(no subject)
Title: Striped Socks
Pairing: Neville/?
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: HP is not mine.
On Mondays, Neville oversleeps and has to hurry to arrive at breakfast on time. He eats two plates of eggs, three bowls of porridge, eight pieces of toast and drinks six cups of tea. Trelawney watches him inhale everything, blinking at him from beneath her glasses like a stoned owl, but she doesn't say anything.
*
On Tuesdays, Neville writes. He is working on a book about commonly overlooked plants that possess radical magical properties. He has been stuck on chapter seventeen for months now, but when he sits down in front of his desk on Tuesdays, he tells himself that it just needs a little more tweaking before it will be perfect.
*
On Wednesdays, Neville spends the afternoon in Greenhouse Four. He rolls up his sleeves and puts on his favorite apron, the one with the frayed ties. He doesn't put on gloves. When Neville plunges his hands into the pots on Wednesdays, he likes to feel the roots of the plants he is repotting scrape against his knuckles, cutting his skin, and he likes to feel the dirt between his fingers, cool and soothing.
*
On Thursdays, Neville doesn't have any morning classes. He spends his mornings at the library on Thursdays, perusing old Herbology textbooks. He picks one up at random and opens it, listening at the spine creaks with age. The dusty smell that rises from the pages settles his nerves momentarily, and he scans the index, looking for something that might have a longer-lasting effect.
*
On Fridays, Neville has classes all day. When he finally sits down at dinner on Fridays, he picks at his food listlessly. His face is smudged with dirt from where a first or second year accidently pelted him earlier, but he doesn't notice or he doesn't care. He's already thinking about Sunday.
*
On Saturdays, Neville wakes up before anyone else. He does stretches on Saturdays until the sun comes up. He does them to pass the time more than anything, but they help him relax. He showers and dresses and heads to breakfast, arriving first. He picks at his food all morning and only drinks a single cup of tea and nibbles on a piece of toast. His stomach feels like he ate a Howler; he can feel its screams reverberating through every inch of his body.
*
On Sundays, Neville goes to London.
He keeps a small flat there, but when he reaches the road where he should take a left, he takes a right instead and winds up at a little bar at the end of a narrow lane. Neville nods at the barkeep and settles into a small booth to wait.
There is no one else in the bar.
Forty-five minutes after Neville arrives, the bell on the door signals a new arrival. A slight man, dressed in a hooded sweatshirt, loose jeans and boots, steps over the threshold.
He walks to the booth where Neville is waiting with practiced familiarity, pausing only to order two beers from the barkeep. Neville is eating a plate of chips when the man slides onto the opposite bench and puts the two brimming mugs of frothy beer between them.
"It's Sunday," says Neville.
"I know," says the man.
"I wish you wouldn't wear your hood in here."
The man shrugs and pushes the hood back, revealing his face. It is deeply lined and he has dark bags beneath his eyes, but his face is thin and strong. He isn't handsome, probably never was handsome, but he has survived. Neville knows that that is more than many people can say after the second war.
They drink two beers each before they walk back to Neville's flat together. Neither of them say much on the way back. There isn't anything to say anymore.
The flat itself is tidy and sparse. The cupboards are empty and the only furniture in the flat is a mattress in the bedroom.
Neville and the dark-haired man kick off their shoes and boots at the front door. Neville dumps his long coat on the ground, shivering in the cold air of the flat. The dark-haired man pulls his hooded sweatshirt off, revealing a bare chest beneath.
They head for the mattress immediately, discarding their socks and belts and Neville's shirt along the way.
The man sits down on the edge of the mattress and Neville crawls on top of him, straddling him with his legs. He runs a hand through the man's short black hair as he kisses him slowly. The man's lips are dry and cracked and he kisses Neville back hard.
Neville pushes his hand into the narrow strip of space between the man's stomach and his jeans, touching the man's dick softly.
"Stop being a tease," the man tells Neville.
Neville shifts his head and kisses the man's collarbone instead of his lips. With his free hand, Neville unzips the man's jeans and pulls his boxers down over his hips. The man shudders beneath Neville's mouth as his dick is exposed to the cold air.
Neville removes his hand from the man's hair and runs it lightly across his torso, massaging the man's breast before skimming over his abs. He is slight and small and almost twenty years older than Neville, but he is better built, as if he spends all week working out, as if he doesn't have anything else to do.
