Summersmut Mod (summersmutmod) wrote in hp_summersmut, @ 2009-08-15 00:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2009, fic |
[FIC] Complex Considerations :: Millicent/Neville | gift for cat_itude
Title: Complex Considerations
Author:
Recipient: cat_itude
Rating: R
Pairings: Millicent/Neville, previous Neville/Hannah
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: When Neville goes to a seamstress he may get more than a new suit.
Warnings: some food play, het, AU content, dirty talk, language
Word Count: 4300 +/-
Author's Notes: I've never written this pairing before but they were a lot of fun. My first instinct had been to write an adultery fic but that idea was scrapped early on. Hopefully this is more appropriate :)
1: Love. . .Or something like it?
If he examined his memories too closely Neville Longbottom would have had to admit that he acted rather rashly at the end of the War. He had never been arrogant, had spent most of his life stumbling from one humiliation to the next in an effort to somehow prove himself, to be what others wished him to be and not how he actually was—but after the dust had settled and everyone who was still alive realized they would remain so, instinct had bloomed instead of the common sense. At the time Neville would have rather gauged out his eyes than say no to blond, beautiful, warm, living, breathing Hannah Abbott as she all but dragged him into some empty classroom or closet or wherever it had been that he'd had sex for the first time. But there had been no voice of refusal on his behalf, no voice at all in truth: all ability had moved below the belt with his thoughts considering little more than the size and shape of Hannah's tits, how this was bloody brilliant compared to wanking up in Gryffindor Tower, and that he was really going to see the dawn tomorrow morning.
As strong as he had been, as much as he had come into his own during that horrible, horrible year, Neville had been naïve and decided in the aftermath that he was in love with Hannah and her glinting eyes and her enthusiasm towards him—proper wizards didn't just shag a girl and leave right? There must have been something between them for Hannah to choose him. For Neville to respond the way he had.
So they stayed together. They both returned for their Seventh Year, even if Neville was more eager and Hannah simply resigned. On trips to Hogsmeades they helped with rebuilding, Hannah filling Neville in on his old classmates further adventures: Auror training and more reforms at the Ministry, meetings with famous faces. When he decided to continue with Herbology studies Hannah was restrained but happy for him, finding a place for herself at The Three Broomsticks while showing him articles in The Prophet of new zoological discoveries and scoops on possible quidditch contracts. The distance put a damper on their physical relationship but that was alright, of course it was; besides that first bout of 'I'm alive!' passion Hannah rarely initiated or made suggestions towards coupling and Neville was not a man to push such things on his delicate girlfriend. He loved her. He could live with occasional missionary encounters.
If he examined his memories Neville would have to admit that their relationship was not helped by getting married. Hannah had stepped into a managing position at the pub and he had started his internship at Hogwarts, and the smallish ceremony had been held only a scant two months after Susan and Ernie's lavish Scottish extravaganza—Hannah had continued to describe her friends professional bagpipers and Australian honeymoon up until the day of their own demure, respectable hand fasting. They had spent a weekend in Paris and then returned to work like any other day and, though he tried to ignore it, Neville had been hurt by Hannah's coolness. They had both agreed that a large service was unreasonable on their wages, and their families and friends had all been present. They were far from social lepers. And yet she wasn't happy: with the wedding, with her position in society, with his career intentions, with them, with him.
She hadn't been happy with him.
Neville didn't like to examine his memories too closely.
And here he was, thirty-six years old, divorced, no kids, with a reputation for being equal parts the nicest and most terrifying professor inside Hogwarts walls, afraid to enter one particular shop on Diagon Alley because the object of his adult obses—affection—confusion resided within.
2: Baby Got Back
When Millicent Bulstrode had opened her seamstress business a relatively competitive distance from Madame Malkins four years ago the initial customer response had not been positive. The War was over but for many it never would be and she was encroaching on near sacred territory, a former Slytherin, forever Pure Blood, no one had really seen her in over a decade so she was obviously up to no good. But then the robes came out and damn it if potions professor Pansy Parkinson (because even if you're completely evil we still want our children learning from the best) didn't suddenly become fantasy fodder for three classes of teenage boys. For the modern wizard the traditionalist regime was over and if one wished to show a united progressive front then Bulstrode's was it.
