If I Had Have Listened . magique
Blaise/Neville, background Neville/Hannah | Harry Potter | NC-17 | PWP, sorta romance | ~4,000 | course language, sex scenes, infidelity/spoilers up to Deathly Hallows & uses bits and pieces from JK's post-series information
First of Sate This Addiction (Redux) series. The first time they sleep together. ("It's bad manners to be thinking of anyone but me right now," he mutters, and laves his tongue against Neville's lips.)
THIS IS ALL FEATHEREDTIPS'S FAULT. WHETHER SHE DESERVES ABUSE OR CONGRATULATIONS ON THAT REMAINS TO BE SEEN. ;D
Title comes from the lyrics of 360's song Boys Like You, which was also one of the main inspirations for the fic. This is a prequel fic to Remedial Denial and Matchmaking for Beginners (which, in turn, is a rewrite of Sate This Addiction). I'm currently working on at least one more sequel (possibly two); everyone has featheredtips to blame/congratulate for those too.
This hasn't been beta'd or, really, properly glanced over (look I'm really excited about having finished it, okay?) so concrit and spelling/grammar nitpicking welcome! :D
Neville's gran is the only person he knows who Apparates to his front door instead of using the Floo Network, so when he hears the magically amplified knocking while he's scrubbing at the thick layer of dirt coating his hands in the shower he just assumes. Gran's never liked to be kept waiting and she's likely to scold him longer for taking his time than for answering the door in a state, so he wraps his towel around himself and hurries down to let her in.
"Sorry," he's already starting as he opens the door, "I was in the…shower," he trails off lamely. "Zabini?"
Zabini's eyes track up and down Neville's body, making him self-conscious of the grit still under his nails and the determined mud stains that haven't quite come out yet, and grins lazily. "The girlfriend home? I'd hate to cause a scene."
"We don't live together," Neville says, shock making him honest. "And, actually, she's away at the moment."
"Oh, good," Zabini says. "Are you going to invite me in?"
"I—er," says Neville, but he steps aside because Gran raised him to be polite under even the most trying of circumstances.
"You want a cup of tea?" Neville asks. There's a certain sense of dissonance seeing Zabini wandering down his hallway, poking his head into all the rooms. "I just need to, er, I'll just go and get dressed, shall I?"
"I'd rather you didn't," Zabini says, plainly amused. "And, actually, no, don't bother with tea. Where's your bedroom?"
Neville's mouth opens and shuts a few times in quick succession.
"Upstairs, I suppose," adds Zabini, seemingly mostly to himself. "Right, well, I'll be waiting up there whenever you're ready for a shag."
He has to pass Neville to get to the base of the stairs, and as he does so, his fingers graze lightly against Neville's bare stomach. He drags his robes over his head, revealing Muggle jeans that lovingly embrace every curve of his legs and a fitted yellow tee; most of Neville is relieved to see Zabini was wearing anything under his robes, but a small treacherous part is disappointed. Zabini drops his robes onto the carpeted stairs and sends Neville a scorching look that goes straight to his already tingling cock.
"Zabini, don't—" he tries, finally, but Zabini's already disappearing upstairs. He stands, helplessly, in the cramped hallway of his flat and tries desperately not to imagine what Zabini must look like now, sprawled across Neville's bed, or how he could look, clothes dishevelled and legs agape, or smoky-eyed and on his knees, sucking Neville's cock into his mouth.
The thing is Neville remembers what it was like for Parvati and Padma in seventh year. Zabini had managed to worm his way into the very outer circles of the students loyal to Harry—not trustworthy enough to be told anything, but safe enough that someone disappearing with him at night wouldn't lead to a panicked search for their beaten, hexed corpse. Everything with the Patil twins had happened before Neville had to go into hiding in the Room of Requirement, and, every now and then in the weeks following the discovery that Zabini had been leading both girls on at once, he'd come across Parvati crying or sitting, listless and sad, in the common room, for once unable to go to her sister for comfort. So Neville had sat with her, when she wanted the company, until she produced a watery smile and told him to go and do something more important, she was alright.
