FIC: A Way In [Luna/Pansy - NC-17]
Jun. 20th, 2017 11:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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hp_rarefestTitle: A way in
Author/Artist:ravenclawsquill
Prompt: # 191: No one was willing to associate with the girl who wanted to offer Harry Potter to Voldemort. No one but one fearless blonde, who was on the good looking side, very entertaining and had a sense of humor that got well along with Pansy’s.
Prompt submitted by:smirkingcat
Pairing(s): Pansy Parkinson / Luna Lovegood
Word Count: 4,075
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s)/Enticements scheming!Pansy, non-penetrative sex, a very pretty dildo, fingering, cunnilingus...
Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: I’d like to apologise for my filthy mind. I started out with the best of intentions, but I’m afraid this fic rapidly escalated into something very NC-17 indeed! I owe a huge thank you to my beta, K, whose input was, as always, priceless.
Summary: Pansy despises meeting up with her colleagues for post-work drinks, but it’s a necessary evil if she wants to get in with the Ministry crowd. So far, she’s not had much success – perhaps because social convention demands the exclusion of the girl who once tried to hand Harry Potter over to You-Know-Who. Luckily for Pansy, Luna has never been one to play by the rules.
Livejournal Link
~*~*~*~
Fridays are by far the worst day of the week. It’s nothing to do with work; I’m easily the best Obliviator in the Department of Magical Accidents & Catastrophes, so office hours are a breeze. It’s the post-work drinks in the Hippogriff’s Haunches that I dread.
It’s something of a Ministry tradition: the under thirty-fives from practically every department come together at the end of the week to blow off steam and brag about their achievements. When I started my job six months ago, I was warned that to skip it would be sacrilege.
I despise going, but it’s better to grit my teeth and bear it for a few hours than slink off home and be accused of hindering inter-departmental relations. I’m all too aware that putting in an appearance is more important for those of us who were on the wrong side of the war than it is for anyone else. The issue, of course, is finding a crowd who are too polite to tell you to fuck off, yet don't bore you to the point that you want to overdose on deadly nightshade just to escape – and that, unfortunately, is quite the challenge.
I certainly wouldn’t want to sit with the Aurors. They must have finished early today; they’re far too drunk for seven o’clock in the evening. Their table is littered with empty shot glasses and Ronald Weasley’s beating his chest in victory to a chorus of cheers, having downed a whole pint of Merlin only knows what in less than ten seconds. I’d rather cut my tongue out than join in a round of Weasley is our King, even if I did co-write the damn song.
The Curse Breakers aren’t much better. If I have to listen to one more long, exaggerated explanation of how incredibly complicated their work is compared to everyone else’s, I’ll curse myself and see how good they really are.
As for the ragtag crowd from my own department, I see quite enough of them during working hours. I have no desire to extend that particular torture.
The pub is quieter than usual tonight, and the slim pickings have left me lurking in the booth by the window, accompanied only by my vodka and tonic, watching the others and waiting for eight o’clock to roll around so I can go home.
I expect they wonder why I bother to come along, week after week, when I’m clearly not welcome here. Sometimes, so do I: it’s not exactly ennobling to sit at the edge of the room like a pariah, watching everyone else behaving like a big, happy family.
Even Draco, whose past indiscretions are infinitely worse than mine, has somehow managed to worm his way in with them. He’s over at the bar with the Saviour himself right now, leaning against the counter with such feigned nonchalance that his obsessive crush really couldn't be more obvious.
He turned up in my kitchen the day after I joined the Obliviators to let me know that he supports me, but can’t be seen to associate with me in any work-related context whatsoever. “I’m sure you’ll understand,” he shrugged, and I did. If the tables were turned, I’d have done exactly the same. It would have been ridiculous to sacrifice his progress for something as foolish as an old friendship.
Still, it would have made for an easier route into the group if I’d had just one friend to count on. All these months later, I’m still trying to crack it, without much success. Again, their reluctance is perfectly reasonable: why would they want to make small talk with the girl who once tried to offer Harry Potter to You-Know-Who? It’s not as if I served any kind of formal sentence for it.
It may not be ancient history just yet, but one day that will all be forgotten. I’m confident that the right opportunity will come along eventually: it’ll just be a case of seizing it with both hands when it does.
I still have another hour or so to endure before the group typically starts to disperse and good company isn’t exactly forthcoming, so I decide to occupy myself by mulling over my options.
There’s Terry Boot in Regulation of Magical Creatures… I know he’s having trouble with the south coast Firecrab epidemic: I overheard a couple of his colleagues in the ladies’ the other day jabbering on about how he’s been given a disciplinary for failing to get it under control. Perhaps he’d be willing to consider my off-the-record Obliviation services in exchange for setting me up with a coffee meeting with Padma Patil… let’s face it, the Unspeakables are practically royalty within the Ministry. If I can get her on side, it’ll open all sorts of doors...
A light, dreamy voice interrupts my plotting. “Hello Pansy.”
