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“How did we end up here?”
It’s Draco who asks the question, his lips brushing against Neville’s as he whispers. But Neville had been thinking the same thing: how had he gotten here, sprawled on his back in a flat in Muggle London, with Draco Malfoy held very tightly against him? Draco’s palms are pressed against his chest and Neville’s got one hand fisted in Draco’s hair and the other snug on the small of his back. He’s vaguely aware of the threadbare quilt on the bed beneath him, but it’s nothing to the thrill of Draco’s breath on his lips, the agonizing pleasure building in his dick, still trapped in his jeans but being so exquisitely teased by Draco’s own denim-clad hardness rubbing against it.
“Uhh..”
Neville’s trying to think, reaching back to somewhere before there was so much touching.
Laughing lips find his neck, sucking little marks onto his skin. “Can’t find your words, Longbottom?”
With a growl that’s only mostly teasing Neville tugs at Draco’s hair, hard enough to pull him away from his neck. Looking into his eyes, Neville says, “What did I say about using my name, Draco?”
A shiver goes through Draco, and his eyes soften, ever so slightly. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, then quickly adds, “Neville.”
Neville pulls Draco’s hair again; not hard, but enough to make him shiver again. Neville smiles. “That’s better.”
Draco wriggles against him and buries his face against Neville’s throat again. “How…”
The word buzzes against his skin and a small moan escapes Neville’s lips. He closes his eyes, trying to concentrate. Finally he says, “Forget-me-nots.”
This is apparently too much for Draco, who tries to sit up. He’s somewhat hindered by Neville’s hold on him, but he gets about halfway. In the process he also grinds down on Neville’s groin. “Draco, you’re driving me spare.” His voice is cracked and broken, pulled apart by this man who used to have him cowering in fear but now…
Maybe that’s the question they should be asking. Not how, but what? What is this, this thing they’re doing? It’s probably just a one time thing, and that’s okay, Neville’s no stranger to one night stands. But is it closing a door between them—settling old scores, so to speak—or opening one? Does it mean they’re supposed to forget and walk away…or does it mean they can be friends?
But then Draco moves again, and he can’t think about the big things. It’s all about Draco’s eyes looking into his, and the little sliver of skin he can feel between the top of Draco’s jeans and the bottom of his shirt. Suddenly he wants more, wants to see that pale skin on display above him. He pulls at Draco’s jumper and Draco eagerly complies, lifting his arms and letting Neville remove the offending material.
Draco’s chest is covered with old scars. Magical, by the looks of them. Neville sucks in a breath; though he’s not a healer he often works with them, and he knows immediately that those are curse scars, and they were painfully placed. Draco doesn’t avoid Neville’s gaze; his eyes are defiant, daring Neville to ask.
Instead, Neville places a hand gently over Draco’s heart. “I’m sorry,” he says. In one motion he rolls them over so Draco is on his back and he’s crouched above him. “I’m sorry,” he says again. And then he begins kissing Draco’s scars: soft, deliberate kisses, carefully placed.
At first Draco gasps and tenses up, his hands clenching to fists at his sides. But after a time he begins to relax, and soon he breathes, “Oh yes,” and twines his fingers through Neville’s hair.
Neville doesn’t stop until he’s kissed every bit of scar on Draco’s chest. When he’s done he rests on his hands and knees above Draco, and is surprised to see wetness in Draco’s eyes.
His surprise must show, because Draco says, almost spits, “You shouldn’t be so tender. Not after–”
“Stop.”
Draco’s eyes widen at the hardness of his voice.
“That’s not— fuck, Draco. I didn’t come here to, to punish you.”
And here they are at the “what” again. His brain is spiraling out of control, trying to find something solid to latch on to. “Forget-me-nots,” he mutters again.
“What?”
Draco sounds so confused Neville almost laughs. Exactly, he thinks. But he says, “I was meeting a Muggle to get a small potted forget-me-not, something I could cultivate in my garden. I’ve been trying with seeds but having no luck, and another gardener I know has a Muggle friend who grows them. Only…” Neville brushes his lips against Draco’s. “Only I met you first. How we ended up in your flat, on your bed, is a bit of a blur. But I do know I owe my Muggle contact an apology. I obviously didn’t get my flowers.”
“I’m better than flowers,” Draco says in his old, confident tone.
Neville laughs, and kisses Draco long and deep. “Yes, yes you are,” Neville says. “But I don’t think I can plant you in my garden with my pink and yellow roses. For one thing, you’d never stay still long enough, and for another–”
“Enough!” Draco interrupts. His nose crinkles when he laughs, and it sets Neville’s heart beating an odd rhythm in his chest. One he doesn’t want to think about right now, it’s too much. Draco saves him by saying, “Flower talk later. Kissing now. I like the kissing.”
