Details of Draco and Neville's First Night - fic
Details of Draco and Neville's First Night - A.J. Hall - rated M-ish Details of Draco and Neville's First Night

They lay in Neville's bed tightly clasped together, a sweaty, sticky conglomeration of limbs. Both of them were still breathing heavily. Draco's hair was plastered to his forehead, darkened to a shade of corn-gold with sweat: his grey eyes now closed. They had widened unexpectedly as he came, his face at once open, his expression something Neville had never seen before; suddenly looking so vulnerable that his immediate reaction had been to hug him even closer to his body with his free arm as Draco arched and gasped against him. He half recalled murmuring some nonsense that his toes curled when he recollected; something he suspected had been horrifyingly soppy and, hopefully, inaudible.

Neville knew – in some distant, far off part of his brain – that he ought to get up and make some move towards cleaning them both up, but it was so inconceivably pleasant to lie here, post-orgasmic languor weighing his body down, feeling after so long the warm closeness of another’s skin against his. He was, nevertheless, still the product of his upbringing.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured gently. “That went – a lot faster than I’d have intended.”

And was hardly what anyone could describe as sophisticated. What you might describe as grope and hope, actually.

He felt himself flushing.

Draco avoided looking at him. "I hadn't - um - expected you to welcome me quite that enthusiastically," he muttered in the general direction of Neville's chest.

With a sense of incredulity, Neville sensed Draco's shy uncertainty, the panicky edge of and what the hell am I supposed to do now? that he was projecting.

Well, that certainly wasn't something I'd have banked on. Clearly they don't have quite as much fun in Slytherin as they crack on they do.

And to think I was worrying about how he’d respond to my level of experience.

He suppressed a grin, for fear of its being misinterpreted. Over the last few weeks he had learned that Draco had a three-stage coping mechanism if he thought himself caught at a loss in any area. Stage One: bluff wildly. Stage Two: make himself verbally unpleasant to the nth degree. Stage Three: hurl hexes at will in all directions. Since his own time-honoured strategy in similar circumstances was to find something sentient and apologise to it he had found Draco's approach somewhat refreshing, but had no pressing desire to get on the wrong end of it. Their wands were presumably buried under randomly tossed aside clothes on the floor, but Neville still saw no sense in taking unnecessary chances.

He made his voice dry. "Well, I suppose you couldn't actually have known I'd been fantasising wildly about fucking you for about the last three weeks."

"Three weeks?"

Draco pushed himself up on one elbow, breaking out of the embrace of Neville’s arms, but leaving their legs still unequivocally entangled.

"You mean we’ve wasted three whole weeks when we could have been doing this instead?"

Neville tried conscientiously not to let his imagination dwell too obviously on thoughts of Draco naked in a double bed, and 21 uninterrupted days before them, but it was clear from Draco's suddenly arrested expression and accelerated breathing that he had not, wholly, succeeded.

Oh god, I want you so much. This can't be happening. Things like this just don't happen to people like me. One of us has to wake up soon.

With a tremendous effort he kept his voice to an approximation of calm reasonableness. "Well, not for the whole of the three weeks, you know. There's been a war on, don't forget. We have had other things on our plate."

Draco made a dismissive gesture, apparently intended to demonstrate - explicitly, if non-verbally - the relative importance of the Dark Lord and all his machinations, the Allies’ frantic efforts to repel the same, and his getting his end away. Neville, decoding the gesture without difficulty, felt his heart rate begin to accelerate out of control. He gulped. His voice was barely subject to his will.

"Unless - you've got another engagement this evening - perhaps we could see if it mightn't go a bit slower second time round?"

Draco gasped and reached out to him. Neville turned in the bed, pulling Draco against him in a hard kiss. Draco’s lips felt impossibly soft, his tongue eagerly flickered inside Neville’s mouth, his hardness unequivocal, grinding against Neville’s deliriously responding body.

In the midst of a rain of frantic kisses he sobbed out words that he had never expected to say to a living soul, never expected he could say to anyone. Certainly never expected anyone would respond to if said.

“Oh god – I need – I need – oh god, I want. You. No. Oh, please. Please.”

A hand brushed tentatively across his nipples, and then trailed down along his body, ending in a long caressing touch between his legs. The shock of the sensation exploded along his nerves. Involuntarily, he pulled away, out of the kiss. Draco pressed back, close against him. The light voice was still hesitant.

“You’ve - been having fantasies about this - for weeks?”

He was barely able to speak, his mouth was so dry. “Um. Well. Yes.”

Draco gulped, his control of his voice barely greater than his own. “Were they at all – specific?”

Oh yes. You just bet they were. Infinitely. Detailed. Specific. Oh, god, yes. Specific. Indeed.

All Neville seemed to be capable of at that moment was a strangled gasp. It seemed, however, to convey an acceptable affirmative. The long, exploring fingers curled round him, and began to stroke. He gasped, audibly, again.

Impossibly, the light voice sounded wistful, almost pleading.

“Show me.” The grasp tightened, and the world contracted about them. “Please. Everything. Fuck me. Now. Please. I want you so much.”

The night was suddenly piercingly bright with the light of a million stars.

“Yes,” he said.