At least that was how Luna had tried to explain it to Neville two months ago when she'd suggested he make additions to his wardrobe.
He had been surprised by the décor: mirrors and couches and not much else, bright shades of red and blue, merging to purple at the edge of his peripheral vision, much larger inside than the exterior would have one believe. He had been surprised by the music: that there was any at all for one, but it was up-beat background noise, no classical piano or Gregorian chant. He had definitely been surprised by the woman swaying out from behind one extensive cheval glass: voluminous coal black hair lying in soft curls about her wide shoulders, shimmering garnet dress that clung to her curves, emphasizing rather than concealing her broad hips, corseted waist and heavy. . .er. . .bosom. There was the lantern jaw, but this woman didn't tuck her chin in. She didn't hulk or hunch her shoulders or give any other impression that she wasn't one hundred percent confidant in her abilities commercially or personally. Her lips were painted as vivid as her dress and she had walked towards him on thick heels that had done something wonderful to the muscles in her very long legs. She was as tall as he and that was. . .that was interesting.
"Hello Professor."
"M—Ms. Bulstrode?"
"I must say Neville, you haven't changed much. So what do you need?"
". . .Excuse me?"
"A shirt? A tie? Jeans. I'm having a sale on denim."
"Er no. No, I need robes—A suit. I need a formal suit."
"Well which is it: robes or a suit?"
"What's the difference?"
She had rolled her eyes, those incredibly dark, dark eyes, and flourished a measuring tape from seemingly out of nowhere. "Let's see what we have here Professor. Please step out of those horribly stitched trousers. I'll give you something from stock if you promise never to wear them again."
She had been thorough. Arm length, biceps, wrists, waist, chest, neck: a Quick Quill floated to the side, recording all of his numbers. When her arms had come around his stomach Neville had instinctually pulled in his paunch. Short lacquered nails had quickly come up to turn his chin and an exasperated sigh of warm breath had hit the back of his neck.
"Neville, your only part in this arrangement is to be yourself. I'm here to make 'yourself' look bloody fantastic and I can't do my part if you won't do yours. So here now, let's be friends." He had relaxed considerably, wondering if her tone could be called persuasive or patronizing, and had swallowed a surprised grunt when the back of her hand accidentally brushed up against his cock, thankful to whatever deity that he had worn boxers today. If only he had been able to put his eyes back in his head. She looked up from between Neville's spread legs where she had been measuring his inseam and apologized quite professionally. . .before her lips turned up ever so slightly. But I suppose it's a compliment if it gets in the way."
Neville had blanched and been happy to get dressed.
"I just want something simple—"
"No spangles or latex?"
"Are—Are you serious? A pair of pants and a blazer. Something simple."
"And a shirt as well Neville. You wouldn't want to disrupt the flow, and I can guarantee it will look good with other outfits."
"I—ah—Alright. Yes, a shirt as well, that'll be fine."
"Then let's make an appointment for next week so you can try on some samples."
". . .How do you make any money Bulstrode?"
She had watched him steadily and very slowly raised an eyebrow. Neville had felt his toes curl. "Tuesday will be fine."
3: The Herbologist's New Clothes
She asked a lot of questions that second meeting and not just about his order and Neville answered for no other reason than it felt good being the center of a striking woman's undivided attention. Even if it was for only an hour. And how damn sad was that? There was more measuring and numbers and her fingers fell lightly over his arms and legs and stomach.
"You lost some weight."
Neville glanced down at himself with a snort but her tape measure rolled up with a snap and Millicent snatched up her notepad, heading back to her desk hidden amidst all the gleaming mirrors leaving him to pull up his pants in privacy. She wore no dress today, no garnet reds or bloodstones; there were slick black slacks and her top was a wash of royal purple—not amethyst, not lavender, not a hint of shimmer or sparkle. He was struck with the image of a plum, something round and soft and juicy. Something to be bitten. "Not much but it's different than last week." She sounded irked but he couldn't fathom why; wasn't this a good thing?
