Stay (Neville/Pansy, E)
Title: Stay
Author/Artist:
Characters: Pansy Parkinson, Neville Longbottom
Prompt number: 151
Word Count: 2918
Rating: E
Warnings: References to past torture, not explicit. Smut.
Summary: Pansy has always maintained that they were just until she found a real relationship, and Neville never said no, but she's beginning to realise this is as real as it's ever been for her.
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters, items and places belong to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this work.
Author’s Notes: I’d like to thank my beta and friend, S, for her time and work on this story.
Stay
“Stay, Pansy.”
It wasn’t a question, nor was it a demand, it was simply a wish on his part she knew there was no pressure on her part to fulfill.
And she never did.
She swallowed as she tugged at the zip on her left boot, irritated when it sticks, the words repeating themselves over and over as she frowns, still struggling with the zip.
Stay, Pansy.
Pansy couldn’t stay.
Pansy never stayed.
She had appeared that evening the same way she always did; without warning, barrelling through his front door like the hurricane she was. She didn’t speak, she hardly ever did, simply pressed her lips to his and allowed him to lift her from the floor by her behind as her legs wove around his waist.
It was easier that way.
He had placed her on his bed, as he always had, with careful and gentle movements, lowering her fully before hastily pulling his t-shirt overhead and climbing over her, balancing on his knees, Pansy’s legs between his, until he reached the point he could comfortably lean downwards and find her mouth with his own again.
Then he’d lie on her fully, the weight of his toned body heavy, yet pleasing. So unlike the boy she’d ridiculed for years, until their seventh year, of course, when he, Neville Longbottom of all people, leader of the school’s poxy resistance, had found her in the alcove she had forgotten to silence, sobbing like a child.
She’d been bloody and beaten, had been for weeks of course, but when you’ve learned to effectively glamour the evidence you were defying the Carrows just as much as Longbottom’s gang of rebels, no one knew.
And when you’re supposed to be training the promising daughter of a Death Eater to join the cause of a madman you’re terrified of, and you know you’re failing, like Alecto Carrow knew she was, you didn’t allow anyone to know, either.
And so no one knew.
No one ever knew.
Until Neville Longbottom found a sobbing Pansy Parkinson, with two black eyes, more bruises than alabaster skin and enough fresh blood to cast a sacrificial ritual, and someone finally did know.
She didn’t allow him to reveal the part of her he most admired to anyone, nor would she let him be seen with her, neither during the war or after, but she did allow herself to meet him. And meet him she did, in the dead of night when the halls echoed with silent truths and whispered fears, and she didn’t stop him from kissing her for the first time, nor the second or third.
“You know I can’t,” she stated, glancing back at him. He hadn’t moved from the bed, the covers just reaching the bottom of his stomach.
“I don’t,” he countered, “I actually have no idea why you can’t.”
“This,” she stood, having finally managed to successfully pull the zip upwards, fastening the boot, and gestured vaguely between Neville and herself, “is only a thing until a real relationship comes along,” she lied, “for either of us.”
How she wished that were still true.
The thing was, if Pansy was ever willing to be honest with herself, which, truth be told, she rarely was, this thing with Longbottom she refused to call by any other name had probably always been as real as it ever had been for her.
Certainly, it held more substance than the entirety of whatever the hell she and Draco had danced around for years, what, exactly they had danced around, they had both discovered - Pansy months before Draco, was Draco’s sexuality not exactly aligning with him being with Pansy. Now, he danced around Potter, of all people, in the same way.
Whilst Pansy fucked Longbottom.
Whilst Pansy fucked Longbottom and pretended it meant nothing.
The problem was, fucking rarely meant nothing.
She didn’t go back to Neville’s for three nights, and she spent each one wishing she had. As the sun finally disappeared beyond the horizon on the fourth, she found herself, after a bottle of wine had both clouded and cleared her thoughts, striding into his flat, long gone were the days she would knock.
“Longbottom!”
He emerged from the kitchen a second later and leant his shoulder against the doorframe. It took Pansy’s eyes a moment to focus on him entirely and she ignored, as she always did, how much his stark blue eyes felt like home.
Crossing the distance between them wordlessly, Pansy threw her arms around his neck and kissed him as though it were the last time she ever could. He stiffened, and then altogether softened as his arms snaked their way around her back, and first his lips and then his tongue, moved with hers.
