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Pansy Parkinson has a Pavlovian response to men in suspenders.
Scratch that.
Pansy Parkinson has a Pavlovian response to Neville Longbottom in suspenders.
Perhaps it started at Draco and Hermione’s engagement party, which was supposed to be a small gathering, but quickly became a haze of alcohol and body heat and undone top buttons and loose ties and sweaty white shirts and… those bloody suspenders.
(It could have also started during Fourth Year—Yule Ball, dress shirts under robes, a slightly-chubby Gryffindor looking entirely too endearing with straps that kept falling off his shoulders—or Eighth Year—post war, another Yule Ball, a slightly-taller, certainly-more-muscular, still Gryffindor man partying with his friends like his life depended on it.)
None of those potential starting points matter though, because Pansy doesn’t need to recall the past to be certain that it continued during wedding planning. Neville Longbottom in suspenders during the engagement party. Neville Longbottom in suspenders during stag night. Neville Longbottom in suspenders while perfecting the floral arrangements.
Neville Longbottom in suspenders. Neville Longbottom in suspenders. Neville Longbottom in suspenders.
It’s an obsession on Pansy’s part, and she wants more than anything for it to end with sweaty sheets in her bedroom.
Tonight, preferably.
Because Neville Longbottom is in suspenders in the middle of the dance floor during Draco and Hermione’s wedding, looking entirely too handsome for his own good, and Pansy has had enough with the constantly-wet knickers, heated looks, cold showers, and less-than-earth-shattering solo orgasms.
“—do it during the best man's speech. That’s romantic, right? The best man and the man of honour getting engaged during a wedding?”
“Sorry, what?” Has Theo been talking this entire time?
Theo snorts. “Would you please stop eye-fucking Longbottom for one merlin-forsaken-minute and listen to me?”
She nearly chokes on her champagne. “I was not eye-fucking him,” she grits out between clenched teeth.
Defensiveness: a default response when defending one’s actions when caught.
“Eye-fucking, oogling, sending bedroom eyes, pining, yearning, feeling sexually frustrated. Take your pick, that’s you.”
“Go give your synonyms to Granger. I don’t want them. I am busy right now, trying to figure out—”
“Why you’re obsessed with his suspenders?”
This time, she does choke on her wine. “I—you—”
“There, there,” Theo says, as he claps her on the back. He bends down to whisper in her ear, and from the tone of his voice, she just knows he’s waggling his eyebrows along with it. “I have eyes, you know. His shoulders do look wonderfully broad in that shirt.”
“Do fuck off, Theodore.”
“Not unless you dance with him.”
“Are you insane?”
“No. And if you took a break from your filthy fantasies—now and every other time we’ve been in this exact situation—you’d realize that he looks at you the same way.”
“He does not. And that is not me admitting to looking at him in any certain way.”
“Are you sure about that?” A pause. “And yes, he does.”
“Yes, I’m sure, and no, he does not.”
“He does.”
“Does not.”
“Does too.”
“Does n—”
“Let’s bet on it. One dance with him, and I’ll let you plan my wedding.”
“You’re not even engaged.”
“Not yet, but I will be. Tonight, preferably.”
She blinks, and then narrows her eyes. Wasn’t she the one who thought the same thing about exceedingly different circumstances, only minutes ago? Or had that been Theo, trying to get her attention? “Fine. I’ll plan the wedding, and choose the ring, because I just know that if you really do have a ring in your pocket, it’s god-awful. Even if your and Potter’s taste is the definition of god-awful, he deserves something better from his future husband.”
A nod. “Noted. Now go get your man.”
“Okay.” No denial this time, as she stomps towards the center of the room. “Oh and Theo?” She spins around, and continues walking backwards.
“Yeah?”
“Under no circumstances will you propose to Potter during this wedding or I will castra—oomph!”
In her haste to make sure her good-for-nothing best friend knows that it’s tacky and disrespectful to propose to his boyfriend during their other good-for-nothing best friend’s wedding, she wasn’t looking where she was going.
