Fic | Treasures, Treasured
Title: Treasures, Treasured
Author/Artist: attilatehbun
Recipient: kerrisokol
Pairing: Luna/Neville
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3600
Contains: Atypical narrative structure
Summary: He would offer to see her home safe, but she would smile and give him one of her strange hugs, squeezing his shoulders and rubbing her cheek against his and say that she would be fine. Then she would release him and turn, and disappear, and he would go home and sit awake.
Author's Notes: I was an ass and a silly-head for whining about this, because it was actually quite fun and natural. Kittens and pr0n (but not kitten!pr0n aklsdjf) to belladonna803, tehgiantsquid, & fizette for betas and support.
~*~ Originally written for hp_summersmut~*~
~*~
Sometimes it happened like this:
He would be walking down the street, sometimes going somewhere, sometimes just walking, and she would appear at his side so suddenly it was as if she'd Apparated there (though she hadn't, not once).
He would trip in surprise, and she would help him up, and they would both laugh while he checked his trousers for tears and Scourgified any grass stains or mud. He'd leave whatever it was that he was doing (or not doing, as the case so often was) and they'd walk to a café and order weak tea or coffee and biscuits and sit there for hours.
She would tell him about her travels, about the things she'd found and the people she'd met, and he would tell her about his home, his plans, and all the people who were still here, in his life. They'd drink the terrible tea and order more, because it was a reason to stay there in each of those small cafés. The biscuits sometimes tasted like glue and sometimes like flour, and, rarely, like what they were actually supposed to taste like, but he never noticed until afterwards.
During those too-short hours, she'd produce notebook after notebook after notebook for him, each page filled with her winding script and pressings of new and strange and familiar plants. He'd flip through them before tucking them away in his knapsack, for he was far more interested in the words she was saying than the words she had written down.
(Later, he would comb over every page, running his fingers over her notes. Each piece of information was a gift, and he hoarded them like nuts before the long winter of her absence.)
Inevitably, the shop keep, the tired waitress, the owners of the café would turn them out, because it was late and he, she, they wanted to go home. So they'd pay for their terrible tea and gluey biscuits and spill back out into the night. He would pat his bag with the notebooks and say Thank you rather than what he wanted to say. She would smile and hope they were useful to him, or, if not useful, at least pretty to look at.
He would offer to see her home safe, but she would smile and give him one of her strange hugs, squeezing his shoulders and rubbing her cheek against his and say that she would be fine. Then she would release him and turn, and disappear, and he would go home and sit awake.
~*~
Or sometimes it happened like this:
He would be sleeping and he would hear a Pop! (sometimes, but not always, followed by a crash of some sort) and he would wake. He'd grab his wand because it would never do not to be careful, even with the way things were now, even though there was a very short list of people who
were allowed
could make it through his wards. Even though he was always as sure as he could be who it was. He'd grab his wand and creep softly through the house to find her in his kitchen, in his living room, (once, in his bathroom), looking windswept and delighted.
She would have a large potted plant nestled in the crook of one arm, sometimes with the plant nestling back against the crook of her neck, in her hair. Under the other arm she'd have some sort of foodstuff: a loaf of bread, a pie, an odd-shaped fruit. He would put down his wand and open a bottle of wine and they would sit on the floor. She would tear the loaf (or slice the pie or carve the fruit) and they would share these small treasures and talk about new subjects and old subjects and safe subjects through what remained of the night. Then the light of dawn would lure them to sleep, heads resting awkwardly against furniture; coffee tables and sofas and his great-uncle's moldering footstool that he could never quite give away and never-. Never against flesh, never each other.
The afternoon sun would wake him, and for a moment he would be frantic about whatever task he'd failed to perform by sleeping away the day, and he'd look up and she would be gone.
Again.
~*~
Other times it was like this:
He would be out with friends, laughing and drinking and taking the mickey and telling raunchy jokes, and he would get up to go to the bathroom or to get another drink, and she'd be there, suddenly in the crowd. She would press a drink into his hand that he would sip and forget instantly.
They would walk out without saying goodnight to his friends and wander the streets, up and down and back again, never looking where they were going.