For Merlin’s sake. The last person I want to see is Loony bloody Lovegood. She’s dressed, as usual, like a walking disaster; her floor-length dress is such a bright shade of yellow it’s practically radioactive.
I see plenty of her, given that the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad are right across the hall from my office, but our cases rarely coincide and it’s not as if we’re usually on first name terms.
“What do you want?” I grumble.
She smiles serenely, oblivious to my irritation. “I’m coming to sit with you for a while.”
My stomach sinks as I realise she must feel sorry for me. It takes no effort at all to twist my lips into a sneer. “I don't need your pity, Lovegood.”
My nasty expression falls away, though, as she bursts into a fit of laughter which is much too loud and goes on for a little too long to be socially acceptable. “Oh, I don't pity you,” she says, when she finally calms down. “You don't deserve pity.”
I frown, unsure as to whether she’s insulting me. She takes my silence as permission to slip into the booth beside me, sliding along the polished wooden bench until she’s sitting inappropriately close. I freeze at the feeling of her warm thigh pressed against mine; she’s notorious for her lack of social skills, but I’ve only ever experienced it first hand on a couple of occasions.
“I actually just wanted a break from my friends,” she says.
Honestly, she talks no sense at all. “Why would you want a break from them if they’re your friends?”
She raises her eyes to the ceiling and shakes her head, tossing her blonde hair left and right as if she finds me a little simple. “They’re all lovely, but I do find them a little dull sometimes. Small doses, you know?”
I almost choke on my vodka. Her tone isn't one of whispered confidence: she’s criticising her friends openly, as if it hasn’t even occurred to her that they might be offended by it. Just as I think I’ve recovered, I catch sight of a crestfallen Neville Longbottom shuffling away, and it sets me off all over again. I’m still gasping for breath when she leans in and asks if I’d like another drink.
“Go on, then,” I sigh.
She returns a few minutes later, clutching my drink in one hand and her own ludicrous blue cocktail in the other. She sits just as close to me as she was before, and glances briefly at the bar before pulling me into conversation.
“So, how long do you think it will be before Draco manages to get Harry into bed?” she asks.
I can't help but smirk. “Depends who makes the first move. If Potter’s waiting for Draco to do it, hell will freeze over before they get any.”
Luna nods sagely and takes a sip of her cocktail. “I agree. I personally think Harry will jump him in the Level Two toilets before the end of the month.”
Two drinks later, I have to admit that she’s good company. Chatting with Luna is a world away from the uncomfortable small talk I’m used to tolerating at pub nights: the way she speaks her mind is refreshingly hilarious, and she has all manner of ridiculous gossip to share.
Emboldened by a combination of Luna’s frankness and the extra vodkas, I prod at her ruffled collar. “Why do you always dress as if you’ve raided a blind woman’s dressing up box?”
She grins, not offended in the slightest. “Because I like it.” Her answer is so simple, so matter of fact, that I can't even begin to question it. “Also,” she adds, her expression turning sly, “it means people tend to underestimate me.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s the opposite of camouflage. You’d be surprised at the things people say when I’m around. It’s as if they’re distracted by the patterns.”
“Right.” It’s not a sentiment I’m familiar with. People tend to keep their distance from me – I like to think it’s due to my prickly personality, but I know it’s really because of my family’s unsavoury reputation.
“Some of it’s just to fuck with people, of course,” she adds, gesturing at her necklace of butterbeer corks. “Sometime I’ll be chatting with someone and see that they find my style a little unsettling. They’ll stare so much I’m amazed their eyes don’t fall out of their heads. It’s quite funny, really.”
“Right,” I repeat, conscious that I’m almost certainly one of those people.
“Anyway,” she says, putting her hand over mine. “Shall we head back to my apartment? Talking has been lovely, but I’d rather like to have sex now.”
I blink. For the twentieth time this evening, I wonder if she’s taking the piss – but why would she? I know she’s bisexual; the Prophet had a field day when she took up with Ginny Weasley a few years ago. Still, I’m not exactly out and proud at work, so it’s best to approach this situation with caution.
“What makes you think I’m interested in women?” I ask, looking around the room as if I couldn’t care less.
She reaches out and takes hold of my chin, turning me back to face her. “Oh, just a guess. But my guesses tend to be quite good.”
This guess is spot on. I allow myself to look at her properly; to push back my preconceptions and take in the woman I’ve just spent an evening laughing with.
She’s not my usual type, but she certainly isn’t bad to look at, if you ignore the garish clothing and ridiculous jewellery … and it’s not as if she’ll be wearing any of that in the bedroom. Her eyes are an unusually light shade of grey, almost silver in the dim light of the pub, and she smiles at me, slow and sexy, effectively making my decision for me.
I nod. “Why not?”
“Excellent! Let’s go,” she beams, slipping her hand in mine and tugging me out of the booth. We’re close enough to the door that we don’t have to push past our colleagues to get out, and if anyone notices us leaving, they don’t let on.
Once outside, she pulls me much closer and before I even have a chance to regain my balance, she side-alongs me away.
