RP: Neville and Rita Reprised
Who: Neville and Rita
When: Friday 12th October
Where: 3rd bedroom
Rating: Let's start with NC-17 and build on that.
Summary: Neville has snuck into Rita's room for the peace and quiet.
Status: Incomplete
Neville sank down onto the bed, which he presumed was Rita's, and pulled the pillow over his head, groaning as he did so. He felt so sleepy, but was ( Read more... )
When: Friday 12th October
Where: 3rd bedroom
Rating: Let's start with NC-17 and build on that.
Summary: Neville has snuck into Rita's room for the peace and quiet.
Status: Incomplete
Neville sank down onto the bed, which he presumed was Rita's, and pulled the pillow over his head, groaning as he did so. He felt so sleepy, but was ( Read more... )
By the time Rita got out of the cell, she was glad to be free of it. The cell was open to the air, thank Merlin, but once she'd cycled through thoughtfulness to boredom to introspection, she started to hate it. She wasn't claustrophobic, but she didn't like being confined. Didn't like being trapped. It reminded her far too strongly of that week she'd spent in a jar in Hermione's trunk.
She was sick of the anonymity of these clothes, too.
Merlin, she was just a bundle of contradictions, wasn't she?
Making her way back to her room, she'd already pulled the disgusting prison smock over her head when she realised she wasn't alone. She redressed quickly in the closest matching clothes to hand, then turned.
Neville. In her bed. With the pillow over his head and fingers wrapped loosely around the handle of a mug he'd set on the bedside table.
She wondered if the sheets smelled like sex. Wondered what he was doing here. Lifted a hand and pulled on the lid of her trunk, letting it thud closed to announce her presence.
"Why do I feel like Goldilocks?" she asked, smiling, then waved away any attempt he might have been about to make to vacate the space. "Stay. I'm not planning on sleeping. I take it it's quieter in here? Are you feeling any better?"
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"Sorry...it was just quieter in here, and you were in the cell."
He shifted, far too comfortable to move, and smiled, laying his head back.. "Thank you. I am feeling much better already. It's been one of those weeks." He reached out for his mug again and took a healthy mouthful.
"At least nobody else in the house has got it. I'd hate to feel responsible for giving it to anyone. But I haven't given it much of an oppurtunity. Been keeping out of the way, mostly."
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Rita leaned back against the trunk and studied him. Languid, once he recovered from the surprise of her entrance, sinking back against the covers and smiling in a way that was almost cheeky; almost decadent.
Or perhaps she was reading too much into it because seeing him there like that reminded her powerfully of the way she'd woken up and the memory she'd drawn on as her hand slipped between her legs.
"I'd noticed," she replied. "I think Big Brother failed this week, really. Trying to play power games with us but giving the power to the two people least interested in wielding it." She thought for a moment. "I'm glad they did, though. I wouldn't trust myself with that level of power. Not the way it was given."
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"It's so boring, recently," he complained. "But then, I've been asleep..." He smiled and opened one eye to look up at Rita questioningly. "It's nice talking to you. It's been a long time since we've been able to talk."
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She smiled, amused by the fact that he hadn't even figured it out, and somewhat pleased.
"Don't you see what they're doing? Giving two housemates complete, unquestionable power over the other four. Trying to turn us against each other. But I don't think it's worked. I don't like it, either, and I wouldn't even if I were one of the guards."
She let her head fall back a moment, raking fingers through her hair, then looked back up at him. "It's been just as boring awake, believe me. I think I'll miss it, in some ways, whenever I have to go, but I certainly won't miss having absolutely nothing to do but pointless tasks." She chuckled at the next comment.
"Did we talk before? I seem to remember you being uncomfortable and stammering a lot in the first week or so. And myself unused to so much company so early in the morning." Unused to not being able to transform as well, of course, but she couldn't say that.
Actually, he'd become a whole lot more comfortable around her after they'd slept together - after he'd gotten over the shock, at least.
"You seem a lot more comfortable now than you ever were in those first few weeks."
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"It takes me a lot of time to get confident with people," he said, his voice slightly worn from the coughing fits he'd been suffering from for the last couple of weeks. "But we've been in here for more than two months now...and I've seen things that you lot do that well...that I'd much rather forget about, if truth be told."
He leant into his teacup so that Rita couldn't clock his thoughtful expression. He leant back after a moment, a slight smile touching his lips. "And what about you, Rita? You seem a lot nicer. Or shouldn't I say that?" He gasped, mockingly. "What if someone's listening?"