These times often brought silence, the good kind where their shoulders would bump comfortably against each other and he would quickly pull her back before she stepped into the street in front of a car. She had never quite learned to be careful in cities.
Somehow, they always ended up back where they had left, and it wasn't long before his friends stumbled out of the bar. She would squeeze his hand and fade back into the darkened city before his friends saw him and came over to clap him on the back and herd him away home.
~*~
It happened like this, and in other, smaller ways.
This was Neville's life with Luna.
He accepted it, as much as he could. He tried not to think about her sudden appearances and her inevitable disappearances. Thinking about it, worrying about it, wouldn't change anything. She was going to come and she was going to go, that was a part of her. Neville knew that trying to change it would be to change her.
And he loved her. All of her. Spontaneous travels were something he could live with, if it meant having her in his life.
Sometimes it was hard to just let her go, and his curiosity got the better of him. He wondered what, if anything, others had heard of Luna. From Luna. Whether she appeared in their lives as she did his, with scraps of adventures and unusual food.
He couldn't ask Ginny (his normal source of gossip and news over late lunches and in long owl letters) or Hermione (his problem solver and occasional confidante). Ginny would have news, and lots of it. But she also knew Luna too well, knew Neville too well after all this time, and would know why he asked. While she wouldn't pity him as others might, she would still know. And it was private. Hermione was much the same; she too would figure it out, and he would never escape the advice.
Worst of all, they would tell him news of Luna, assuming they had any. And for now, he wasn't sure he really did want to know if he was the only one. If he was, it might be harder to silence the voice inside him that made him want to hope. If he wasn't alone in these random acts of Luna, well. That would speak for itself.
Dean, for the same possibility of an answer, was also out of the question, also dangerous.
So he asked Ron, who could be counted on to laugh and know nothing specific and reminisce about old oddities of hers, and Harry, who Neville, on one alarming occasion, had to persuade not to start an investigation into her whereabouts. Harry still worried too much about all of them.
Life moved on in this way and Neville hated and treasured his uncertainties just as he treasured and hated her spontaneous appearances.
For though Luna always came back, she always left again.
And Neville's mind liked to invert this, for though Luna always left, she always came back again, and he would have to shake his head violently as though he could shake those thoughts out.
He tried not to wait, and when she was there he tried not to expect her departure.
Through it all, he loved her.
~*~
One time, it happens like this:
Neville returns home, his arms full of groceries. He juggles the bags inexpertly, managing to drop a bag of oranges across the hall carpet as he fumbles his key in the lock. Normally he Apparates home, but on this day he decided to walk and it is a lucky happenstance, for when he opens the door and stumbles in with his bags he is able to look up and see her in his living room, perched on the moldering footstool.
He does not drop his groceries, for he is used to her sudden appearances and has learned not to show his rapid heartbeat in his actions.
It strikes him as different this time as he puts his bags in the kitchen. Luna follows him in and hops onto the counter, for once not starting in immediately on her tales. She is not windswept or obviously happy; instead she almost seems pensive beneath her usual serenity. She is carrying no obvious treasures. Her legs in her tattered denims swing against the cupboards and Neville realizes she is wearing what appears to be one of his old Hogwarts shirts.
When the groceries are away, he comments on it.
"I didn't suppose you'd mind," she says. "The robes I was wearing when I got in were terribly filthy, and though I didn't mind it, I rather thought you might not like mud all over your flat. You seem to prefer keeping it the greenhouses and giving it purpose. So I borrowed one of your shirts. I also took a shower, which went quite long, I'm afraid. I did miss hot water."
Neville looks at her, and yes, her hair is still slightly damp, turning the thin cotton shirt translucent where it touches on her back. He swallows hard and tries not to look too long at those spots.
"I don't mind at all," he says, and grins, and suddenly they are back in the usual routine of these appearances. Luna explains how she got so muddy and Neville bustles about the kitchen to prepare a bit of dinner for them. He taps a pot of water with his wand to heat it, reaching for a box of pasta. Simple meals are common in his kitchen.
