Fic: Dirty Rascal, Neville/Draco, R
Title: Dirty Rascal
Pairing: Neville/Draco
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Words: 1,700-ish
Summary: Neville knows that only a complete sop would not only take in a runaway war-criminal, but also let himself be insulted by them day and night.
Notes: For the birthday of the eternally-lickable wildestranger. Apparently she chose to make me write this pairing because she's so fond of me. Mmm. I spent weeks saying "Argh, no way can I write Neville/Draco", then I suddenly wrote the whole thing in about an hour. And it feels very weird to be posting fic that she hasn't already read through at least once! (and at midnight, while drunk, oh dear) So happy birthday! :PPPP (excessive licking)
He's out in the rose garden, pruning and tending. Hunched down on one knee, fingers deep in the dirt.
It happens quickly, with such ease that it's almost natural: an arm slipping around his chest, tightening roughly, and then the blunt pressure of a wand rested to his temple. Neville freezes, blood thumping heavily around his body. The war was over years ago, but the adrenaline rushes the same way it used to in a tough situation, that slow-burning, out-of-body sensation. He's trapped, but right now it doesn’t feel like a time for action.
"What do you want?" he asks slowly, still half-crouching, voice as cool and affable as he can make it.
He's wrenched up and around and close, finds himself staring down into wild, water-grey eyes; petty, childish eyes that settle a lazy dread low in his stomach.
Malfoy mutters "Don't move", his left hand fisted into the front of Neville's mud-smeared gardening robes, jaw clenched and proving he's far more frightened than Neville is.
"It's okay," Neville whispers, like he's petting a child. He slowly raises one arm, hand cupping around Malfoy's white-knuckled right fist. "How about you come inside?"
#
After a long bath, Malfoy looks less rabid, though he isn't much calmer. He has a wide selection of vicious, cutting insults for Neville's home and life. "Recluse," he says, with barely-concealed glee.
Neville smiles, nervous but tolerant, and pours more wine.
He knows that it's pure, simple envy. This is what Draco Malfoy wanted, expected for himself: king of the castle, surrounded by grand heirlooms and lackeys and house elves and vast grounds. Instead, he's the dirty rascal - on the run, arms and face speckled with cuts and bruises, ingrained filth lingering under his fingernails. Malfoy's skinny, awkward figure radiates anger and jealousy as he sits in front of the fire, hunched into Neville's too-large robes. Neville is quite taken by the red smear of wine on the grim line of Malfoy's thin, bitten lips, so he stops his assessment there, and is glad everything is so different from their schooldays.
"You could give yourself up," Neville finally suggests, tentatively. "There's far more dangerous criminals still out there, I doubt-"
"No." And that's that.
"You're welcome to stay."
"That bored, are we?" Malfoy sneers, spotting the weakness and immediately seizing his chance. "That lonely we'll take in a criminal for the company?"
Neville didn't expect him to understand.
#
He puts Malfoy in his grandmother's old quarters, and the next morning finds he's already referring to it, in his head, as 'Malfoy's room'.
"You never change," Malfoy tells him, catching him out in the vegetable patch at midday. Neville smiles, because everyone says that to him, and he knows it's not completely true. When his grandmother died, he tore up all the sedate, ordered flowerbeds, chopped all the sharp corners off the manicured lawns and planted what he wanted, wherever he wanted; disordered and higgledy-piggledy.
"So this is all you do with yourself, hang around gardening?"
Neville throws another carrot into the basket and stands up straight, kicking mud from the toes of his boots. "I sell fruit and vegetables, and ingredients for potions."
"All by yourself?"
"I could sell more, employ people. I'd just rather not."
"Sad bastard." Malfoy wanders off in the direction of the orchard, trampling through the strawberries as he goes.
A tiny spiteful thought in the back of Neville's head hopes Malfoy comes across the Biting Bluebells sometime during his walk.
#
And so it continues.
Malfoy is completely incapable of saying anything nice, spends the evening curled around a large goblet of wine and talking about what a waste of space Neville is; how he's no different from when he was a chubby, nervous eleven year-old.
