Drabbles

“That’s two.” 

The words were low, spoken almost directly into her ear. Pansy could practically feel the rumble of them against her ribcage, the timbre knowing and gently warning. It was a tone that made her want to melt, to feel those vibrations flush with her body, but she kept her spine straight. 

She wasn’t supposed to be melting. She was supposed to be resisting.

Neville paired the remark with a two-fingered stroke down her spine, the gesture concealed from their friends milling around Hermione and Draco’s living room but unmistakable to her. She was on her second strike. Three, and he’d stop. And wouldn’t start again until the morning.

He replaced his hand on her hip and took a sip from his glass with the other, the scent of cider perfuming the air. And then he started bouncing his leg again, the cadence casual to anyone not currently sitting astride it.

He’d been edging her all day, starting in the shower where he’d let her stroke him solid while he’d thumbed at her nipples and murmured praises about how good her fist felt and how pretty she looked, all soaking wet and soapy, and if she was all hot and wet on the inside, too. It had made her crazy for him, as it always did, but rather than press her to the shower wall and pull her hips out to meet his, he’d gently pulled her hand off him, pecked a soft kiss to her lips, and stepped out of the stall. 

She’d stared, open-mouthed and disbelieving, as he’d toweled himself dry, cock bobbing persistently with the motion, and then begun to dress.

Fuck, she’d thought. He wanted to play today.

After the shower, when she’d been making them breakfast, he’d pinned her to the counter with his hips, the lingering evidence of her efforts still notable against her bum, only to reach over her shoulder for a mug and drop another chaste kiss to her cheek. 

And then, when she’d been reading on the sofa that afternoon, he’d wrapped his hands around her ankles in order to lift her legs to take a seat, knowing full well that the sight and sensation of his big hands encircling her delicate bones made her throb for him. He’d finally earned himself a glare of acknowledgment that she knew he was deliberately turning her on, but he’d given her nothing more than a soft smile in return, playing the fool, and picked up his own book.

Pansy wasn’t docile – she was quite happy to exert her own power over him when the occasion called for it – but the deliberate way he was working her up tingled deliciously down her spine. She loved her sweet, mild-mannered husband and his wicked penchant for making her come so hard she trembled.

He teased her again while they dressed for the casual gathering at the Granger-Malfoy’s, honoring Hermione’s latest something or other at work, clasping her bra for her and reaching around to adjust her breasts in the cups with a touch more attention to detail than was strictly necessary. 

He’d been hands-off when they’d arrived at the party, making her half believe he’d put their game on pause until they were home again. 

But then, when she’d complained that her feet were beginning to hurt, he’d pulled her down onto his lap with a sympathetic sound, something she’d found both considerate and romantic at the time. When he’d casually pulled her back against his chest, arms banding sweetly around her middle, she’d taken a moment to count her lucky stars at having found a partner like Nev.

And then he’d shifted below her, lifting her slightly to drape her over a single thigh, and she’d been reminded, quite acutely, of the actual sort of man she’d bound herself to.

At the first bounce of his thigh, her breath had caught in her throat at the realization that, oh gods, he was going to do it right here, in front of their friends and Hermione’s work colleagues, in a room well lit by the godsdamned summer afternoon sunshine.

She'd tried to resist it – to not prove just how easy she was for him - but damnit, the resistance only made her want it more. 

“Don’t tell me even this turns you on,” he’d tutted when she’d failed the first time, hips jerking over the firmness below her, and earned a strike. “Merlin, you’ve been eager all day. Who knew my wife was such a fucking little whore.”

She’d shuddered involuntarily at the honorific, at the taunt. At the knowledge that he was riling himself up just as much. 

Because that was how it was with them. Sometimes he’d just look at her and she’d be ready for him; or she’d lean just-so over their kitchen counter and he’d be behind her, cock hard and hands insistent on his fly. The hold they had on one another was soul-deep and scalding hot. She burned for him; yearned for him.

And he cherished it the way he did all things precious and growing: he cultivated it. 

“I’m not,” she’d hissed, because denying it made her hot and made him determined to prove it.

“Hm.” He’d slid the hand on her hip down to the top of her thigh, toying absently with the fringe at the hem of her shorts. The barely-there brushes had made blood throb at her wrists and throat and clit. 

“Would a good girl wear these? I can practically see your arse when you walk around.” 

“You told me to wear them,” she’d reminded him under her breath.

He’d hummed again. “Do good girls let other people dress them like this? Let themselves be put on display?”