“Woah there, Pansy, are you okay?” Warm hands—large hands—steady her shoulders and spin her around. Green eyes, beautiful eyes—panicked eyes?—searching hers and reassure that she’s alright.
“I am now.” She grimaces. “I mean—I was before, too, I really was. I just wasn’t looking where I was going, you know? And then I ended up bumping into you, which—hi.”
“Hi back.”
He smiles and it’s so unlike those stupid smirks her Slytherin boys love to send at her. It’s soft. And warm. And gentle. It’s everything she loves, it’s everything Neville, and everything she’ll never deserve. She breaks eye contact, which was a bad idea, because she’s so small compared to him that when he stands up completely straight, she’s eye-level with his chest. His broad, muscular chest that she can see through his sweaty shirt. His chest, which is adorned with two wonderfully thick, black suspenders.
To a person like Pansy Parkinson, style is not subjective. There’s bad style (i.e. Theodore Nott, Harry Potter) and good style (i.e. Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger-Malfoy [reluctantly included on this list], and Neville Longbottom).
And there lies the kicker. Because not only is Neville Longbottom constantly wearing suspenders and looking sinfully good while doing it, but his suspenders always match the color of his suit.
Brown on brown, for tending to his garden.
Grey on grey, for the Granger-Malfoy engagement bash.
And today, for the Granger-Malfoy wedding, Neville is wearing black on black. The contrast of his black straps to his crisp white shirt is enough to make her drool, and that’s not taking into account the fact that his tie is loose around his neck and his top two shirt buttons are undone.
“Pansy?”
Gods, she really needs to stop spacing out like that. “Yeah?”
He chuckles, loudly, and if her knickers weren’t already wet from his outfit and if her heart wasn’t already racing from his proximity, they would be both of those things from the sheer sound of it.
He looks at her then, green eyes and gorgeous grin, and reiterates: “You look good.”
She adds “warmth radiating from his compliment” to her internal list of things-to-note-about-how-I-react-to-Neville. “Oh. Thank you. You look wonderful as well. I was noting how appreciative I am about how your suspenders match your suit jacket.”
“They do indeed,” he chuckles, “I think Ron just couldn’t be bothered to buy new ones.”
Pansy wouldn’t know anything about Ronald Weasley’s supposedly-mismatched suspenders because she hasn’t taken notice of them. Ever. Still, that doesn’t stop her from noting: “He has a million men in his family. I’m sure he has thousands of galleons from the war royalties. He could borrow, or buy new. If he wanted to make an effort, he would.”
They spend the next moment in silence. A moment of horrible, awkward silence. Silence that speaks in stilted sentences and whispers about with friends afterward. And he then breaks it by asking: “Would you like to dance?”
That’s…not what she was expecting. “Would I like to what?”
“Dance. Would you, Pansy Parkinson, like to dance with me.” His words are no longer a question.
“With you.” Neither are hers.
“Yes.”
She holds her hand out in response. He grabs it—engulfs it, really—and drags her out to the dance floor just as a slow song starts playing.
His large, delightfully warm, hands settle on her waist. Not high and not low, because as she flexes his hand against her back and spreads his fingers, he spans almost the entire length from the undersides of her breasts to the top of her arse. In addition to having large hands, Neville is also exceedingly tall. With him being the tallest out of all their circle of peers and with her being the shortest, their height difference is almost comical. Even with her in heels, he’s too tall for her to be able to clasp her fingers around his neck, so instead, she rests her arms on top of him and lightly clutches his biceps (which are very toned, from her minimal probing) as support.
It shouldn’t be a shock to see a Slytherin and a Gryffindor—a hero and a pariah—together, given who’s wedding they’re at, but society’s views progress at a snail’s pace and so Pansy knows, realistically, that people are staring at them. She can’t find herself to care, however, because it feels right , being here, in Neville’s arms. It’s peaceful, and perfect as they sway back and forth, communicating solely through touch and looks of longing.