~*~*~*~
Luna’s top floor apartment is every bit as odd as the woman herself. Her bedroom is perfectly circular, and there’s carpet on the ceiling. Every surface is cluttered with all manner of knick-knacks, but I couldn’t identify half of them even if I were sober.
I don't have too long to look around, though, before she pulls me in for a kiss. It’s soft and intimate – not at all the type of kiss I’d usually associate with a one night stand. Then again, just about everything that’s happened this evening is unexpected.
As we kiss, she unfastens her dress and slips it off her shoulders. I reach up to caress her freshly revealed skin, finding it wonderfully warm and soft as silk. From that point on, our kiss is punctuated by little pauses as she removes her absurd jewellery, her shoes, and finally, her garish dress, before taking a step back.
I know I’m staring, but I’m powerless to look away as she stands before me, wearing only her knickers. Her breasts are full and heavy, much bigger than my own, so I’m surprised to see that she isn’t wearing a bra. I’m not sure how I didn’t notice earlier; perhaps, like so many other people, I was too distracted by her clothes.
I reach out to cup them, lifting them slightly, feeling the weight of them in my hands. Luna’s nipples are a beautifully pale shade of pink, and they stiffen against my fingertips as she moves closer, capturing my mouth once more, only this time the kiss is deeper and much, much needier.
It doesn’t take long before she lifts the scarlet hem of my dress and slides her fingers into my knickers, parting the lips of my pussy with a practised ease. I’m already wet for her, and she smiles against my mouth as she notices. I try to think of a witty retort, but come up short as she begins to move her hand in slow, teasing motions, touching me teasingly close to where I need it, kissing me all the while.
I can barely breathe by the time she finally allows one fingertip to graze my throbbing clit. That tiny movement has me bucking forward into her touch, desperate for more, but just as things are getting good, she takes her hand away abruptly and ends the kiss, leaving me flushed and breathless.
“Take off your clothes and get on the bed,” she commands. “I have a surprise for you.”
A part of me wants to tell her that no, I don’t submit to other women: I’m the one who ought to be in charge, here… but she’s already wound me up too much; I’m dying to know what this surprise might be.
I push my reservations aside and strip, wriggling out of my dress and letting it fall to the floor. I pause for a moment in my underwear, letting Luna take in my matching silk knickers and bra before slipping those off too. I’ve never been shy about my body – I’ve never had reason to be.
When I’m completely naked, I perch on the edge of her bed, trying not to look quite as eager as I am.
She smiles approvingly, then reaches under the bed and takes out a leather-bound box, about the size of a shoebox, with a silver clasp at the front. With a single tap of her wand, the fastenings dissolve and Luna opens the box, tilting it to show me what’s inside.
It’s a beautiful, unusual dildo, crafted from glass in every colour of the rainbow and shaped like series of connected beads. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.
“This is one of my favourite toys,” Luna tells me. “I’d very much like to use it to pleasure you.” As she speaks, she takes the dildo out of its box and begins to run her delicate fingertips along the length of it. I can’t look away. I watch as she caresses each bulb of glass, the insistent heat between my legs surging more fiercely by the second.
“Are you ready?” she asks, so calm it’s as if she’s asking something else entirely.
My mouth is completely dry, but I somehow manage to choke out my assent. I’ve never been so ready for anything in my life.
“Lie back, then,” she says.
I do as she tells me, settling on my back against her soft cotton sheets, never taking my eyes off the exquisite toy in her hand. Her bed is wonderfully comfortable and smells faintly of lavender – an oddly innocent scent, given what’s about to happen.
“Oh, very good!” Luna murmurs approvingly when I’m in position.
I look down at myself and feel my cheeks heat: without realising, I’ve spread my legs for her, subconsciously showing her exactly how turned on I am. So much for subtlety.
She joins me on the bed, kneeling beside me with the dildo in hand. I watch, barely able to keep still as she brings it towards me; I can’t quite suppress my sharp intake of breath as she nudges the tip against my entrance.
I hold my breath, anticipating the cool slide of glass, waiting for her to push it inside me, but as I should have realised by now, Luna isn’t one for taking the obvious course of action. She slides the dildo along the length of my slit, never pushing into me, focusing all of her attention on my vulva, instead.
It’s not a technique I’d usually go for, but I can’t deny that it feels exquisite. Each smooth ridge of glass catches against my sensitive lips, my clit, the slick heat of my entrance. In no time at all, the dildo is coated with evidence of my arousal and blissfully warm against my skin.
It’s not nearly enough, though. I groan, frustrated, and shift my hips left and right, trying to increase the pressure.
Luna sees what I’m doing and shakes her head. “Patience, Pansy,” she murmurs, so softly I barely hear it over my own heavy breathing.
Without ever losing her rhythm, she leans down over me and takes my left nipple into her mouth, flicking her tongue firmly over the tip in time with each upstroke of the dildo.
That small addition makes all the difference. The pleasure builds to a crescendo, increasing from a hum to an unstoppable roar. My efforts to keep my breathing steady are futile; each time I inhale, it ends up as a series of broken gasps.