"I thought I'd take up jogging."
"Professor," she drawled, "how do you think I keep my clients?"
It was on the tip of Neville's tongue to say through sexual frustration but he hauled his mind out of the muck and shrugged his shoulders instead. "It's because every garment I create, every scrap of fabric meant to touch another body is made for them, utterly and completely." She rose from her desk and went to gather the three sample trousers he had tried on earlier. "Even these—" she scooped them up with a flourish, a quick bend at the waist and rise that belied a woman of her. . .uh. . .carriage. "I zipped them together a few days ago based on last weeks numbers."
Now Neville understood.
Or, at least, he thought he did.
And what he understood, he didn't like.
"Now see here Bulstrode, I'm not going to starve myself until you can make me a bloody suit! And I'm not going to stock up on pumpkin pasties either while I'm at it!"
"Do I look like I'm asking you to do that?" was her rejoinder, hands at her pinched waist like she was rather used to the gesture and accustomed to giving it. "What I'm saying is that this suit is being made for you, not some so-called improved model or how you imagine yourself in five months time. It'll fit you as you are perfectly and you'll look great."
There was a pause and Neville was sure Millicent's cheeks were red, like she was embarrassed by her outburst or. . .She was blushing. After all those other things she had said to him, those other looks, now Millicent was blushing.
". . .Alright then."
And so he continued to see her once a week even though he wasn't quite convinced he actually needed to be there but it slowly settled upon Neville that he wanted to be. He met her two assistants who would attend other customers while Millicent always saw to him; however, Neville noticed that she never measured him with others around; she would bring out further samples, different fabrics, cuts of cloth, but with other customers about, with her assistants puttering, Millicent never took out her length of tape. She wouldn't touch him with the knowledge of others around, wouldn't encircle his body with her strong arms, ouch his biceps, skim his stomach.
He was a little disturbed to find that he wanted her to, as if her touch was a sudden claim and would mean something more if given in front of one of those mini-skirt-wearing dolly birds or many Gringots types who seemed to frequent Millicent's shop. And perhaps if she made a claim then he could make one as well. He shouldn't have thought like that, Neville knew it was wrong to imagine a relationship where one didn't exist at all, that horrible abuses occurred because of similar reasoning's—not that he would ever—or that she would ever—but he—
All he had wanted was a decent suit but he was only a man for bloody Merlin's sake! Hannah had never talked to him like that. Grinned like that. Moved like that. Hannah was all straight lines and cold shoulders, propriety and should-haves and could-have-beens.
He didn't know what Millicent was.
Not yet.
4: Should I Apologize Now? I Won't Mean It But. . .
Standing outside her building Neville took some time to shore up his resources. Too much time. It really shouldn't take this much time for a grown man to try and interact with a woman of his affections—Interests! Interests, a woman of his interests. Especially when as far as he knew she had none. And next week was he final fitting and he would look "fucking fabulous" as Millicent had told him last Tuesday and then. . .what? He'd go on his way and forget about gorgeous legs and wicked grins and statements that made him hotter than he had ever felt before?
The man that Neville was didn't think he could do that.
Assuredly mentally prepared, Neville entered only to have Julie—Millicent's waspish assistant with the smokeless-smoking habit—point Neville in the direction of her boss' upstairs flat before going back to perusing The Prophet's singles column (something that Neville was discomforted to admit having looked through a time or two).
Millicent startled from her kitchen table but recovered quickly, apologizing for not meeting him in the shop, time had gotten away from her and would he like some homemade stew? Neville's gastro-intestinal growling swiftly superseded any excuse he may have created on already having eaten and he sat down at her ebony table with a lop-sided smile, smoothing his tie down as he went. Glancing around surreptitiously as she rose to the stove, he saw that her flat was as pared down as her shop—whites, blacks, and reds—but comfortable, the tables were sturdy, a single window above the sink looking out onto the window of the next building, no decorative furniture meant only for coats and hats, no evading presence of superiority or wealth except for maybe the paintings (but even those were of giant violets and guard dogs, possibly Rottweilers), no plastic sheeting to discourage parties or—Or other things. Neville cut himself off and accepted his bowl with thanks.