And when it’s over, as the music fades out and swells back with a new tune even stronger, they don’t let go.
They dance together for the rest of the night.
They hold onto each other, her back to his chest, his chin on top of her hair, during the send-off.
They hold hands and wander the grounds of the Manor, holding their own after-party with soft touches and quiet conversation.
She’s in his arms again, looking up at his face illuminated in the moonlight, toying with the clip of his suspenders when he tells her he’s been meaning to ask her out—breakfast, maybe—for ages. He just didn’t know if she was interested.
“I’m past interested, at this point.”
“Oh yeah? Since when?”
“Since—” First year. Asking her if she’s seen a toad. Seventh year. Standing up against the Carrows. Eighth Year. Hugging her on graduation day. After Hogwarts. Hearing that he was training to be a healer, specializing in medicinal plants. Seeing the Prophet article about his revolutionary greenhouse. Him asking if she needs help with greenery for the wedding. “—always, if I’m being honest.”
And when he asks if he can kiss her in that wonderfully gruff voice of his, she answers by grabbing both of his suspender straps and yanking his mouth to hers.
The door slams against the wall behind them as they tumble into her room. Tomorrow, when they leave, they’ll notice a door-handle-shaped puncture in the wall. Pansy will play it off as an uncharacteristic act of desperation and ask Theo to pay for the damages (who gladly accepts, out of sheer glee considering it got her laid). But for now, she pays it no mind as she drags Neville even further into the room and somehow gets the door closed behind them.
It’s a struggle to keep their mouths connected due to their height difference, but Neville kisses her as if she’s breaking a drought and he can’t bear to be left dry again, and when he picks her up and wraps her legs around his waist and snogs her languidly, it isn’t an issue any longer.
But things can only stay static for so long.
Neville suddenly shifts her in his arms, and with the new angle she can feel him hot and hard against her thigh.
Desperation manifests as want, as greed, as urgency, as Pansy pushes at his shoulders (his lovely, beautiful, sculpted shoulders) until he takes the hint and starts moving backwards. The backs of his knees hit the bed and he collapses onto it with a surprising amount of grace, dragging her down with him. And then she’s straddling his lap and trying to tug shirt open and their spell of silence is broken.
“Pansy—Pans—can—we— mmph!”
“Can—we—what?” She manages, between kisses. She doesn’t want to be doing anything other than unclipping his bloody suspenders, stripping him bare, and riding him into oblivion. But he’s insisting on talking, so she frees his mouth and starts nipping at his jaw. Laving at his pulse-point.
“Ca—can we stop?”
The mortification hits her as strongly as an Impedimenta. Theo was wrong—she was wrong. Not about Neville Longbottom being bloody fucking fit with his blazer off and his suspenders showing—that is an indisputable, universal truth—but about him liking her, wanting her back.
Neville seems to read her mind as she jolts off his lap, and she wouldn’t even be surprised if he is able to perform Legilimancy, because he is chock full of surprises. That, and she never could hold her poor excuse of Occlumency shields during vulnerable moments. “It’s not that, at all, so please don’t go and think that. Pansy,” he grabs her hand, preventing her from stepping farther than two steps back, eyes nearly pleading, “Please. I wasn’t lying when I said I’ve been wanting to ask you out, I just—can I—can we talk?”
She nods meekly.
“I do want you, I promise, I just—”
What in Merlin’s name does he possibly have to say? “Spit it out.”
“Gods, I’ve never done this before, okay? Any of this. Ever.”
Pansy blinks, not understanding. She’s never wanted anybody as badly as she wants him at this moment, but that can’t be…is he saying … “Done what? Speak plainly.”
He flushes violently—which she hardly notices because her gaze is flickering between his stupid suspenders and his heaving, sculpted chest and the absurdly large bulge in his trousers—and throws his hands up in exasperation, “Been with someone!”
“Plainly, Longbottom,” she grits.
“I’ve never had sex!”
Stupefied silence.
What is she supposed to do with this information?
