Fic: Venom
Sep. 20th, 2005 11:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
featherxquillTitle: Venom
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Rita/Neville
Summary: This is not a love song.
Warnings: Light D/s, I think.
Challenge: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
plaidpheonix's rarepair FQF, but I think I missed the deadline by a day or twenty. Claimed Rita, Neville, St Mungos and Post-Hogwarts
A/N:Thanks tolysa1 for very quick beta.
She circles and strikes.
He is holding his mother’s hand when she sees him. She is a predator, hunting him through white sheeted hospital beds like Medusa in her cavern of statues, heavily styled curls bobbing about her face like snakes with buoyant personalities. He avoids her eyes, but he has no shield to protect him, nor a sword to slay her.
He flees to the men’s room, slams the door behind him. Hands on the porcelain rim of the sink, cold against his palms, leaning heavily, breathing hard. He sees his own horror in his eyes. He is not ashamed of them, but it is such a private pain – the idea of her probing into his mind is just…
He closes his eyes, takes a deep, steadying breath; opens them again.
She is there. Taloned fingers close around his upper arm. She pulls him back; he feels a coil of hair and her hot breath on his cheek when she hisses in his ear. He can hear the sizzling venom on her tongue.
“You can’t hide from me, Neville.”
He closes his eyes again, whispers her name like a prayer he hopes will subdue her.
“Rita.”
She smirks in his ear.
“You know what I want.”
“Yes.”
She wants his soul. His heart, pain, tears; the aching love he feels for his parents. She wants to bleed it onto the pages of the Prophet until there is nothing left inside him. “And you can’t have it.”
Her left hand snakes around his body and he feels her palm, hot against his cock even through his jeans, then her grip tightens and her fingernails dig mercilessly into him.
“Then you know what I want instead.”
He has known that since the summer after sixth year, three years ago. She cannot take his blood, so she will have her pound of flesh instead. He hates her.
He hates her.
And yet he is growing hard in her fierce grip. His palms are hot and damp, they slide on the basin, and his heart starts to beat faster in his chest. Her fingers are deftly unbuckling his belt, pulling at the buttons of his jeans, and he draws a huge, racking breath as they free him, and then that hot hand is around his rapidly hardening member, and she hisses in his ear again.
“You’re weak, Longbottom. Pathetic.” The nails in his arm feel like crescent shaped pokers on his skin, digging into soft flesh, and she strokes her hand up his length, down again. “Weak. Just like your mother and father.”
Not enough like your father, Neville, he was good at transfiguration. Just like your father, Neville, never putting up a fight. Thinly veiled bitterness like bile in the throat, a love always tinged with disappointment. Soft fingers pushing candy wrappers into his palm; waxed paper in tiny shreds upon the floor. Rough headstones and wishes, terrible wishes. Wishing that he could say goodbyes instead of hellos that never got heard.
Wire in the blood, then, and he turns, dislodging her grip on him and grabbing her instead, spinning her around and pinning her between himself and the unforgiving hardness of the bathroom vanity, seizing her wrists and pulling them behind her, pushing her forward so her feet almost leave the ground.
“I’m not a little boy anymore, Skeeter. Maybe I get what I want, and you don’t.”
He can see a smile in the corner of her lips and feel it in the tight little movements of her back under his hands – laughter. This is what she wants, what she lives for, he can see it in the wild, hungry look in her eyes, reflected back at him through a mirror misted with her own breath.
With one quick movement, he slides his wand from his pocket.
No good at charms, Neville. A quick flick and a whispered word and her clothes are on the floor. He smiles in the mirror at the sight of black push up bra and breasts mashed against the countertop.
No good at transfiguration, Neville. He has to concentrate on this one, but one more flick and his belt is a rope binding her wrists together. Wand clatters onto the countertop. His fingers curl under the trashiest thong panties he’s ever seen, and he rips them away without a word.
His hand fists in her hair, pulls her head back roughly, then his lips and teeth are on her throat and his fingers tease her cunt. She gasps a breath and spreads her legs eagerly for him. A rough tug on her hair as they push inside her, curling up and in. A low rumbling moan from her throat. Two fingers in and one out, pushing up against her clit with each thrust of the hand.
Professor Grubbly-Plank says you’re not trying hard enough in Care of Magical Creatures, Neville. It’s really not very hard; you ought to do better. Purple bite marks on her shoulders and throat, each stroke of his fingers echoed in her body’s responses. Her useless fingers coil and stretch, brushing against him where they can, and her legs shake with the effort to hold herself upright. A few quick strokes, and she is gasping. A few slow ones, and she groans for more. He can feel her muscles ripple around his fingers, feel the pulse in her throat pounding faster. Her eyelids flutter in her attempt to keep them open.
He stops.
She writhes beneath him, breathing hot and heavy, gasping as he releases her hair and her head falls, dropping one cheek against the cool surface beneath her. He plays his fingers over her thighs, delighting in the wanton movements she makes, so close to climax and hanging, dangling on his whim.