He doesn't say thank you for Neville's protection, instead he sets up a potions lab in a guest bedroom. The next day, when one of Neville's buyers comes to browse ingredients, there's also a selection of rare potions in tiny, neatly-labelled vials for him to choose from, and he pays very good money.
Neville takes Malfoy's one, ripped and grubby set of robes to Madam Malkin's and uses the profits to buy some new ones for him, perfectly cut to the same size.
He leaves them in Malfoy's room. He doesn't get a thank you, but they do get worn.
#
He's shoved up against the kitchen counter, Malfoy's hand gripped into the front of his robes again, but instead of a wand shoved to his throat, there's a hot mouth on his. The words Never thought you'd stoop so low hang there in Neville's mind, though he knows he'll never say them aloud.
And he doesn't want to seem ungrateful. This is his thank you; Malfoy's body so skinny, fragile against his own, and hard-mouthed little kisses from those thin, sharp lips. Neville's hands feel heavy and awkward, bumping ineptly over slim, bony hips, but he refuses to feel inferior, as Malfoy gives up on kissing and fumbles frantically at the front of Neville's robes, fast breaths washing over Neville's lips.
It's over quickly, on the cold, tiled kitchen floor, side-by-side and Malfoy's delicate fingers cupped around his prick. Neville lies back, suddenly uncomfortable with the back of his skull on the hard floor. Malfoy keeps moving, a few more erratic thrusts against Neville's hip before a short gasping choke of a noise, nails scraping into Neville's stomach as he goes still.
#
Dean Thomas slouches casually in a chair at the kitchen table, says "No-one's seen you for ages" in a vaguely accusatory fashion and acts all annoyed that Neville missed 'drinks' with the 'old gang' on Sunday afternoon. Neville just smiles mildly, pushes away the answer Well that's because I'm harbouring a runaway war-criminal and keeping him as my sex-slave and tells him about the potion-maker he's employed to further his business.
Dean's eyes glaze over once potions and herbology have been mentioned, and Neville hugs both hands around his cup of tea as he talks about plants, and stands over the spot on the kitchen floor where he and Malfoy fucked, as if Dean will see it if he doesn't hide it.
The only person interested in Neville's gardens is Hermione Granger, and she's too busy juggling her job and baby to visit. The problem will be when Harry decides to turn up, because Neville's sure he'll be able to scent out the lingering presence of his childhood enemy, drifting down the stairs from where Malfoy is holed up in his lab.
#
Malfoy, dressed in an old nightshirt, wanders into Neville's bedroom supposedly just to say "So you didn't tell him?" but he loiters, then crawls under Neville's bedsheets as if it were only natural. "Surprised you didn't have it written all over your face," he adds, with his hands slipping over Neville's hips and up under his pyjama top.
"I was hardly going to tell him. What would I say?" Neville can barely breathe, barely think, Malfoy's fingertips exploring his ribcage, his nipples. "'I have Draco Malfoy staying. I fucked him here on the kitchen floor.'"
Malfoy pauses over him, almost near enough for a kiss, eyes startled wide. Neville can't quite believe those words dared leave his lips. "Fuck," Malfoy whispers, and then they're kissing, again so hard and more like biting.
It's almost too quick, this second time. Painfully clumsy, all Malfoy's sharp and knobbly bits digging into Neville's own softer flesh. A brief fight, flailing and rubbing and those desperate little choking noises Malfoy makes that are even better than last time.
"Fuck," Malfoy repeats once they've both done, while Neville is still shaking.
"And anyway," Malfoy continues, just when Neville was starting to think he'd fallen asleep, "he wouldn't have believed you if you had."
#
Dinner is generally stew of some sort, lots of vegetables, or maybe soup. "You can't cook for bollocks," Malfoy says. "You wouldn't even make a good housewife."