The color on his face—which was so abundant and blooming just mere moments before—drains rapidly. He shuts his eyes tightly, as if pained, and drops her hand. He drags his own across his face and sighs. Opens his mouth to say something—that he’s going to leave, probably—but she cuts him off.
“Do you want to?”
“Do I want to what?”
Salazar fucking Slytherin. She grits her teeth and spells it out for him, because apparently the two of them are just a massive, walking miscommunication. “Do you want to have sex?” No answer. Perhaps he’ll enjoy some synonyms. “We could also shag. Or fuck. Or make love, but we should probably go on a date or three before that. How about engage in intercourse?”
Still no answer.
“Forget it,” she sighs. She should probably leave, but then she adds, “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to pressure you, or anything, and I want to make it clear that I’m not at all trying to make you feel bad for saying no, I just—”
“I would like to, yes.” He blinks. “With you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. You’ll have to teach me, though.”
Heat flares in her core and she nods. She can do this. Maybe. If only she knew where on earth she is supposed to begin with this. Has he…
“Have you ever done anything with a partner?”
“I’ve kissed people.” She nods—she’d deduced as much. “And, errr…there were…”
“Were what?”
“I’ve had a couple of handjobs. At Hogwarts. Eighth Year, Hannah and I were together for a bit and well…it happened, I guess.”
Pansy ignores the pang of jealousy that hits her at the thought of Hannah fucking Abbott touching Neville’s cock. Neville’s cock, which she hasn’t even seen yet, but she already feels possessive of.
“So you haven’t been sucked off?”
He startles. “No—”
Good.
“—but you don’t have to.”
“I want to.” She can be his first and ruin him for anyone else.
He gulps. “O-okay. Should—should I move? Or uhh, how do you want me?”
“Right there.” She kicks off her heels and sighs as her feet relax against the carpet. She takes those two steps again, forward this time, steps between his legs and rests her forehead atop his. She kisses him for a moment, which turns into two, which turns into three, which turns into her almost sitting on top of him again until she snaps out of the haze brought on by his snogging skills and drops to her knees.
“The floor can’t be comfortable.”
“It’s fine.” She sits back on her heels, hands prim and proper on her lap in front of her.
“Are you su—”
“Shut up and take off your pants.”
He listens, and what a sight he is to watch. Unclipping his suspender straps. Unbuttoning his trousers. Lifting up, just slightly off the bed, just enough to slide his trousers down his legs.
He’s wearing plain black boxer briefs underneath, which are already strained, but tighten even more at her perusal.
“Those too,” she whispers. “Take them off.”
“Yeah, al-alright.” He clenches his eyes shut, whispers something under his breath, and they’re gone in the next second. So are his pants. And his shoes. And his socks, shirt, suspenders.
What the…did he just…and wandlessly?
Although Pansy is momentarily shocked at how much she’s turned on by his magical display, the size and sight of his cock—free, flushed, and weeping— is what makes her mouth water.
Salazar save me, she thinks.
“Godric help me,” he mutters, “I’m not going to last ten seconds with you staring at me like that.”
She just smiles at him, sweet and genuine and only slightly wicked, as she leans forward and drags her nails up his legs and towards his pelvis. Gooseflesh forms in her wake as her hands ascend up up up until she’s gripping him.
Or… trying her best to grip him. He’s… large. Which shouldn’t be a surprise, considering their size difference, but never once in her Neville-in-suspenders induced fantasies did she consider the reality of her hand not being anywhere close to fitting all the way around the girth of him.
And so she puts her other hand up to assist. Drags them up his length, down and around the head, collecting his precum and smearing it. Uses them to angle him up, as she bends down and draws the head of his cock towards her mouth.
One open-mouthed kiss to his tip, just one, is all it takes for him to clench his hand in a fist and bring it to his mouth, biting down as if he’s not allowed to make a sound. But his eyes are large and wanting, never leaving hers.
She runs the flat of her tongue along the underside of him up and down and up again. Towards the tip, which she swirls her tongue around, takes between her lips, and sucks.