All the while, Luna teases my sensitive nipple with her tongue, pausing only to murmur her encouragement.
“Come on Pansy, come for me,” she whispers, and barely a moment later, I do.
My climax hits me in a series of slow, sensational waves that leave me shuddering against the sheets. Each ridge of the dildo sends me reeling, writhing, moaning Merlin-only-knows-what at Luna’s bedroom ceiling.
When my orgasm finally ends, I sink back into the mattress to ride out the aftershocks, not quite trusting my brain’s control over my body. Luna, however, has other ideas.
“Shift down a bit,” she says, sounding considerably more lucid than I’ve ever heard her. “It’s my turn.”
I do as I’m told, moving down the bed by a foot or so, and lift my head obediently to allow her to put a pillow beneath it. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what she wants.
Luna kneels over me and pulls the damp cotton of her knickers to one side, pausing for a moment to let me look at her before slowly lowering herself until her pussy is barely an inch from my mouth.
She’s soaking wet. I can smell her arousal; the delicate but unmistakable musk of another woman’s primal need. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with her scent as I bring my hands up to run my fingers over the soft, creamy skin of her thighs. She hums her approval and lowers herself further, closing the miniscule distance and bringing herself in contact with my mouth.
Almost instinctively, I offer her a tentative lick, applying barely enough pressure to spread her outer lips, and am rewarded with a murmured “mmm”. I repeat the tease a few times, then, as she relaxes into it, I begin to lap away with more fervour, moving my hands up and around her body to squeeze her arse.
Her reaction is instant: she gives a breathless little laugh, stealing my last shred of control. I grab her hips and pull her down against my face, moaning into her pussy as if it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
I’ve been told in the past that I’m good at this, and Luna seems to agree. Her control crumbles within minutes; she quickly goes from holding herself daintily above me to grinding down against my face in slow, rhythmic circles, soaking my chin with her wetness, pushing down uncomfortably against my nose… I can’t get enough of it.
She has me pinned against the bed in such a way that I couldn't move if I wanted to; I find myself wondering if she’s taking advantage of me. Whether she is or not, I never want it to end.
When I reach up to hold her lips apart, exposing her sensitive clit to the tip of my tongue, a low groan escapes her, deep and needy in the back of her throat. I experiment with different patterns, alternating slow, firm licks with light, fluttering movements, carefully noting every response. When I try light suction, I know I’m onto a winner. She throws her head back, her moans lost to a broken gasp of ecstasy.
“Please, Pansy… just like that…”
It’s exactly what I need to hear. I still can’t resist teasing her for a moment, moving my tongue in slow circles over her sensitive bud of nerves before finally relenting and drawing it into my mouth, pushing back her clitoral hood with my lips and giving her exactly what she needs.
Her body goes rigid above me as I suck her, a sure sign that she’s getting close. She braces herself against the headboard, rocking urgently against my face, desperately fucking my mouth with her delicious cunt.
My head’s spinning, and not just from the lack of oxygen. I jut out my chin, pushing against her entrance, trying to stimulate every inch of her… and just like that, she comes. I feel her thighs tremble on either side of my face, hear her panting, and taste a fresh rush of wetness as she reaches the peak of her release.
All the while, I keep up the stimulation, right up to the moment when she rolls off me and collapses on her back, still panting heavily.
We lie in silence for a few minutes, cocooned in Luna’s sheets, the smell of sex hanging heavy in the air. I know I ought to move, but I’m too comfortable, too spent, to do so.
Against the odds, it’s Luna who manage to move first. “Would you like a drink? I always find that a dirigible plum tea helps me to re-balance after a good orgasm.”
I can’t quite contain my smirk: she may be more fun than I expected – not to mention brilliant in bed – but she’s still completely batty. “No, thanks. I’d best be off.”
“Of course,” Luna agrees, not put out in the slightest.
I reluctantly get to my feet and slip my bra back on, then scan the room for my knickers. I can't see them, nor can I be bothered to look properly, so it looks like I’m going home without them. I really need to stop leaving my wand at work.
I pull my dress over my head and step into my shoes, sparing myself a quick glance in the full-length mirror to assess the damage. I look fairly ruffled, but that’s to be expected. Debauched is a look I wear well, so it’s no surprise when I catch Luna staring. She seems to come back to herself when she realises she’s been caught, shaking her head as if to clear it and gently clearing her throat.
“Well, if I don't bump into you at work before, I’ll see you next week,” she says with a shrug.
I nod. “Looking forward to it.”
When I leave a few minutes later, Luna’s busy in the kitchen tinkering with her teapot, which has – why am I surprised? – no fewer than three spouts. I let myself out and step out onto the pavement.
The cool breeze feels so good against my skin that I decide to walk for a while, to give myself the opportunity to reflect on the evening’s events. I already know without a doubt that I’ll be seeking another encounter with Luna; the sex was fantastic, and the conversation which preceded it wasn’t half bad, either.
That alone would be enough to mark the night as a roaring success, but there's more: as I stroll down the street in my stilettos, the click of my heels echoing in the still evening air, it occurs to me that I may have finally found my way in with the Ministry crowd.