It was delicious. Large chunks of finely seasoned beef in a thick gravy broth, cabbage, carrots, peas and lentils: even though it was only herself to cook for, Millicent obviously didn't like to deprive her taste buds, didn't ignore this particular pleasure. She poured him a glass of good Burgundy without asking but he thanked her for it too. When was the last time he had made himself a meal? He'd taught himself some spells but mostly it was take-away this and pub that. Neville definitely wasn't starving—his belt buckle could attest to that—but this stew was satisfying, a bone deep feeling.
"Cherry pie?"
"What?"
"Pie, Neville. Would you care for dessert?"
"Oh. Oh yes, that would be nice. Thank you."
She wore an azure skirt and slinky black sweater combo undoubtedly made by her own hands, the skirt a frothy mass of silky stuff that swished around her ankles but clung to those shapely legs, moulded to her calves with each step and caressed hips and thighs and wow he really needed to get his eyes off her arse.
"Cream?"
"Huh?"
"Cream, Neville," her lips quirked, the grin reaching her eyes, and she cocked a hip, waving the bottle in front of him and gesturing towards the slice of pie she had placed on the table, steaming from a quick heating charm. Her voice was low, as soft as her boundless black tresses. "Would you like some?" Neville swallowed and tilted his head, unconsciously licking his lips as he looked up at her.
"Yes. Yes, alright."
Millicent squirted the white foamy substance onto his pastry then stepped back to cap hers as well, inadvertently spurting a line of sweet along her outstretched middle finger. Or maybe it wasn't so inadvertent. Maybe she did it completely on purpose, what did he know? She didn't look too sorry as she put the bottle on the table and raised her hand to her face.
"Oops."
Neville watched Millicent lick the cream from her finger with not as blank a look as he had hoped; he could see it in her gaze as she watched him, curling full mouth and dark twinkling eyes that had nothing to do with a good meal. And suddenly Neville was very, very glad to be the cause of that satisfaction. If he had ever wondered, even conjectured or imagined, this was the clearest sign she could have provided and he was sick of not acting, of sitting on the sidelines and not taking. He slid their plates aside and stood, happily noticing she was only slightly shorter out of those delicious heels.
"This probably isn't the best place to conclude a business transaction Millicent."
She offered her hand and smiled.
"I like how you say my name," she whispered, dragging her sticky fingers across his mouth. "I hear all the letters; you say everything." Her free hand moved up to his shoulder and firmly pushed back the tweed jacket. "Professor, you do realize that blazer-pants combo of yours has been finished for quite a while now?" Neville stopped helping her undress him and simply looked at her for a moment until Millicent leaned in and nipped at his jaw, her cheeky grin transforming into a tender smile. "Guess I just wanted a little more time. It was nice having you around."
His jacket fell off his elbows and Neville reached out to his seamstress, crowding her personal space to the utmost until Millicent had to perch herself on the table and he was nudging his legs between her knees, her blue skirt bunching and sliding up her legs. His large, calloused gardener hands, botanist hands, Herbologist hands, encircled her waist, palms pushing beneath her sweater, and he grinned at what he found. Neville had never understood the need for forcible body shapers—though he supposed it went hand in hand with his little gut suck that first fitting—but as his fingers traced along the steel boning Neville thought that on Millicent it was extremely sexy, and he peeled off her sweater in anticipation, a little red-faced at what was actually revealed. It wasn't a corset per se but a bodice or a girdle or some such and what the hell did it matter he was only a man for bloody Merlin's sake! But the fabric panels were a deep claret and the straps framed her ample milky white breasts, brown nipples hard like liquorice candies. Her hips flared out and fuck Neville really wanted that skirt to disappear.
"I like how it makes me feel," was her husky explanation, hands running through his longish chestnut hair, pulling free the leather tong at the back of his skull with a sensual little tug. "I like the pinch and lift." She chuckled. "I like having my assets on display."
Neville's cock kicked against his thigh and he groaned.
"It was nice being around."