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Rita didn't know quite what he was referring to when he spoke about things he'd seen that he'd rather forget. There were too many possibilities for her to have any idea. "I don't think I want to ask which things, specifically. Though I suppose this has given you more experience at dealing with people's bad habits and moods than twenty years of teaching would have."
Leaning on the trunk wasn't terribly comfortable. She pushed away from it and moved to sit on the end of the bed, prodding one of Neville's feet aside and leaning against the bed-end, curling one leg under the other.
She chuckled again at the comment and it faded into a smile, one eyebrow arched. "Have I lost my reputation as a ruthless bitch, then?" Propped one elbow against the bed end and leant her head against her hand. She sighed. "It's kind of difficult to keep up one's two dimensional writing persona as a real person - especially when the public are watching 24/7. And it's much easier to be a bitchy columnist from behind a pen than it is to behave like one in a place like this."
He was right there, inches away from her. She wanted him. Wanted something, anyway, because her hand was never enough. Wanted to see that look in his eyes again, maybe. Wanted to see if she could make him look at her like that without the aid of the passion fruit. Didn't think it would happen easily, though. Couldn't make any quick moves."
"I think you're probably the only one here, though, who hasn't presumed I'm going to write an article about you after every conversation." She dropped her left hand off her lap, straightened the sheets where she'd torn them from beneath the bed in her sleep. Brushed her fingers against his ankle.
"I had quite an amazing dream last night." She'd said it before she really thought about it, and as soon as it was out, had no idea how she was going to answer him when he asked her what about.
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"Why would you want to write an article about me though?" he asked, softly. "I'm just Neville Longbottom. I was uninteresting in school, and I'm uninteresting now." He smiled. "I don't expect anyone to want to read about me, Rita, so I dearly suggest that you save your words for someone more deserving."
He sat up straight on the bed when she spoke, using that as an excuse for pulling away from the touch on his ankle, all too aware of it, but feigning ignorance. Maybe it was an accident. "Oh? What did you dream about?"
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She watched him, brows creasing when he spoke of himself in such depreciating terms. Opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Took a moment to gather her thoughts. "I wouldn't write an article about you," she said, "But only because my genre of writing has more to do with taking people apart than building them up. And because there is a line that I have between professional and personal, and we've crossed it. But I hope you don't really think that about yourself, when it comes down to it. I can understand not wanting to talk yourself up - Merlin, I can't even seem to form sentences with compliments that mean anything - but there's nothing wrong with being proud of who you are and what you're capable of, whether others think it admirable and interesting or not."
He sat up and moved away from her - trying not to be obvious about it, it seemed - but she noticed, and it spoke a lot more than the things he said.
But there was the question hanging in the air, now. She could avoid it, skip around it and change the subject after all, but then she'd still be burning up and he'd be sitting there thinking himself uninteresting, and eventually they'd run out of things to say.
"I dreamt about people touching me. All sorts of people - all these memories mingling into one. I can't remember the details but I remember the sensations. And the way you looked at me, like I was the only thing that existed in the world. I don't think you realise..." But she broke off there. Finishing that sentence would get too close to talking about her own feelings, and she couldn't quite go there. Emotions were a liability in her business, had been in her life.
She smiled, then, just a little quirk, and met his eyes. "But you are neither boring nor uninteresting, and I'd like to show you that."
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He shifted on the bed, his eyes raking her briefly as she began to speak, then drawing away, shy, as her words drifted to something entirely more personal. He wasn't quite sure wht to say to that, and he missed her insinuation at the end. He wriggled his feet out of bed, shivering and reaching for the robe, which he pulled around himself carefully.
"I think I shold probably go back to my own room," he told her, apologetically.
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And what in the buggering fuck was all this about? Neville was a bundle of contradictions, too. One thing, though - she was bloody well sick of him just running away whenever the conversation got uncomfortable.
She watched him, though. Just watched as he reached for his robe and pulled it about his shoulders, spoke in a tone of... what? Was that rejection? Was it regret? What on earth was he trying to say?
"No, you're nor Potter, and thank fucking god for that. Always a martyr - my life has been so hard but I don't want to talk about it, never mind that in saying so I am talking about it. Thank Merlin you're not that. But if you're so content with being invisible, why are you even in here? Why did you leave your students for this if you don't want to be seen at all? I'm not quite buying that."
She studied him. "You're teaching by example, aren't you? You're showing the world that even in here, you don't want attention, you don't want to be the best, you don't care if you win. Is it easy to live like that? It is, I'm sure - easy to be reasonable and likeable. And now you're going to run away again, because it's easier than being noticed; than admitting that there are things you want."