It’s not her first time going down on a man, but nothing or nobody has ever made her feel more powerful or more turned on than she does now, on her knees for Neville, watching him struggle to maintain his composure. Maybe it’s because he’s a virgin in awe and can’t believe he got to be in this situation without a vial of liquid luck, but Pansy thinks the warmth in his eyes speaks of affection. That the softness to which he skims her jaw, pulls her hair out of her bun, and rubs his thumb across her cheek promises of a connection.
This experience, unlike her others, is intimate. It should scare her, but it doesn’t. And it’s all of this, in combination with the heat in his stare, that emboldens her.
“How does it feel?” she murmurs against him. “Does it feel good?”
He doesn’t answer. Not explicitly, at least. Instead, he clenches his eyes shut, throws his head back, and moans. Loudly. The vibrations of it go straight to her core and she clenches around nothing. She would be mortified at how she’s dripping through her knickers and onto the expensive, ornate carpet belonging to her best friend if it weren’t for the nonsensical words spill out of Neville’s lips. “Gods you’re pretty. So fucking pretty.”
“That’s not an answer. How does it feel?”
And then she opens her jaw wider and takes him in deep. As deep as he can go, which is only about halfway before the tip of his cock hits the back of her throat and then—
“ So fucking good. You are so g— fuck! I’m going to—”
It’s quick, but she was expecting for it to be. He comes—with her name on his lips and his hands in her hair, looking down at her in awe as she swallows it all—and ruin him she does.
She watches as he flops down onto his back, boneless. Breathing hard, flushed from head to toe. She stands up on wobbly legs and crawls up the bed, curling up by the headboard and brushing his hair out of his eyes. “Let me,” he pants, “let me try to make you feel like this. With my mouth. Tell me how.”
She freezes. That… is something she’s never done. Not that any of her previous partners haven’t wanted to, she just would rather have them not try than come out of it disappointed. Always the self-preserving Slytherin.
“Pansy?” A warm hand to her jaw accompanies his words.
“Hmm?”
“Where’d you go?”
“I’m right here.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He pulls his hand away from her face and runs it through his hair. Pauses before his next words. “Are you done? Do—do you want me to leave?”
“Do I want you to leave?” She scoffs, “Of course not. We’re getting breakfast tomorrow, remember?”
“Are we?” His grin is entirely too pleased, and she hates the way she loves it.
“Mmhmm. I just decided. We’re going to stay the night here, after you become the first and only person to put your mouth on me, and maybe after we shag, and then I’m going to sleep in your shirt and wake you up with my mouth on your cock and then you’re going to take me to breakfast. If you’re amenable to that plan, of course,” she finishes.
Neville chuckles, and sits up and rolls towards her, from his back to his side, and places his palm on her thigh. “I’ll tell you what,” he hums, “I’ll be your first, and then you’ll be mine.” His hand slides up her leg, “We’ll figure it out together.” It slides up underneath the hem of her dress. “You’ll sleep naked, so I can wake you up with my mouth on you. And then,” he whispers, his mouth so close to hers that she can taste the uncharacteristic mischievousness on his breath, “I’ll take you to my home and make you breakfast. How does that sound?”
She whimpers as he rucks up her dress and punctuates his question with a teasing brush of his thumb against the wetness of her knickers, “Good.”
And then he kisses her. Grabs at her. Kneads her hips and slides his palms under her dress, up to her waist until he’s well and truly consuming her.
The neckline of her dress hadn’t worked with a traditional bra, so she’d charmed the fabric to hold everything in place. And so when he finally tugs her dress over her head and tosses it Merlin-knows-where, his jaw goes slack at the sight of her bare and panting for him.
But he switches gears. He doesn’t touch her. Doesn’t reach for her. He clenches his hands into fists like he isn’t welcomed—isn’t allowed to—and she fights the urge to cover herself, especially as her nipples pebble from the air and strain from lacking attention.
