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... )
She was torturing him with sensation, feather whispering over skin that had never been touched by another's hands. He gasped and arched on the bed, his eyes lidded and dilated.
"Gryffindor? They're not..." He cottoned onto why she was saying it, and looked up, half flushing, but clearly almost smiling. His nerves sparked as she undressed him, but it was not half as embarassing as being bared towards her whilst she devoured him with her eyes; sparkling, reporter's critical eyes that took in everything instantly; the rampant lion on his hip, as well as other rampant parts of his anatomy that reacted to the fresh chill instantly. He was aroused; not yet entirely, but enough to be noticeable, and Rita's gaze, her touch, were not soothing his nerves.
He was unprepared for her lips to whisper on his thighs, his mind automatically wandered to a discreet and unfamiliar knowledge of what she would do next - something he had never felt before. Rita did not disappoint. The very first touch of that tongue was devilish and wet and slick, leaving him boneless on the bed, begging for more; and he knew he was begging, knew that he couldn't stop, even if he wanted to. He was losing himself in her.
Her warm mouth moved over him, real and hot. Strands of curled hair tickled his most sensitive parts as she enveloped him - and this was being devoured - this was pleasure. Inhuman, burning pleasure. There was nothing better than this. It was as though the fruit was still there, singing within him, making him want for these things which were just so -wrong-. For Rita. He would not last long under this kind of punishment; no man could, he was sure of it.
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Everything about him was beautiful, from the bashful little smile when she teased him about his pants to the terrified, wanting look in his eyes when her own devoured him. Hair fanned out beneath his head; arching back against the covers, throat exposed.
Her eyelids fluttered as she took him into her mouth, feeling him harden even more as she squeezed her fist around the base of his cock and let her mouth slide down to meet it - throbbing beneath her fingers, against her tongue.
And then she was moving. Squeezing and sucking, long hot licks, taking him to the hilt down her throat or sucking hard on the head, lifting her other hand to cup his balls.
And he was moving and melting, hands fisting in the duvet and hips jerking in shallow, involuntary thrusts. Begging, ragged breath and half-formed words, yeses and pleases and Gods and her name like a prayer, hissing and growling.
She was on fire. Dying, burning up with it. Very nearly forgot herself in the power of it, and all too soon she could feel him tightening and twitching beneath her.
Far too soon. She wasn't that selfless, and she wouldn't finish him and expect him to repay the favour because she had no idea if he was ready for that or not. Pulled away with a wet plop and lifted her head again.
Hot. Her hair fell in her face; she was flushed and out of breath but loving every moment of the look of him, all aflame with what she'd kindled.
She lifted herself up again, took his hands and pulled his shaking body up to sit. Reached down and unzipped her skirt so he could remove it easily, then looked at him again. Eye level, this time, and words written in the air between them.
She guided one of his hands beneath the fabric and onto her thigh. "Now," she said, voice hoarse and whispery with her own need, "Take what you want."
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Then she was moving closer, the heat increased, swallowed him up, and the muscles in her throat worked around him better than anything that he had ever felt. He cried out in pleasure, frustration, wanting to move, restraining himself with what little control he had left.
Flame, leaping up through his body, scorching him. He cried out, and she pulled away from him just in time, he thought, leaving him panting and splayed on the bed, spread eagled as he was with her above him. He'd lost his mind; he knew he had. He was doing this again. In front of godric only knew how many people. He was in full control of his own mind, and he was doing this. With Rita.
But then, controlling his own mind had never felt so utterly uncontrollable. He bonelessly allowed himself to be pulled up to his feet, then lifted his head with difficulty to look Rita in the eye. Take? He looked down at his hand, and then moved his hand up, carefully, to her hip, guiding her back down on the bed, his heart racing in his chest, his breathing unsteady. He could do this.
Ever so carefully Neville moved over him, his fingers trembling as they were moved up, curling his fingers around the dainty fabric and pulling it down ever so gently, off over her feet. Then he pressed closer, guiding himself into place, positioning himself carefully. So afraid...mustn't hurt her. Gently does it. He pressed down, ever so tentatively, his eyes flickering up, his fear obvious.