So Neville knows what Zabini's like, and he knows what Zabini does to people who put faith in him. And he's tried to dismiss Zabini's advances, but chances are that anyone with eyes can tell he's reluctant to give Zabini a flat out rejection. And—and maybe it would be better to get this over with, to go upstairs and get it out of the way and let Zabini gather his clothes and extract himself from Neville's life. Then Neville can carry on saving up to start his business, finally commit himself enough to Hannah to let her move in and maybe marry her one day. He just—needs to get this out of his system.
He finds his legs taking him upstairs almost before he's made a decision. His footfalls sound heavy in the quiet of the house and his fingers holding unnecessarily onto his towel have gone white. He pushes the bedroom door open and Zabini's lying across the bed on his stomach, idly flicking through Susan Spellbound's AnEncyclopaediaofNon-magicalPlantsandtheirMagicalUses. Zabini glances up and Neville hears an impossible murmur of, "Oh, thank god," as he steps forward, fumbles slightly, and kicks the door shut behind him.
"So, I, er—" Neville falters, feeling oddly breathless.
Zabini seems, momentarily, just as unsure as Neville, but he gathers himself and lets a lascivious smile curl the corners of his mouth. "Come here," he says, husky, rising to kneel near the edge of the bed. "I want your prick in my mouth and up my arse at least twice each tonight."
His tone makes Neville's cock harden exponentially, but a startled, awkward laughs falls out of his mouth. "Really?"
"What, really?" Zabini parrots, looking out of sorts. "You don't like dirty talk? Everyone likes dirty talk."
"It just—" Neville's hands flutter and twist in front of him as he searches for the words. "It just sounds silly, I guess," he says. "Er, sorry."
"No, that's—okay." Blaise pauses, and then strips his shirt off decisively. His torso is slim and toned and a rich, dark brown. "Oh, stop standing there like that; you're making me feel repulsive."
"Sorry," Neville says again, and takes a few steps closer to the bed. Then, catching up with the conversation: "Really? Everyone?"
Zabini frowns. "Pretty much. Are you going to kiss me or what?"
"Oh," Neville says, and thinks, suddenly, of Hannah and how sweetly she smiled at him the last time they made love in this bed. She'd stayed the night, curled into his side, and she'd made them breakfast the next morning and told him excitedly about all the places she and her cousin wanted to visit on their holiday.
His expression must betray him, because Zabini's face goes pinched and he reels Neville in to press their mouths together. "It's bad manners to be thinking of anyone but me right now," he mutters, and laves his tongue against Neville's lips. Neville's breath catches and his mouth opens instinctively; Zabini presses his advantage, his tongue pushing hotly against Neville's, coaxing him into responding in kind, and withdrawing to explore the uneven landscape of his crooked teeth.
Neville's hands slide around Zabini's neck; it throws him slightly to find the prickle of short hair against his fingertips instead of long, blonde hair his fingers can dig into, but Zabini presses close, his skin warm and dry against Neville's, and with his fingers at the curve of Neville's jaw he turns the kiss a little harder, a little more desperate, and sweeps Neville's unease away.
Zabini pulls back, groaning, and pushes Neville's drying hair back from his forehead. "You have no idea how uncomfortable these jeans are when I'm turned on," he says, a little rueful, a little amused, "but if I have to take them off myself I'll make you regret it."
Neville lets him guide his hands to the waistband of the jeans; his large, blunt fingers struggle with the button and Zabini's decision to duck forward and lap at Neville's nipple makes unfastening the zip slow, clumsy work. Zabini shimmies his hips as Neville pushes the denim down his thighs and makes an indecipherable pleased noise. He falls back onto the covers and looks at Neville through slanted, heavy-lidded eyes.
Everything about the way Zabini moves makes Neville feel interminably awkward, and the feeling is only magnified by their near-nakedness. Lying on Neville's bed, with his jeans halfway down his thighs and his erection tenting his boxer briefs, Zabini still has that easy, cat-like proprietary air that makes him look not-ridiculous. Even knowing he's grown into his looks and lost the puppy-fat that characterised his childhood, imagining himself in the same position makes Neville flush with toe-curling embarrassment.
He'd felt horribly certain that Zabini was mocking him the first they bumped into each other after Hogwarts, a meeting that had started with Zabini shamelessly propositioning him and had gotten worse the longer it went on. Which is to say: Zabini's hungry gaze as Neville moves to hover over on hands and knees him leaves Neville too-hot and at a loss, because surely he can't look well-enough to deserve attention like that.