Once the pasta is bubbling in the pot, he leans against the sink next to her and listens. It is comfortable like this, and he wonders why he never noticed it before. Before long the pasta is done, and Neville reaches past Luna for the strainer, for his kitchen is small and cramped. He's been closer to her than this before, but once again, something is different this time, for he suddenly lets the strainer fall back on its hook and reaches up to her face.
And kisses her.
He pulls back after far too short a moment. Her eyes are still closed, and she sighs.
"Thank you," she breathes.
Neville is confused, and opens his mouth to speak, but before the words can come out, she leans in and kisses him again. Her fingers squeeze at his ribs as she kisses him, which is a surprising place to be held during a kiss, but the kiss is also a surprise, so he chooses one surprise over the other and throws himself into the kiss, leaning even further against her and cupping her jaw firmly. Luna's head knocks against the too-big-for-his-tiny-kitchen cupboards and he mumbles, "Sorry," and she kisses him again and says against his lips, "I don't mind."
Neville's other hand finds its way to her hips and scoots her forward to the edge of the counter. Luna responds by wrapping her legs around him and saying, "I see you've lined all my notebooks up in order on your bookshelf."
Neville jerks away in surprise, as much as he can, confined by her legs. His thumb traces over her cheekbone, her jaw, her lips, as he says, elegantly, "Wha?"
"It looks like they're in a place of importance."
This is too much for Neville. He laughs and pulls her off the counter and into a tight hug.
"Yeah, they're in a place of importance, absolutely."
Luna reaches around him and turns off the pasta.
"I'm not very hungry anymore."
They make it as far as the living room before they begin kissing again, falling heavily onto his sofa. There is an urgency this time that Neville didn't feel before, a need to kiss her as much as he can before she disappears again. To touch her until she becomes part of his skin.
He presses her into the sofa and she groans, rubbing herself against him in an all too pleasing way. She breaks her mouth from his and shoves at his chest until he falls away from her against the opposite arm of the sofa.
Neville catches her grin before he catches any doubt, and grins back at her as she straddles his lap. She leans in to kiss him again and again and her hands feel like they're everywhere at once. Maybe they are, at his face, his neck, his ribs again, his thighs, his collarbones, his hair. She's gotten his shirt halfway off before he even realizes that she's done it. It snags on his ear and one arm, and he's struggling to get himself free so that he can touch her again as she attacks his chest and neck with lips and tongue and teeth. He almost leaves it, almost leaves himself to her mercy, but in the end it's just too hard not to give everything into this.
There will be time for that later (if there is a later, he can't help but amend in his head).
He fumbles it the rest of the way off and brings Luna's face back to his, his soft kisses in contrast to his frantic hands at the buttons of her (his) shirt. Then his hands are on her breasts, and sweet fucking hell, they're amazing. Soft and warm, with nipples already hard and tight against his palms.
Luna moves to shrug the shirt off her shoulders, but Neville stops her. She looks so damn good in his shirt - there's a word for how she looks in it, it's on the tip of his tongue, but all his blood is in his cock and it's making it hard to think anything beyond Leave it on, so that's what he says as he lowers his mouth to her breasts. He tongues each breast in turn, and is absurdly thrilled when she responds by clutching his head and grinding against the bulge in his trousers.
"Merlin, Neville," she says, and he has no choice but to pull her against him again, hands moving restlessly beneath the back of her shirt.
Luna leans up and over him, her still-damp hair falling around them like a curtain, and Neville is puzzled at the sudden loss of contact. He feels fuzzy, his brain is having a hard time keeping up, but he still cannot fail to miss the slight pressure then release of her hand on his zip as she frees him. When her hand grips his cock and begins to stroke, his head falls back and he clutches her arse. All he can manage is a hoarse groan.
When he recovers enough to feel her weight back in his lap, her hand stroking teasingly along his cock, he realizes that she's undone her own denims as well. When he slides his hand down her belly and realizes she hasn't any knickers on, he groans again. Luna, he whispers against her neck. She kisses him hard, grinds herself against his hand, her hand on his cock. She's hot and surprisingly wet under his fingers, but he's straining to reach her, so he breaks away from her mouth.
"Angle's all wrong," he says. "Can't. Want to touch you properly."
