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snarryathonmod (snarryathonmod) wrote in snape_potter, @ 2010-05-05 05:37:00

SNARRY-A-THON10: FIC: Keep Buggering On
Title: Keep Buggering On
Author: femmequixotic
Other pairings/threesomes: Past Snape/Lucius, past Harry/others
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4,300
Warning(s): (highlight for spoilers) *Non-magical AU*
Prompt: # 123 - AU! Prime Minister Harry Potter is falling for his press secretary Severus Snape.
Summary: Sometimes sitting here in this office at 10 Downing, Harry wonders how they even managed to let him in. He’s not typical Prime Minister material. An orphan. Divorced with three children—still living in North London with their Mum—whom he gets to see every two weeks. A political outsider who despises working within the established system, the Telegraph had called him during the election.
A/N: Enormous thanks to my beta for her brilliant suggestions; to Gordon Brown, David Cameron, and Nick Clegg for being so very inspirational in recent weeks; and to Winston Churchill for the title.


Keep Buggering On



Harry’s just taken a sip of his first cup of tea when his office door slams, rattling the portraits of Churchill and Disraeli.


"Good morning, Severus," Harry says calmly, returning the gilded Spode cup to its saucer.


"Don’t 'good morning' me, you imbecilic moron." Severus drops into the leather chair across from Harry’s desk with a hmphh. He’s impeccably attired as usual in Huntsman’s finest bespoke, his spotless white shirt pressed and crisp, his green and grey silk tie knotted in a perfect Windsor. Harry still can barely manage a proper four-in-hand.


Harry moves the red pebbled leather despatch box the Chancellor’s office had sent over an hour ago, surreptitiously trying to wipe the plum jam and toast crumbs off before Severus notices.


Severus crosses his arms, wrinkling his jacket in the process. Harry’s stomach twists. This is more than his usual morning temper. Severus is always careful of his suits. He’d grown up poor in a Lancashire mill town. He might not give a toss about washing his hair on a daily basis, but he always damn well cared about the state of his attire. Harry’s godfather had once told him Severus—Snivellus, they’d called him back then in that condescending fashion society scions affected as youths—had been mocked more than once during their school years for the state of his greying pants. Sirius still laughs about it, though he knows that particular school tale rankles Harry. For all of Sirius’s lip service to Labour’s ideals of egalitarianism, he’s still an Old Etonian at heart and he’s never quite accepted that a King’s boy like Severus could go as far as he has.


Sometimes Harry hates Eton, as much as he’d mined his connections to win the election last year. As the press secretary at Cowley Street, Severus had insisted he do so, crossing party lines himself to pull in his former Conservative allies. Harry’d balked at the task at first. The last thing he’d wanted to do was meet with Lord Malfoy and his whinging viscount son—Harry’d lost count of how many times he and Draco had pounded each other into the dirt on the rugby field as teenagers—but Severus had given him his patented snarling glower and suddenly Harry’d found himself at a table in the Athenaeum, sharing a bottle of brandy with the bastards, Severus by his side, kicking him painfully under the table any time he said something potentially offensive.


Two weeks later the Times—owned and run by Lord Malfoy with an iron fist—had endorsed him, albeit tepidly. Still, as a Lib Dem, Harry’d learned quite early that any sort of press approval at all was prime. Sir Menzies had rung him up at half-seven that Sunday morning, shouting in glee. "What’d you do?" Harry’d asked Severus a few hours later, eyes wide. "Fuck him?"


"Not this time," Severus had said dryly, leaving Harry standing in the middle of his office in Westminster, his mouth hanging open and a strong desire to deck His bloody Lordship’s smug face coursing through him.


Severus brushes a scrap of lint off his striped sleeve, scowling at it as it floats to the floor. Harry just waits. He’s learnt that much in the past few years from working with the man. Whatever anyone else might think, Severus always runs the conversations. It’s best not to fight that fact.


"Lucius rang me this morning." Severus looks at Harry then, evenly, daring him to protest. Harry’s not that stupid. Lord Malfoy’s a delicate subject between them both. Harry tells himself it’s nothing to do with Severus’s whisky-fueled revelation the night before the election that, in his salad days, he’d had a two-year affair with the bastard whilst up at Christ Church. One day perhaps Harry'll believe himself.


