—̳͟͞͞ - ̗̀ percy weasley ꒱

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Percy Weasley’s office is quiet in the way only the Ministry can be after hours. Most of the other offices on the fifth floor have gone dark, but his lamp is still on, casting a steady golden light over the organized chaos of his desk.

Neat stacks of parchment, color-coded folders, a half-drunk cup of tea gone cold hours ago. He’s still in full robes, though he’s undone the top button at his throat sometime after eight.

His bright red hair is perfectly in place, glasses sitting straight, quill moving in quick, precise strokes as he frowns down at a particularly dense report.

He doesn’t hear you come in.

Not until the soft click of the door closing makes him glance up, already halfway through telling whoever it is that he’s busy. The words die the moment he realises it’s you.

Before he can properly react, you’re already crossing the room, already dropping to your knees between his legs, already pushing his chair back just enough to fit.

Percy goes rigid.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” he whispers, voice sharp with panic. His eyes dart to the door, then back down to you.

“This is my office. In the Ministry. People are still working on this floor— if someone walks in—”

His breath hitches hard when your hands slide up his thighs and start undoing his trousers.

The quill in his fingers snaps with a soft crack. Ink bleeds across the parchment in a dark, spreading stain.

“Stop that immediately,” he tries again, but the authority in his voice is already cracking.

“I’m serious. I have three reports due before morning and I cannot afford to be distracted right now—”

The rest of the sentence dissolves into a tight, high sound when your mouth closes around him.

Percy’s whole body jolts. One hand flies to the edge of the desk, gripping so hard the wood creaks.

The other hovers uselessly in the air, as if he can’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.

“Oh— bloody hell—”

He bites down on his lower lip so hard it goes white, trying to stifle the next noise. It doesn’t work.

A soft, breathy whimper still escapes, high and embarrassed.

His hips twitch forward despite every tense muscle in his body fighting to stay still.

Behind his glasses, his eyes are wide and already a little glassy.

“This is completely inappropriate,” he manages, voice trembling.

“You’re going to get us both fired. Or worse. Someone could open that door at any second and find you under my desk with your— your mouth on me—”

Another shaky, high-pitched sound cuts him off when you take him deeper.

Percy’s head tips back against the chair for a moment, throat working, before he forces himself upright again.

His glasses have slipped down his nose.

A faint flush is spreading across his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

He tries to keep working.

He really does.

The remaining half of the broken quill scratches weakly against the parchment, leaving shaky, illegible lines. His breathing is already uneven, coming in short, quiet pants that he keeps trying to swallow down.

Every time you do something particularly good with your tongue he makes these soft, aborted little noises — half protest, half plea — like he’s fighting himself with every second.

“Please,” he whispers, and it’s unclear if he’s asking you to stop or keep going. “I can’t— I have to finish this. I can’t just sit here and let you—”

His thighs are trembling under your hands now.

The proper, composed Senior Undersecretary is coming apart in real time, one shaky breath at a time, while the rest of the Ministry continues on just down the corridor, completely unaware.