~*~*~*~
Author/Artist:
ravenclawsquillPrompt: # 191: No one was willing to associate with the girl who wanted to offer Harry Potter to Voldemort. No one but one fearless blonde, who was on the good looking side, very entertaining and had a sense of humor that got well along with Pansy’s.
Prompt submitted by:
smirkingcatPairing(s): Pansy Parkinson / Luna Lovegood
Word Count: 4,075
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s)/Enticements scheming!Pansy, non-penetrative sex, a very pretty dildo, fingering, cunnilingus...
Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: I’d like to apologise for my filthy mind. I started out with the best of intentions, but I’m afraid this fic rapidly escalated into something very NC-17 indeed! I owe a huge thank you to my beta, K, whose input was, as always, priceless.
Summary: Pansy despises meeting up with her colleagues for post-work drinks, but it’s a necessary evil if she wants to get in with the Ministry crowd. So far, she’s not had much success – perhaps because social convention demands the exclusion of the girl who once tried to hand Harry Potter over to You-Know-Who. Luckily for Pansy, Luna has never been one to play by the rules.
Livejournal Link
Fridays are by far the worst day of the week. It’s nothing to do with work; I’m easily the best Obliviator in the Department of Magical Accidents & Catastrophes, so office hours are a breeze. It’s the post-work drinks in the Hippogriff’s Haunches that I dread.
It’s something of a Ministry tradition: the under thirty-fives from practically every department come together at the end of the week to blow off steam and brag about their achievements. When I started my job six months ago, I was warned that to skip it would be sacrilege.
I despise going, but it’s better to grit my teeth and bear it for a few hours than slink off home and be accused of hindering inter-departmental relations. I’m all too aware that putting in an appearance is more important for those of us who were on the wrong side of the war than it is for anyone else. The issue, of course, is finding a crowd who are too polite to tell you to fuck off, yet don't bore you to the point that you want to overdose on deadly nightshade just to escape – and that, unfortunately, is quite the challenge.
I certainly wouldn’t want to sit with the Aurors. They must have finished early today; they’re far too drunk for seven o’clock in the evening. Their table is littered with empty shot glasses and Ronald Weasley’s beating his chest in victory to a chorus of cheers, having downed a whole pint of Merlin only knows what in less than ten seconds. I’d rather cut my tongue out than join in a round of Weasley is our King, even if I did co-write the damn song.
The Curse Breakers aren’t much better. If I have to listen to one more long, exaggerated explanation of how incredibly complicated their work is compared to everyone else’s, I’ll curse myself and see how good they really are.
As for the ragtag crowd from my own department, I see quite enough of them during working hours. I have no desire to extend that particular torture.
The pub is quieter than usual tonight, and the slim pickings have left me lurking in the booth by the window, accompanied only by my vodka and tonic, watching the others and waiting for eight o’clock to roll around so I can go home.
I expect they wonder why I bother to come along, week after week, when I’m clearly not welcome here. Sometimes, so do I: it’s not exactly ennobling to sit at the edge of the room like a pariah, watching everyone else behaving like a big, happy family.
Even Draco, whose past indiscretions are infinitely worse than mine, has somehow managed to worm his way in with them. He’s over at the bar with the Saviour himself right now, leaning against the counter with such feigned nonchalance that his obsessive crush really couldn't be more obvious.
He turned up in my kitchen the day after I joined the Obliviators to let me know that he supports me, but can’t be seen to associate with me in any work-related context whatsoever. “I’m sure you’ll understand,” he shrugged, and I did. If the tables were turned, I’d have done exactly the same. It would have been ridiculous to sacrifice his progress for something as foolish as an old friendship.
Still, it would have made for an easier route into the group if I’d had just one friend to count on. All these months later, I’m still trying to crack it, without much success. Again, their reluctance is perfectly reasonable: why would they want to make small talk with the girl who once tried to offer Harry Potter to You-Know-Who? It’s not as if I served any kind of formal sentence for it.
It may not be ancient history just yet, but one day that will all be forgotten. I’m confident that the right opportunity will come along eventually: it’ll just be a case of seizing it with both hands when it does.
I still have another hour or so to endure before the group typically starts to disperse and good company isn’t exactly forthcoming, so I decide to occupy myself by mulling over my options.
There’s Terry Boot in Regulation of Magical Creatures… I know he’s having trouble with the south coast Firecrab epidemic: I overheard a couple of his colleagues in the ladies’ the other day jabbering on about how he’s been given a disciplinary for failing to get it under control. Perhaps he’d be willing to consider my off-the-record Obliviation services in exchange for setting me up with a coffee meeting with Padma Patil… let’s face it, the Unspeakables are practically royalty within the Ministry. If I can get her on side, it’ll open all sorts of doors...
A light, dreamy voice interrupts my plotting. “Hello Pansy.”
For Merlin’s sake. The last person I want to see is Loony bloody Lovegood. She’s dressed, as usual, like a walking disaster; her floor-length dress is such a bright shade of yellow it’s practically radioactive.