But Zabini, oblivious, wonders, "How have you still not lost this towel?" and when he drags it away from Neville's hips, his eyes drink in the new expanse of skin visible to him. "Not bad," he says lightly, his lips quirking, but his pupils are blown wide and arousal is heavy in his voice, and Neville finds himself smiling and saying, "I do okay," despite himself.
Zabini runs a hand down his side and cups his arse. "You won't have any lube, will you?"
"Er, no, Hannah—we didn't really—we don't…experiment really," Neville says, feeling a sudden wave of nausea that he's in this bed with someone else, talking about her like she doesn't matter.
"It's fine, there's a spell," Zabini says, but he's watching Neville guardedly. "It's just less fun. Help me get these trousers off?"
Neville shifts back to tug the jeans down Zabini's slim legs (because, apparently, the part of his brain that's making him nauseous with guilt has no control over the part that wants to get off) and drops them off the side of the bed. Zabini pushes at the waistband of his pants, freeing his leaking cock, wriggles gracelessly until he's got them off, and proceeds to toss them aside.
"I hope you can find those later," Neville says, only half joking, and Zabini snorts.
"I'll Summon them," he says, sniggering, and pretends to wave a wand as if casting the spell: "Accio Blaise's pants."
Neville laughs and shakes his head as he leans forward again. Zabini clearly takes this as invitation for him to pull Neville down for a lingering closed-mouthed kiss that segues into a lingering open-mouthed kiss and then, when Zabini reaches between them to handle their cocks with teasing, practiced caresses, into one as messy as it is heated.
There's a thump to the side that makes Neville jump away guiltily, but Hannah isn't framed in the doorway, rightly furious; Zabini had been searching blindly for his wand, now in hand, and had knocked AnEncyclopaediaofNon-MagicalPlants to the floor.
"Lubrico," he mutters, with a little flick of his wand, and makes a face. Off Neville's concerned look, he smirks; "You try having the effects of ten solid minutes worth of fingering replicated in a moment."
"Is it—are you okay?"
"Longbottom, if I don't get your prick inside me soon—whereareyougoing?"
Neville, who had reached over to paw through one of his bedside table's drawers, holds up a handful containing a pen, a pad of crumpled post-it notes (the top one with remembertowat scribbled across it), and a few condoms.
"Oh," Blaise says faintly. "My mistake. Carry on."
Neville smiles slightly and lets most of the things drop to the bedcovers so he can tear open one of the condom wrappers open and, "Hang on, damn, give me a sec."
Zabini snatches it out of his hand and opens it effortlessly with a quick rip. He hands it back graciously, snickering at Neville's indignant noise, and Neville rolls it onto his own cock quickly, trying to ignore the feeling of a hand, anyhand, touching him.
"I haven't ever—" Neville starts, awkward, and is infinitely grateful that Zabini chooses to interrupt before he spends a few minutes stumbling through trying to explain himself.
"I figured," he says, and, "hold up, let me…" and then he's guiding Neville's cock to his hole, his expression intent and his eyes a little unfocussed. "You've gotta—go slow," he adds between little gasps. He lifts his hips and—Neville has to chew on his lip and hold himself carefully still—eases Neville into him.
Neville moans low in his throat and presses his mouth, his teeth, his tongue to the curve of Zabini's shoulder; anything, anything, to distract himself from the feel of Zabini around his cock and his growing desire to thrust sharply into it. And then he's swallowed to the hilt and Zabini's shifting and murmuring, "Just—give me a bit, you're thicker than I'm used to," and catching Neville's mouth with his again.
"Okay?" Neville asks.
Zabini rolls his eyes fondly. "I'm fine; if I didn't like it, I wouldn't do it. Stop asking."
He presses quick, wet kisses to every part of Neville's jaw, throat, and neck he can reach, and adds, "So it really wouldn't do anything for you if I were to talk about your huge cock filling me up, it feels so good, oh god oh god, Longbottom, dome?" This last is said in a filthy, pornographic voice clearly intended as a joke.
Neville laughs. "Not really," he says, shrugging. "It never sounds very sincere."