For now he keeps his voice even. "Did he." Harry shifts and his chair squeaks slightly; he rolls back from the desk. Sometimes sitting here in this office at 10 Downing, he wonders how they even managed to let him in. He’s not typical Prime Minister material. An orphan. Divorced with three children—still living in North London with their Mum—whom he gets to see every two weeks. A political outsider who despises working within the established system, the Telegraph had called him during the election.


Severus had informed him tartly that Britain needed someone as bloody fool idealistic as he was. Harry hadn’t been certain. He’d made his name in politics young, just out of Cambridge with a two-one in PPE, defeating the entrenched Tory MP in Sussex, Tom Riddle—Earl of Voldemort now and the prime reason Severus had reluctantly left the Tories for what he termed the utterly unrealistic rose-coloured fantasies of the Liberal Democrats—but heading a party, even one as horrid at the polls as the LibDems, had been a difficult step to take. It’d cost Harry his marriage in the long run.


At least it hadn't ended with a sex scandal—on his part, that is. Ginny’d known from the beginning he liked men as much as women. Harry’d never hidden that from her, and it’d intrigued her at first. She’d been the one to suggest taking a researcher here and there into their bed—discreetly, of course. Always. She’d never been jealous, and he’d never cheated on her. He didn’t shag a bloke unless she was there. And then one morning she’d walked downstairs with her bags packed, the children following behind her uncertainly, and told him all the late hours he’d worked were too much. She couldn’t take it any longer, and, frankly, she’d found someone else. A footballer. Bulgarian. Playing for Arsenal, as if Harry needed another reason to despise the fuckers. He’d refused to watch the FA Cup last year once Tottenham were out of the running. He hadn’t needed all of ITV's shots of Ginny in the stands, her red hair perfectly coiffed, cheering Krum on as the commentators pointed out she’d once been the PM’s wife.


Still, Severus had reckoned it had won him a few sympathy votes. Harry wasn't best pleased by that, but Severus had pointed out—with no small touch of exasperation—that a marginal party such as the LibDems could make use of any additional help at the polls they could get. He had a point, Harry supposed.


Severus purses his thin lips, pressing his steepled fingertips to his mouth. Harry doesn’t look away. It’s best not to show fear in front of Severus. "Zacharias Smith." He arches an eyebrow. Harry hates that he can do that. He’d stood in front of the loo mirror for hours trying replicate that smooth quirk. All he’d ended up with was a cross-eyed headache and a few more wrinkles on his forehead.


"Who?" Harry frowns. "And what are you on about?" He jumps when Severus’s hand slams against the slickly polished walnut desktop.


"Zacharias Bloody Smith," Severus hisses. "Or have you forgotten every little twink who’s spread his arsecheeks for your cock?"


Harry blinks, his mouth opening, then closing again. "Oh." For the life of him he can’t remember who the fuck Severus is talking about. He's not fool enough to admit the fact, however.


"You really don’t remember." Severus’s voice is flat. That’s never a good sign. Harry sits up, tugging at his cufflinks.


"I didn’t say that—"


"Oh, please." Severus gives him a scathing glare. "You’ve that same look on your face as you get when Cable starts going on about The Budget and Raising Taxes."


Harry rolls his eyes. "I don’t have a look."


Severus snorts. "Of course not." He leans forward. "Let me refresh your memory. Election night."


Harry sinks back in his chair. "Oh."


"Oh, indeed." Severus examines his fingernails, his mouth twisted to one side. "Not your best moment."


Understatement that. Election night, Harry’d been pissed out of his mind. Severus had found him in the darkened storeroom, bent over a blond poll analyst’s back, his cock slamming into the man’s arse. Harry had barely known his own name, much less … Zacharias’s. Shit.


Harry runs his hands over his face, pushing his glasses up to his forehead, then letting them drop back down again. "I apologised," he said, suddenly tired. "I didn’t mean—"


"Shut up," Severus snaps. He stands and walks over to the window, looking out at Whitehall, long arms crossed behind his back. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but his shoulders are tense.


"Severus."


No response.


Harry pushes himself out of his chair. "It was just a shag," he says quietly. He moves towards Severus, carefully. Cautiously.