Neville barely notices what a crummy insult it is, instead wondering if Malfoy will sleep in his room again tonight. He replies mildly, "At least you aren't living on uncooked rabbit." Malfoy doesn't talk about where he's been, in the two years since the war ended, but Neville receives a sharp look for his comment like possibly it hit too close to home.
"Am I boring you?" Neville asks when Malfoy throws down his knife and fork.
"Yes."
Of course, Malfoy hasn't once mentioned leaving, but only because he's nowhere to go.
"I might just go to bed." Malfoy grabs the wine bottle and stomps out into the hallway, then up the stairs. When Neville finally gets up the courage to follow, maybe, just in case, Malfoy isn't in bed at all.
He is, however, in Neville's bed.
#
"Why here?" Neville asks, finally, after all that tiptoeing round it.
"Because I knew you were a soft touch, Longbottom," but the words are softened with a palm pressing down over the hand Neville has rested on Malfoy's belly.
"Or because you fancied putting your arm around me and holding me to ransom?"
He's learning to say these things out loud, because the reaction he gets is spectacular. Malfoy forces his mouth over Neville's, wet and toothy, and now they'll start up all over again, this rough and frantic sort of sex that shocks Neville every time it happens, though he loves it.
Maybe Malfoy - or Draco, as he's started saying in his head - thought he would be an easy target, to hold hostage and bring the important people running. Or the plan could have been to kill him and bury him in the rosebeds, take over the house and hope no-one noticed.
Probably, Draco will never tell him. Possibly, he doesn't really want to know.
As a schoolboy, Neville was terrified of confrontation, whole body wincing when Malfoy sneered Longbottom and his two cronies started squaring up to enjoy themselves. But now he feels he could go the rest of his life not hearing one kind word. This morning he was greeted with "Are you ever getting up, you pathetic lump?" but it was more than welcome, accompanied by Draco's cold little hands all over his skin.
Now, Draco's teeth are sliding over Neville's ear, scything round the shell of it, then lips are pressing to his temple, like that first touch of wand when he was ambushed. "Little bastard," Malfoy mutters like an endearment.
"Aren't you just," Neville says, contented.
Pairing: Neville/Draco
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Words: 1,700-ish
Summary: Neville knows that only a complete sop would not only take in a runaway war-criminal, but also let himself be insulted by them day and night.
Notes: For the birthday of the eternally-lickable wildestranger. Apparently she chose to make me write this pairing because she's so fond of me. Mmm. I spent weeks saying "Argh, no way can I write Neville/Draco", then I suddenly wrote the whole thing in about an hour. And it feels very weird to be posting fic that she hasn't already read through at least once! (and at midnight, while drunk, oh dear) So happy birthday! :PPPP (excessive licking)
He's out in the rose garden, pruning and tending. Hunched down on one knee, fingers deep in the dirt.
It happens quickly, with such ease that it's almost natural: an arm slipping around his chest, tightening roughly, and then the blunt pressure of a wand rested to his temple. Neville freezes, blood thumping heavily around his body. The war was over years ago, but the adrenaline rushes the same way it used to in a tough situation, that slow-burning, out-of-body sensation. He's trapped, but right now it doesn’t feel like a time for action.
"What do you want?" he asks slowly, still half-crouching, voice as cool and affable as he can make it.
He's wrenched up and around and close, finds himself staring down into wild, water-grey eyes; petty, childish eyes that settle a lazy dread low in his stomach.
Malfoy mutters "Don't move", his left hand fisted into the front of Neville's mud-smeared gardening robes, jaw clenched and proving he's far more frightened than Neville is.
"It's okay," Neville whispers, like he's petting a child. He slowly raises one arm, hand cupping around Malfoy's white-knuckled right fist. "How about you come inside?"
#
After a long bath, Malfoy looks less rabid, though he isn't much calmer. He has a wide selection of vicious, cutting insults for Neville's home and life. "Recluse," he says, with barely-concealed glee.
Neville smiles, nervous but tolerant, and pours more wine.