He grabs the man's dick with his hand and strokes it. The man arches his back, thrusting against Neville's hand roughly. He pulls Neville's pants down, trapping them around his knees, and closes his own hand around Neville's dick, mimicking Neville's movements.
Neville gasps, his mouth hanging open slightly, eyes screwed up tight. The man reaches around Neville with his free hand and with a quick lurch, Neville finds himself on the mattress on his back, with the man looming over him.
With one hand, the man grabs Neville's wand out of his pocket and points it at Neville's arms. A thin black rope twists itself around his wrists, tying them together. Then the man drops Neville's wand on the mattress next to his head and grabs both their dicks with one of his small hands and begins to rub them together.
The friction shoots warmth through Neville's body and he feels his toes tingle. The man gropes at his chest with his free hand, pressing his fingers into Neville's ribs desperately as he strokes their dicks simultaneously.
Neville feels his chest heave and he holds his breath. The man comes before he does and he stops stroking them instantly. Neville groans as the man removes his hand from his dick, but he shuts up when the man runs his tongue down the length of his dick a moment later. He breathes in sharply as the man teases his dick with his tongue.
Neville comes within a minute.
The man smiles and crawls further up the mattress, until his body is stretched out alongside Neville's. They lay there silently, listening to the rise and fall of each other's chests, for twenty minutes. Then, without uttering a world, they both move at the same time. They walk through the flat, gathering their clothing and pulling it back onto their bodies, until the flat suddenly seems too warm against their suffocating skin.
They leave as quickly as they came, Neville shutting the door to his flat and locking it behind him.
On Sundays, Neville skips dinner and goes to his quarters immediately. He doesn't take a shower, even though his joints ache from the cold of London. He wants the man's smell to linger a little while longer.
When he pulls off his dirty clothes before crawling into bed, Neville notices the socks. All his socks are solid back, but the socks in his hands have dark green stripes. Neville stares at the socks for a minute before he smiles and tosses them into his laundry hamper with the rest of his clothing.
Neville thinks it is a good thing that house-elves aren't inclined to gossip, because he knows that Regulus's socks in his laundry would give them enough to talk about for weeks.
For the moment, however, everything is well. Until tomorrow, anyway. Until Monday, when the week repeats.
Pairing: Neville/?
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: HP is not mine.
On Mondays, Neville oversleeps and has to hurry to arrive at breakfast on time. He eats two plates of eggs, three bowls of porridge, eight pieces of toast and drinks six cups of tea. Trelawney watches him inhale everything, blinking at him from beneath her glasses like a stoned owl, but she doesn't say anything.
*
On Tuesdays, Neville writes. He is working on a book about commonly overlooked plants that possess radical magical properties. He has been stuck on chapter seventeen for months now, but when he sits down in front of his desk on Tuesdays, he tells himself that it just needs a little more tweaking before it will be perfect.
*
On Wednesdays, Neville spends the afternoon in Greenhouse Four. He rolls up his sleeves and puts on his favorite apron, the one with the frayed ties. He doesn't put on gloves. When Neville plunges his hands into the pots on Wednesdays, he likes to feel the roots of the plants he is repotting scrape against his knuckles, cutting his skin, and he likes to feel the dirt between his fingers, cool and soothing.
*
On Thursdays, Neville doesn't have any morning classes. He spends his mornings at the library on Thursdays, perusing old Herbology textbooks. He picks one up at random and opens it, listening at the spine creaks with age. The dusty smell that rises from the pages settles his nerves momentarily, and he scans the index, looking for something that might have a longer-lasting effect.
*
On Fridays, Neville has classes all day. When he finally sits down at dinner on Fridays, he picks at his food listlessly. His face is smudged with dirt from where a first or second year accidently pelted him earlier, but he doesn't notice or he doesn't care. He's already thinking about Sunday.
*
On Saturdays, Neville wakes up before anyone else. He does stretches on Saturdays until the sun comes up. He does them to pass the time more than anything, but they help him relax. He showers and dresses and heads to breakfast, arriving first. He picks at his food all morning and only drinks a single cup of tea and nibbles on a piece of toast. His stomach feels like he ate a Howler; he can feel its screams reverberating through every inch of his body.
*
On Sundays, Neville goes to London.
He keeps a small flat there, but when he reaches the road where he should take a left, he takes a right instead and winds up at a little bar at the end of a narrow lane. Neville nods at the barkeep and settles into a small booth to wait.