“Still as demanding as ever,” Neville teases, but he’s kissing Draco again before he can argue.
And the way Draco responds to the kiss, surging upward, his long, pale fingers fumbling at the buttons on Neville’s Oxford, makes any thoughts of teasing and subsequent arguments flee from his mind.
The buttons prove too much for either of them. Draco opens two in what seems a lifetime; at the fleeting brushes of fingertips on Neville’s skin he moans, “Please,” in a needy voice he’s never heard from his own lips. Draco, with an impish grin on his face, grabs the fabric in his fists and pulls. Buttons fly everywhere.
“Hope you didn’t have a deep connection with tha–” Draco drawls, but he’s interrupted by Neville’s mouth on his, and the skin of their bodies pressing together.
When he pulls away for a breath, Neville grins. “I’m a Gryffindor. We live dangerously.”
An odd look flashes across Draco’s face before he laughs. He’s pushing Neville’s Oxford back off his shoulders and down his arms. “Right,” he says. He laughs again, but this time it sounds forced. “So is that what this is? You get off on bedding a Slytherin? Or am I your Muggle dalliance?”
Neville pulls back in confusion, almost falling off the bed in the process. “Wha– Draco, you’re not a Muggle!”
Draco props himself up on one elbow. “As good as. No wand, no magic. No connection to the magical world, aside from Mother. And even that’s–” He shakes his head, hard, trying to bury the thought. He blinks, slowly, then looks back at Neville. “Seeing you today, it was…” He looks into Neville’s eyes, and Neville is almost painfully struck by the vulnerability he sees. Draco takes a deep breath, holds it for a long moment, and lets it out all in a whoosh. “Forget it, Longbottom. It’s not time for true confessions. Where were we?”
Neville wants to push. He wants to know what Draco thought when he saw Neville in that coffee shop earlier in the day. He wants to tell Draco he’s not a Muggle, he’ll always be a wizard even if he can’t do magic right now. He wants to at least scold Draco for calling him Longbottom again.
He wants to do all of those things, but before he can say anything Draco rolls him onto his back and unzips his jeans and the other things seem…less important.
“Okay?” Draco asks, and he’s got that cocky, Slytherin smirk on his face again.
Neville makes a sort of moaning noise that, along with the slight nod of his head, Draco takes as a yes.
Good. They’re communicating.
Draco’s fast; Neville is completely naked on the bed so quickly he can hardly believe there’s no magic involved. Draco is crouched between Neville’s legs, looking up at him with a hungry look on his face. He’s reaching for Neville’s dick when Neville finally finds his voice.
“Wait…” he croaks, even as he wants to say please don’t stop please please.
Draco looks almost hurt as he freezes, his hand almost-but-not-quite touching.
“I just meant…” Neville swallows hard. “You too?” He waves at Draco’s not quite state of undress. “Please?”
With a grin Drago rolls off the bed. “Just can’t get enough, can you. Probably been waiting years to see what’s under my trousers.” He winks seductively, rolling his hips as he slowly lowers his jeans with his back to Neville. It’s torture and he knows it, this slow striptease.
It is torture, and Neville loves every moment.
“Draco…”
“Hmm?” Draco looks over his shoulder and winks.
“Come back to bed.” Neville’s voice is raw, and far too real in his own ears.
Draco just stands there for a beat, a look of surprise on his face. Neville takes advantage, drinking in the sight; Draco is even more beautiful than he’d imagined, lean and muscular and pale. This is not the boy he remembers from his school days.
Of course, in their school days he mostly looked at the ground when Draco was near, or ran away as soon as he could. He’s not the same boy anymore, either.
Somehow their eyes find each other in the dim light of the room. “Please,” Neville says again, and that gets Draco moving.
Draco sprawls across him; the feel of their bodies pressed together, skin against skin, is electric. Neville gets his hands into Draco’s hair again, pulling him down into a kiss. Draco is moving against him, exquisite little movements that send white hot jolts to his brain, but for a moment that could last hours he lets himself get lost in their kisses. Draco’s lips are so soft against his own, always a little chapped from being in the sun and the wind. Draco still tastes a little like the shortbread biscuits they shared when they first ran into each other. And he’s making soft little noises that would make Neville smile if his lips weren’t otherwise engaged.
When Draco nips at Neville’s lower lip it draws a needy squeak from Neville’s throat that Draco seems to like; he does it again. “Draco, I–” Neville can’t figure out what to ask for, but Draco understands.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, right into Neville’s ear. Then he drags his teeth down the lobe, ever so gently. Neville shivers.
