Nothing both soothes and arouses Aberforth like a whiff of Wilhelmina's pipe smoke.
A/N: This story was written for the Daily Deviant comm on Insane Journal, where one of the month's story choices was "capnolagnia: arousal from watching others smoke." Smoking-in-fanfic is one of my bullet-proof kinks, so I was really pleased to see this theme. And it was perfect for another favorite of mine, the pipe-smoking Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank. In my head-canon, Wilhelmina is a dyke, but sometimes she makes an exception for Aberforth.
Flying Dutchman is a real pipe tobacco, and it always makes me (and apparently Aberforth) think of the famous legend of the ghost ship.
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by Kelly Chambliss
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"And stay out, ya bleedin' little bumfuck!" Aberforth Dumbledore shouted in as threatening a voice as he could be bothered to muster. He timed his hex to just miss the backside of the fleeing Hogwarts third-year.
It was the same every year: idiot kids daring other idiot kids to spend part of their Hogsmeade Saturdays sneaking into Ab's goat pens. They couldn't have done any harm even if they'd got in - - Aberforth knew a thing or two about appropriate charms on goats (and inappropriate ones, too, if it came to that, though it rarely did) - - but every year, the yobbos still tried it on.
A chuckle from behind him reached his ear at the same time that a whiff of tobacco smoke reached his nose.
It could only be Wilhelmina.
He turned to find her leaning on the fence, one sturdy, trousered leg propped on the bottom rail, the ever-present pipe stuck between her teeth.
"Letting a pack of schoolchildren get the better of you, old man?" she asked, still chuckling. "A couple of simple wards would take care of that problem, you know."
"Shut it, old woman," Aberforth growled, but he was grinning. He was glad to see her, though he'd never say it in so many words. "The place is warded well enough. Way I see it, you got to let the little perishers play silly buggers every now and again and think they've almost got away with it. Otherwise, they'll get up to worse."
This speech held more words than he often said in an entire day, but Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank had that effect on him. Never said much herself, but she made a bloke feel at ease.
Wilhelmina grinned back, her pipe rising at a jaunty angle, and Ab felt his cock twitch.
"What brings you this way?" he asked.
"Got an interview with Albus first thing in the morning," she said. "Teaching gig. Temporary. Thought I might as well come by a day early."
"You'll be staying here, then?"
"If you've a room."
Aberforth nodded. "Aye. There'll be a room."
"Right, then," said Wilhelmina, and strode toward the door.
"Get yourself a glass o' summat," Ab called after her. "I'll be in."
He felt the grin spread across his face again as he watched her disappear into the pub. Oh, aye. There'd be a room, all right. His room. And his bed.
He treated his cock to another thought or two about Wilhelmina and her pipe.
It was the pipe that had attracted him to her in the first place, all those years ago when she'd first come round as old Orman Fletcher's apprentice in animal healing. There was something about a woman with a pipe that spoke to him, somehow. Or spoke to his cock, any road.
Wilhelmina had used the same tobacco back then that she used now, and the scent of it could still make Ab almost instantly hard, even nowadays, when all he usually wanted out of bed was a good sleep.
Flying Dutchman. That's what Wilhelmina's baccy was called. He used to give her hell about using a Muggle blend. Not because he had anything against Muggle-made products, of course. It was just a fun way to. . .er, get her goat. A way to get her to pay more attention to him than she did to his animals.
The smell of Flying Dutchman was unmistakable - - pleasant, almost fruity, almost sweet, but not quite either. Aberforth didn't think there was anything that could both soothe and arouse him like a whiff of Dutchman.
And yet, Merlin's gut, but it could burn. First time Ab had lifted a pinch or two from Wilhelmina's tobacco pouch (she'd offered), he'd expected the same mild effect as the scent.
Instead, the damned stuff had had a bite like a rabid crup. Ab's tongue had been scorched for two days.
Wilhelmina had shaken her head at him. "Got to take your time with the Dutchman, Aberforth. Not a smoke you can rush."
And Wilhelmina turned out not to be a women you could rush, either. She was a bit like her Dutchman, actually. Soothing and calm and balanced. . .until she bit. Didn't happen often, but when it did, you felt the burn down to your toes.
She liked to take things slow, Wilhelmina did. It had taken him over a year to get into her bed, and Aberforth at that time had not been a patient man. Or his libido hadn't been, at any rate.