Severus’s long fingers flex over his arse. It distracts Harry for just a moment, long enough for Severus to grab him and shove him against the wall, his bony elbow digging into Harry’s chest. "Just a shag." Flecks of spittle hit Harry’s cheek. "To you."


"I was pissed and angry at you." Harry grabs Severus’s arm and pries him away gently. "You know that."


There’s a moment’s silence, broken only by Severus’s annoyed huff. Harry knows he shouldn’t be pleased that it bothers Severus so much. But he is.


"We don't have an exclusive arrangement," he says carefully. He’s treading on dangerous ground, and he knows it. His fingers curl around Severus’s wrist, stroking lightly across his warm skin. "You and I."


Severus steps back. Only the tightening of his jaw shows how angry he is. "No." He pulls his hands away.


Harry knows it’s a technicality. He’s been sleeping with Severus for over a year now, off and on. It’d been nothing but a chance to get off with someone safe at first. Fucking one’s own fist got dull after a while, and they’d been thrown together quite frequently during the six-week campaign.


They’d shagged for the first time in the copy room at Cowley Street, late at night after everyone had gone home. Harry can still remember how it felt to rub against Severus, their mouths biting and sucking, their pricks sliding together, gasps and groans echoing through the room. They’d accidentally hit the copier, resulting in a hundred printouts of Severus’s flexed fingers pressed against the glass.


Harry hasn’t even told Severus he kept one, hiding it in the bottom drawer of his desk in a file folder marked Amortentia.


Severus looks back out the window, arms crossed. "He’s gone to Lucius, the idiot."


Lucius or Smith? Harry wants to ask. He keeps his tongue and waits.


With a sharp exhale that flares his nostrils, Severus glances over at him. "Fortunately for us, Lucius neither wanted to pay Mr Smith his outrageous fee for sharing his intimate information regarding the Prime Minister, nor did he wish to embarrass me."


"Not a complete fucking bastard," Harry mutters.


Severus’s mouth twitches slightly. "Precisely." His faint smile fades. "Mr Smith on the other hand…"


"How long before it hits the Mail?" Harry asks. He chews his thumbnail—a habit leftover from his childhood that he knows Severus dislikes.


"I’d give him another day." Severus looks disgusted. "He’s still holding out hope that Lucius will agree to his sum. The fool has no idea how miserly the Malfoy family is. Lucius would have cut off his own mother if Narcissa had allowed him." He smacks Harry’s hand. "Oh, do stop that. It’s vile."


Harry sighs. "We should talk to Cowley Street—"


"Have you lost your mind?" Severus shakes his head. "No. Absolutely not. This can be handled within the Downing Street Press Office."


"You mean, you’ll handle it."


Severus just frowns.


"How exactly do you plan to keep him from going to the Mail?" Harry asks incredulously. "First, they hate me. As does the Sun and the Telegraph. The Guardian and the Times tolerate me and the Independent thinks I’m Christ himself. Then there’s the Quibbler and, frankly, they’ll print any damn thing about me that crosses their desks, especially since Luna took Ginny’s side in the divorce."


"I have my ways."


Harry eyes him. "Severus."


"What?" He sounds petulant.


"You can’t have MI5 stuff him in a boot."


"The hell I can't," Severus says grimly.


Harry takes a deep breath, then exhales. He'd really like a bloody cigarette right now, but Severus made him quit. For appearances, he had said. Harry just thinks Severus didn't like the smell. "I could..." He hesitates. "I could come out."


There's a moment's horrified silence before Severus snaps, "Don't be ridiculous."


"Maybe I'm tired of this closet." Harry lifts his chin mulishly. "Wouldn't you prefer to be upfront—"


Severus turns on him, mouth tight. "No, I would not. Have you lost your bloody mind?" He throws up his hands. "What am I saying? Of course you have. Because only a Lib Dem would be idiotic enough to think that it would be politically viable to admit to the whole bloody nation that not only does the fucking Prime Minister fancy a fat cock up his arse on a regular basis, he quite enjoys it being attached to his fifty-six-year-old Director of Communications and Strategy—and really, who the bloody hell do you think I am, Harry? Alastair sodding Campbell?"


"Did he fuck Blair?" Harry asks, curious. He'd always wondered about those two.