Pansy’s fingertips traced parallel lines down his jumper-clad stomach, before they gripped the hem, to lift the garment over Neville’s head. Usually, she simply had to nudge whatever top he was wearing and he’d take over, throwing it from his body before crashing into her again.
This time, however, he stopped her.
And it felt like a slap.
His arms slunk back from the small of her back and his fingers closed themselves over hers as she felt him pull away from her mouth.
She took a shaky step backwards. “What the fuck?”
“You’re drunk,” he replied simply.
“Because that’s ever bothered you before.”
“It doesn’t if I’m also drunk,” Neville admitted, “but I’m sober and you’re steaming, so no.”
Pansy’s eyes and nostrils flared simultaneously as she stared at him, utterly aghast. “No?”
“No,” he repeated. “But, what about….something else?”
She couldn’t even try to deny she wasn’t stung. “You think you can just reject me, Longbottom, and-”
“I’m not rejecting you, believe me,” Neville interjected as he took the step closer to her that she’d taken backwards.
“Then what the hell do you call this?!”
“I told you that,” he smiled, his mouth somehow, despite Pansy not quite noticing how he got there, against hers again. He placed a singular soft kiss on her lips, “it’s an...offer, of sorts, of something else.”
Pansy pouted. “What else?”
“An alternative.”
He’d taken her hand and led her through the door on Pansy’s left, and she realised, upon entering Neville’s living room, that she’d never set foot in there before.
“I didn’t know you had a balcony,” she observed as they walked towards the sliding glass doors.
“Well you wouldn’t, when the only room you’re ever in when you’re here is my bedroom.”
She rolled her eyes and attempted to ignore the fact she could feel herself swaying slightly. “Touché.”
The cool night air seemed to hit Neville a lot more than it did Pansy, and she heard him mutter something about it being chilly.
“I’m pretty warm,” she replied as she tentatively stepped outside.
“That’s because you’re drunk,” Neville replied, dryly.
“Touché,” Pansy repeated with a snort.
“Take a seat,” Neville said, gesturing towards a couch and pair of chairs situated around a small circular table. He leaned forwards to give her another quick kiss before disappearing back inside. “I’ll be right back.”
Pansy frowned, wondering what on earth she was doing on Longbottom’s balcony. There was only one word beginning with ‘b’ that belonged to Neville Longbottom that she wanted to spend any time on, and that certainly wasn’t ‘balcony’, or was it?
He’d returned, levitating a tray laden with food, an almost insultingly large jug of iced water, two glasses - one empty and one full of what Pansy assumed was beer, and carrying a large, checked blanket.
“Here,” he said, setting everything down carefully, he poured a glass of water and handed it to Pansy, “help yourself, there’s loads.”
Ideally, she’d have loved to refuse as her mind wandered to a ridiculous blackmailing plan where she refused Neville’s food until he fucked her, but...well, she felt her entire mouth fill with saliva at the mere sight of Longbottom’s annoyingly enticing food.
“Ugh!” she exclaimed, begrudgingly taking a piece of some irritatingly delicious looking chicken. “Fine!”
“Thank you, Neville, this is lovely,” Neville replied with a chuckle and began to spread out the blanket, at which Pansy felt herself positively fill with dread at the sight of.
“What is that?”
“Usually, us simple folks call them blankets,” Neville shot back, clearly unphased.
“It’s hideous.”
He merely smiled at her assessment. “Compared to all the glamorous things that usually cover you, I’m sure it is, but humour me, will you?”
“I should have taken one of the chairs,” Pansy huffed as Neville took the space next to her on the couch, placing the blanket around them both, and Pansy had to admit, to no one but herself of course, that it didn’t feel entirely awful.
That night, Pansy learned that Neville’s favourite colour was green and that he loved Chinese food, she found out his dream was to publish an article in Herbology Today and that Pansy didn’t scare him as she did most men because, according to Neville, his gran was the single scariest lady in the world.
That same night, Neville learned that Pansy’s two favourite animals were unicorns and cows, she had smoked two cigarettes a day since Fifth Year and her greatest annoyance was an uncomfortable bra.