He hadn't exactly courted her, since neither he nor Wilhelmina was what you'd call the hearts-and-flowers type. But he'd made his interest known.
He'd told himself even then, though, that it was a losing battle, trying to get anything on with her. Aberforth had got around a bit in those days. . .had been a bit of a lad, in fact, and he knew (or thought he did) what it meant when a woman looked the way Wilhelmina looked, with her short, mannish hair and her trousers worn with a man's robe. To say nothing of that pipe, which she could fill, tamp, and set to draw with a skill that Ab could only envy.
The sight of Wilhelmina's able fingers stroking and tapping her pipe sent a jolt to Ab's cock every time. If she could play a piece of carved wood like that, what might she do to a man's live piece of wood?
So even though he was fairly certain he knew which way the wind blew when it came to Wilhelmina's sexual interests, Aberforth had been unable to resist giving her a go anyway. If she had turned him down, well, it wouldn't have been the first time a woman had managed to resist his charms. And he knew she would never be unkind about it.
He'd made his move in the old barn, the one he'd had before he'd traded his country place for the joys, such as they were, of life as a publican. He and Wilhelmina had been overseeing a complicated yeaning. It was the wee hours of the morning before they finally stood together in the warm darkness next to the birthing stall, looking down at a healthy kid and a contented doe, the soft scent of Wilhelmina's tobacco wreathing round them.
Aberforth had leant forward and kissed her, pipe and all.
She'd kissed him back. One thing led to an inevitable other, and they'd ended up having sex right there in the clean straw next to the goat pen.
Wilhelmina's fingers had been just as capable as Ab had imagined, and luckily, she hadn't kicked him in the nuts when, afterward, the brain-dulling languor of fulfilled lust had led him to say, "Seems I had you wrong. I figured you for the sort of woman who'd prefer her own kind, if you get me."
Wilhelmina had been engaged with her post-coital pipe, and her snort had sent a puff of sweet Dutchman into his face.
"And here I thought you were my own kind," she'd said. "Thought you were a human. But apparently you're an ass."
Ab's chest had filled with his laughter and her smoke, and she'd been a part of him, one way or another, ever since.
Giving a final check to the wards on the goat pens, Aberforth headed into his pub. There'd be time for a quick finger or two of whisky with Wilhelmina before the evening rush started.
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It was late when he finally shooed out the last of the drunks and locked up for the night, and Wilhelmina had long since disappeared from the bar.
Ab knew where he'd find her, though - - in his bed, wearing his old kneazle-hair-covered dressing gown, her pipe in her hand. She was inhaling deeply as he came in the door, and the delicious slow burn of that sight went straight to his cock.
He undressed quickly, dropping his trousers over hers on the back of a chair, and was sliding into bed next to her before she'd finished letting the smoke back out. He kissed her, savouring the sweetness and bite while she traced the pipe stem lightly over his chest.
Then she pushed him back onto the pillows, letting him know that she wanted to be on top tonight, and that was fine with Aberforth. He liked to have her welcome weight astride him, her strong thighs tight against his, her breasts within easy reach of his tongue.
She kept hold of her pipe in one hand as she lowered her hot mouth to his cock, sucking him in deep, and he didn't need to watch her to know just how she looked: her lips pursed, the tension smoothing out of her face just as it did when she drew in her mellow, soft smoke.
For a moment, Ab felt like smoke himself, light and free and as if his very nerve ends were dissipating into nothingness, and then Wilhelmina was lowering herself onto him, and she was tight and sweet, and he was groaning and thrusting, one hand on her heavy breast, the other coaxing the pipe back between her lips so that she could fill her mouth as he filled her body and the silky sharp smoke filled the room.
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He dreams of a ghost ship in full sail, its towering masts glowing with eerie, other-worldly light, its decks filled with the fog-shrouded dead. At the head of their ranks stands a little girl with blonde shining hair. . .
But she fades into mist as he reaches for her.
Aberforth wakes with a start. Tendrils of the dream still cling to him, but the details are lost as his head clears; nothing remains but a faint lingering unease.
He becomes aware of Wilhelmina's even breathing as she lies next to him, warm against his side. Shaking his head to dislodge the last wisps of the dream, Ab turns over and spoons his body around hers. She is solid and reassuring and smells comfortingly of tobacco and animals, and he is soon fast asleep once more.