That earns him a vicious glare. "I am a hair's breadth away from handing you my resignation and going hat-in-hand to CCHQ to ask for a position."


"You're too old to be a Tory now." Harry's mouth quirks to one side at Severus's scowl, then sighs. "I don't see why I can't come out. Lord Mandelson—"


"—is not the Prime Minister of a coalition Government." Severus runs a hand through his hair, pushing the lank locks back off his forehead. "Don't be a fool. Half the country disapproves of you being a divorcé. If they actually knew you were gay—"


"Bisexual," Harry snaps.


Severus rolls his eyes. "Whatever. The fact remains that, while we are far from being as ridiculously backwards as our cousins across the pond, you know as well as I do exactly what Middle Britain will think of you if you decide to force me onto Five Live in order to have a tête-à-tête with John Pienaar about our sexual habits."


"I think he might like that," Harry mutters. "He enjoys sparring with you a bit too much for my liking."


"Jealous, are you?" Severus steps closer. Harry can smell the faint scent of cloves and sandalwood from his after-shave.


Harry lets his hand brush Severus's hip. "No more than you about Smith." At Severus's narrowed eyes, Harry smiles faintly. "Which meant nothing and you damn well know that."


"Other than that the Prime Minister of this country is a complete fool." Severus catches Harry's wrist. "With utterly wretched taste in blonds."


"I wouldn't go there, if I were you." Harry lets Severus push him back against the desk. The corner hits his thigh. It'll bruise, Harry suspects, and he wonders how he'll explain that to Neville when the army surgeon comes in for his monthly checkup tomorrow.


Severus's hands rest on Harry's hips, holding him still. Harry's breath catches. Only Severus does this to him, quieting him with a single gesture. Only Severus can get away with it. "You're an idiot, Harry Potter," Severus murmurs, and Harry shivers at the soft gust of his breath against Harry's lips.


"There might be people who disagree with you." Harry slips an arm around Severus's neck. They don't have time for this; there's a Cabinet meeting in a half hour and Harry ought to prepare. He doesn't fucking care. It's an attitude Sir Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Secretary of the Cabinet, frequently despairs of.


"Damned fools." Severus brushes his mouth against Harry's, just enough to make Harry groan. His fingers twist in Severus's thick hair. Severus nips at Harry's bottom lip. "Who have obviously never met you."


Harry kisses him, rough and eager, pulling Severus against him. He can feel Severus's cock against his hip, hard and hot through his trousers. "You are," he says between gasps, "the most irritating git in the whole fucking country." He groans as Severus lifts him up, shoving him onto the slickly polished desktop and spreading his thighs wide. Harry digs his fingers into the soft wool of Severus's jacket and turns his head for another kiss.


"Yes." Severus drags his mouth along the sharp curve of Harry's jaw. "And you are truly the most inane." His hands are fumbling between them, tugging at Harry's trouser zip. "But then what would one expect with your paternal antecedents."


With a gasp, Harry hooks one leg around Severus's arse and jerks him closer. "You always did want to shag my dad, didn't you?" He bites Snape's earlobe, then licks the sting away. "Want to call me James again?"


There's a crash as the Chancellor's red despatch box falls to the floor. Severus shoves Harry back; he sprawls across the blotter (and a loose copy of the Commons' latest version of the Digital Economy Bill). His trousers gape open, revealing a narrow vee of white y-fronts. Severus hefts himself up onto the wide desk between Harry's spread thighs and leans over him, his tie dragging across Harry's chest. "Don't be perverse," Severus says softly into Harry's ear as his hand works its way into Harry's trousers, over Harry's swelling prick.


Harry grabs the edge of the desk and pushes up against Severus's hand. He's already breathing hard. It's been two weeks or more since they'd had time to do anything but glare at each other and he wants this. Desperately. "I thought you liked me that way," he chokes out, only to be cut off by Severus's mouth.


He sucks at Harry's tongue, curls his fingers tight around Harry's cock. When Harry pulls away, gasping, Severus smiles, a thin, cold curve of his wet lips. "I like you hard," Severus says softly, his mouth barely away from Harry's. His hair falls forward, brushing lightly across Harry's cheeks. He twists his palm roughly over the head of Harry's prick, and Harry's hips buck up. Christ. Yes. He grabs at Severus, his hands pulling, tugging, anything to get him closer.


