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28 April 2007 @ 09:52 am
Short Skirt Long Jacket, Nathan/Hana, secretary  
I can type 90 words per minute, but I haven't needed to in a while. I certainly never imagined using it for secretarial work. But I figured the closer I got to Linderman's puppet politician, the better. I just never thought I'd be getting quite this close.

I'd have hated the very idea, at the beginning of this, and if he'd tried then what he was trying now I'd have caused him severe pain at the very least. But when you type up all someone's correspondence (and have a direct line to the parts that don't exist, too, of course; I'm thorough) you notice things. Can't help it. You start to wonder why, if he's so tight with a healer, his wife is still in a wheelchair. You see him pace his office like it was a cage, and stare longingly at the sky through his window when he thinks no one's looking.

After all that, it's probably understandable how my mission might start to seem less about keeping Petrelli out of high office and more about sticking it to the bastard holding his choke chain.

Of course, how it went from there to me writhing at my desk, gripping his shoulders tightly while he lapped at my most sensitive parts, is a lot more complicated. We'd both had a bad day- it's cliched, I know- his wife had lost her temper with her physical therapist, and he'd finally choked down enough pride to actually ask Linderman to heal her, with predictable results. It was much too early in whatever scheme this was to give up so valuable an edge, after all. And whoever the hell it was he'd got in to shield his computers couldn't possibly be normal; the last attempt I'd made to breach security had felt like getting tasered. So, like I said... we were both in a bad place. And apparently Petrelli gets amorous when he's depressed.

Of course, I could have put an end to it as soon as he started to kiss me. I probably should have. But I was upset and frustrated too, and perhaps more to the point, I hadn't been laid in almost a year and Petrelli was touching me in just the right way, firm and just short of rough, with none of that light airy barely-touching I'd always hated, like I was going to break or something. And my remaining presence of mind realized that there were about half a dozen surveillance devices in this room alone, and I carefully neutralized each one. Linderman didn't need any more ammunition. After that, I could turn my mind entirely to undressing the man in front of me as quickly as I possibly could. The body that was revealed was firm and sleek and I wanted to try making selective use of some of that surveillance, just for one clear frame, so I could look at it again whenever I liked. Guess I'd just have to remember it.

While I'd been busy with his clothes, Petrelli had been busy with mine, and his fingers were slipping into my underwear, still with the same steady pressure, tracing the contours of my folds, making me hiss with pleasure as he reached my clit, then making a few quick circles round it until he could get his face down there and make me see sparks. I still haven't figured out why he seemed so much more invested in bringing me off than himself, but that's not a big surprise. People don't make a lot of sense, and Nathan Petrelli is even harder to figure out than the rest. Not that I'm complaining or anything.

He called me Samantha, and I didn't correct him.

The next day, I came in and set to work just like always. For a moment Petrelli looked like he wanted to say something, but I ignored it until he went away.
Acacia: Discworld - word sexacaciaonnastik on July 5th, 2007 03:39 am (UTC)
It's an ingrained instinct, all right, but I'm a little more inclined to call it "paranoia"... at least sexual frustration balanced out enough of it for the pr0nz to occur.