I Want To Wake Up With The RainRating:
Garrick Ollivander/Millicent BulstrodeWord Count:
Het, biting, female ejaculation, anal, hair pulling, ceraunophilia, sex magic.Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. The characters and their worlds belong to their original writers and no copyright infringement or offense is intended. No money was made from this story.A/N:
I love Millicent. ♥ Thanks to faeryqueen07
for the beta and idea bouncing!Summary/Snippet: ”When Millicent opens her eyes, feeling the wind whip through her hair and brush against her skin in a silky, welcoming caress, she is all woman.” I Want To Wake Up With The Rain
The alarm on her wand chimes just after two in the morning, and, groaning and blinking and swearing, Millicent uncovers her hand from under the blankets and slaps at it. The wand falls off the end table and clatters to the floor, it’s annoying chirping uninterrupted even as it rolls under the bed. Only now the force of the alarm intensifies, until it feels like the noise is amplified by the mattress, the bed frame beginning to vibrate from the pressure.
“Fucking annoying wand makers.” Burying her face in her warm pillow, Millicent groans out loud before turning over and throwing back the covers.
Even though it is summer the nights are cool, the floor of her bedroom freezing her bare toes and knees as she hunts for her wand. She’s entirely unsurprised when a slip of paper emerges from her wand seconds after her hand closes around it.
“I hate you,” she informs the bit of parchment crossly. Only she doesn’t, not really, and she tosses both wand and note on her bed before moving to put the kettle on for a bracing spot of tea. A glance out her window, at the thick, heavy clouds and the trees swaying in the wind, sends her hurrying to dress in her warmest robes.
The ground crunches under the heels of her boots as she walks briskly through the woods, wind breathing harsh and cold against her neck and shadows darting sleek and fast all around her. If she didn’t have complete trust in the man who charmed her wand and gave her the Apparrition coordinates, Millicent would turn around on the spot and return to the safety of her flat. As it is ... Well, she comforts herself with the knowledge that she is a fierce and determined fighter.
Garrick is walking around a clearing just up ahead, his movements graceful and sure, belying his age. Millicent quickens her step upon seeing him, pausing at the edge of a neatly arranged circle of candles. His hands don’t fumble from where is he arranging boughs of branches into a pile, but his quiet, “Organize the herbs, if you please,” contains no hint of surprise over her presence.
So she walks over to the makeshift table, reaches for the Alkanet and Basil, wonders over the purpose of Garrick summoning her here now
, just as the air seems to thicken around her and a growl of thunder makes her shiver. By the time the last herb has been crushed and added to the wooden bowl, the air feels alive and the booms of thunder are getting louder and angrier. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...
Millicent smiles. It was fifteen seconds between thunder bursts when she arrived.
Shimmering crystals and metals made pliant and warm through magic and manipulation are arranged in a configuration that just
makes sense to her, but seems to make perfect sense to Garrick. He stands naked before them, silver blue eyes glowing with a power Millicent cannot hope to understand, skin soft and wrinkled, palely translucent as it stretches over muscles and bones.
There is confidence in his slight frame, such acceptance of the scars and greying hairs adorning his body, the puckering of loose skin and the slight pooch of his belly. They’ve worked together like this for ten years now, and yet it is still this, this acceptance of perceived imperfections, that arouses Millicent as much as the boom of thunder and the angry hiss of the wind that bites at her skin and makes the trees tremble.
Unclasping her robe and letting it fall carelessly to the ground, Millicent picks up the bowl of crushed herbs and steps into the circle. Her hair is coarse and prone to tangling, falling in jagged layers of dark curls halfway down her back. There are stretch marks on the sides of her breasts, under her arms, the soft fold of her stomach and her inner thighs. Scars from getting on the wrong side of the Carrow siblings still carelessly scattered in bright white slashes across her back. When she moves it is not with the delicate grace generally associated with women, but with firm, purposeful strides that make her breasts sway and her flesh ripple, a defiant tilt to her chin.
A lover long past had once mouthed kisses over the marks on her thighs, squeezed her breasts, telling her how sexy he found her hard-won confidence. That it is a way of telling the world without words that she is capable and determined and a survivor. It took her far, far too long to understand the sentiment. She thinks of this now and her mouth curves into a smile as she passes the bowl over.