"Fair enough. Okay, I'm good, go go go," Zabini says and, when Neville tries to check if he's sure, he pointedly rolls his hips, leaving Neville groaning quietly, and says, "Shut up and fuck me."
Neville's always been good at following orders he believes in; he shoves his forearm across the bedding under Zabini's neck for balance and starts with a rhythm of slow, short thrusts. "A little—a little more—" Zabini says, then just arches his back instead, which seems to have the intended effect: his eyelids flutter shut and his mouth opens in voiceless pleasure.
Neville's thrusts grow longer as he becomes surer that he won't hurt Zabini and he lets the sensations of the tight heat surrounding his cock overtake him until his hips are bucking erratically. He finds Zabini's cock and grips it, awkward at first, but, encouraged by Zabini's warm, enthusiastic noises, he twists his wrist to accommodate the unfamiliar angle, firmly stroking the shaft and using softer, careful touches around the tip.
Zabini comes first, with a gasp that sounds ripped out of him, and Neville follows soon after, burying his face in Zabini's neck.
"We shouldn't," Neville says later. They're lying with several inches between them and Neville has to stare very hard at the ceiling because if he looks at Zabini he knows he'll lose his nerve. "That is, I mean, this shouldn't happen again."
"By all means, Longbottom, if you want me to leave, just say so," Zabini says icily, swinging his legs off the bed and sitting up. "You might not have noticed, given that you were so preoccupied with feeling guilty for so much as thinking about anyone but your little girlfriend, but I gave you ample opportunity to reject my advances. You could have said no from the start and you certainly didn't have to come upstairs and fuck me."
Neville tears his eyes away from the ceiling to watch Zabini through this speech; his back is all tight, straight lines and the curve of his face visible to Neville is a mask of derision, and maybe back at school, Neville would have missed the cracks in his painstakingly constructed façade of scornful disinterest, but now he can see this for the pre-emptive strike that it is.
"You're right," Neville says, and Zabini turns sharply to look at him. "You didn't make me do anything.
"Now, I don't really know the etiquette in this sort of situation, but the shower's through there if you want it and I don't know about you, but I haven't eaten since breakfast, so I'm going down to make dinner." He tries not to feel too self-conscious going about getting dressed and even halfway manages it, knowing that he's suddenly the least confused person in the room. He smiles at Zabini's shell-shocked expression and heads off downstairs to bumble about in the kitchen.
He's about as good at magical cooking as he is at Potions, so he'd taught himself to cook the Muggle way after he'd moved out of the manor and he's gotten to a point where all of what he turns out is edible and most of it is even pleasant. Off course, if it hadn't been for Hannah's campaign against his eating the same five meals over and over for the rest of his life and her insistent, patient teaching, he wouldn't have learnt most of what he did.
Neville hears the shower go on briefly while he's cutting chicken thighs into uneven strips, and Zabini appears some time later, back in his Muggle clothes, and sits on one of the stools by the island without comment.
He seems content to just sit and watch Neville cook in silence, so Neville doesn't bother trying to start conversation.
"You've changed a lot since Hogwarts," Zabini says eventually, frowning, and Neville shrugs cheerfully and says, "No one stays the same person they were in school. You're different too, I expect."
"I'm not sure I agree."
"Well, you don't go around spouting all that Mudblood and blood traitor vitriol anymore," Neville says without thinking, and then winces. Probably not the best time to bring up what it still a sensitive topic in the Wizarding World.
But Zabini just rolls his eyes. "Please. Any Slytherin who knew what was good for them was saying that stuff. There was no way of knowing which of your housemates supported the Dark Lord or what they were writing home to their parents about, and we all thought Professor Snape was still a Death Eater then too, so of course none of us would've felt safe going to him for help."
"You didn't believe in any of it then?" Neville asks, surprised.
"It'd be a bit hypocritical. My mother's from a long line of half-bloods," says Zabini. "She might have put a lot of effort into making sure everyone forgot about it, but if someone looked hard enough…." He rests his elbows on the countertop and adds, "Only reason she married my father, really, before she topped him and collected his fortune."
"It's hardly a fresh wound, Longbottom. He was dead by the time I was two."