Somewhere around the time she finished her second water, and Neville was thinking about a second beer, she’d slipped her shoes off and twisted her body around, enabling her to put her legs over his.
She adjusted the blanket she had now decided she quite liked.
“Nice socks,” he snorted, clearly amused at the cow print garments currently residing on Pansy’s feet.
“Don’t you insult my cow socks!”
She felt his fingertips trace indiscernible patterns somewhere over her knees as they placed the blanket back over their legs. “I love your cow socks,” he said with a smile.
After Pansy’s fourth water, and Neville’s second beer, Pansy had begun to absentmindedly run her fingers gently up and down Neville’s side, and had been both surprised and inwardly pleased to hear him emit a low throaty moan at her movements.
He turned his head to face her as Pansy’s fingers dipped below his jumper, and this time he didn’t stop her. “What are you doing, you minx?”
“I don’t know, Neville,” Pansy replied, saying his name slowly, the sound unfamiliar to her, having only ever used his surname before. She continued in a whisper as her fingertips slipped a fraction below the band of his boxers, “What am I doing?”
His eyes bored into hers for approximately two seconds before he shifted, flinging the blanket aside as though it were a piece of rubbish, and he’d pushed her legs suddenly aside for the second it took for him to get into a kneeling position over her. This time her legs were between his knees, and she squealed as she felt him suddenly grip her hips and pull her downwards, positioning her flat and enabling him to lean down enough to hover his lips just above hers.
“Say my name again,” he whispered hoarsely.
She only managed to breath “Nev-,” before he pressed his mouth to hers and she lost herself somewhere between the grasping of her hands in his hair and the very definite something she could feel pressing between her legs.
Their lips moved as one, and Pansy gasped as Neville began to kiss his way from her mouth, down her jaw and eventually landing on the side of her neck, which he nipped, not particularly gently, before giving the same spot a soft lick and an even softer kiss.
Pansy heard herself let out a soft mewling sound as he kissed his way down her neck, eventually reaching the top of her shoulder.
And it’s so familiar, so similar to all of the other times…
But yet nothing like all of the other times.
Eventually, they find themselves standing, lips barely apart and hands scared to miss one second of touching the other.
“Neville…” she whispers, breathily.
“Mmm?”
“Take me to bed.”
And he does, quite literally - considering the way he hoisted her from her feet, her cow sock-clad feet crossed over at the ankles behind the base of his back.
She doesn’t want to stop kissing him for one moment.
Because this moment is everything she could ever want, or need.
And it hits her…
...what should have hit her months ago…
...that she wanted him to be there for all of the incredible moments in her life.
He placed her on the bed, letting her drop the last few inches whilst he busied himself with removing first his jumper, then t-shirt before loosening his belt, at which point his fingers were interrupted by Pansy’s. She had sat up, watching him and taken the belt in her own hands as her eyes locked with his.
They bored down into hers with such a fire within them it was a miracle she didn’t burst into flame.
But then, she mused as Neville, now sans jeans, lay her down with the comfortable weight of his body as he climbed atop her, she supposed she had already caught fire.
Her top - and bra were removed soon after, as were her own trousers.
And then, his mouth only left hers again to kiss her neck, her shoulders, and her breasts as he made his way carefully down her body. He spent longer than necessary teasing his mouth down her stomach, and Pansy was entirely certain the more she breathily moaned, the slower his teasing became.
When he reached...there, which might have took a few minutes or three hours for all Pansy knew, she felt her hips buck upwards, attempting to meet his mouth, as though of their own accord. She heard him chuckle darkly at the action, which she vaguely thought she ought to berate him for later, when his tongue, without any warning, met her clit, and once again, she was utterly and completely lost in him and the sensations he provided her with.
Her orgasm had barely had time to subside when he was back, fully on top of her, and claiming her lips with his once more. She could taste herself on them, on him, and she let out a small cry of pleasure as she felt the tip of his cock resting against her wetness.
She cried out fully, as did he, as he pushed into her, slowly at first, gauging her response as, searching her face with signs she was uncomfortable, and she realised, swallowing, he always did.
“Oh! OH!” she cried as he thrusted in, still at the same slow pace, entirely. “Faster,” she breathed.
It was what he’d been waiting on, evidently, and after another quick kiss, he began to move, in and out of her, picking up speed with each thrust.