She wasn't going to let him. Not without a fight, anyway. He liked what he'd learned about himself in here? Well, his little journey of self-discovery was far from over. She shifted - dropped one foot to the floor and moved closer to him, hesitating for just a moment before lifting a hand to touch his chin, turning his face toward her. "Terrified of what you've got hidden in there," she murmured. "That's why the fruit had such an effect on you."
And she kissed him. Not hard or demanding, just lingering, against the side of his lips. Wanted him to turn and take, lose his head and claim her mouth.
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"And what have I got hidden?" he asked, "Do you really know? You have no idea."
He hesitated, because she was just too close now. His only warning of what she was going to do was the soft breath that lingered on his own lips before her own touched gently against his own.
He pushed her back, hard, his hands gripping her shoulders.
"What do you want from me, Rita? You want to see who I really am? Do you want the real story, or are you looking for just that, a story - a farce - a tall tale? Do you really know?" He stepped forwards, and now he looked every inch of his six feet, his hair flyaway from the pillow, framing his face.
"What am I to you, Rita? A scratch for your itch? A cute little boy. A fierce lion with a collar about my throat." He moved forwards again, flush against her, eyes blazing, then just stopped and stepped back. "I won't pretend that there's anything more to me than you already know. You can keep looking, but there isn't a fierce beast inside me wanting out, Rita; there -isn't-. And if you're such a masochist as to want that kind of relationship, then you are looking in the -wrong place-. I can't give you that."
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He shoved her back and she came up against the bed-end, the metal pole hard against her back. The movement and the quick stop left her breathless, reeling, and the thrill of heat that came from fear - the animal reaction to being shoved away like that - set her nerves on fire.
She looked up at him, and with his hair matted and hanging around his face like that - and the fire blazing in his eyes - he certainly looked like a lion. He moved forward again, and for a moment he was right up against her like he was going to tear her throat out, then he stepped back again and she heard him denying, heard him insisting.
Heard him lying, maybe, but she wasn't sure she wanted to prove it to him by breaking him. Wasn't sure she wanted to turn him into that. Not quite like this, at any rate.
But she wasn't prepared to stop now. Wasn't going to let this moment end this way. Stepped toward him again.
"I've seen what's inside you, Neville, and I've seen what you think of it. You confuse fierce with violent, letting go with hurting people. They're not the same thing. And yes," she moved closer still - so close that she could feel his clothes brushing hers and the heat coming from his body. So close she could smell him. "I do want to see who you really are. I want you to know it, too. I want to see how much was the fruit and how much really you. I want to make you look at me like you did that day, all on your own."
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He just felt so utterly helpless, standing there with her, his gown hanging open where he hadn't had time to tie it up.
"Once is an accident," he told her. "Twice is..." he left it open, shaking his head. "Where does it stop, Rita? When do you let go?"
His hand moved up, fingers curled around her wrist; tense fingers that locked in place. What did he say? How did they proceed from here? His voice shattered on a word, and he kept his mouth closed, unsure of how to proceed. She was right - he was afraid of what he might do, and without the fruit, how could he excuse himself if it all went wrong? If - Godric forbid - he actually hurt her?
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"No," she agreed with him. "You're not." His breath was shaking and she could read the tension in the lines of his face, the slant of his shoulders. He was almost humming with it. "I've known monsters," she added softly, "Perhaps I even knew the one you think of when you say the word, and you are nothing like her. Nothing."
But she wouldn't talk about that woman here. She wouldn't even think her name.
His breathing was shallow, chest rising and falling. The question was difficult. I don't hold on, she wanted to say, but she could make no such promises. She had no idea what it would be like, this time - what effect she'd have on him. But she couldn't say that. "We can just enjoy ourselves, can't we? I'm not asking you to marry me, or even buy me flowers. I don't force myself on people. It stops when you want it to."
His hand locked around her wrist and they stood for a moment, neither making a move. He was frozen, fingers brittle. She stepped back, drawing him with her. Slowly. Felt the back of her legs touch the bed, but didn't want to move there yet. Lifted her free hand and lay it on his chest, looking up at him, then slipped it around the back of his neck and tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling his head down and rocking up onto her toes to kiss him again, hips pressing into his and breasts against his chest. Trying to bring him back to life.
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He didn't hesitate for more than a second, this time. He would question it later. Right now, he didn't need to think on it any more. His sickness addled mind was unable to deal with anything more complicated than what it had managed so far; instead he moved closer to Rita, down into the kiss; gentle as always, his eyes fluttered closed, then opening his eyes again as he drew away from her.
"If I say stop, we stop," he said, firmly, then moved slightly back, so that he could shrug the robe from his shoulders, leaving him feeling particularly bare.
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