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Rita responded to his tentative touches, the suggestions of his fingers, tipping back into the covers and lifting her hips for him as he eased her skirt and knickers down over her legs. Let her legs fall apart and welcomed him against her as he settled himself between her thighs. His movements were nervous but not fumbling, eyes full of fear and lust. She let out a gasp of breath when he she felt him against her, sliding up and down and spreading her open, then he was easing inside her as though afraid to cause her pain. Merlin, had he not felt how wet she was?
She slipped one arm under his to curl a hand around his shoulder, wrapped her legs about his waist, then shifted her hips and rocked up into him, tossing her head back as she took him deep, head spinning.
Righted herself to look up at him, holding close and tight. "You won't hurt me," she whispered, letting out a tiny little laugh. "Not in a million years. Slowly, though, now. Need you to hold on. Need you to touch me, help me get there too."
Gods, she wanted him fast but she needed him slow so he didn't explode. This was the most exquisite form of torture.
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"Sorry. I was so worried..." He flushed, knowing she hated his excuses. "Um..." he tilted back a little. "Touch you where?" he asked, wondering if she would despise him for that too. He was so unsure. Especially without the fruit. This was all so real. Not unpleasantly so, but real none the less. He didn't want to mess it up. After all...anyone could be watching.
He moved, back a little, getting his knees underneath him to balance himself properly. The bed was small, and not as comfortable as the grass had been, somehow. Every movement made it creak in dismay.
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Rita was on fire. She felt impatient, almost - wishing he could just let go - but it wasn't his fault. He was right there, hard against her and hot inside her, and she wanted to let go, wanted to let her senses take over and thought fall away, but she couldn't.
She struggled to hold on, to think with him there. Harder than before when she'd been in control. Hard to resist the animal urge for movement, for union, for friction.
Her nails dug into his shoulder where she held him. He was so close, so open. Their bodies right up against each other, his fingers gently through her hair. Heat mingling, and this was probably the most intimate she'd been with anyone in a long time - this closeness, this holding onto her mind, trying to think.
She wanted to run from the very thought of it, run away into feeling and pleasure and animal heat, but how could she? She'd started this, and she wanted desperately for both of them to emerge from it whole. Something had to break, though. Better her walls than his confidence.
"Everywhere," she breathed. "It's... hard to think, now." But she moved her free hand to her own body, trailing fingers over her throat and down her chest, cupping her own breast and flicking thumb over nipple, then down over her mound to circle clitoris with her fingers, trying to show him. "Like that. And don't worry. Not a test. Relax."
She was done. Couldn't speak anymore. Tightened herself around him then relaxed, feeling the heat grow and trying to draw him away from thought just a little more - away from the fear that came with it.
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No, he had to remind himself that Rita was older; Rita was indestructible. She'd stop him if he went wrong, wouldn't she? Unlike those girls, admirers, who didn't know -how- it was supposed to hurt. He knew his grandmother would have chided him about that, told him off; but she was gone, and there was no advice that she could give him now.
That was a terribly image to have when intimate with someone.
Groaning, Neville obeyed Rita; mimicked her movements again, tested with his fingertips delicately, always tentative and sensitive and careful. She tightened her muscles, spasming, gripping him, and he groaned, leaning into her. Had to move.
He resisted temptation no longer; his mind blurred, his self control evaporated into nothingness. There was Rita and pleasure and friction; burning skin on burning skin and the smell of sweat and eyes misted with bliss. How could he have resisted for so long? It all disappeared. Responsibility, fear, pain, perhaps intelligence, yes. He'd lose his job. It didn't matter.
Rita. Rita. Rita.
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"Promise," she whispered in reply, but then his hand came up to touch her, fingers stroking, gentle and long, hands larger and rougher than her own, and the thoughts were falling and burning up in her overheated blood.
She whimpered and purred, urging him on with what little sense she had left, dropping her spinning head against the covers and arching into his touch. Those hot fingers down her stomach, and then there, circling and rubbing against that little bundle of nerves that seemed to be all of her right now.