There is no one else in the bar.
Forty-five minutes after Neville arrives, the bell on the door signals a new arrival. A slight man, dressed in a hooded sweatshirt, loose jeans and boots, steps over the threshold.
He walks to the booth where Neville is waiting with practiced familiarity, pausing only to order two beers from the barkeep. Neville is eating a plate of chips when the man slides onto the opposite bench and puts the two brimming mugs of frothy beer between them.
"It's Sunday," says Neville.
"I know," says the man.
"I wish you wouldn't wear your hood in here."
The man shrugs and pushes the hood back, revealing his face. It is deeply lined and he has dark bags beneath his eyes, but his face is thin and strong. He isn't handsome, probably never was handsome, but he has survived. Neville knows that that is more than many people can say after the second war.
They drink two beers each before they walk back to Neville's flat together. Neither of them say much on the way back. There isn't anything to say anymore.
The flat itself is tidy and sparse. The cupboards are empty and the only furniture in the flat is a mattress in the bedroom.
Neville and the dark-haired man kick off their shoes and boots at the front door. Neville dumps his long coat on the ground, shivering in the cold air of the flat. The dark-haired man pulls his hooded sweatshirt off, revealing a bare chest beneath.
They head for the mattress immediately, discarding their socks and belts and Neville's shirt along the way.
The man sits down on the edge of the mattress and Neville crawls on top of him, straddling him with his legs. He runs a hand through the man's short black hair as he kisses him slowly. The man's lips are dry and cracked and he kisses Neville back hard.
Neville pushes his hand into the narrow strip of space between the man's stomach and his jeans, touching the man's dick softly.
"Stop being a tease," the man tells Neville.
Neville shifts his head and kisses the man's collarbone instead of his lips. With his free hand, Neville unzips the man's jeans and pulls his boxers down over his hips. The man shudders beneath Neville's mouth as his dick is exposed to the cold air.
Neville removes his hand from the man's hair and runs it lightly across his torso, massaging the man's breast before skimming over his abs. He is slight and small and almost twenty years older than Neville, but he is better built, as if he spends all week working out, as if he doesn't have anything else to do.
He grabs the man's dick with his hand and strokes it. The man arches his back, thrusting against Neville's hand roughly. He pulls Neville's pants down, trapping them around his knees, and closes his own hand around Neville's dick, mimicking Neville's movements.
Neville gasps, his mouth hanging open slightly, eyes screwed up tight. The man reaches around Neville with his free hand and with a quick lurch, Neville finds himself on the mattress on his back, with the man looming over him.
With one hand, the man grabs Neville's wand out of his pocket and points it at Neville's arms. A thin black rope twists itself around his wrists, tying them together. Then the man drops Neville's wand on the mattress next to his head and grabs both their dicks with one of his small hands and begins to rub them together.
The friction shoots warmth through Neville's body and he feels his toes tingle. The man gropes at his chest with his free hand, pressing his fingers into Neville's ribs desperately as he strokes their dicks simultaneously.
Neville feels his chest heave and he holds his breath. The man comes before he does and he stops stroking them instantly. Neville groans as the man removes his hand from his dick, but he shuts up when the man runs his tongue down the length of his dick a moment later. He breathes in sharply as the man teases his dick with his tongue.
Neville comes within a minute.
The man smiles and crawls further up the mattress, until his body is stretched out alongside Neville's. They lay there silently, listening to the rise and fall of each other's chests, for twenty minutes. Then, without uttering a world, they both move at the same time. They walk through the flat, gathering their clothing and pulling it back onto their bodies, until the flat suddenly seems too warm against their suffocating skin.
They leave as quickly as they came, Neville shutting the door to his flat and locking it behind him.
On Sundays, Neville skips dinner and goes to his quarters immediately. He doesn't take a shower, even though his joints ache from the cold of London. He wants the man's smell to linger a little while longer.
When he pulls off his dirty clothes before crawling into bed, Neville notices the socks. All his socks are solid back, but the socks in his hands have dark green stripes. Neville stares at the socks for a minute before he smiles and tosses them into his laundry hamper with the rest of his clothing.
Neville thinks it is a good thing that house-elves aren't inclined to gossip, because he knows that Regulus's socks in his laundry would give them enough to talk about for weeks.
For the moment, however, everything is well. Until tomorrow, anyway. Until Monday, when the week repeats.