“Neville!” She cried the word with ease this time as her legs wrapped around his waist and his hands found their way to the sides of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair as she locked her own arms around his neck.
Her name rolled from his lips in a similar fashion “Pansy!”
“Fuck!”
“Pansy you feel-”
“I know, you too.”
“Fuck!”
“FUCK!”
They came, Neville for the first and Pansy for the second time, together and they struggle to catch their breath, Neville with the exertion of the sex, and Pansy with, well that also, but…
...something else.
“You okay?” she hears him ask from beside her, where he was now lying.
Her eyes widen as she turns her head to face his, he’s flushed and still panting, but his expression is one of concern.
She has no idea how to express the mess that is the racing thoughts of her brain, but she tries. “That…,” she swallows before continuing, her voice quieter now, “that wasn’t just fucking.”
His hand moves up to caress her cheek, and he smiles softly. “No, it wasn’t.”
In that moment, she did the worst possible thing she could.
She broke down.
Pansy never broke down.
That was the lie she told herself anyway.
It was a lie because Pansy always broke down.
He didn’t ask whys or hows, just as as he didn’t when he had found her all those months ago, bloodied and beaten and broken. She wasn’t bloodied and beaten now, but a part of her was still broken.
He slid his arms around her form, which was shaking from her sobs, and held her.
“Neville?” she managed to say, once her cries had subsided.
His answer was a whisper into her ear, said alongside the kiss he planter there. “Yeah?”
“What we had, it wasn’t working.”
It hadn't been a question, but he’d answered her anyway. “No.”
She paused, and then wiggled free from his arms before standing up.
“Are you going...to get your clothes?”
Her head dropped, and for a long second she didn’t answer him, not knowing what answer to give.
“Can I use your bathroom?”
“Of course, the door next to this one.” She didn’t miss both the hope and the sadness in his voice as she nodded and began to walk towards the bedroom door.
At the doorframe, she halted, before turning her head behind her, to face him.
“Neville?” that time the word almost felt natural.
“Hmm?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me to stay?”
His eyes widened at her words. “You never stay.”
“But you always ask,” she pointed out.
“Stay, Pansy.”
And this time, she did.
Author/Artist:
Characters: Pansy Parkinson, Neville Longbottom
Prompt number: 151
Word Count: 2918
Rating: E
Warnings: References to past torture, not explicit. Smut.
Summary: Pansy has always maintained that they were just until she found a real relationship, and Neville never said no, but she's beginning to realise this is as real as it's ever been for her.
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters, items and places belong to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this work.
Author’s Notes: I’d like to thank my beta and friend, S, for her time and work on this story.
Stay
“Stay, Pansy.”
It wasn’t a question, nor was it a demand, it was simply a wish on his part she knew there was no pressure on her part to fulfill.
And she never did.
She swallowed as she tugged at the zip on her left boot, irritated when it sticks, the words repeating themselves over and over as she frowns, still struggling with the zip.
Stay, Pansy.
Pansy couldn’t stay.
Pansy never stayed.
She had appeared that evening the same way she always did; without warning, barrelling through his front door like the hurricane she was. She didn’t speak, she hardly ever did, simply pressed her lips to his and allowed him to lift her from the floor by her behind as her legs wove around his waist.
It was easier that way.
He had placed her on his bed, as he always had, with careful and gentle movements, lowering her fully before hastily pulling his t-shirt overhead and climbing over her, balancing on his knees, Pansy’s legs between his, until he reached the point he could comfortably lean downwards and find her mouth with his own again.
Then he’d lie on her fully, the weight of his toned body heavy, yet pleasing. So unlike the boy she’d ridiculed for years, until their seventh year, of course, when he, Neville Longbottom of all people, leader of the school’s poxy resistance, had found her in the alcove she had forgotten to silence, sobbing like a child.
She’d been bloody and beaten, had been for weeks of course, but when you’ve learned to effectively glamour the evidence you were defying the Carrows just as much as Longbottom’s gang of rebels, no one knew.
And when you’re supposed to be training the promising daughter of a Death Eater to join the cause of a madman you’re terrified of, and you know you’re failing, like Alecto Carrow knew she was, you didn’t allow anyone to know, either.
And so no one knew.
No one ever knew.
