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Author's Notes: Why the hell do I keep having Draco cum on Neville's face?
They escaped to the Astronomy tower: it seemed like a good idea at the time, and Neville was far past the stage of remonstration. Indeed, all possibilities of protest flew instantly from his mind the moment Draco set a hand upon his crotch -- or on any other part of his anatomy, for that matter. There was a form of liberation to be found in the simplicity of contact; in the entwining of fingers, in the brush of lips, in the riot of sensations Neville suffered each time his thigh accidentally brushed against Draco's. Captured within such a perfect, focused moment of pure *touch*, Neville could have no more voiced his disapproval than he could brew a potion that actually worked.
Undressing was a clumsy affair. Draco's thin fingers were nimble, certainly, but Neville's squirming and heated breath made his task a remarkably taxing one. Furthermore, Neville was hardly clothed for a midnight tryst. Unbuttoning his scruffy robe only revealed a sweater, and under the sweater a shirt, and under the shirt, and under the shirt a vest... it was akin to peeling a damned union, Draco thought uncharitably. Before tearing the vest over the boy's head, Draco couldn't resist giving Neville's left nipple a sharp tweaking through the thin layer of cotton. With his mouth open in a gasp, with his eyes rounded in surprise, Neville Longbottom appeared an utterly witless figure: doll-like, foolish, unbearably hopeful.
//As easy to manipulate as those goons, Crabbe and Goyle, but somehow more trusting, more loyal (that despicable trait of all Gryffindors)... no, Neville was hardly the sort to initiate rumours regarding a certain Slytherin's sexual orientation...//
In the stifled darkness of the room they pushed gracelessly into each other. Neville's shoulders foundered against the stony wall behind him; further whimpers escaped him each time Draco undulated his body over the boy's hip. When Draco slid his hand experimentally beneath the waistband of Neville's trousers, they came away sticky and moist. Ignoring the sweat-salty smell which had begun to permeate the air, Draco snickered -- he could not help himself.
"Am I *really* that good?"
Neville's cheeks stung with redness. "Yes."
It was a reply Draco had not been expecting, and he found himself floundering without an adequate reply. In order to quell the sudden jumping of his heart he withdrew a pace. The sound of his unfastening fly seemed to relay a thousand echoes in the tension-fraught atmosphere -- though most of them, Draco imagined, existed solely within the confines of his own mind.
He reached forward; he held Neville's shoulder firmly and pushed downward until the boy subsided to his knees.
//Imagine what the Slytherins...//
Neville's rough tongue lingered on the head of his cock, a hot, slow, sliding pressure, an unraveling of desire which spooled down his length and into his balls. It was squishy-warm within the embrace of the boy's lips; Draco's fingers knitted into Neville's dark, dishelved hair. With an almighty effort Draco resisted the urge to buck into the boy's face, to fuck Neville onto him, around him, *with* him... and now that thick tongue of Neville's was streaking down almost to balls, sloppily coating each raised vein, each inch of flesh in a delectable patina of saliva...
//Your father would kill you if he...//
His testicles were manipulated by plump, clumsy fingers, squeezed and released in an erratic, thoughtless way which nearly drove him to insanity. At each inward breath Neville sucked Draco deeper, releasing him on the exhale, while the perfect O of his lips remained firm. In the vacuum of the boy's mouth Draco died a hundred exquisite deaths, and the wave-like ripple of Neville's tongue sent him past the point of conscious control. He gripped Neville by his hair and slid into him forcibly, even as the boy gagged airlessly for breath...
//They would laugh until they wept...//
His ejaculation was profuse; he pulled abruptly from Neville's mouth before climax, splattering the boy's upturned face with cum. As Neville sobbed and wiped at his eyes and mouth, Draco cleaned himself off with the hem of Neville's discarded robe. Zipping his fly, the Slytherin experienced a faint twinge of apprehension, that seeping dread which always accompanied the conclusion of each late-night indiscretion. It was not the parting he feared, however, but rather the terrifying question which invariably preceded it.
He dressed quickly; he refused to look in Neville's direction; with his hands bunched in the pockets of his robe he made for the door.
Only to be frozen in place by Neville's plaintive call.
Draco twitched; and the ensuing moments of silence seemed to slither over his tendon-strung body like the scaly form of a snake. He coughed, weakly: aware all at once of the accumulation of dust in the room, of the greasy spots on the front of his trousers, and of the disgustingly pathetic nature of this situation. This sordid reality, which he had been able to forget in the momentary heat of desire, now rose to haunt him -- a jeering phantasm of self-doubt to spite his pride.
"What is it *now*, Longbottom?"
"...Love me?" came the pitiful, hideous request.
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