I see plenty of her, given that the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad are right across the hall from my office, but our cases rarely coincide and it’s not as if we’re usually on first name terms.
“What do you want?” I grumble.
She smiles serenely, oblivious to my irritation. “I’m coming to sit with you for a while.”
My stomach sinks as I realise she must feel sorry for me. It takes no effort at all to twist my lips into a sneer. “I don't need your pity, Lovegood.”
My nasty expression falls away, though, as she bursts into a fit of laughter which is much too loud and goes on for a little too long to be socially acceptable. “Oh, I don't pity you,” she says, when she finally calms down. “You don't deserve pity.”
I frown, unsure as to whether she’s insulting me. She takes my silence as permission to slip into the booth beside me, sliding along the polished wooden bench until she’s sitting inappropriately close. I freeze at the feeling of her warm thigh pressed against mine; she’s notorious for her lack of social skills, but I’ve only ever experienced it first hand on a couple of occasions.
“I actually just wanted a break from my friends,” she says.
Honestly, she talks no sense at all. “Why would you want a break from them if they’re your friends?”
She raises her eyes to the ceiling and shakes her head, tossing her blonde hair left and right as if she finds me a little simple. “They’re all lovely, but I do find them a little dull sometimes. Small doses, you know?”
I almost choke on my vodka. Her tone isn't one of whispered confidence: she’s criticising her friends openly, as if it hasn’t even occurred to her that they might be offended by it. Just as I think I’ve recovered, I catch sight of a crestfallen Neville Longbottom shuffling away, and it sets me off all over again. I’m still gasping for breath when she leans in and asks if I’d like another drink.
“Go on, then,” I sigh.
She returns a few minutes later, clutching my drink in one hand and her own ludicrous blue cocktail in the other. She sits just as close to me as she was before, and glances briefly at the bar before pulling me into conversation.
“So, how long do you think it will be before Draco manages to get Harry into bed?” she asks.
I can't help but smirk. “Depends who makes the first move. If Potter’s waiting for Draco to do it, hell will freeze over before they get any.”
Luna nods sagely and takes a sip of her cocktail. “I agree. I personally think Harry will jump him in the Level Two toilets before the end of the month.”
Two drinks later, I have to admit that she’s good company. Chatting with Luna is a world away from the uncomfortable small talk I’m used to tolerating at pub nights: the way she speaks her mind is refreshingly hilarious, and she has all manner of ridiculous gossip to share.
Emboldened by a combination of Luna’s frankness and the extra vodkas, I prod at her ruffled collar. “Why do you always dress as if you’ve raided a blind woman’s dressing up box?”
She grins, not offended in the slightest. “Because I like it.” Her answer is so simple, so matter of fact, that I can't even begin to question it. “Also,” she adds, her expression turning sly, “it means people tend to underestimate me.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s the opposite of camouflage. You’d be surprised at the things people say when I’m around. It’s as if they’re distracted by the patterns.”
“Right.” It’s not a sentiment I’m familiar with. People tend to keep their distance from me – I like to think it’s due to my prickly personality, but I know it’s really because of my family’s unsavoury reputation.
“Some of it’s just to fuck with people, of course,” she adds, gesturing at her necklace of butterbeer corks. “Sometime I’ll be chatting with someone and see that they find my style a little unsettling. They’ll stare so much I’m amazed their eyes don’t fall out of their heads. It’s quite funny, really.”
“Right,” I repeat, conscious that I’m almost certainly one of those people.
“Anyway,” she says, putting her hand over mine. “Shall we head back to my apartment? Talking has been lovely, but I’d rather like to have sex now.”
I blink. For the twentieth time this evening, I wonder if she’s taking the piss – but why would she? I know she’s bisexual; the Prophet had a field day when she took up with Ginny Weasley a few years ago. Still, I’m not exactly out and proud at work, so it’s best to approach this situation with caution.
“What makes you think I’m interested in women?” I ask, looking around the room as if I couldn’t care less.
She reaches out and takes hold of my chin, turning me back to face her. “Oh, just a guess. But my guesses tend to be quite good.”
This guess is spot on. I allow myself to look at her properly; to push back my preconceptions and take in the woman I’ve just spent an evening laughing with.
She’s not my usual type, but she certainly isn’t bad to look at, if you ignore the garish clothing and ridiculous jewellery … and it’s not as if she’ll be wearing any of that in the bedroom. Her eyes are an unusually light shade of grey, almost silver in the dim light of the pub, and she smiles at me, slow and sexy, effectively making my decision for me.
I nod. “Why not?”
“Excellent! Let’s go,” she beams, slipping her hand in mine and tugging me out of the booth. We’re close enough to the door that we don’t have to push past our colleagues to get out, and if anyone notices us leaving, they don’t let on.
Once outside, she pulls me much closer and before I even have a chance to regain my balance, she side-alongs me away.
Luna’s top floor apartment is every bit as odd as the woman herself. Her bedroom is perfectly circular, and there’s carpet on the ceiling. Every surface is cluttered with all manner of knick-knacks, but I couldn’t identify half of them even if I were sober.