Garrick accept the bowl with a bow, looking up at her from beneath bushy gray eyebrows. “Millicent Bulstrode,” he greets formally, “do you enter this circle willingly? Do you entreat your Mother to bestow her gifts upon you and the articles within?”
The words are as much ceremony as the acts to follow, and Millicent closes her eyes, lets the words wash over her, coaxing her magic to mingle with the electricity in the air. She’s not a girl anymore, filled with the first, innocent blush of arousal, feeling her heart pound at the forbidden thrill of sex magic. Nor is she a young woman, tired and hopeful and yearning for so much more
than the reality of daily life, wishing for relationships that stay the course instead of combining sex and magic in acts that satisfy and please but do not satiate.
“I do.” When Millicent opens her eyes, feeling the wind whip through her hair and brush against her skin in a silky, welcoming caress, she is all woman. Worn and less optimistic, knowledgeable to the pleasures of the flesh, aware of her likes and dislikes. She is comfortable in her skin, finds the beauty in the imperfections of it, the strength of her muscles and the smell of her sex. Her smile is shadowed with secrets as she raises her hands palm up and addresses the night. “I beseech my Mother to witness the magic of the circle and gift strength and permanence to the articles within.”
Lightning crackles, a wild, silent, jagged burst of energy. It strikes the center of the pile of twigs, the smell of charred wood and the crackling of twigs the only warning before the pile bursts into flames. The wind howls harder, the swish swish
of rustling trees intensifying as thunder emits a rather smug-sounding growl above. Yet the candles do not flicker and the fire does not spread.
Garrick smiles as he straightens from his bow. He, like his fathers before him, knows the intricacies involved in wand-making. Understands the strength of the wood and the quality of the center only excel so far without the purest of magic to infuse them, strengthen them. And while men and mages can call upon magic, perform rites of sexuality and complicated rituals to seek the necessary strength, the Ollivander line learned long ago a more practical reason to cherish the women in their lives.
Sex magic is all well and good, from a magical perspective, but there are some gifts Mother Earth will only bestow upon her daughters.
Millicent drops to her knees in one smooth move, loving the power in the movement. By the time she lays herself flat against the warm earth, her nipples are fully hard and the mound of hair between her legs is damp. Garrick stands over her, watching as she stretches and arches, her eyes already dilating and filled with a wild recklessness that perfectly matches the storm raging around them.
His penis twitches the moment she slides to her knees, hardening and flushing with blood as he watches her writhe against the ground. The silver in his eyes grows brighter, drowning out the underlying blue, the muscles in his thighs tensing. But still he stands there, makes no move to touch her, until Milicent spreads her legs apart and stretches out a hand, lips curving in an unmistakably wicked smile. “Come to me.”
It takes him two tries to kneel, his knees and strength not what they used to be, but the moment he is closer to the ground he reaches for her, slides his hands up her legs, rubs his face against the softer flesh of her thighs. The scratch of wiry hairs makes her moan, has her hips arching and stomach muscles clenching.
“Such a gift you give me,” Garrick breathes reverently, rubbing his cheek against the silky curls hiding her sex.
And then he shifts, and she throws her head back at the first stroke of his tongue inside her. The thunder howls in her ear, the storm moving almost directly above them as she arches, the earth at her back turning to mud as the sky opens up with cold drops of rain. Around them, the candles hiss and the fire burns brighter, the metals and crystals beginning to glow.
It’s intense, hungry. Garrick is gripping at her thighs, spreading her wider, his tongue probing her hot and fast and wet. But when he circles her clit, sucks it hard, works his mouth deeper into her and bites down gently, she screams and orgasms. The storm reacts, goes wild, lightning flashing and the constant boom boom boom
echoing the rapid beating of her heart.
She can feel the raw power in the earth under her feet as she trembles. Storms are Mother Nature at her best, and she is generous in sharing her power with her daughter. Millicent arches her back as the energy comes up through her feet, humming in her veins as it explores her body. Something soft brushes against her belly and she sighs, blinks the rain from her vision to look down. Smiles to see Garrick’s hair standing on end from the static electricity, soft gray hair tickling her skin.
His eyes smile back at her, stroking her gently one more time with his tongue before pulling away and sitting back on his haunches. Strong hands knead at her thighs, and Millicent reaches up, tangles her hands in his fluffy gray hair and pulls him down for a kiss.