Her deft fingers got rid of the tie and attacked the buttons of his shirt while Neville practically hauled his belt through the loops and tossed it over his shoulder. He wanted his hands on her, his mouth on her, and the sooner his own garments were gone the sooner he could have what he desired. "I want to see your legs Millicent, gods your legs are fucking fantastic." Her laugh was pure need and she grabbed at the silk.
"Just push it up Neville, I wanna feel you."
Her skin was smooth and warm to the touch, heat burning behind her knees and further. Crap! Neville's trousers snagged around one ankle and it wouldn't come off. It was easy to ignore though once Millicent's graspable thighs came into view, and Neville left his clothes where they lay, pants around his feet and shirt gaped open. She pulled his head over with one hand twisting in his hair and their mouths met roughly, tongues pressing for top spot, lips sucked hard and kisses trailing over cheeks and jaw lines, down throats.
Neville bit her muscle where neck met shoulder and was rewarded with a sharp moan and one of Millicent's strong legs wrapping over his naked hip. He caressed her breasts, felt their solid weight, thumbed the separate texture of her pebbled nipples and felt a hunger that had nothing to do with the dessert on the table.
But that wasn't a bad idea.
He leaned over her, momentarily distracted (massively distracted) as Millicent weaved a hand between their bodies and stroked a very interested piece of his anatomy. Her hair smelled of lilacs and he breathed deeply of the black mass, then scooped a finger full of cream off his pie and daubed it on her breasts.
"The filling as well."
"You want that?"
"You want it," she slowly squeezed his cock and Neville bucked into her hand. "It wasn't dessert you were thinking of when I asked if you wanted pie." She licked the corner of his mouth and whispered, "Did you want to lick me Neville? Did you want to bury your head between my thighs and lick my pussy?" She gave his paunch a pinch and chuckled. "I wanted you to expose yourself that first day, just pull my hair and press it to your crotch. I wanted my mouth full of this cock." Another squeeze. "I wanted to lick and suck and make you come right there in front of all those mirrors—"
Neville pushed his forefinger into her mouth, spreading the cream on her teeth, over her tongue, and released a guttural sigh as she began to suck.
He ran his unoccupied hand firmly up her thigh and cupped her covered heat, the heel of his palm pressing solidly against the top of her slit and circled slowly, leaning down to lap at the slope of her chest, licking up the confection and nipping at the odd freckle. But when it came to her nipples he simply opened his mouth and pulled them in: sucking long and hard and pushing the harsh sound of her confined breathing; pushing the distended nub of flesh up against his hard palate, first one then the other; nuzzling her sternum when he needed a breath of his own. Merlin, she was beautiful, with her neck loose and head fallen back, hair trailing over her mostly bare shoulders and down her smooth back. Her described image came back with a vengeance and Neville shoved her panties aside with his thumb.
Lace. And he would have bet his next year's salary that they were black.
"Yes. Yes," Millicent moaned and positioned his cock where she wanted it, shifting forward slightly and rubbing him against the glistening slick folds of her sex. Neville reared up and claimed her lips again as he thrust forward.
"I want your mouth," he huffed into the side of her neck. "I want you to suck and—and fuck Millicent I want to lick your pussy til you scream."
Later, as he fed Millicent the pie while they lay in a heap on her kitchen floor, Neville watched streaks of unpredictable sunshine filter down from her window and didn't know he was laughing until his black-haired beauty joined in, a blush over her round cheeks echoed on his own. He felt light. He felt. . .good. For the first time in a long while, everything felt good.
Using a once forgotten fork, Neville raised a bite of the gooey cherry filling to her lips then darted it away and brought it to his own. She laughed again and it was glorious.
"What do you really want Millicent?" he murmured, running her knuckles over her wrinkled blue silk.
"Well," she stole his fork and leaned back against the cupboards. She paused and Neville turned his head fully to watch as she seemed to take the question to heart. She shrugged. "Well I really wanted you." The corners of her eyes crinkled, her lips quirking up as he twisted his own into a self-depreciating grin. "So I guess I'll just have to wait and see what other good things come my way."
"Yea," Neville nodded, taking in a deep breath, letting the exhale float over her bare arm. "We'll just have to wait ad see."