“M-more,” he pleads.
Draco snickers. He begins kissing his way down Neville’s jaw and throat, sometimes grazing his teeth along a particularly soft spot. When he begins making his way down Neville’s chest, nibbling playfully at one of his nipples, Neville keens. Draco smiles into Neville’s skin.
“It’s like playing a violin,” Draco drawls.
Neville wants to ask when Draco ever played a violin, but before he can Draco is situated between his legs and sucking and biting at the inside of his thighs and his brain is nothing but bright light and a low moan that he realizes after…he doesn’t know how long…is coming from him.
“Oh,” he finally says.
Draco laughs, low and warm. “Like a bloody violin.”
“You’re teasing,” Neville accuses. It would be more effective if he wasn’t so breathless. Or so naked.
“I am,” Draco says, still laughing. “And you like it.”
“I–” Neville starts, but he has nowhere to go. He likes it quite a lot.
“Don’t worry,” Draco says, and his voice is nearly a purr. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“You– you will?”
Draco shifts, and suddenly his hot breath is on Neville’s cock. “How’s this?” he asks, and licks a long, wet stripe from balls to tip.
“Fuck fuck fuck!” Neville shouts. His grip on Draco’s hair tightens, and Draco gives a soft moan of pleasure before he laughs.
“Such language, and from a Gryffindor,” Draco says, and Neville knows he’s got that smirk on his lips again. “Never would have expected a mouth like that on you.”
“Later, Malfoy, I’ll show you just what this mouth can do,” Neville gasps, forgetting for the moment his insistence on using first names.
Chuckling again, Draco asks, “You mean something like this?” And he takes the head of Neville’s dick into his mouth.
“Oh yes,” Neville croons. Draco takes him deeper and Neville’s brain stops making sense. “Don’t stop, Draco, please don’t stop. Fuck, that’s so good, I can’t–”
There’s an audible pop as Draco pulls off; Neville’s spit-slicked cock bounces off his stomach. “You can’t what?” he asks in a teasing voice, then nips at the inside of Neville’s thigh again.
“Draco!” Neville is wild with want; he lets go of Draco’s hair and starts tugging at his own mop of unruly curls trying to dull the swirling ache in his brain.
And then Draco is there, pulling his hands away, touching Neville with a gentleness that pulls him up short. “No,” Draco says, his voice suddenly serious, holding Neville’s hands in his own. “No. I liked your hands where they were, alright?” He situates himself between Neville’s knees again, softly putting Neville’s hands on top of his own head. “Alright?” he says again, never breaking eye contact.
Neville nods.
“If it gets to be too much, just yell ‘Potter,’ alright?”
Draco laughs at what must be a horrified look on Neville’s face.
“Potter?” Neville says it like he’s got a mouthful of dragon dung fertilizer.
“Exactly. You’re not likely to randomly call out the name of the bloody chosen one while we’re in bed together, so if you do I’ll know to stop so we can talk.” Draco runs a hand along Neville’s thigh. “This is supposed to be fun, not make you mental.”
The feeling on Neville’s thigh is electric, like tiny bolts of lightning playing along his skin.
“Fun,” he repeats, soft and low. Then, settling his head back on the pillow and closing his eyes, “That’s bloody good, Draco, your hand just there. I’d call that fun.”
“I do so love how responsive you are,” Draco says. He speaks it in iambic pentameter, like he’s reciting a sonnet rather than intoning to his lover in bed. Though Draco, when he tries, is pretty with his words; he could probably actually make a sonnet of his mutterings. But on the emphasized syllables he adds extra emphasis with his fingers, and soon Neville puts rhyme and meter and Shakespeare’s Sonnets out of his mind.
“Thank you,” Neville says into the quiet room. Draco’s still teasing at his skin, but it’s easy, gentle. It’s not in a way to get him worked up, it’s just to let him know he’s not alone.
As if he could possibly forget.
But there’s something grounding about having Draco’s head under his hands, his fingers slowly running up and down his thigh. Neville feels real, feels here, and a few minutes ago his hereness had been slipping away. So he says it again. “Thank you.”
Draco presses a smile into Neville’s skin, sensitive skin inside his thigh. Barely moving, Draco says, “Let me take care of you.”
Neville’s heart does that strange flutter again. “Yes,” he breathes. “Please.” He tugs on Draco’s hair again, hoping to elicit another one of those breathtaking moans.
Draco doesn’t disappoint.
It’s incredible, the things Draco can do with his mouth. He runs his tongue up the inside of Neville’s thigh all the way to his balls. When he gets there Neville expects him to dart away in that teasing way he has, but no, he licks at Neville’s balls, tiny kitten licks that drive him wild.