Kisses are dangerous, intoxicating, when used during sex magic. Women are at their strongest during storms, when Mother Earth feels petulant and used, unleashing her wrath with wind and rain, lightning and thunder, until the air feels fresh and clear once again. When Millicent was a young woman she let herself be used, didn’t appreciate her body enough to own her attributes, and let her partners drain her during sex. But now she is older, understands the power and control, and bites at Garrick’s lips, devours him and shares her magic. And he submits. Beautifully.
And this is nice, soothing even, now that she has orgasmed once and the storm raging around them feels wild and free, less desperate than it did upon her arrival. But there is a purpose to their joining tonight, so she pulls away, nibbles teasingly upon his lower lip before sucking it into her mouth to sooth. Garrick smiles, eyes still burning and penis still flushed and hard, and brings his fingers to her cheek in the barest of caresses before urging her to turn over.
Millicent brings her knees closer to her chest and faces the earth. Her fingers clench, digging into the mud, fresh goosebumps dancing across her back as the cold rain meets her warm back. But she is flushed, still in the afterglow of orgasm, and arches into it, trembling as the thunder roars in appreciation. Garrick makes a noise of appreciation, smooths his hands over her skin, and reaches to his side, finding the small clay bowl of herb-infused lubricant.
Garrick treats her like she is delicate as he slides a slick finger into her bum. And it is such a nice feeling, to be cherished and considered breakable when all evidence, every puckered bit of flesh, the broad shoulders and wide hips, speaks to the contrary. Millicent moans and digs her hands deeper, lets her sensitive nipples drag into the mud beneath her, warmed from magic and the heat of her body, and howls right along with the wind as a second finger fits inside her.
It’s hard for men to maintain control when faced with such wild magic. But Garrick, bless him, cares deeply for her and is a master at his craft. His hips are humping against hers rhythmically by the time he adds a third finger, his other hand sliding down, thumb pressing firm and insistent against her clit. And Millicent is so hot, feels like the lightning burning apart the night, that she sobs out with relief as he finally pulls his fingers from her bum, and grinds down on the hand still inside her vagina as she lifts her face to the sky and begs the rain to cool her.
His breath is stuttering as he slides inside her, a tortured moan getting trapped in his chest as he becomes intimately acquainted with the wild magic thrumming loud as thunder through her veins, the lightning heat of her body.
“A moment,” Garrick begs. “Just, I need...” His whole body shudders as he seats himself fully inside her, the fingers against her labia clenching.
Millicent clings to the muddy earth as she pants and groans and tries
to stay still, to give him a moment to adjust to her power. But then he bites her neck. And the pain is bright and fleeting, it’s the wind that whips about and shatters order, cultivates wildness, and she bucks against him, hard, and he bites her again with a muttered oath.
He thrusts inside of her with no control or rhythm, hands clenching against her hips and holding her in place as her body sways under the force, breasts and belly pressing into the warm mud with each downward push. She can’t. Her head drops forward, her arms shake under the pressure of holding herself upright as she moans helplessly.
There is still a bit of rationality left in Garrick, enough to have him unclenching his right hand and scratching over her back. Scrambling until he can fist into her hair, pull her forehead out of the mud. The pinpricks of pain against her skull, the pressure and heat, and it is too much. She cries out, more of a scream, and spreads her legs farther apart as the warm slickness of her release dribbles down her thighs to intermix with the mud. Two more thrusts and Garrick, too, tips over the edge, her spasming muscles holding him in place as he pulses inside her.
Light flares all around them, magic oozing and pulsing in their little circle. Millicent lets it fill her, senses already overwhelmed and oversensitive, and loses the little strength she had left, collapsing in the mud. Garrick groans as his body follows her down, retaining just enough presence of mind to roll off her and tug at her arm until her face is no longer buried. She falls asleep to the feeling of fingers gently wiping the mud off her closed eyelids.
When she awakens, her cloak has been draped over her and Garrick is up, wearing his own robes as he gathers and inspects the magically-enhanced items. Millicent smiles as she stretches, her muscles still aching pleasantly. She smiles more at the look Garrick gives her as she rises, putting an extra, unnecessary swing in her hips as she slides her robe on properly. She feels lush, and as purified and fresh as the air around them.