He knows that it's pure, simple envy. This is what Draco Malfoy wanted, expected for himself: king of the castle, surrounded by grand heirlooms and lackeys and house elves and vast grounds. Instead, he's the dirty rascal - on the run, arms and face speckled with cuts and bruises, ingrained filth lingering under his fingernails. Malfoy's skinny, awkward figure radiates anger and jealousy as he sits in front of the fire, hunched into Neville's too-large robes. Neville is quite taken by the red smear of wine on the grim line of Malfoy's thin, bitten lips, so he stops his assessment there, and is glad everything is so different from their schooldays.
"You could give yourself up," Neville finally suggests, tentatively. "There's far more dangerous criminals still out there, I doubt-"
"No." And that's that.
"You're welcome to stay."
"That bored, are we?" Malfoy sneers, spotting the weakness and immediately seizing his chance. "That lonely we'll take in a criminal for the company?"
Neville didn't expect him to understand.
#
He puts Malfoy in his grandmother's old quarters, and the next morning finds he's already referring to it, in his head, as 'Malfoy's room'.
"You never change," Malfoy tells him, catching him out in the vegetable patch at midday. Neville smiles, because everyone says that to him, and he knows it's not completely true. When his grandmother died, he tore up all the sedate, ordered flowerbeds, chopped all the sharp corners off the manicured lawns and planted what he wanted, wherever he wanted; disordered and higgledy-piggledy.
"So this is all you do with yourself, hang around gardening?"
Neville throws another carrot into the basket and stands up straight, kicking mud from the toes of his boots. "I sell fruit and vegetables, and ingredients for potions."
"All by yourself?"
"I could sell more, employ people. I'd just rather not."
"Sad bastard." Malfoy wanders off in the direction of the orchard, trampling through the strawberries as he goes.
A tiny spiteful thought in the back of Neville's head hopes Malfoy comes across the Biting Bluebells sometime during his walk.
#
And so it continues.
Malfoy is completely incapable of saying anything nice, spends the evening curled around a large goblet of wine and talking about what a waste of space Neville is; how he's no different from when he was a chubby, nervous eleven year-old.
He doesn't say thank you for Neville's protection, instead he sets up a potions lab in a guest bedroom. The next day, when one of Neville's buyers comes to browse ingredients, there's also a selection of rare potions in tiny, neatly-labelled vials for him to choose from, and he pays very good money.
Neville takes Malfoy's one, ripped and grubby set of robes to Madam Malkin's and uses the profits to buy some new ones for him, perfectly cut to the same size.
He leaves them in Malfoy's room. He doesn't get a thank you, but they do get worn.
#
He's shoved up against the kitchen counter, Malfoy's hand gripped into the front of his robes again, but instead of a wand shoved to his throat, there's a hot mouth on his. The words Never thought you'd stoop so low hang there in Neville's mind, though he knows he'll never say them aloud.
And he doesn't want to seem ungrateful. This is his thank you; Malfoy's body so skinny, fragile against his own, and hard-mouthed little kisses from those thin, sharp lips. Neville's hands feel heavy and awkward, bumping ineptly over slim, bony hips, but he refuses to feel inferior, as Malfoy gives up on kissing and fumbles frantically at the front of Neville's robes, fast breaths washing over Neville's lips.
It's over quickly, on the cold, tiled kitchen floor, side-by-side and Malfoy's delicate fingers cupped around his prick. Neville lies back, suddenly uncomfortable with the back of his skull on the hard floor. Malfoy keeps moving, a few more erratic thrusts against Neville's hip before a short gasping choke of a noise, nails scraping into Neville's stomach as he goes still.
#
Dean Thomas slouches casually in a chair at the kitchen table, says "No-one's seen you for ages" in a vaguely accusatory fashion and acts all annoyed that Neville missed 'drinks' with the 'old gang' on Sunday afternoon. Neville just smiles mildly, pushes away the answer Well that's because I'm harbouring a runaway war-criminal and keeping him as my sex-slave and tells him about the potion-maker he's employed to further his business.