"Fuck."


Severus rubs a finger along the underside of Harry's cock. "Perhaps." He smoothes his fingertips over the hot, soft skin of Harry's balls. Harry can just barely see Severus's hand moving beneath the fabric of his trousers and it makes him groan. This is too fucking slow, for God's sake. Harry pushes up, trying to twist his hips so that his cock brushes Severus's palm again. Severus just laughs, a rough, soft huff against Harry's throat. "Or perhaps I'll just send you to your Cabinet meeting with spunk splashed across your shirt. Wouldn't Kingsley be horrified?"


"I wouldn't complain." Harry pulls Severus down into a desperate kiss. He loves the way Severus tastes, even the stale and sour note of old coffee. "Just as long," he whispers, "as you get me off."


"It'd be rude of me not to," Severus says against his mouth, and his fingers tighten on Harry's prick. Harry gasps. His heel catches on the edge of his desk and he pushes up, rocking into Severus's fist.


Oh, God.


Severus's fingers are tight and hot around Harry's cock, and he strokes him evenly, quickly, knowing exactly what Harry likes, down to the tiny swirl of his thumb against the wet slit on Harry's head. "Severus," Harry says, his voice catching in the back of his throat as Severus pushes his foreskin back. His eyes are closed; he's breathing hard. He knows Severus is watching him, getting harder himself at the sight of his fingers on Harry's prick.


They know each other too bloody well sometimes.


A rough tug, and Harry's eyes flutter open. His face is warm and damp, small droplets of sweat rolling from his temple into his hair. Severus looms above him, flushed himself, two bright spots of color spreading across his pale cheeks. He rocks forward; a lock of limp hair catches on his sweaty skin. His suit will have be sent out for cleaning, Harry knows. Severus doesn't seem to give a damn right now.


Harry reaches down and he pulls at Severus's zip. "Want to touch you," he manages to get out through swollen lips, before Severus leans in and kisses him again, scraping his teeth across Harry's lip.


Severus's cock is thick and heavy in Harry's palm. When Harry's fingers curl around the hot shaft, Severus breathes in sharply, his own hand tightening on Harry's prick. They stroke each other quickly, roughly, and just before Harry's certain he can't take any more, Severus pulls his hand away, rolling onto Harry, pressing him into the desk as his cock slides over Harry's, fast and hard.


"Christ—" Harry grabs at the edge of the desk. He arches into Severus's thrusts, wraps his legs around Severus's hips. He needs this. Needs Severus. So damned much.


They rut together. Harry's body is tight, tense. The papers move beneath his shoulders, catching in his hair, sliding across the desk. He flails out with one hand, trying to hold himself steady. His fingers hit the teacup; it falls to the floor, shattering.


Harry doesn't give a damn. His cock aches; he's gasping for breath. Severus leans over him, one hand on either side of Harry's shoulder, his face contorted as he rocks his hips against Harry's, their cocks catching against each other.


"Please," Harry says, writhing beneath Severus. He grabs Severus's shoulders and twists his jacket in his fingers. Arching up, he presses his mouth to Severus's jaw. There's a faint scratch of stubble against his lips. "Please."


Severus groans and grabs Harry's hip, nearly pulling him off the desk as he rolls over, tugging Harry on top of him. "Yes."


Harry pulls back, just enough to jerk Severus's trousers further down his thighs. He looks down at Severus's cock, standing thick and red from a thatch of crisp, black curls. Harry's breath stutters. "Severus," he says.


"Come on," Severus growls. He pulls Harry into a rough kiss. "Now."


With a groan, Harry rocks forward. He can feel a drop of sweat roll between his shoulder blades, catching in the blue cotton of his shirt, which bunches between him and Severus. Their cocks slip against each other, the wet heads sliding across their stomachs. Harry reaches down, grabs both of them, pushing them together. He shudders, every nerve in his body raw. "Severus—"


Severus grabs his hips and holds him still as he bucks up against Harry with a shout.


Harry's body seizes in a shudder as he comes hard, arching, then trembling as he collapses onto Severus, gasping for breath.


