|serpens_fic (serpens_fic) wrote,|
@ 2010-04-06 23:25:00
|Entry tags:||fic, fluff, neville/luna|
A Vacation, Neville/Luna (R/NC17)
Title: A Vacation
Rating: R? NC17? NSFW? I hate rating things T_T
Summary: Luna has her own way of winning arguments.
Notes: Something written for fun, well over a year ago. I don't think it ever got posted anywhere.
"You need a vacation. We could visit the Blibbering Humdingers."
"I can't right now, the Mimbulous is most delicate at its potting stage and I really need to stay with this crop, if I lose another one - "
"Bring them with you, then. Or ask Pomona to watch after them."
Neville rolled over and looked up Luna; the morning sun spilled through the window and caught in her hair like a web, transforming the silky tow strands to a burnished gold. The ends crackled with static and stood out from the rest, semmingly crowning her in a nimbus of light. "Merlin, you're beautiful," he told her, and she giggled.
Once upon a time he might have blushed to say such a thing, but he was a whole new Longbottom now; Slayer of Snakes, Wielder of Gryffindor's sword, and most weighty of all: Professor of Herbology.
And it didn't really mean he was any different than he was - it only meant that he'd learned to care a little less about everyone else's opinions. "A vacation would be nice," he admitted, leaning back into the pillows, "but it's really not fair to ask Pomona to come back out of retirement. Maybe in a week or two, when the Mimbletonia has aged a bit?"
"Then you'll be busy making Essence of Murtlap with your Fourth Years," she pointed out, leaning over him, hair unbound and cascading over her shoulders and onto his stomach. He couldn't pull his eyes away - the contrast of her near-white hair against the coarse dark hair trailing down his stomach. "There's always something else to do," she continued, and guiltily he pulled his thoughts back to the conversation.
"We're adults now," he argued, a little wistfully, eyes following the sweep of her hair when she shook her head. Her eyes, laughing, said, I know you can't look away. In their years together, he'd learned to read all the strange expressions she had; how she nibbled her quill-tip when she was sleepy, and bit her lip when she was hungry, and how she smiled the most cheerfully when she was saddest inside.
Her eyes warmed, blazed – caught the fire of her hair and spilled over. “Adults,” she said huskily, pressing a hand to his chest and curling her fingers into the sparse hair there, “can do things no self-respecting Snorkack would do.”
He forgot to breathe, watching Luna lean over him, feeling her soft breasts brush warm against his chest, and hair falling across his face and mouth like a caress. When her lips touched the whorl of his ear he inhaled with a gasp, like a man drowning. “Adults,” Luna breathed into his ear, “can ask the Wielder of Godric Griffindor’s Sword to wield a spear instead.”
How many times had they made love to each other? How many different ways had she seduced him? It was never the same way twice. It was always wild, always exhilarating.
And he was an adult. With responsibilities. With regret, he forced himself to stay still. “I have parchments to grade before class.” She moved to straddle him, white thighs parting to rub liquid heat against his groin; he groaned and closed his eyes. He tried to keep control of himself, be the responsible one all the other staff expected him to be. “You told Filius you’d cover Charms this we—“
Soft lips stole the rest of his words, and her hands – clever hands, slender hands, with long nimble fingers – touched him, stroked his chest, teased the sharp peaks of his nipples, flirted over the sensitive mushroom head of his cock, which ignored his determination to resist and jutted firmly between them. When she sat back, her lips were pink and swollen, her cheeks flushed. Neville wondered, not for the first time, if he was the only one alive to see her that way. His Luna.
“Let me touch you,” he whispered, hoarsely, and she leaned forward, and he cupped her breasts in his hands.
He wasn’t a Quidditch player or anything, but next to Luna his hands seemed so gigantic, his skin dusky-dark next to her pure white skin. He savoured the contrast, the breasts large enough to fill his hands when he cupped them, to spill between his fingers when he squeezed, but not too large. Luna-sized, which made them perfect.
He ran his fingers around the rosy areolas; when he rolled her nipples his breath caught at the way she fluttered her eyes, at the grind of her hips against him, at the sigh she made. “Let me,” he said again, and she leaned forward obligingly, so he could make use of his mouth.
His tongue was a Gryffindor tongue, and wasn’t as clever like a Ravenclaw or or cunning like a Slytherin, but it was strong and brave and perhaps a little bit of Hufflepuff, because it was completely loyal to Luna; addicted to her taste, to bringing her pleasure. With his tongue he coaxed whimpers and whines from her when he used it to draw circles across her breasts, or to tease her nipples into stiff peaks, to bite them gently until she squealed and squirmed and begged for more.
When she was panting and whining, he placed his hands on her hips and pulled her up and she straddled him and slid down, impaling herself on his spear. She was always ready for him, always wet and wanting, always in the mood and full of energy – always tight heat and liquid fire, and he groaned and thrust up into her.
“Snorkacks,” Luna panted, placing her palms on his chest and rotating her hips until Neville felt his eyes rolling back, “Snorkacks would never be caught dead doing this!”
Luna, his Ravenclaw named for the moon, was mercury, was silver, was fire. Was utter madness, but he’d learned a little madness was sometimes necessary to deal with life’s sanity. He dug his fingers into her hips – hips just ample enough to be a good handful, but not enough to call plump – and let her fire consume him.
“Close,” he gasped, as Luna frantically rode him; she reached down to where their bodies were joined, combing her fingers through the damp blond curls to find her clit, to rub it. He could feel the quiver in her thighs, gripping him, in the ridged walls holding him tightly with delicious friction.
Luna didn’t scream or groan her orgasms; she keened them, shaking like a leaf in a gale that refuses to let go the branch it was joined to. It never failed to take Neville over the edge into incandescent pleasure, stripping away the worries and pressures of being Professor Longbottom, Snake Slayer and Sword Wielder, letting him just be Neville. She keened her pleasure now, and with a loud cry Neville let his pleasure follow hers.