ficlet: Just Like Flying, Luna/Ginny, R
And here we have the results of the insomnia porn. I did look it over this morning after some sleep, but it's otherwise unbeta-ed. Also my first completed femslash.
Crossposted to pornish_pixies and written for their "Porn In Motion" challenge, although it's really not very porny. Maybe next time.
"I'm not very good at these things," says Luna apologetically.
"Nonsense." Ginny's voice is brisk, like mountain air, like a swim in the lake which ought to be frozen over but is still magically liquid, even in February. "It's easier than riding a thestral, and you did that all the way to London last year."
"Animals are different." She knows it sounds like a weak argument, but the truth was she'd rather ride a thestral, a hippogriff, hell, even a dragon. She had a pet kneazle once; with animals you just need to stroke them on the neck, murmur sweet things in their ear. Animals are soft and warm and respond to kindness and logic.
Broomsticks, on the other hand, are just enchanted bits of wood and straw, and Luna eyes them with trepidation.
"Come on," says Ginny, impatiently. "It's not like you haven't ridden one before." Her cheeks are as red as her hair, in the cold, and Luna desperately wants to impress her. But when Madam Hootch had tried to teach her to fly she'd been a miserable failure. She'd see what might have been a doxy, and lunge for it without thinking; or perhaps get distracted by the light reflecting from a window, or by the curve of a thigh around a broomstick, and completely forget to pay attention to her flying.
"You can go double with me," adds Ginny, and after a moment Luna nods. She straddles the broomstick with care; in front of her, Ginny throws a leg over with the ease of a Quidditch player, which, of course, she is. "Just hold on to my waist," she says over her shoulder, and in a heartbeat they're off, lifting into the sky.
It's a clear and chilly day, and despite the warm clothes both girls are wearing Luna shivers and wraps herself tightly around Ginny, whose hair is loose and streaming on the wind into Luna's face. It smells sweet and clean and Luna wants to bury her face in it. Before she can, Ginny turns her head to shout over her shoulder.
"Look down! See? See?"
There's only a skiff of snow, covering the Quidditch pitch and the field behind with a smooth thin layer, but Luna can clearly see the letters stamped into the white, the G and the L intertwined, the curve of the G sweeping into the straight stroke of the L, and it warms her more than the cloak she's wearing. Almost as much as Ginny's body, pressed against her front, warms her.
Luna leans forward into that body, strokes Ginny on the neck, murmurs in her ear. A wild animal, all teeth and claws (as anyone who's seen Ginny when she's angry would agree) but tame for her, tame as a kitten. "I see it," she whispers, and her tongue slides from ear to neck and Ginny's shiver isn't from the cold.
"Yes," says Ginny, her voice husky and low. Luna moves her hands under Ginny's cloak, one at a time so she doesn't lose her grip, then slides one upward to cup a breast, the other down from waist to hip to thigh.
That's where the warmth is, under Ginny's clothes. The broomstick makes crazy circles above the castle as Ginny pushes back and writhes against her, small animal noises escaping from her lips to get lost on the wind. She's got woollies on under her robe but Luna can still feel the heat rising from between her legs, and she rubs gently until she feels the moisture soak through, feels Ginny's head loll back against her shoulder and hears the gasp that means she's so very close to coming. Ginny gasps and then holds her breath for a long moment, reaching for it; then she exhales and shudders in Luna's arms, and the broom dives abruptly.
It's only for a moment. Ginny opens her eyes and takes control again before Luna can even think to scream or laugh (she likes to think she would have laughed) and soon they are in a sedate flight pattern again, looping over the L and the G. Luna keeps her hands under Ginny's robe, to keep them both warm. Ginny turns to kiss her and they can just barely get their lips together in that awkward position, but it's lovely; her lips are cold but the tongue that darts into her mouth is hot and wild, flickering against her palate in a promise to do the same to her clit when they're back down on the ground. Luna moans, and Ginny flickers, and the broomstick dips again before straightening out.
When they pull away from each other Luna puts her lips close to Ginny's ear. "My room's warm and it doesn't lurch around," she says, and Ginny gives her a look that says where's the fun in that? but she guides the broom to a smooth landing in the snow and they both run, giggling and exuberant, into the castle, through the Ravenclaw common room where every head is bent over a book, up to Luna's bed.