“Neville,” she sighs, “I know they’re small. Stop—stop looking at them like that.”
His eyes snap up to her face, and then right back down. “If you say so…” he trails off with a gulp, as his eyes stay wide in wonder and he finally brings his hands up. They envelop each breast, and cover her chest entirely. The strong, slightly callused feeling of his hand (weathered from their long days in his garden and greenhouse, working together to perfect the floral arrangements) against her nipples sends a jolt of pleasure right to her core and a strangled sound leaves her mouth.
He pushes his face into her neck—groans against her shoulder—as he slides her knickers to the side and dips a finger into her cunt. Just the feeling of one of his fingers is a stretch inside her.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” he mutters, awestruck, as if she’s magic and he’s still unsure about whether or not he’s worthy of it—of her.
“I’m really wet. I don’t know if I’ve ever been this turned on.” She apparently doesn’t know how to keep quiet around him. She feels vulnerable. She’s not one to enter into situations where a broken heart is a potential outcome, but for once, she doesn’t care.
And perhaps vulnerability does pay off, because with her words, she feels his cock twitch ever-so-slightly against her leg at her words, “Gods —fuck— you cannot say things like that.”
“It’s true, though,” she whispers, running her hand through his hair.
“Tell me how to please you?” he asks, if she’d say no.
“Twist your finger.”
“Like that?”
“Yeah,” she sighs, “Just like that.”
“Anything else?”
“Your thumb, maybe, if you would just —oh gods yes!”
For being known as a fairly mediocre student at Hogwarts, Neville studies her reactions and learns her body in a way that speaks of permanence. A way that shows Pansy that he’d never need a Remembrall to know that his thumb against her clit makes her shake and his breath against her chest makes her sigh. And when he kisses his way down to her cunt and rolls her knickers off her legs, he shows her what it’s like to be with a Gryffindor.
Every brush of his tongue against her is daring. He has the nerve to take it slow, use three of his fingers to stretch her out, suck on her clit until her eyes cross, and ruin her for all other men. And if Neville is like this now, during his first time, she doesn’t even want to think of the pleasure he could bring with acquired skill and confidence.
Coming down from her high, she lets him hold her. And kiss her. And whisper to her—murmuring how good she is, how beautiful, how thankful he is that she let him be with her in this way. She knows before he voices it that he’ll offer to call it a night, content to hold her in his arms and fall asleep beside her.
But they had a plan. And when Pansy Parkinson is planning with conviction, she always follows through.
And so she scrambles up the bed and tosses a leg over his hips so she’s sitting right on top of him. His cock is hard again (thank god for the refractory period of a man in his early twenties), thick and heavy and resting up against his navel. He grins at her eagerness, bringing his hands down to squeeze her arse, and it takes everything in her not to shift up and slide him right inside of her.
She kisses him quickly and murmurs, “It will be best like this.”
“Okay,” he says, forehead and lips against hers. Not quite kissing, but almost—simply sharing the same breath, “I want what you want.”
“I want you.”
“I want you, too.”
Pansy can almost taste his smile. “Are you ready?”
“Ye—but the charm—or the potion—should I—should I grab my wand? I don’t—I don’t think I can do that charm without one,” he stumbles out. It’s endearing to see him like this, eager to please.
“I have that covered. Do you trust me?” Her hands cradle his jaw, her eyes searching his flushed face for any sign of hesitation.
“Always.”
She tilts her head so their foreheads are touching and sinks down. Slowly. Inch by inch by inch until he’s fully seated inside her. It stings a bit, more than a bit, but she pays it no mind because Neville’s mouth is hanging open, features soft and relaxed and she can't find it in herself to be anything but blissfully happy.
“Fuck. I—” she cuts off with a laugh, “—wasn’t actually sure you’d fit.” But he does, because of course he does, and she’s never felt so full. She shifts a bit, tries to start moving, see if the stretch lessens, but her movements are halted by a devastating groan and huge hands clamping down on her hips.
“If you want to come again you have got to stop moving.”