Until Neville Longbottom found a sobbing Pansy Parkinson, with two black eyes, more bruises than alabaster skin and enough fresh blood to cast a sacrificial ritual, and someone finally did know.
She didn’t allow him to reveal the part of her he most admired to anyone, nor would she let him be seen with her, neither during the war or after, but she did allow herself to meet him. And meet him she did, in the dead of night when the halls echoed with silent truths and whispered fears, and she didn’t stop him from kissing her for the first time, nor the second or third.
“You know I can’t,” she stated, glancing back at him. He hadn’t moved from the bed, the covers just reaching the bottom of his stomach.
“I don’t,” he countered, “I actually have no idea why you can’t.”
“This,” she stood, having finally managed to successfully pull the zip upwards, fastening the boot, and gestured vaguely between Neville and herself, “is only a thing until a real relationship comes along,” she lied, “for either of us.”
How she wished that were still true.
The thing was, if Pansy was ever willing to be honest with herself, which, truth be told, she rarely was, this thing with Longbottom she refused to call by any other name had probably always been as real as it ever had been for her.
Certainly, it held more substance than the entirety of whatever the hell she and Draco had danced around for years, what, exactly they had danced around, they had both discovered - Pansy months before Draco, was Draco’s sexuality not exactly aligning with him being with Pansy. Now, he danced around Potter, of all people, in the same way.
Whilst Pansy fucked Longbottom.
Whilst Pansy fucked Longbottom and pretended it meant nothing.
The problem was, fucking rarely meant nothing.
She didn’t go back to Neville’s for three nights, and she spent each one wishing she had. As the sun finally disappeared beyond the horizon on the fourth, she found herself, after a bottle of wine had both clouded and cleared her thoughts, striding into his flat, long gone were the days she would knock.
“Longbottom!”
He emerged from the kitchen a second later and leant his shoulder against the doorframe. It took Pansy’s eyes a moment to focus on him entirely and she ignored, as she always did, how much his stark blue eyes felt like home.
Crossing the distance between them wordlessly, Pansy threw her arms around his neck and kissed him as though it were the last time she ever could. He stiffened, and then altogether softened as his arms snaked their way around her back, and first his lips and then his tongue, moved with hers.
Pansy’s fingertips traced parallel lines down his jumper-clad stomach, before they gripped the hem, to lift the garment over Neville’s head. Usually, she simply had to nudge whatever top he was wearing and he’d take over, throwing it from his body before crashing into her again.
This time, however, he stopped her.
And it felt like a slap.
His arms slunk back from the small of her back and his fingers closed themselves over hers as she felt him pull away from her mouth.
She took a shaky step backwards. “What the fuck?”
“You’re drunk,” he replied simply.
“Because that’s ever bothered you before.”
“It doesn’t if I’m also drunk,” Neville admitted, “but I’m sober and you’re steaming, so no.”
Pansy’s eyes and nostrils flared simultaneously as she stared at him, utterly aghast. “No?”
“No,” he repeated. “But, what about….something else?”
She couldn’t even try to deny she wasn’t stung. “You think you can just reject me, Longbottom, and-”
“I’m not rejecting you, believe me,” Neville interjected as he took the step closer to her that she’d taken backwards.
“Then what the hell do you call this?!”
“I told you that,” he smiled, his mouth somehow, despite Pansy not quite noticing how he got there, against hers again. He placed a singular soft kiss on her lips, “it’s an...offer, of sorts, of something else.”
Pansy pouted. “What else?”
“An alternative.”
He’d taken her hand and led her through the door on Pansy’s left, and she realised, upon entering Neville’s living room, that she’d never set foot in there before.
“I didn’t know you had a balcony,” she observed as they walked towards the sliding glass doors.
“Well you wouldn’t, when the only room you’re ever in when you’re here is my bedroom.”
She rolled her eyes and attempted to ignore the fact she could feel herself swaying slightly. “Touché.”
The cool night air seemed to hit Neville a lot more than it did Pansy, and she heard him mutter something about it being chilly.
“I’m pretty warm,” she replied as she tentatively stepped outside.
“That’s because you’re drunk,” Neville replied, dryly.
“Touché,” Pansy repeated with a snort.
