiation, preferably all in the next hour, and not necessarily in that order. Though I’ll take two out of three.<\/p>\n
The best thing, were the world a perfect and orderly place, would be if the fucking moron<\/em> who landed me in scroll after scroll of idiocy<\/em> were to present himself for hitting, possibly followed by pointy-booted kicking<\/em>, and then pay for the drinks, but given he ran off out of reach so I couldn’t make him help clean up the mess in the first place, well.<\/p>\n I make my way to the bar and slap down a Galleon, and tell the man to make it a double, and keep them coming. He doesn’t ask questions, and by the time I’m on my third, I feel the tension leaching out of my shoulders. I sip more slowly.<\/p>\n “Bad day?”<\/p>\n The voice is vaguely familiar, but when I look over, I’m not sure I can reconcile. The hair is a bit of a giveaway, but the rest, well. “Very bad,” I agree.<\/p>\n “Me, too. Paperwork. Idiots. Form twenty-three sixty.”<\/p>\n I nod. “And the idiot in question nowhere to help.”<\/p>\n “Too right. And now, I really need a form fifty-seven. You know that one?”<\/p>\n That’s an odd question. “\u2026No?”<\/p>\n “Multi-part. Tab A. Slot B. Dead useful.”<\/p>\n And that’s all the warning I get.<\/p>\n I’m following before I realize I’ve picked up my drink and got off the stool.<\/p>\n As with so many bars in so many neighborhoods, the loos are along a rather seedy little paneled corridor, but we don’t stop there. Probably just as well. Too much interruption. No, it’s on through the door and into the stairwell.<\/p>\n Which is brilliant–this place doesn’t likely rent those rooms much at this hour, and besides, the stairs will do nicely for our tabs and slots. We’re arranged on the steps in second, shirts pushed up, legs tangled as we rub against each other<\/p>\n I don’t want to come like that and be done, so I rearrange us and line us up, breaking a zipper and snagging a hem but neither of us much cares, and then my hands are gripping firm arse cheeks and my legs are flexing and I’m squeezing and hoping we can do this until we’re both dripping and exhausted.<\/p>\n She comes around my cock, panting, breasts bouncing and I fuck her and push the small of her back into the riser, and she gasps my name–well, half of it, Char–<\/em>. I’m torn as to whether I’m glad she knows who I am. I know who she<\/em> is, but I fleetingly think that’s different. Then I decide, as I spill inside her and she looks up, heated and not yet exhausted, that I don’t so much mind. If Hermione hadn’t already known who I was, she’d probably have asked before she pushed me down to lick her clean. She strikes me as unlikely to not.<\/p>\n\n\n