Luna kisses him again, squeezing the head of his cock. Neville tugs at her lower lip with his teeth as she stands and slides off her denims. He moves to pull her back into his lap before she gets them all the way off and she laughs. Luna falls ungracefully against his chest and Neville's fingers are already moving as she adjusts her legs, sliding through her folds and into her. His head drops against her shoulder and he breathes, Oh fuck, at the feel of her.
Luna moans, biting her lip, but she nudges his hand away. When he looks up at her, she grins.
"I've a better idea," she gasps. She angles her hips and thrusts forward, his cock sliding through her folds instead. Neville grunts in pleasure at the friction. One hand pulls at her waist to bring her forward again, the other splays against her shoulder blades beneath the billowing cotton shirt. Luna whines low in her throat.
Neville rocks slowly against her as she bears down on him, but soon it is not enough, not for either of them. Still, it takes him by surprise when Luna rocks forward, leans up, and slides down his entire length, burying him completely inside her. Neville's hips jerk at the sudden feeling of her warmth all around him. Luna groans and thrusts against him and he looks up.
Her face is tight with pleasure and need, and she's clutching at his ribs again. Her face breaks into a smile, a smile as serene and joyful as he's ever seen on her face, and it is then that he can no longer hold back. He plants his feet firmly on the ground and thrusts up into her. It's damned awkward, he has no leverage at all, but it feels so bloody good that he doesn't care. He thrusts again, then again, and Luna grinds in counterpoint to his rhythm. She leans her weight into his hand on her back, she runs her hands all over his chest and neck and shoulders, and when he leans forward and buries his face in her breasts, she squeezes him with her thighs and cries out.
Her cry is hoarse and thick, and it sounds like the prelude to something, but before Neville can puzzle it she cries out again. Her hips strain against his and he can feel her muscles clamping down on his cock. He can feel her coming, he can feel it everywhere, all around him, from her hot breath on his neck through the tightness of her stomach to her toenails scraping against his knees.
Every place she touches him sends more heat spiraling to his belly, each shudder increases the pressure he feels building, and he is very close. But it is when she sags against him, all of her tension gone, and breathes his name into his ear that all that tightness snaps. He clutches her to him and arches his head back as he comes.
After, they fall asleep together in the living room as always, but this time Luna sleeps with her head against Neville's chest, his arms around her like a blanket.
~
When Neville wakes, he is alone with a crimp in his neck from sleeping with his head awkwardly against the arm of the sofa. He gets to his feet slowly, berating himself for thinking that maybe this time she'd at least say goodbye. He is rubbing the sleep from his eyes and looking for his trousers when Luna comes out of the kitchen carrying his largest frying pan. She is still naked save for his only apron, white with the body of a bikini-clad woman on it-a gift from Seamus. Whatever is in the frying pan smells awful, but she holds it out to him like an offering and says,
"Breakfast?"
He takes it from her and sinks back down onto the sofa. He can't articulate his surprise at her still being here, so he asks instead,
"What is it?"
He scoops up a forkful and eats it without thinking. It tastes every bit as awful as it smells.
"Scrambled eggs and chocolate biscuits and an apple," she says. "It was all I could find that was breakfasty. I imagine it tastes terrible, but then, not everyone's tastes are mine, so perhaps you like it."
Neville swallows gamely and sets the pan on the floor. "No, uh, it's pretty terrible, it is. But thanks for trying."
He reaches for her hand, but gets embarrassed on the way and instead diverts and scratches the back of his neck. Luna continues to stare at him placidly as the silence drags out. Before long, Neville's curiosity wins out over his worry, and he has to know.
"Luna, um. What, er...or rather, what I mean to say is. Why are you still here?"
Luna cocks her head to the side. "Neville?"
"Well, I mean, you always sort of swoop in and then swoop back out again," and Neville realizes he's babbling but can't stop it, "and I never know when you'll be here and when you won't, and I'm not complaining or anything but you never stay so I'm just a bit, I don't know, and then last night, and just, Luna-"
Luna stops him by squeezing his hand in both of hers. "Neville," she says, smiling and touching his face. "Neville, it was time to come home."