And when their clothes are off and Luna's lying across the bed with Ginny's tongue flickering between her legs, fingers vibrating against her body like a broomstick, she thinks: this is just like flying.
Crossposted to pornish_pixies and written for their "Porn In Motion" challenge, although it's really not very porny. Maybe next time.
"I'm not very good at these things," says Luna apologetically.
"Nonsense." Ginny's voice is brisk, like mountain air, like a swim in the lake which ought to be frozen over but is still magically liquid, even in February. "It's easier than riding a thestral, and you did that all the way to London last year."
"Animals are different." She knows it sounds like a weak argument, but the truth was she'd rather ride a thestral, a hippogriff, hell, even a dragon. She had a pet kneazle once; with animals you just need to stroke them on the neck, murmur sweet things in their ear. Animals are soft and warm and respond to kindness and logic.
Broomsticks, on the other hand, are just enchanted bits of wood and straw, and Luna eyes them with trepidation.
"Come on," says Ginny, impatiently. "It's not like you haven't ridden one before." Her cheeks are as red as her hair, in the cold, and Luna desperately wants to impress her. But when Madam Hootch had tried to teach her to fly she'd been a miserable failure. She'd see what might have been a doxy, and lunge for it without thinking; or perhaps get distracted by the light reflecting from a window, or by the curve of a thigh around a broomstick, and completely forget to pay attention to her flying.
"You can go double with me," adds Ginny, and after a moment Luna nods. She straddles the broomstick with care; in front of her, Ginny throws a leg over with the ease of a Quidditch player, which, of course, she is. "Just hold on to my waist," she says over her shoulder, and in a heartbeat they're off, lifting into the sky.
It's a clear and chilly day, and despite the warm clothes both girls are wearing Luna shivers and wraps herself tightly around Ginny, whose hair is loose and streaming on the wind into Luna's face. It smells sweet and clean and Luna wants to bury her face in it. Before she can, Ginny turns her head to shout over her shoulder.
"Look down! See? See?"
There's only a skiff of snow, covering the Quidditch pitch and the field behind with a smooth thin layer, but Luna can clearly see the letters stamped into the white, the G and the L intertwined, the curve of the G sweeping into the straight stroke of the L, and it warms her more than the cloak she's wearing. Almost as much as Ginny's body, pressed against her front, warms her.
Luna leans forward into that body, strokes Ginny on the neck, murmurs in her ear. A wild animal, all teeth and claws (as anyone who's seen Ginny when she's angry would agree) but tame for her, tame as a kitten. "I see it," she whispers, and her tongue slides from ear to neck and Ginny's shiver isn't from the cold.
"Yes," says Ginny, her voice husky and low. Luna moves her hands under Ginny's cloak, one at a time so she doesn't lose her grip, then slides one upward to cup a breast, the other down from waist to hip to thigh.
That's where the warmth is, under Ginny's clothes. The broomstick makes crazy circles above the castle as Ginny pushes back and writhes against her, small animal noises escaping from her lips to get lost on the wind. She's got woollies on under her robe but Luna can still feel the heat rising from between her legs, and she rubs gently until she feels the moisture soak through, feels Ginny's head loll back against her shoulder and hears the gasp that means she's so very close to coming. Ginny gasps and then holds her breath for a long moment, reaching for it; then she exhales and shudders in Luna's arms, and the broom dives abruptly.
It's only for a moment. Ginny opens her eyes and takes control again before Luna can even think to scream or laugh (she likes to think she would have laughed) and soon they are in a sedate flight pattern again, looping over the L and the G. Luna keeps her hands under Ginny's robe, to keep them both warm. Ginny turns to kiss her and they can just barely get their lips together in that awkward position, but it's lovely; her lips are cold but the tongue that darts into her mouth is hot and wild, flickering against her palate in a promise to do the same to her clit when they're back down on the ground. Luna moans, and Ginny flickers, and the broomstick dips again before straightening out.
When they pull away from each other Luna puts her lips close to Ginny's ear. "My room's warm and it doesn't lurch around," she says, and Ginny gives her a look that says where's the fun in that? but she guides the broom to a smooth landing in the snow and they both run, giggling and exuberant, into the castle, through the Ravenclaw common room where every head is bent over a book, up to Luna's bed.
And when their clothes are off and Luna's lying across the bed with Ginny's tongue flickering between her legs, fingers vibrating against her body like a broomstick, she thinks: this is just like flying.