“D-draco,” he stutters. “Oh, bollocks, Draco that’s–”
But then Draco’s licking a hot, wet stripe up his cock, and Neville momentarily forgets how words work.
He does it again, and again; sometimes in between he swirls his tongue around the head of Neville’s cock, finding all the most sensitive spots, and then goes back to the long, slow stripes.
They’re both breathing heavy when Draco sits up, leaning over Neville for a deep, slow kiss. “I want to keep going,” Draco says. “I want to swallow you whole.” Neville’s entire body shudders at that, and Draco smirks. “But I…” And suddenly he looks unsure, an expression that looks all wrong on Draco Malfoy’s face.
“Out with it, Malfoy,” Neville says, knowing instinctively that using the childhood moniker will give him confidence.
Draco’s eyes turn to steel. “I want to fuck you,” he says, and Neville’s dick twitches in anticipation.
“Gods, yes,” Neville says. His voice is more breath than sound, but Draco’s eyes both soften and alight with anticipation.
“Or you could–” Draco says, to be diplomatic, but Neville cuts him off.
“Fuck me, Draco. I’ve been thinking about it since the first door you pushed me up against.”
“Me?” Draco says with feigned innocence. “What about all those doors you pushed me up against?”
“Draco...” Neville tries to sound menacing, but it comes out needy instead.
“Not to mention the walls, and oh, there was that tree–”
Neville tugs at Draco’s hair, making his breath catch. “Are you planning to fuck me sometime tonight, or do I need to come back next week?”
There’s challenge in Draco’s eyes when he surges down to kiss Neville again, and Neville takes everything he gives. When Draco nips at Neville’s lower lip he moans into Draco’s mouth, and Draco gives a satisfied smirk. He thinks he’s got me all figured out, Neville thinks.
There’s a ping somewhere deep in his chest and a small voice, far in the back of his head, says, he seems to be well on his way.
Shoving that thought far, far away, Neville looks up at Draco and says, “Please, Draco?”
Draco shivers; Neville’s learning a few things too. Ten points for Gryffindor.
“Yeah,” he says, trying to catch his breath. “Yeah. Just let me, ah…” He looks around the room like he knows there’s something he’s missing but he can’t quite remember what it is.
Holding back a grin, Neville says, “Lube?” He could do it with his wand but he wants Draco’s fingers in him.
Besides, Draco doesn’t need reminders about magic.
“Right! Lube!” Neville has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing when Draco falls off the bed going for the drawer in his nightstand; he’s all pale arms and legs in a tangle when he falls, no grace whatsoever, so unlike the Draco Malfoy he’d grown up with. Draco looks at him with a scowl, says, “Don’t you dare laugh,” which of course makes the laughter tumble out of him.
“I’m sorry,” he says when he catches his breath, “but you just looked so–”
Neville’s words are cut off when Draco kisses him, long and deep.
“I…uh…what was I saying?” Neville asks when Draco lets him speak again.
“That’s better,” Draco says, only a little smug.
Smiling wickedly, Neville settles back onto the pillow. “So where were we before your little trip to the floor?”
“Just for that I’m gonna take my time,” Draco drawls.
And he does.
But Neville loves every moment, every tortuous stretch, every teasing nip from Draco, every threat that he’s not in a hurry, he can make it last all night. Draco’s fingers are as talented as his mouth, and it’s not long before Neville is dripping sweat, begging Draco to just fuck him already, his head thrashing on the pillow and his lips flowing nonsense. When he tries to touch himself, to give some relief to his aching, dripping cock, Draco lightly smacks his hand away. “Not yet,” he says. “You can wait for me.” He arches an eyebrow at Neville, and Neville wants to scream.
He thinks maybe he does scream, but he’s too far gone to know for sure.
Neville doesn’t know how long Draco takes with him, but he knows he’s absolutely wrecked when Draco kisses the inside of his thigh and asks, “You ready for the rest of me now?”
“Huh…leeeee….” Neville manages, but he’s panting, and his tongue doesn’t seem to be working properly.
It’s Draco’s turn to laugh. “Try again, pet.”
“Please.”
“There we are,” Draco says. And then he pulls his fingers out and Neville nearly cries at the loss. “Hey, it’s alright, it won’t be long,” Draco says. He wipes his fingers on a hand towel he must have had stored with the lube and then takes one of Neville’s legs and rests Neville’s leg over his shoulder, turning his head just slightly to nip at Neville’s knee.
But then he’s there, pressing into Neville, and oh yes, that’s what he’s been waiting for.