I don't have too long to look around, though, before she pulls me in for a kiss. It’s soft and intimate – not at all the type of kiss I’d usually associate with a one night stand. Then again, just about everything that’s happened this evening is unexpected.
As we kiss, she unfastens her dress and slips it off her shoulders. I reach up to caress her freshly revealed skin, finding it wonderfully warm and soft as silk. From that point on, our kiss is punctuated by little pauses as she removes her absurd jewellery, her shoes, and finally, her garish dress, before taking a step back.
I know I’m staring, but I’m powerless to look away as she stands before me, wearing only her knickers. Her breasts are full and heavy, much bigger than my own, so I’m surprised to see that she isn’t wearing a bra. I’m not sure how I didn’t notice earlier; perhaps, like so many other people, I was too distracted by her clothes.
I reach out to cup them, lifting them slightly, feeling the weight of them in my hands. Luna’s nipples are a beautifully pale shade of pink, and they stiffen against my fingertips as she moves closer, capturing my mouth once more, only this time the kiss is deeper and much, much needier.
It doesn’t take long before she lifts the scarlet hem of my dress and slides her fingers into my knickers, parting the lips of my pussy with a practised ease. I’m already wet for her, and she smiles against my mouth as she notices. I try to think of a witty retort, but come up short as she begins to move her hand in slow, teasing motions, touching me teasingly close to where I need it, kissing me all the while.
I can barely breathe by the time she finally allows one fingertip to graze my throbbing clit. That tiny movement has me bucking forward into her touch, desperate for more, but just as things are getting good, she takes her hand away abruptly and ends the kiss, leaving me flushed and breathless.
“Take off your clothes and get on the bed,” she commands. “I have a surprise for you.”
A part of me wants to tell her that no, I don’t submit to other women: I’m the one who ought to be in charge, here… but she’s already wound me up too much; I’m dying to know what this surprise might be.
I push my reservations aside and strip, wriggling out of my dress and letting it fall to the floor. I pause for a moment in my underwear, letting Luna take in my matching silk knickers and bra before slipping those off too. I’ve never been shy about my body – I’ve never had reason to be.
When I’m completely naked, I perch on the edge of her bed, trying not to look quite as eager as I am.
She smiles approvingly, then reaches under the bed and takes out a leather-bound box, about the size of a shoebox, with a silver clasp at the front. With a single tap of her wand, the fastenings dissolve and Luna opens the box, tilting it to show me what’s inside.
It’s a beautiful, unusual dildo, crafted from glass in every colour of the rainbow and shaped like series of connected beads. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.
“This is one of my favourite toys,” Luna tells me. “I’d very much like to use it to pleasure you.” As she speaks, she takes the dildo out of its box and begins to run her delicate fingertips along the length of it. I can’t look away. I watch as she caresses each bulb of glass, the insistent heat between my legs surging more fiercely by the second.
“Are you ready?” she asks, so calm it’s as if she’s asking something else entirely.
My mouth is completely dry, but I somehow manage to choke out my assent. I’ve never been so ready for anything in my life.
“Lie back, then,” she says.
I do as she tells me, settling on my back against her soft cotton sheets, never taking my eyes off the exquisite toy in her hand. Her bed is wonderfully comfortable and smells faintly of lavender – an oddly innocent scent, given what’s about to happen.
“Oh, very good!” Luna murmurs approvingly when I’m in position.
I look down at myself and feel my cheeks heat: without realising, I’ve spread my legs for her, subconsciously showing her exactly how turned on I am. So much for subtlety.
She joins me on the bed, kneeling beside me with the dildo in hand. I watch, barely able to keep still as she brings it towards me; I can’t quite suppress my sharp intake of breath as she nudges the tip against my entrance.
I hold my breath, anticipating the cool slide of glass, waiting for her to push it inside me, but as I should have realised by now, Luna isn’t one for taking the obvious course of action. She slides the dildo along the length of my slit, never pushing into me, focusing all of her attention on my vulva, instead.
It’s not a technique I’d usually go for, but I can’t deny that it feels exquisite. Each smooth ridge of glass catches against my sensitive lips, my clit, the slick heat of my entrance. In no time at all, the dildo is coated with evidence of my arousal and blissfully warm against my skin.
It’s not nearly enough, though. I groan, frustrated, and shift my hips left and right, trying to increase the pressure.
Luna sees what I’m doing and shakes her head. “Patience, Pansy,” she murmurs, so softly I barely hear it over my own heavy breathing.
Without ever losing her rhythm, she leans down over me and takes my left nipple into her mouth, flicking her tongue firmly over the tip in time with each upstroke of the dildo.
That small addition makes all the difference. The pleasure builds to a crescendo, increasing from a hum to an unstoppable roar. My efforts to keep my breathing steady are futile; each time I inhale, it ends up as a series of broken gasps.
All the while, Luna teases my sensitive nipple with her tongue, pausing only to murmur her encouragement.