~*~fin~*~
Author/Artist: attilatehbun
Recipient: kerrisokol
Pairing: Luna/Neville
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3600
Contains: Atypical narrative structure
Summary: He would offer to see her home safe, but she would smile and give him one of her strange hugs, squeezing his shoulders and rubbing her cheek against his and say that she would be fine. Then she would release him and turn, and disappear, and he would go home and sit awake.
Author's Notes: I was an ass and a silly-head for whining about this, because it was actually quite fun and natural. Kittens and pr0n (but not kitten!pr0n aklsdjf) to belladonna803, tehgiantsquid, & fizette for betas and support.
~*~ Originally written for hp_summersmut~*~
~*~
Sometimes it happened like this:
He would be walking down the street, sometimes going somewhere, sometimes just walking, and she would appear at his side so suddenly it was as if she'd Apparated there (though she hadn't, not once).
He would trip in surprise, and she would help him up, and they would both laugh while he checked his trousers for tears and Scourgified any grass stains or mud. He'd leave whatever it was that he was doing (or not doing, as the case so often was) and they'd walk to a café and order weak tea or coffee and biscuits and sit there for hours.
She would tell him about her travels, about the things she'd found and the people she'd met, and he would tell her about his home, his plans, and all the people who were still here, in his life. They'd drink the terrible tea and order more, because it was a reason to stay there in each of those small cafés. The biscuits sometimes tasted like glue and sometimes like flour, and, rarely, like what they were actually supposed to taste like, but he never noticed until afterwards.
During those too-short hours, she'd produce notebook after notebook after notebook for him, each page filled with her winding script and pressings of new and strange and familiar plants. He'd flip through them before tucking them away in his knapsack, for he was far more interested in the words she was saying than the words she had written down.
(Later, he would comb over every page, running his fingers over her notes. Each piece of information was a gift, and he hoarded them like nuts before the long winter of her absence.)
Inevitably, the shop keep, the tired waitress, the owners of the café would turn them out, because it was late and he, she, they wanted to go home. So they'd pay for their terrible tea and gluey biscuits and spill back out into the night. He would pat his bag with the notebooks and say Thank you rather than what he wanted to say. She would smile and hope they were useful to him, or, if not useful, at least pretty to look at.
He would offer to see her home safe, but she would smile and give him one of her strange hugs, squeezing his shoulders and rubbing her cheek against his and say that she would be fine. Then she would release him and turn, and disappear, and he would go home and sit awake.
~*~
Or sometimes it happened like this:
He would be sleeping and he would hear a Pop! (sometimes, but not always, followed by a crash of some sort) and he would wake. He'd grab his wand because it would never do not to be careful, even with the way things were now, even though there was a very short list of people who
were allowed
could make it through his wards. Even though he was always as sure as he could be who it was. He'd grab his wand and creep softly through the house to find her in his kitchen, in his living room, (once, in his bathroom), looking windswept and delighted.
She would have a large potted plant nestled in the crook of one arm, sometimes with the plant nestling back against the crook of her neck, in her hair. Under the other arm she'd have some sort of foodstuff: a loaf of bread, a pie, an odd-shaped fruit. He would put down his wand and open a bottle of wine and they would sit on the floor. She would tear the loaf (or slice the pie or carve the fruit) and they would share these small treasures and talk about new subjects and old subjects and safe subjects through what remained of the night. Then the light of dawn would lure them to sleep, heads resting awkwardly against furniture; coffee tables and sofas and his great-uncle's moldering footstool that he could never quite give away and never-. Never against flesh, never each other.
The afternoon sun would wake him, and for a moment he would be frantic about whatever task he'd failed to perform by sleeping away the day, and he'd look up and she would be gone.
Again.
~*~
Other times it was like this:
He would be out with friends, laughing and drinking and taking the mickey and telling raunchy jokes, and he would get up to go to the bathroom or to get another drink, and she'd be there, suddenly in the crowd. She would press a drink into his hand that he would sip and forget instantly.
They would walk out without saying goodnight to his friends and wander the streets, up and down and back again, never looking where they were going.