They lie there silently for a long moment. Severus's hands stroke along Harry's back. Harry finally turns his head, pressing his mouth to Severus's throat. "That was…" His voice is thick and raw. He coughs softly. "That was brilliant."


Severus just mmmms. He threads his fingers through Harry's hair, pushing it back out of Harry's face. "You've ruined my suit, you realise," he says with a small smile.


"I think that's your own bloody fault." Harry raises up slightly, looking down at Severus. There's a small love bite on Severus's jaw. Harry touches it. "Can't hide that."


"I'll spread a rumour that I'm having a secret affair with Cherie." Severus's mouth twitches slightly. His knock-down rows with the former PM's wife over the years have been legendary. "More believable."


Harry laughs. "Than us? Most likely." He drags his thumb over Severus's lip. "Do you really think you can keep Smith from talking?"


Severus nips his knuckle, nearly sharp enough to hurt. "You doubt my abilities?"


"Never."


"You'd damn well best not." Severus pushes him off. Harry slides off the desk, reaching for a tissue to clean himself off. There's spunk on his prick, and his stomach and the tail of his rumpled shirt. Severus doesn't look much better. And there's a rip in the sleeve seam of his jacket. Severus pushes a finger through it and swears. "Must you repeatedly ruin my clothing?"


Harry drops the come-covered tissue in his bin. "You're the one who refuses to take the damn jacket off every time we do this."


Severus snorts and slips the jacket off his shoulders. "I'll have to ring Richard to send over a mender. Again. Blast." He scowls at Harry. He looks utterly delicious disheveled. "One of the cars will retrieve him, of course."


"As if I'm going to care." Harry tucks his shirt into his trousers and zips them up again. There are only a few visible damp spots. He should be able to cover them with a jacket. He glances over at Severus. "You're not going to destroy Smith, are you?"


"Don't be an idiot." Severus tosses his jacket on a chair and pulls his flies together. Harry's fairly certain he won't ever stop thinking that particular move is sexy. Severus straightens his tie. "I'm merely going to have a discussion with him to help him see how very inadvisable it would be to embarrass Her Majesty's Government in this manner."


Harry pulls at his cuffs. "And if your powers of persuasion fail?"


Severus looks slightly offended. "Should that unlikely possibility occur, Lucius will try his hand." He glances at Harry. "As a favour to an old friend."


"Don't." Harry puts a hand on Severus's arm. "I'd rather come out—"


Two fingertips against his lips hush him. "Country first, Harry," Severus says softly. "We decided that from the beginning. Whatever it took. Our duty is to her above all."


Harry looks away. "I don't like it," he says stubbornly.


"You don't have to." Severus picks up his torn jacket. "That's why you have me."


A quick kiss leaves Harry breathless when Severus pulls away. Severus looks back at the door, one hand on the knob. "Do you trust me?" he asks.


Harry nods, slowly. He smoothes hair back from his face.


Severus nods curtly. "Good. Now pull your damned self together. You've a Cabinet meeting."


He's barely gone before there's a knock from a side door, and Harry's assistant enters. Philip pretends not to notice the state of Harry's desk or the lingering odour of come and sweat. "They're beginning to gather, sir."


"I'm on my way." Harry wrinkles his nose as he wipes his hands on a tissue. "Do you reckon I've time for a quick stop at the loo?"


"That won't be necessary, sir." With a discreet cough, Philip hands him a damp flannel, then looks away. Harry's mouth twitches as he wipes his hands clean.


"Always prepared, Philip."


Philip tilts his head. "Just observant, Prime Minister." A small smile curves his lips. "Mr Snape is less discreet than he believes himself to be."


With a laugh Harry picks up the Chancellor's despatch box and sets it on the edge of his desk. "He's not exactly cut out for the civil service, is he?"


"He does his job well," Philip says diplomatically.


"Among other things," Harry murmurs as he slips his jacket on, smoothing down the front. A quick glance in the mirror to straighten (in vain) the few locks of his hair that refuse to lie properly flat, and Harry grabs a thick file folder, striding past his assistant. "Let Kingsley know I'm on my way?"


"Of course, sir." Philip pulls out his BlackBerry. "I'll text him immediately."


Harry smiles, with a quick salute towards Churchill on the wall, and the door swings shut behind him.


He's a country to run, after all.



-end-