Draco’s moving ever so slowly again, and Neville wants to shout, to beg him to move already, but somehow he knows it won’t do any good. Draco is going to go at his own pace. His pace right now happens to be ‘make Neville go wild with need.’
When he’s all the way in he stops, giving Neville time to adjust. He looks down at Neville, says, “You’re gorgeous, you know. Spread out under me, practically begging without even saying a word, face flushed, eyes wide. And those curls, all wild on my pillow, I never realized your hair–”
“Draco…” It’s barely above a whisper, his voice cracked and raw.
Draco’s eyes connect with Neville’s, and Neville feels it. It’s like when he finally gets a spell right, the way the magic bubbles up in him and through him and from him.
That’s what it’s like when Draco looks into his eyes.
Magic.
“What do you need?” Draco asks.
All those pretty words you’re saying about me, Neville doesn’t say. The magic of your gaze. You, just you. Right now, yeah, but also tomorrow and tomorrow. Maybe all the tomorrows.
“Move,” Neville begs. “Please, Draco. Please move.”
It will have to be enough.
When Draco begins to move again, it is enough; the sensations are almost overwhelming, pushing him right to the edge of pleasure and over into oblivion. Neville’s clutching at Draco, trying to hold onto whatever sweat-slicked part of him he can grasp. Words are dropping from his lips, or sounds at least. He’s not sure. He knows his lips are moving, but mostly he’s just feeling.
Draco’s grey eyes smile down at him, almost smirking. “So eloquent. Should I stop and write all this–”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Neville says, and Draco laughs, hitching Neville’s leg up to get an even deeper angle.
Neville thrashes his head on the pillow, makes more incoherent sounds.
“I’m close,” Draco says, panting, eyes locked onto Neville’s again. “So close. Touch yourself. Come for me.”
It only takes a few strokes, what with Draco staring deep into his eyes and pistoning into his arse, the angle just right so every thrust drags Draco’s cock right over Neville’s prostate. Just a few strokes and he’s coming all over his stomach, hot white stripes marking his flushed skin.
He sees stars.
He’s still coming down when Draco comes deep inside him; he cries out, “Oh fuck!” when he reaches his climax, and Neville would laugh if he had the strength. The refined Draco Malfoy shouts profanity when he comes, it’s too perfect.
This whole thing is so perfect Neville is sure it’s all going to fall apart any moment. Now that they’ve both gotten some pleasure from each other…well, isn’t that what this has all been about? It had all been some odd kind of accident, and now they’d mumble awkwardly and part ways.
Right?
As Neville’s thinking all this, Draco slips out of him, and Neville can’t help but whimper at the loss. “Sorry,” Draco says. “There’s no way to make that nice.” He rolls out of the bed and disappears to somewhere else in the flat. Neville’s feeling a bit bewildered, but before he can even try to clear his head Draco is back, sitting on the edge of the bed, and he’s gently cleaning Neville’s stomach with a warm, wet flannel.
“Thanks,” Neville murmurs. He’s not sure where to look. He wants to look at the curve of Draco’s back, at the soft way his hair falls over his ear. But maybe this is over now. Maybe he should be thinking about finding his clothes.
Draco may not have a wand anymore, but he seems to be a mind reader. “You can stay the night, if you’d like.” He doesn’t look at Neville when he says it, he looks instead at the hamper where he’d just tossed the dirty flannel. “You don’t have to. But I…wouldn’t mind.”
Neville risks a glance at Draco’s face, to see if he means it. Draco’s perched on the edge of the bed, picking at a seam on the quilt. “Yeah,” Neville says, tentative. “Yeah, I could.” He rests a hand between Draco’s shoulder blades; Draco tenses for a breath, startled, then relaxes into the touch. “I mean, if you’re sure.”
“I am,” Draco says softly. He turns and looks into Neville’s eyes for the first time since they’d finished. The connection isn’t as strong as before, but it’s still there.
So Neville scoots around on the bed, wiggling awkwardly until he can get under the covers. Draco disappears again, comes back with two glasses of water. “Thanks,” Neville says, drinking deeply, thinking of how their fingers touched when Draco passed him the glass.
The flat is dark, all but a small light by the bed. Draco flips it off and slides under the covers, tucking himself against Neville. “Alright?” he asks.
“Alright,” Neville answers, pulling Draco just a little bit closer.
For a few minutes Neville listens to the sound of two men breathing. He thinks about asking what happens next. Even what happens in the morning. But soon Draco’s breaths fall into the even rhythms of sleep, so Neville just lets himself feel the weight of Draco in his arms, the softness of the blond hair against his cheek, the warm breath on his chest.