"Still," Neville says. He stares very hard at the fry pan he'd been keeping an eye on until Zabini spoke and finally gives in to curiosity: "So your mother—she, er, did she kill all her husbands like everyone thinks?"
Zabini's mouth twitches at his timid tone and he says, "I'm not offended, if that's what you're worried about; there's no love lost between my mother and I. But, no, I couldn't say for sure whether she killed them all. At first I was too young to understand, and later they'd die while we were away on conveniently planned trips or while I was at school." He shifts, crosses his arms in front of himself, uncrosses them. "But my assumption's more informed as I see what a manipulative bitch she is on a day to day basis."
"Do you still live with her?" Neville asks, even though he's fairly sure of the answer. The British Wizarding community is so insular that it's hard not to know intimate details of the lives of people you hardly know.
"Yes, I still live with—look, I'd really rather not continue this therapy session," Zabini says. "Did you want that blow job I offered earlier, or should I leave?"
Neville's traitor of a cock twitches with interest, but, "No," he says, bland, and turns back to the stove.
Zabini makes a short, irritated noise. "Longbottom, for once in your life, just take what you want without thinking about the consequences first."
The pan is shoved roughly off the hot plate and Zabini steps up behind him so close they're touching. He mouths against the back of Neville's neck, mutters, "You're hardly going to feel worse if I do it than you will if I leave right now," and, rising to his toes, kisses round to Neville's jaw line, where he sucks at the sweet spot beneath his ear. Neville involuntarily finds his head turning, his eyes drifting shut and his neck tilting, to allow Zabini further access to the sensitive skin of his throat.
Zabini's roaming hands slip under the fabric of Neville's worn shirt, exploring his stomach and up his chest, feeling out his navel and his nipples and playing with each as they find it.
"Zabini," Neville groans, and Zabini kisses the lobe of his ear, sending a shiver down his spine, and whispers, "Mmm yeah, just go with it."
Neville lets Zabini turn him so they're standing face-to-face against a counter away from the stove, lets him push his shirt up to his underarms; moans as Zabini leans down and sucks one of his nipples into his mouth. Zabini's teeth skim over it, just this side of painful, and his tongue swirls around it, soothing. He lathers it with attention until Neville can't help the objecting sound that slips out or the way his hips stutter forward, and then he turns to the other and repeats the same process.
Neville's cock has swollen to full hardness by the time Zabini starts to kiss and suck his way down Neville's chest, finally dropping to his knees and smirking up at Neville's flushed face. He runs a finger down the front of Neville's trousers, traces the outline of the bulge in them; he has to press his other forearm against Neville's hips to hold him still.
After what feels like an interminable period, Zabini unfastens his trousers and pulls them down, boxers and all, just enough to release Neville's cock. This time, there's no pause: he grips around the base with one hand and sucks the tip into is mouth.
Neville's fingers scrabble at the countertop behind him, trying to find purchase to support his weak knees, and he manages a quiet, drawn-out, "Oh."
Zabini fondles his shaft and licks his balls with long, sweeping strokes, every now and then sucking or taking a testicle into his mouth, before returning his mouth to his cock. Neville's head falls back, hitting one of the cabinets with a thump, as he feels the tips of his cock hitting what can only be the back of Zabini's throat. "Oh, god," he moans, "oh god, ohgod."
There are teasing feather-light caresses against the skin of his pelvis, his inner thighs, his balls; and then Zabini's clever fingers find the spot just behind them and rubs. Neville twitches, tries to pull away, says, "I'm—Zabini, I'm," but Zabini pushes him more firmly against the counter, enough that there'll surely be bruises across his lower back and arse tomorrow, and hums determinedly around the head of his cock.
Neville's orgasm hits so hard his knees buckle, the only things holding him up his grip on the edge of the countertop and Zabini's forearm across his hips. He's aware only vaguely of Zabini tucking him back into his pants and fixing his trousers, and then Zabini's standing in front of him again.
He smirks triumphantly, presses a peck of a kiss to the corner of Neville's mouth, says, "See you round, Longbottom," and walks out of the room. Neville can hear his footsteps down the hall: the squeak of those familiar, loose floorboards, the pause as Zabini collects his robes from the stairs, the swish of his front door opening, the click of it shutting.
And then Neville's alone with his rapidly cooling, half-cooked dinner.