And all the time he was moving, and it was impossible to think. Lifted her hips again and he was there as well, and "fuck, yes, Neville" and her nails digging into his shoulder.
The movement was everything. Mind, power, the world, all burning up inside her, between them, giving way to the primal drumbeat of their quickening hearts. He looked fierce above her; animal, claiming and protecting all at once.
Lion. Animal. Beast. Mine. Yes.
She was cracked glass ready to shatter. Brittle and shaking. Pulled her knees even higher, right up by his elbows. Grabbed hold of the bedhead with her free hand.
"Now," she breathed, urgent, struggling to speak. "Yes. Grab hold of my legs. Deeper. Yes. Give me everything. All of you. Now. Please."
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There was nothing to save him now. He growled out a moan, throwing his head forwards, his hair falling over his face, hiding him from view as he drove into her; took her; claimed her.
There was no thought. No worry about what things would be like when he left the house, or who could be watching. He didn't care. He didn't care if Harry never talked to him again, or if he was fired. There was only this. His eyes were streaming, his head pounding, blinding him black and white, whiter and whiter still and...
Neville screamed as he came, throwing his head back, his voice echoing off the walls of the room, off the spell that kept the sound in, suspended above Rita as though a statue, frozen in place, heart pounding, chest rising and falling as though he had been running away from Voldemort himself; his skin flushed and red and wet with sweat; both from his illness and his exertion.
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OhgodmerlinfuckYES.
His hands gripping her thighs and pressing her legs back, bedhead digging hard into her palm as she gripped it, and then he was pounding, plundering, ravishing. Losing himself completely in her.
She couldn't move because he held her, couldn't move because the fire was burning her up. Fast, hard, deep, grinding into her. Her mouth was open, a smile feral with the moans he forced out of her, and then her head went back even further and her eyes squeezed closed.
The glass shattered. She broke into a thousand pieces and there were fireworks behind her eyes, white hot. Everything spinning away and him the only thing that held her there, anchored as she broke free and soared high, grasping at the everything that was, for a moment, within reach.
Came back, breathing heavy and hard, shaking with aftermath. Her legs fell from his hands and he collapsed against her, hot and broken.
Her blood felt like honey, thick and warm, limbs heavy. She couldn't think yet, but he was here, spent but still settled in the cradle of her thighs, and she knew something she couldn't articulate.
It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the tangible heat still tangled between them, an animal with an erratic double heartbeat. She wouldn't let it go just yet.
So she held him. Curled her legs around him again and splayed her hand against his back, slipping it up to rake her fingers through his hair, smoothing ragged strands back from his face.
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"Rita," he breathed, softly, closing his eyes for a moment, then opening them again. He couldn't continue like this. He sank down once more into her arms, placed his head on her shoulder and snuggled closer, his eyes drifting closed again. There was simply no way he could keep himself awake after -that-. It was unwillingly that he let himself drift off towards sleep.
Or perhaps it was willingly. Staying awake and realising just what he had done, would simply be too difficult. He could put it off a little longer this way. Pretend it didn't matter, if only for a little while, so that he could put off pretending it hadn't happened at all until later.
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He looked at her once with heavy lidded eyes, whispered her name, then settled in against her with the slow, heavy movements of one approaching sleep. She smiled, curling a strand of his hair around her finger a few moments longer.
Gryffindor courage, she supposed, only lasted so long. He'd given her everything - every little bit of him, and now he was exhausted in her arms. She could hardly begrudge him that.
But they cooled quickly in the silence and still air, and she couldn't move at all. She urged him onto his side with a prod and a whisper of his name. He obeyed groggily. Pulling the duvet up over them, she curled herself into him and pulled his arm over her. Didn't need the contact herself, of course, but touch was nice.
She felt herself drifting after a few moments, fighting her own exhaustion without much luck. They'd sleep through dinner. Ginny might punish her. The house would know, again.
Right then, she couldn't really bring herself to care.
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