“Take a seat,” Neville said, gesturing towards a couch and pair of chairs situated around a small circular table. He leaned forwards to give her another quick kiss before disappearing back inside. “I’ll be right back.”
Pansy frowned, wondering what on earth she was doing on Longbottom’s balcony. There was only one word beginning with ‘b’ that belonged to Neville Longbottom that she wanted to spend any time on, and that certainly wasn’t ‘balcony’, or was it?
He’d returned, levitating a tray laden with food, an almost insultingly large jug of iced water, two glasses - one empty and one full of what Pansy assumed was beer, and carrying a large, checked blanket.
“Here,” he said, setting everything down carefully, he poured a glass of water and handed it to Pansy, “help yourself, there’s loads.”
Ideally, she’d have loved to refuse as her mind wandered to a ridiculous blackmailing plan where she refused Neville’s food until he fucked her, but...well, she felt her entire mouth fill with saliva at the mere sight of Longbottom’s annoyingly enticing food.
“Ugh!” she exclaimed, begrudgingly taking a piece of some irritatingly delicious looking chicken. “Fine!”
“Thank you, Neville, this is lovely,” Neville replied with a chuckle and began to spread out the blanket, at which Pansy felt herself positively fill with dread at the sight of.
“What is that?”
“Usually, us simple folks call them blankets,” Neville shot back, clearly unphased.
“It’s hideous.”
He merely smiled at her assessment. “Compared to all the glamorous things that usually cover you, I’m sure it is, but humour me, will you?”
“I should have taken one of the chairs,” Pansy huffed as Neville took the space next to her on the couch, placing the blanket around them both, and Pansy had to admit, to no one but herself of course, that it didn’t feel entirely awful.
That night, Pansy learned that Neville’s favourite colour was green and that he loved Chinese food, she found out his dream was to publish an article in Herbology Today and that Pansy didn’t scare him as she did most men because, according to Neville, his gran was the single scariest lady in the world.
That same night, Neville learned that Pansy’s two favourite animals were unicorns and cows, she had smoked two cigarettes a day since Fifth Year and her greatest annoyance was an uncomfortable bra.
Somewhere around the time she finished her second water, and Neville was thinking about a second beer, she’d slipped her shoes off and twisted her body around, enabling her to put her legs over his.
She adjusted the blanket she had now decided she quite liked.
“Nice socks,” he snorted, clearly amused at the cow print garments currently residing on Pansy’s feet.
“Don’t you insult my cow socks!”
She felt his fingertips trace indiscernible patterns somewhere over her knees as they placed the blanket back over their legs. “I love your cow socks,” he said with a smile.
After Pansy’s fourth water, and Neville’s second beer, Pansy had begun to absentmindedly run her fingers gently up and down Neville’s side, and had been both surprised and inwardly pleased to hear him emit a low throaty moan at her movements.
He turned his head to face her as Pansy’s fingers dipped below his jumper, and this time he didn’t stop her. “What are you doing, you minx?”
“I don’t know, Neville,” Pansy replied, saying his name slowly, the sound unfamiliar to her, having only ever used his surname before. She continued in a whisper as her fingertips slipped a fraction below the band of his boxers, “What am I doing?”
His eyes bored into hers for approximately two seconds before he shifted, flinging the blanket aside as though it were a piece of rubbish, and he’d pushed her legs suddenly aside for the second it took for him to get into a kneeling position over her. This time her legs were between his knees, and she squealed as she felt him suddenly grip her hips and pull her downwards, positioning her flat and enabling him to lean down enough to hover his lips just above hers.
“Say my name again,” he whispered hoarsely.
She only managed to breath “Nev-,” before he pressed his mouth to hers and she lost herself somewhere between the grasping of her hands in his hair and the very definite something she could feel pressing between her legs.
Their lips moved as one, and Pansy gasped as Neville began to kiss his way from her mouth, down her jaw and eventually landing on the side of her neck, which he nipped, not particularly gently, before giving the same spot a soft lick and an even softer kiss.
Pansy heard herself let out a soft mewling sound as he kissed his way down her neck, eventually reaching the top of her shoulder.
And it’s so familiar, so similar to all of the other times…
But yet nothing like all of the other times.
Eventually, they find themselves standing, lips barely apart and hands scared to miss one second of touching the other.
“Neville…” she whispers, breathily.