“I’ll try, but gods, you feel so good.”
A tiny, meek moan escapes his mouth, accompanied by a twitch of him inside her. His brows furrowed in concentration as he stares down to where they’re connected. “Okay,” he says finally, “I think I’m good. How are you doing?”
“I think I’m good too.” She circles her hips on top of him, testing to see if she’s telling the truth. There’s a tiny bit of pain, yes, but she doesn’t think she’s ever felt like this.
Full. Complete. Ready to move.
She starts by grinding down against him, her clit catching with every movement. “If we do it like this,” she explains, “it’s the easiest way for me to finish.”
A few strokes like this and he’s thrusting up into her and apologizing for the abruptness of it. “Shh. It’s okay. This is good too. If we do it like this,” she says, as she slides slowly up and down, dragging out moans and obscenities from him with every stroke, “your cock hits all sorts of delicious spots inside me.”
He groans as he meets her steady movements, flushed with pride and pleasure. He swallows and shares her moans whenever he leans up and kisses her. He murmurs another apology when he sucks her breast into his mouth and accidentally bites too hard on her nipple. He smiles when she flops down onto her back and drags him down with her, relishing in the control that comes with the new position.
She can tell, by the sweat on his forehead and the glazing of his eyes, that he’s close. She knows by the coiling tension in her body that she is, too.
“Press down on my stomach. Gently.”
He does so, and gods, his hand nearly spans the entire width of her. He applies pressure, lightly, as if she’s as delicate as the flower she’s named for and he’s afraid to hurt her.
“Like this?”
Yes—no—maybe? Yes, she decides. But perhaps it could be… “Harder.”
His change in tactile pressure results in him twitching inside her and a choked sound leaving his mouth. “Gods, Pans, I can feel myself inside you.”
“Do you like that? Knowing that it’s you inside me?”
A murmured “Fuck” against her neck.
“What was that?” she teases.
“It’s a yes,” he chuckles, “Obviously. Gods, Pansy, I never want to not be inside of you.”
“That—” she cuts off with a gasp, a particularly harsh thrust “—can be arranged. B—but for now, use your finger against me again.”
“Are you close?”
“Yes.”
“Can I—”
“Come inside me? Of course.”
Three thrusts is all it takes. His hips stutter, movements grow sharper, and the tightening, coiling sensation within her snaps. And he’s there too, tumbling through his release a mere moment after hers, with a small moan and an even smaller sigh of her name.
Before he can collapse on top of her, he rolls them over so they’re on their sides, facing each other. She winces a bit when he slips out and doesn’t even rush to clean up the fluid sliding down her legs. Her heart is beating in her chest at a rapid rate, faster than the wings of a snitch, and even though she doesn’t want to ruin the moment, there’s one more question she needs to ask.
“Hey, Neville?”
“Hmm?” He rubs his thumb reverently over her hip, eyes starting soft at hers. He’s catching his breath, too.
“Tomorrow, before our breakfast date, can we—can I,” she initially splutters at the absurdity of her incoming request, cheeks flaming, but then steels herself and asks it. “Can I clip your suspenders in for you? Hypothetically, of course. And feel free to say no.”
She receives a cheeky, boyish grin in response. A grin she wants to see as often as she can, long-term even, if possible.
“Hypothetically? No. Actually? Only if you let me zip your dress up.”
“It’s a magical zipper, so it needs to be done with a charm.”
“That just gives me another opportunity to prove that I’ve improved my charmwork since our Hogwarts days, doesn’t it?”
They spend the next moment in silence. A moment of comfortable, wonderful silence. Silence that speaks in contentment and whispers of forever. And then she breaks it by saying: “I think it’s becoming an obsession.”
“What is?”
“Just how much I love seeing you in suspenders.”
“Oh.” He contemplates her words for a moment, or pretends to, at least. Either way, his brows furrow. “I knew that already, though.”
“What do you mean you knew?”
His eyes sparkle, “Why else would I have worn them in the first place?”