three Neville drabbles
15/2/06 21:51![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bronze_ribbonsFor my anonymous chocolate-giver, who suggested "Neville/person of your choice and 'sweet'" as the prompt: three 100-word drabbles. I hope at least one of them hits the spot! :-)
All PG, I think, although the last one is all about NC17 pursuits...
“Well, that’s Remus’s present taken care of,” Neville said. “Home now?”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “What about Honeydukes? Your travelling kit must be getting low.”
Neville flushed. “I suppose it is. Not incidentally, I’m still sorry about Tuesday.”
Draco steered him toward the sweet shop. “Do you see me acting like a nadgerhead about it? ‘Woe is me, my boyfriend missed our anniversary because he was rescuing a posse of Hufflepuffs from stray Dementors, how am I ever going to forgive him?’”
Neville couldn’t help laughing. “Your voice...! I’m almost tempted to miss next month. Just to hear the tantrum.”
“Cenhinen Pedr,” Bran whispered, touching the sugar-spun daffodils. “Neville. These are too pretty to eat.”
“They’ll tide you over until the real ones bloom. I know you don’t like the Transfigured ones nearly as much.”
Bran wrinkled his nose. “No. There are too many unreal things in your world as it is, cariad.”
Neville glanced around their living room, its furnishings all solidly non-magical and reassuringly predictable-- unlike his lover, who seldom came across as an ordinary Muggle.
Bran placed a hand against Neville’s cheek. “You, you are real,” he said softly.
Because you see me so, Neville silently answered.
Until he started sleeping with Luna, Neville had not realised how many flavours there were to be tasted on a woman’s skin. Some nights her body seemed to him as sweet and creamy as a dish of Fortescue’s best; some afternoons she undulated under his tongue, salty and slippery as a stretch of untamed river.
What he liked most of all, however, were the mornings where she simultaneously caressed and confused him, twining her wiles and her spells into a sensual cocoon that held him captive and captivated until she chose to release him. Those mornings, she tasted of everything.
All PG, I think, although the last one is all about NC17 pursuits...
“Well, that’s Remus’s present taken care of,” Neville said. “Home now?”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “What about Honeydukes? Your travelling kit must be getting low.”
Neville flushed. “I suppose it is. Not incidentally, I’m still sorry about Tuesday.”
Draco steered him toward the sweet shop. “Do you see me acting like a nadgerhead about it? ‘Woe is me, my boyfriend missed our anniversary because he was rescuing a posse of Hufflepuffs from stray Dementors, how am I ever going to forgive him?’”
Neville couldn’t help laughing. “Your voice...! I’m almost tempted to miss next month. Just to hear the tantrum.”
“Cenhinen Pedr,” Bran whispered, touching the sugar-spun daffodils. “Neville. These are too pretty to eat.”
“They’ll tide you over until the real ones bloom. I know you don’t like the Transfigured ones nearly as much.”
Bran wrinkled his nose. “No. There are too many unreal things in your world as it is, cariad.”
Neville glanced around their living room, its furnishings all solidly non-magical and reassuringly predictable-- unlike his lover, who seldom came across as an ordinary Muggle.
Bran placed a hand against Neville’s cheek. “You, you are real,” he said softly.
Because you see me so, Neville silently answered.
Until he started sleeping with Luna, Neville had not realised how many flavours there were to be tasted on a woman’s skin. Some nights her body seemed to him as sweet and creamy as a dish of Fortescue’s best; some afternoons she undulated under his tongue, salty and slippery as a stretch of untamed river.
What he liked most of all, however, were the mornings where she simultaneously caressed and confused him, twining her wiles and her spells into a sensual cocoon that held him captive and captivated until she chose to release him. Those mornings, she tasted of everything.