These times often brought silence, the good kind where their shoulders would bump comfortably against each other and he would quickly pull her back before she stepped into the street in front of a car. She had never quite learned to be careful in cities.
Somehow, they always ended up back where they had left, and it wasn't long before his friends stumbled out of the bar. She would squeeze his hand and fade back into the darkened city before his friends saw him and came over to clap him on the back and herd him away home.
~*~
It happened like this, and in other, smaller ways.
This was Neville's life with Luna.
He accepted it, as much as he could. He tried not to think about her sudden appearances and her inevitable disappearances. Thinking about it, worrying about it, wouldn't change anything. She was going to come and she was going to go, that was a part of her. Neville knew that trying to change it would be to change her.
And he loved her. All of her. Spontaneous travels were something he could live with, if it meant having her in his life.
Sometimes it was hard to just let her go, and his curiosity got the better of him. He wondered what, if anything, others had heard of Luna. From Luna. Whether she appeared in their lives as she did his, with scraps of adventures and unusual food.
He couldn't ask Ginny (his normal source of gossip and news over late lunches and in long owl letters) or Hermione (his problem solver and occasional confidante). Ginny would have news, and lots of it. But she also knew Luna too well, knew Neville too well after all this time, and would know why he asked. While she wouldn't pity him as others might, she would still know. And it was private. Hermione was much the same; she too would figure it out, and he would never escape the advice.
Worst of all, they would tell him news of Luna, assuming they had any. And for now, he wasn't sure he really did want to know if he was the only one. If he was, it might be harder to silence the voice inside him that made him want to hope. If he wasn't alone in these random acts of Luna, well. That would speak for itself.
Dean, for the same possibility of an answer, was also out of the question, also dangerous.
So he asked Ron, who could be counted on to laugh and know nothing specific and reminisce about old oddities of hers, and Harry, who Neville, on one alarming occasion, had to persuade not to start an investigation into her whereabouts. Harry still worried too much about all of them.
Life moved on in this way and Neville hated and treasured his uncertainties just as he treasured and hated her spontaneous appearances.
For though Luna always came back, she always left again.
And Neville's mind liked to invert this, for though Luna always left, she always came back again, and he would have to shake his head violently as though he could shake those thoughts out.
He tried not to wait, and when she was there he tried not to expect her departure.
Through it all, he loved her.
~*~
One time, it happens like this:
Neville returns home, his arms full of groceries. He juggles the bags inexpertly, managing to drop a bag of oranges across the hall carpet as he fumbles his key in the lock. Normally he Apparates home, but on this day he decided to walk and it is a lucky happenstance, for when he opens the door and stumbles in with his bags he is able to look up and see her in his living room, perched on the moldering footstool.
He does not drop his groceries, for he is used to her sudden appearances and has learned not to show his rapid heartbeat in his actions.
It strikes him as different this time as he puts his bags in the kitchen. Luna follows him in and hops onto the counter, for once not starting in immediately on her tales. She is not windswept or obviously happy; instead she almost seems pensive beneath her usual serenity. She is carrying no obvious treasures. Her legs in her tattered denims swing against the cupboards and Neville realizes she is wearing what appears to be one of his old Hogwarts shirts.
When the groceries are away, he comments on it.
"I didn't suppose you'd mind," she says. "The robes I was wearing when I got in were terribly filthy, and though I didn't mind it, I rather thought you might not like mud all over your flat. You seem to prefer keeping it the greenhouses and giving it purpose. So I borrowed one of your shirts. I also took a shower, which went quite long, I'm afraid. I did miss hot water."
Neville looks at her, and yes, her hair is still slightly damp, turning the thin cotton shirt translucent where it touches on her back. He swallows hard and tries not to look too long at those spots.
"I don't mind at all," he says, and grins, and suddenly they are back in the usual routine of these appearances. Luna explains how she got so muddy and Neville bustles about the kitchen to prepare a bit of dinner for them. He taps a pot of water with his wand to heat it, reaching for a box of pasta. Simple meals are common in his kitchen.