“Mmm?”
“Take me to bed.”
And he does, quite literally - considering the way he hoisted her from her feet, her cow sock-clad feet crossed over at the ankles behind the base of his back.
She doesn’t want to stop kissing him for one moment.
Because this moment is everything she could ever want, or need.
And it hits her…
...what should have hit her months ago…
...that she wanted him to be there for all of the incredible moments in her life.
He placed her on the bed, letting her drop the last few inches whilst he busied himself with removing first his jumper, then t-shirt before loosening his belt, at which point his fingers were interrupted by Pansy’s. She had sat up, watching him and taken the belt in her own hands as her eyes locked with his.
They bored down into hers with such a fire within them it was a miracle she didn’t burst into flame.
But then, she mused as Neville, now sans jeans, lay her down with the comfortable weight of his body as he climbed atop her, she supposed she had already caught fire.
Her top - and bra were removed soon after, as were her own trousers.
And then, his mouth only left hers again to kiss her neck, her shoulders, and her breasts as he made his way carefully down her body. He spent longer than necessary teasing his mouth down her stomach, and Pansy was entirely certain the more she breathily moaned, the slower his teasing became.
When he reached...there, which might have took a few minutes or three hours for all Pansy knew, she felt her hips buck upwards, attempting to meet his mouth, as though of their own accord. She heard him chuckle darkly at the action, which she vaguely thought she ought to berate him for later, when his tongue, without any warning, met her clit, and once again, she was utterly and completely lost in him and the sensations he provided her with.
Her orgasm had barely had time to subside when he was back, fully on top of her, and claiming her lips with his once more. She could taste herself on them, on him, and she let out a small cry of pleasure as she felt the tip of his cock resting against her wetness.
She cried out fully, as did he, as he pushed into her, slowly at first, gauging her response as, searching her face with signs she was uncomfortable, and she realised, swallowing, he always did.
“Oh! OH!” she cried as he thrusted in, still at the same slow pace, entirely. “Faster,” she breathed.
It was what he’d been waiting on, evidently, and after another quick kiss, he began to move, in and out of her, picking up speed with each thrust.
“Neville!” She cried the word with ease this time as her legs wrapped around his waist and his hands found their way to the sides of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair as she locked her own arms around his neck.
Her name rolled from his lips in a similar fashion “Pansy!”
“Fuck!”
“Pansy you feel-”
“I know, you too.”
“Fuck!”
“FUCK!”
They came, Neville for the first and Pansy for the second time, together and they struggle to catch their breath, Neville with the exertion of the sex, and Pansy with, well that also, but…
...something else.
“You okay?” she hears him ask from beside her, where he was now lying.
Her eyes widen as she turns her head to face his, he’s flushed and still panting, but his expression is one of concern.
She has no idea how to express the mess that is the racing thoughts of her brain, but she tries. “That…,” she swallows before continuing, her voice quieter now, “that wasn’t just fucking.”
His hand moves up to caress her cheek, and he smiles softly. “No, it wasn’t.”
In that moment, she did the worst possible thing she could.
She broke down.
Pansy never broke down.
That was the lie she told herself anyway.
It was a lie because Pansy always broke down.
He didn’t ask whys or hows, just as as he didn’t when he had found her all those months ago, bloodied and beaten and broken. She wasn’t bloodied and beaten now, but a part of her was still broken.
He slid his arms around her form, which was shaking from her sobs, and held her.
“Neville?” she managed to say, once her cries had subsided.
His answer was a whisper into her ear, said alongside the kiss he planter there. “Yeah?”
“What we had, it wasn’t working.”
It hadn't been a question, but he’d answered her anyway. “No.”
She paused, and then wiggled free from his arms before standing up.
“Are you going...to get your clothes?”
Her head dropped, and for a long second she didn’t answer him, not knowing what answer to give.
“Can I use your bathroom?”
“Of course, the door next to this one.” She didn’t miss both the hope and the sadness in his voice as she nodded and began to walk towards the bedroom door.
At the doorframe, she halted, before turning her head behind her, to face him.
“Neville?” that time the word almost felt natural.
“Hmm?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me to stay?”
His eyes widened at her words. “You never stay.”
“But you always ask,” she pointed out.
“Stay, Pansy.”
And this time, she did.