Potions requires subtle skills of timing, observation, measurement, Longbottom. You have none of these talents. He moves behind her, lays his hands on her shoulders, trails them down over her arms, waist, pinching soft skin, pressing his cock closer to her, feeling her shift her hips, trying to move against him. Chuckling.
“Say it,” he whispers, “I want to hear you beg for it.”
“Please.” Hoarse and dry and gravel with her arousal, hardly a breath. He twists his fist in her hair again, pulls her head back so their eyes meet in the mirror, her throat long and bared.
“Louder.”
“Please!” Guttural, the light in her eyes delicious, words falling from her red lips, lipstick smudged across her cheek. “I need your cock in my cunt. Do it now. Please.”
He does, slowly, and her breath turns to a long, low moan that grows higher the deeper he sheaths himself in her.
Hurriedly pulling at the rope that binds her wrists as his thrusts grow longer, deeper, faster. The click of polished acrylic on porcelain as she flings her hands out to support herself, pale fingers and blood red slashes curling around the curve of basin, holding herself up, blonde head thrown back and his hands on her hips, pulling her back against him, watching her face in the mirror, her body, the way her arms flex as her fingers grip the sink, breasts straining against the confines of her bra with every ragged breath.
Too fast, it’s happening too fast. He slows, moving in and out of her with less friction, but so that he can feel every ripple of muscle around him, delicious and hot and warm. Smirking and catching her eye, he brings his hand down hard across her bare ass. She cries out and her muscles clench around him. The blow leaves a red handprint on her pale skin. Her eyes swim with that predatory desire.
“Still weak, Longbottom, even when you’re pretending to be strong.”
“Bitch.”
And he slaps her again and pounds in harder, no longer caring about teasing, letting his anger fuel his desire. Hating her, fucking her, bringing his hand down again and again on that pale flesh so she contracts around him as he moves, so she will remember every time she sits down the way she begged him to let her come. He’s losing control, and his hand is yanking her head back and biting her throat as he comes, the other twisting round to slide inside her bra and pinch a nipple as hard as he can. He’s grinding her clit against the edge of the bench as he pounds in, and in a moment her thighs are shaking, and she’s coming violently against him as he pulls and twists and bites at her soft flesh.
Later, his father stares at something shimmering on his shoulder with childlike rapture, and he realises belatedly that it’s a strand of blonde hair. It clings to his shirt as he pulls it away, and he sits for a moment twining the Medusa curl about his finger; wondering at what point he managed to slay her with the mirror and the sword, or what moment it was that she finally turned him to stone.
~*~
A/N: If the summary line seems a bit random, that's probably because it is. I was listening to Rammstein while writing, and that line from 'Amerika' seemed apt.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Rita/Neville
Summary: This is not a love song.
Warnings: Light D/s, I think.
Challenge: Written for
plaidpheonix's rarepair FQF, but I think I missed the deadline by a day or twenty. Claimed Rita, Neville, St Mungos and Post-HogwartsA/N:Thanks to
lysa1 for very quick beta. She circles and strikes.
He is holding his mother’s hand when she sees him. She is a predator, hunting him through white sheeted hospital beds like Medusa in her cavern of statues, heavily styled curls bobbing about her face like snakes with buoyant personalities. He avoids her eyes, but he has no shield to protect him, nor a sword to slay her.
He flees to the men’s room, slams the door behind him. Hands on the porcelain rim of the sink, cold against his palms, leaning heavily, breathing hard. He sees his own horror in his eyes. He is not ashamed of them, but it is such a private pain – the idea of her probing into his mind is just…
He closes his eyes, takes a deep, steadying breath; opens them again.
She is there. Taloned fingers close around his upper arm. She pulls him back; he feels a coil of hair and her hot breath on his cheek when she hisses in his ear. He can hear the sizzling venom on her tongue.
“You can’t hide from me, Neville.”
He closes his eyes again, whispers her name like a prayer he hopes will subdue her.
“Rita.”
She smirks in his ear.
“You know what I want.”
“Yes.”
She wants his soul. His heart, pain, tears; the aching love he feels for his parents. She wants to bleed it onto the pages of the Prophet until there is nothing left inside him. “And you can’t have it.”
Her left hand snakes around his body and he feels her palm, hot against his cock even through his jeans, then her grip tightens and her fingernails dig mercilessly into him.
“Then you know what I want instead.”
He has known that since the summer after sixth year, three years ago. She cannot take his blood, so she will have her pound of flesh instead. He hates her.
He hates her.
And yet he is growing hard in her fierce grip. His palms are hot and damp, they slide on the basin, and his heart starts to beat faster in his chest. Her fingers are deftly unbuckling his belt, pulling at the buttons of his jeans, and he draws a huge, racking breath as they free him, and then that hot hand is around his rapidly hardening member, and she hisses in his ear again.
“You’re weak, Longbottom. Pathetic.” The nails in his arm feel like crescent shaped pokers on his skin, digging into soft flesh, and she strokes her hand up his length, down again. “Weak. Just like your mother and father.”