Once the pasta is bubbling in the pot, he leans against the sink next to her and listens. It is comfortable like this, and he wonders why he never noticed it before. Before long the pasta is done, and Neville reaches past Luna for the strainer, for his kitchen is small and cramped. He's been closer to her than this before, but once again, something is different this time, for he suddenly lets the strainer fall back on its hook and reaches up to her face.
And kisses her.
He pulls back after far too short a moment. Her eyes are still closed, and she sighs.
"Thank you," she breathes.
Neville is confused, and opens his mouth to speak, but before the words can come out, she leans in and kisses him again. Her fingers squeeze at his ribs as she kisses him, which is a surprising place to be held during a kiss, but the kiss is also a surprise, so he chooses one surprise over the other and throws himself into the kiss, leaning even further against her and cupping her jaw firmly. Luna's head knocks against the too-big-for-his-tiny-kitchen cupboards and he mumbles, "Sorry," and she kisses him again and says against his lips, "I don't mind."
Neville's other hand finds its way to her hips and scoots her forward to the edge of the counter. Luna responds by wrapping her legs around him and saying, "I see you've lined all my notebooks up in order on your bookshelf."
Neville jerks away in surprise, as much as he can, confined by her legs. His thumb traces over her cheekbone, her jaw, her lips, as he says, elegantly, "Wha?"
"It looks like they're in a place of importance."
This is too much for Neville. He laughs and pulls her off the counter and into a tight hug.
"Yeah, they're in a place of importance, absolutely."
Luna reaches around him and turns off the pasta.
"I'm not very hungry anymore."
They make it as far as the living room before they begin kissing again, falling heavily onto his sofa. There is an urgency this time that Neville didn't feel before, a need to kiss her as much as he can before she disappears again. To touch her until she becomes part of his skin.
He presses her into the sofa and she groans, rubbing herself against him in an all too pleasing way. She breaks her mouth from his and shoves at his chest until he falls away from her against the opposite arm of the sofa.
Neville catches her grin before he catches any doubt, and grins back at her as she straddles his lap. She leans in to kiss him again and again and her hands feel like they're everywhere at once. Maybe they are, at his face, his neck, his ribs again, his thighs, his collarbones, his hair. She's gotten his shirt halfway off before he even realizes that she's done it. It snags on his ear and one arm, and he's struggling to get himself free so that he can touch her again as she attacks his chest and neck with lips and tongue and teeth. He almost leaves it, almost leaves himself to her mercy, but in the end it's just too hard not to give everything into this.
There will be time for that later (if there is a later, he can't help but amend in his head).
He fumbles it the rest of the way off and brings Luna's face back to his, his soft kisses in contrast to his frantic hands at the buttons of her (his) shirt. Then his hands are on her breasts, and sweet fucking hell, they're amazing. Soft and warm, with nipples already hard and tight against his palms.
Luna moves to shrug the shirt off her shoulders, but Neville stops her. She looks so damn good in his shirt - there's a word for how she looks in it, it's on the tip of his tongue, but all his blood is in his cock and it's making it hard to think anything beyond Leave it on, so that's what he says as he lowers his mouth to her breasts. He tongues each breast in turn, and is absurdly thrilled when she responds by clutching his head and grinding against the bulge in his trousers.
"Merlin, Neville," she says, and he has no choice but to pull her against him again, hands moving restlessly beneath the back of her shirt.
Luna leans up and over him, her still-damp hair falling around them like a curtain, and Neville is puzzled at the sudden loss of contact. He feels fuzzy, his brain is having a hard time keeping up, but he still cannot fail to miss the slight pressure then release of her hand on his zip as she frees him. When her hand grips his cock and begins to stroke, his head falls back and he clutches her arse. All he can manage is a hoarse groan.
When he recovers enough to feel her weight back in his lap, her hand stroking teasingly along his cock, he realizes that she's undone her own denims as well. When he slides his hand down her belly and realizes she hasn't any knickers on, he groans again. Luna, he whispers against her neck. She kisses him hard, grinds herself against his hand, her hand on his cock. She's hot and surprisingly wet under his fingers, but he's straining to reach her, so he breaks away from her mouth.
"Angle's all wrong," he says. "Can't. Want to touch you properly."