“Come on Pansy, come for me,” she whispers, and barely a moment later, I do.
My climax hits me in a series of slow, sensational waves that leave me shuddering against the sheets. Each ridge of the dildo sends me reeling, writhing, moaning Merlin-only-knows-what at Luna’s bedroom ceiling.
When my orgasm finally ends, I sink back into the mattress to ride out the aftershocks, not quite trusting my brain’s control over my body. Luna, however, has other ideas.
“Shift down a bit,” she says, sounding considerably more lucid than I’ve ever heard her. “It’s my turn.”
I do as I’m told, moving down the bed by a foot or so, and lift my head obediently to allow her to put a pillow beneath it. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what she wants.
Luna kneels over me and pulls the damp cotton of her knickers to one side, pausing for a moment to let me look at her before slowly lowering herself until her pussy is barely an inch from my mouth.
She’s soaking wet. I can smell her arousal; the delicate but unmistakable musk of another woman’s primal need. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with her scent as I bring my hands up to run my fingers over the soft, creamy skin of her thighs. She hums her approval and lowers herself further, closing the miniscule distance and bringing herself in contact with my mouth.
Almost instinctively, I offer her a tentative lick, applying barely enough pressure to spread her outer lips, and am rewarded with a murmured “mmm”. I repeat the tease a few times, then, as she relaxes into it, I begin to lap away with more fervour, moving my hands up and around her body to squeeze her arse.
Her reaction is instant: she gives a breathless little laugh, stealing my last shred of control. I grab her hips and pull her down against my face, moaning into her pussy as if it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
I’ve been told in the past that I’m good at this, and Luna seems to agree. Her control crumbles within minutes; she quickly goes from holding herself daintily above me to grinding down against my face in slow, rhythmic circles, soaking my chin with her wetness, pushing down uncomfortably against my nose… I can’t get enough of it.
She has me pinned against the bed in such a way that I couldn't move if I wanted to; I find myself wondering if she’s taking advantage of me. Whether she is or not, I never want it to end.
When I reach up to hold her lips apart, exposing her sensitive clit to the tip of my tongue, a low groan escapes her, deep and needy in the back of her throat. I experiment with different patterns, alternating slow, firm licks with light, fluttering movements, carefully noting every response. When I try light suction, I know I’m onto a winner. She throws her head back, her moans lost to a broken gasp of ecstasy.
“Please, Pansy… just like that…”
It’s exactly what I need to hear. I still can’t resist teasing her for a moment, moving my tongue in slow circles over her sensitive bud of nerves before finally relenting and drawing it into my mouth, pushing back her clitoral hood with my lips and giving her exactly what she needs.
Her body goes rigid above me as I suck her, a sure sign that she’s getting close. She braces herself against the headboard, rocking urgently against my face, desperately fucking my mouth with her delicious cunt.
My head’s spinning, and not just from the lack of oxygen. I jut out my chin, pushing against her entrance, trying to stimulate every inch of her… and just like that, she comes. I feel her thighs tremble on either side of my face, hear her panting, and taste a fresh rush of wetness as she reaches the peak of her release.
All the while, I keep up the stimulation, right up to the moment when she rolls off me and collapses on her back, still panting heavily.
We lie in silence for a few minutes, cocooned in Luna’s sheets, the smell of sex hanging heavy in the air. I know I ought to move, but I’m too comfortable, too spent, to do so.
Against the odds, it’s Luna who manage to move first. “Would you like a drink? I always find that a dirigible plum tea helps me to re-balance after a good orgasm.”
I can’t quite contain my smirk: she may be more fun than I expected – not to mention brilliant in bed – but she’s still completely batty. “No, thanks. I’d best be off.”
“Of course,” Luna agrees, not put out in the slightest.
I reluctantly get to my feet and slip my bra back on, then scan the room for my knickers. I can't see them, nor can I be bothered to look properly, so it looks like I’m going home without them. I really need to stop leaving my wand at work.
I pull my dress over my head and step into my shoes, sparing myself a quick glance in the full-length mirror to assess the damage. I look fairly ruffled, but that’s to be expected. Debauched is a look I wear well, so it’s no surprise when I catch Luna staring. She seems to come back to herself when she realises she’s been caught, shaking her head as if to clear it and gently clearing her throat.
“Well, if I don't bump into you at work before, I’ll see you next week,” she says with a shrug.
I nod. “Looking forward to it.”
When I leave a few minutes later, Luna’s busy in the kitchen tinkering with her teapot, which has – why am I surprised? – no fewer than three spouts. I let myself out and step out onto the pavement.
The cool breeze feels so good against my skin that I decide to walk for a while, to give myself the opportunity to reflect on the evening’s events. I already know without a doubt that I’ll be seeking another encounter with Luna; the sex was fantastic, and the conversation which preceded it wasn’t half bad, either.
That alone would be enough to mark the night as a roaring success, but there's more: as I stroll down the street in my stilettos, the click of my heels echoing in the still evening air, it occurs to me that I may have finally found my way in with the Ministry crowd.