Dean's eyes glaze over once potions and herbology have been mentioned, and Neville hugs both hands around his cup of tea as he talks about plants, and stands over the spot on the kitchen floor where he and Malfoy fucked, as if Dean will see it if he doesn't hide it.
The only person interested in Neville's gardens is Hermione Granger, and she's too busy juggling her job and baby to visit. The problem will be when Harry decides to turn up, because Neville's sure he'll be able to scent out the lingering presence of his childhood enemy, drifting down the stairs from where Malfoy is holed up in his lab.
#
Malfoy, dressed in an old nightshirt, wanders into Neville's bedroom supposedly just to say "So you didn't tell him?" but he loiters, then crawls under Neville's bedsheets as if it were only natural. "Surprised you didn't have it written all over your face," he adds, with his hands slipping over Neville's hips and up under his pyjama top.
"I was hardly going to tell him. What would I say?" Neville can barely breathe, barely think, Malfoy's fingertips exploring his ribcage, his nipples. "'I have Draco Malfoy staying. I fucked him here on the kitchen floor.'"
Malfoy pauses over him, almost near enough for a kiss, eyes startled wide. Neville can't quite believe those words dared leave his lips. "Fuck," Malfoy whispers, and then they're kissing, again so hard and more like biting.
It's almost too quick, this second time. Painfully clumsy, all Malfoy's sharp and knobbly bits digging into Neville's own softer flesh. A brief fight, flailing and rubbing and those desperate little choking noises Malfoy makes that are even better than last time.
"Fuck," Malfoy repeats once they've both done, while Neville is still shaking.
"And anyway," Malfoy continues, just when Neville was starting to think he'd fallen asleep, "he wouldn't have believed you if you had."
#
Dinner is generally stew of some sort, lots of vegetables, or maybe soup. "You can't cook for bollocks," Malfoy says. "You wouldn't even make a good housewife."
Neville barely notices what a crummy insult it is, instead wondering if Malfoy will sleep in his room again tonight. He replies mildly, "At least you aren't living on uncooked rabbit." Malfoy doesn't talk about where he's been, in the two years since the war ended, but Neville receives a sharp look for his comment like possibly it hit too close to home.
"Am I boring you?" Neville asks when Malfoy throws down his knife and fork.
"Yes."
Of course, Malfoy hasn't once mentioned leaving, but only because he's nowhere to go.
"I might just go to bed." Malfoy grabs the wine bottle and stomps out into the hallway, then up the stairs. When Neville finally gets up the courage to follow, maybe, just in case, Malfoy isn't in bed at all.
He is, however, in Neville's bed.
#
"Why here?" Neville asks, finally, after all that tiptoeing round it.
"Because I knew you were a soft touch, Longbottom," but the words are softened with a palm pressing down over the hand Neville has rested on Malfoy's belly.
"Or because you fancied putting your arm around me and holding me to ransom?"
He's learning to say these things out loud, because the reaction he gets is spectacular. Malfoy forces his mouth over Neville's, wet and toothy, and now they'll start up all over again, this rough and frantic sort of sex that shocks Neville every time it happens, though he loves it.
Maybe Malfoy - or Draco, as he's started saying in his head - thought he would be an easy target, to hold hostage and bring the important people running. Or the plan could have been to kill him and bury him in the rosebeds, take over the house and hope no-one noticed.
Probably, Draco will never tell him. Possibly, he doesn't really want to know.
As a schoolboy, Neville was terrified of confrontation, whole body wincing when Malfoy sneered Longbottom and his two cronies started squaring up to enjoy themselves. But now he feels he could go the rest of his life not hearing one kind word. This morning he was greeted with "Are you ever getting up, you pathetic lump?" but it was more than welcome, accompanied by Draco's cold little hands all over his skin.
Now, Draco's teeth are sliding over Neville's ear, scything round the shell of it, then lips are pressing to his temple, like that first touch of wand when he was ambushed. "Little bastard," Malfoy mutters like an endearment.
"Aren't you just," Neville says, contented.