Luna kisses him again, squeezing the head of his cock. Neville tugs at her lower lip with his teeth as she stands and slides off her denims. He moves to pull her back into his lap before she gets them all the way off and she laughs. Luna falls ungracefully against his chest and Neville's fingers are already moving as she adjusts her legs, sliding through her folds and into her. His head drops against her shoulder and he breathes, Oh fuck, at the feel of her.
Luna moans, biting her lip, but she nudges his hand away. When he looks up at her, she grins.
"I've a better idea," she gasps. She angles her hips and thrusts forward, his cock sliding through her folds instead. Neville grunts in pleasure at the friction. One hand pulls at her waist to bring her forward again, the other splays against her shoulder blades beneath the billowing cotton shirt. Luna whines low in her throat.
Neville rocks slowly against her as she bears down on him, but soon it is not enough, not for either of them. Still, it takes him by surprise when Luna rocks forward, leans up, and slides down his entire length, burying him completely inside her. Neville's hips jerk at the sudden feeling of her warmth all around him. Luna groans and thrusts against him and he looks up.
Her face is tight with pleasure and need, and she's clutching at his ribs again. Her face breaks into a smile, a smile as serene and joyful as he's ever seen on her face, and it is then that he can no longer hold back. He plants his feet firmly on the ground and thrusts up into her. It's damned awkward, he has no leverage at all, but it feels so bloody good that he doesn't care. He thrusts again, then again, and Luna grinds in counterpoint to his rhythm. She leans her weight into his hand on her back, she runs her hands all over his chest and neck and shoulders, and when he leans forward and buries his face in her breasts, she squeezes him with her thighs and cries out.
Her cry is hoarse and thick, and it sounds like the prelude to something, but before Neville can puzzle it she cries out again. Her hips strain against his and he can feel her muscles clamping down on his cock. He can feel her coming, he can feel it everywhere, all around him, from her hot breath on his neck through the tightness of her stomach to her toenails scraping against his knees.
Every place she touches him sends more heat spiraling to his belly, each shudder increases the pressure he feels building, and he is very close. But it is when she sags against him, all of her tension gone, and breathes his name into his ear that all that tightness snaps. He clutches her to him and arches his head back as he comes.
After, they fall asleep together in the living room as always, but this time Luna sleeps with her head against Neville's chest, his arms around her like a blanket.
~
When Neville wakes, he is alone with a crimp in his neck from sleeping with his head awkwardly against the arm of the sofa. He gets to his feet slowly, berating himself for thinking that maybe this time she'd at least say goodbye. He is rubbing the sleep from his eyes and looking for his trousers when Luna comes out of the kitchen carrying his largest frying pan. She is still naked save for his only apron, white with the body of a bikini-clad woman on it-a gift from Seamus. Whatever is in the frying pan smells awful, but she holds it out to him like an offering and says,
"Breakfast?"
He takes it from her and sinks back down onto the sofa. He can't articulate his surprise at her still being here, so he asks instead,
"What is it?"
He scoops up a forkful and eats it without thinking. It tastes every bit as awful as it smells.
"Scrambled eggs and chocolate biscuits and an apple," she says. "It was all I could find that was breakfasty. I imagine it tastes terrible, but then, not everyone's tastes are mine, so perhaps you like it."
Neville swallows gamely and sets the pan on the floor. "No, uh, it's pretty terrible, it is. But thanks for trying."
He reaches for her hand, but gets embarrassed on the way and instead diverts and scratches the back of his neck. Luna continues to stare at him placidly as the silence drags out. Before long, Neville's curiosity wins out over his worry, and he has to know.
"Luna, um. What, er...or rather, what I mean to say is. Why are you still here?"
Luna cocks her head to the side. "Neville?"
"Well, I mean, you always sort of swoop in and then swoop back out again," and Neville realizes he's babbling but can't stop it, "and I never know when you'll be here and when you won't, and I'm not complaining or anything but you never stay so I'm just a bit, I don't know, and then last night, and just, Luna-"
Luna stops him by squeezing his hand in both of hers. "Neville," she says, smiling and touching his face. "Neville, it was time to come home."
~*~fin~*~