Not enough like your father, Neville, he was good at transfiguration. Just like your father, Neville, never putting up a fight. Thinly veiled bitterness like bile in the throat, a love always tinged with disappointment. Soft fingers pushing candy wrappers into his palm; waxed paper in tiny shreds upon the floor. Rough headstones and wishes, terrible wishes. Wishing that he could say goodbyes instead of hellos that never got heard.
Wire in the blood, then, and he turns, dislodging her grip on him and grabbing her instead, spinning her around and pinning her between himself and the unforgiving hardness of the bathroom vanity, seizing her wrists and pulling them behind her, pushing her forward so her feet almost leave the ground.
“I’m not a little boy anymore, Skeeter. Maybe I get what I want, and you don’t.”
He can see a smile in the corner of her lips and feel it in the tight little movements of her back under his hands – laughter. This is what she wants, what she lives for, he can see it in the wild, hungry look in her eyes, reflected back at him through a mirror misted with her own breath.
With one quick movement, he slides his wand from his pocket.
No good at charms, Neville. A quick flick and a whispered word and her clothes are on the floor. He smiles in the mirror at the sight of black push up bra and breasts mashed against the countertop.
No good at transfiguration, Neville. He has to concentrate on this one, but one more flick and his belt is a rope binding her wrists together. Wand clatters onto the countertop. His fingers curl under the trashiest thong panties he’s ever seen, and he rips them away without a word.
His hand fists in her hair, pulls her head back roughly, then his lips and teeth are on her throat and his fingers tease her cunt. She gasps a breath and spreads her legs eagerly for him. A rough tug on her hair as they push inside her, curling up and in. A low rumbling moan from her throat. Two fingers in and one out, pushing up against her clit with each thrust of the hand.
Professor Grubbly-Plank says you’re not trying hard enough in Care of Magical Creatures, Neville. It’s really not very hard; you ought to do better. Purple bite marks on her shoulders and throat, each stroke of his fingers echoed in her body’s responses. Her useless fingers coil and stretch, brushing against him where they can, and her legs shake with the effort to hold herself upright. A few quick strokes, and she is gasping. A few slow ones, and she groans for more. He can feel her muscles ripple around his fingers, feel the pulse in her throat pounding faster. Her eyelids flutter in her attempt to keep them open.
He stops.
She writhes beneath him, breathing hot and heavy, gasping as he releases her hair and her head falls, dropping one cheek against the cool surface beneath her. He plays his fingers over her thighs, delighting in the wanton movements she makes, so close to climax and hanging, dangling on his whim.
Potions requires subtle skills of timing, observation, measurement, Longbottom. You have none of these talents. He moves behind her, lays his hands on her shoulders, trails them down over her arms, waist, pinching soft skin, pressing his cock closer to her, feeling her shift her hips, trying to move against him. Chuckling.
“Say it,” he whispers, “I want to hear you beg for it.”
“Please.” Hoarse and dry and gravel with her arousal, hardly a breath. He twists his fist in her hair again, pulls her head back so their eyes meet in the mirror, her throat long and bared.
“Louder.”
“Please!” Guttural, the light in her eyes delicious, words falling from her red lips, lipstick smudged across her cheek. “I need your cock in my cunt. Do it now. Please.”
He does, slowly, and her breath turns to a long, low moan that grows higher the deeper he sheaths himself in her.
Hurriedly pulling at the rope that binds her wrists as his thrusts grow longer, deeper, faster. The click of polished acrylic on porcelain as she flings her hands out to support herself, pale fingers and blood red slashes curling around the curve of basin, holding herself up, blonde head thrown back and his hands on her hips, pulling her back against him, watching her face in the mirror, her body, the way her arms flex as her fingers grip the sink, breasts straining against the confines of her bra with every ragged breath.
Too fast, it’s happening too fast. He slows, moving in and out of her with less friction, but so that he can feel every ripple of muscle around him, delicious and hot and warm. Smirking and catching her eye, he brings his hand down hard across her bare ass. She cries out and her muscles clench around him. The blow leaves a red handprint on her pale skin. Her eyes swim with that predatory desire.
“Still weak, Longbottom, even when you’re pretending to be strong.”
“Bitch.”
And he slaps her again and pounds in harder, no longer caring about teasing, letting his anger fuel his desire. Hating her, fucking her, bringing his hand down again and again on that pale flesh so she contracts around him as he moves, so she will remember every time she sits down the way she begged him to let her come. He’s losing control, and his hand is yanking her head back and biting her throat as he comes, the other twisting round to slide inside her bra and pinch a nipple as hard as he can. He’s grinding her clit against the edge of the bench as he pounds in, and in a moment her thighs are shaking, and she’s coming violently against him as he pulls and twists and bites at her soft flesh.
Later, his father stares at something shimmering on his shoulder with childlike rapture, and he realises belatedly that it’s a strand of blonde hair. It clings to his shirt as he pulls it away, and he sits for a moment twining the Medusa curl about his finger; wondering at what point he managed to slay her with the mirror and the sword, or what moment it was that she finally turned him to stone.
~*~
A/N: If the summary line seems a bit random, that's probably because it is. I was listening to Rammstein while writing, and that line from 'Amerika' seemed apt.
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no subject
Date: 2005-09-20 03:31 pm (UTC)