She’d bitten her lip, hard, when he’d paired the musing with firm flex upward, giving her pressure from her clit to her arse. Her lack of response had made him hum again.

Now, he handed her his cider, trailing the empty hand up her forearm, leaving tracks of condensation in his wake, summoning goosebumps and the corresponding tightening of her nipples. 

“Hold it for me,” he murmured, and she felt her cheeks heat at the double-meaning. She nodded and felt his smile against the side of her head where his lips pressed in a quick kiss. “That's my girl. Don’t spill it.”

She braced herself for the inevitable but even so, couldn’t fight the friction of his bouncing leg. The inner seam of the little shorts she’d worn had ridden up so far that her cunt had been forced to part and every bounce had her clit rubbing directly against the saturated material of her knickers. She held onto the glass as best she could, the gentle sloshing of the cider evocative in its own way. 

“Fuck, Neville,” she whimpered between her teeth, hyper-aware of the way Theo had just glanced over at them from across the room. “Oh gods, don’t–”

He hummed a satisfied sound but casually eased his leg to a stop. She wondered if he was hard again, and the thought threatened her control even more. If he asked, she’d be on her knees between his thighs in an instant, tongue out, eyes up, hungry. Fuck the spectators – let them see what a good little wife she could be.

“I can feel you throbbing against me,” he whispered, low and knowing. “What’re you thinking about?”

The weight of him. The thickness and the ridges. The flare of his crown. The swell of his shaft. The way he stretched her, made her squeeze. The way he throbbed just as needily for her. 

Her hips slid forward on his thigh and the added burst of sensation made her orgasm surge, the heat and pressure suddenly all-consuming. He held her still immediately, fingers tight around her hip and thigh.

“Pansy,” he warned.

She keened, hips aching to grind, cunt throbbing with the need to spill over the edge. Her hand was wet with cider, sticky and dripping.

“Get up.” He gave her an encouraging push forward and she got to her feet on shaky legs, shooting what she hoped was a wry smile in Theo's direction but which missed the mark, judging by the amused grin he sent back. 

Neville guided her through the room to the hall, hand steady on her lower back and voice utterly relaxed as he shared passing remarks with people Pansy didn’t care to focus on long enough to name. They turned a corner and he drew to a halt, leaning his back against the wall and pulling her close, shoving his thigh back between her legs.

“How little would it take?” Neville asked, voice goading but quiet in the vacant hall.

His fingers trailed lightly over her collarbones on their way down her scoop-necked shirt. He brushed her nipples through the thin fabric and her walls throbbed so hard, her eyes half rolled back. He tutted.

“Pansy, if you have an orgasm in Draco’s hallway just from me petting over your tits, then…” He trailed off, expression faux-sympathetic. Then she really was a miserable little whore.

It shattered her control.

She grabbed for him, fists curling in his jumper at the collar and chest, hips rocking insistently and without finesse, grinding her needy, throbbing, little-whore cunt over his thigh without thought of the consequences. 

Neville groaned, chest-deep and wrecked, shoving his foot further out and sliding down the wall a few inches so that his leg was solid under her, flexed and thick. She dropped a hand to the bulge in his trousers, jaw going lax at the validation that he was just as worked up as her. The shape of him was etched into her palm, and only being allowed to cup him over the material of his trousers was making her head swim.

She wanted to feel him in her hand, in her mouth, pushing inside, making her take him-

He yanked her hand off his collar and sucked her first two fingers into his mouth, and she came on a breathy whine, the wet suction of his mouth and the darkness of his expression so delicious for what it promised when they got home. 

He watched her work herself over him, the tops of his cheeks flushed and chest heaving. She pressed down on his tongue as her hips coasted to a stop, body suffused with heat and primed for what she could feel, solid and pulsing, under her hand.

“Holy fuck, Pansy,” he grit out, the words muffled around her fingers. 

Her fingers were damp from his mouth and the remnants of the spilled cider; her hair tousled and her shorts, already indecent, now obscene. But for once, she didn’t care about her appearance. Not when it was now his turn to be destroyed. 

She went up on her toes to press a kiss to his mouth, making sure to lean forward so he felt the plushness of her tits, the pressure of her hand, the suggestive twitch of her hips high on his leg.

“Whores make the best wives,” she whispered, lips brushing his. “And you certainly make me the best I can be.”

He grunted against her mouth and sought her when she pulled away.

“Come on,” she chirped, taking a step back and holding out her hand. “I think Draco is bringing pudding out soon and I’m suddenly starving for something filled with cream." 

His nostrils flared but he let himself be led back to the lounge.