The rain is falling gently on them now, the wind teasing instead of fierce, and it isn’t until she crosses the circle to stand beside Garrick that she hears the last, weak rumblings of thunder. “Storm has passed,” she remarks idly.
“But what a storm it was.” Garrick holds up a sparkling amethyst, pulsating with power, and smiles. His eyes have faded back to grayish blue when he turns to look at her, but his smile is no less tender now that the passion has subsided. “I am humbled that you share yourself with me.”
No woman can fail to be affected by such a look of genuine warmth and appreciation. Millicent steps forward, brushes their lips together, bites teasingly at his bottom lip.~*~
The little girl is flushed with pleasure, brown eyes wide and sparkling with wonder as she gazes at the wand clasped tightly in her left hand. Experimentally, she waves her wand around, a bright, entranced smile lighting up her face as a string of multi-colored sparks burst into existence and frame her head in a halo of vibrant colors. She looks like a pixie, tiny and delicate and beautiful, trembling with happiness.
Milicent hates her, just a little, in that moment.
“Yes, Mr. Ollivander, I do believe we have a match.” Ginny Potter grins and leans forward, wrapping her arms around her daughter from behind and kissing her cheek. Their hair is exactly the same shade of red, catching the sunlight shining in patches through the dirty windows and filling the crowded, dusty shop with warmth.
“Cheers, Lily! And it didn’t take as long as it took for my wand to choose me,” Harry says in relief, running one hand through his perpetually messy hair in an absent gesture that has Milicent tensing all these years later. It reminds her of awkward shuffling through the castle and hating, hating, hating the beautiful people who look down on her.
But the little girl is looking up at Millicent with such relief and excitement that it’s not hard to bury the twinge of lingering resentment, and smile as she rings up the sale. “The first Potter to have a willow wand in over five generations.”
“Really?” Harry and his daughter answer in unison and then look at each other, Harry smiling sheepishly as Lily giggles.
“Indeed.” Millicent ignores the adults as she leans forward on the counter top, giving Lily a warm smile. “Willow is credited for assisting with imagination and intuition, you know,” she says conspiratorially. “And us girls? Well, we girls are made for magic. Coupled with the unicorn hair in its core, I think your wand is telling you that you can do anything you set your mind to, Miss Lily.”
Lily’s eyes are wide and terribly earnest as she looks up at Millicent and clutches her wand possessively. “I’ll make it proud,” she promises, as she follows her mother toward the door.
Outside the shop a horde of redheads congregates, the children cheering loudly as Lily shows off her wand. Millicent watches, keeping the smile fixed on her face as, predictably, Harry looks back into the shop and lifts his hand in an absent farewell wave. Never has been good with goodbyes, that Potter. She nods in return before turning away, noting the newest sale into the log hidden under the counter and chanting the spells that will send a description of the wand to both the Ministry of Magic and the back room of Ollivander’s shop.
With Hogwarts soon to be back in session, work is brisk and Millicent is worn out by the time she flips the sign to closed and seals the shop door shut. It’s been a hot, miserable day, and Millicent is idly considering returning home for a bath when the first burst of thunder growls into the sky. The wind picks up in enthusiastic support, an excited gust of air that whips around corners in Diagon Alley, sending loose papers dancing as parents clutch their children closer and hurry to Apparrition points.
The pressure in the air sings to her, speaks to the magic thrumming under her skin and has her sucking in her stomach involuntarily. She’s always liked thunderstorms, never more so since she’s been working at Ollviander’s.
Garrick is already in the back office, carefully placing a single, shimmering strand of metal inside a bendy piece of hawthorne. Millicent watches from the doorway before crossing the room, poking at the new wand with her own. Harsh orange light bursts from the new wand, igniting a feather on the corner of the desk on fire. Garrick turns to look at her, mouth pursed ever so slightly.
“Oops,” Millicent says innocently, dropping her wand next to the new wand on the desk. “Sorry. You know I always get a bit ... anxious, when storms roll in.”
She smiles as she carries the pouch of coins across the room to tally, deliberately leaving her wand on the desk. The wind is already whipping hard enough against the side of the building that the shingles rattle.
If she leaves within the next half hour she’ll have time for a bath before the alarm goes off.