Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: songquake
From: pre_raphaelite1

Title: Earth-bound
Characters/Pairings: Sprout/Luna
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: D/s, Bondage, Watersports, Teacher/student
Other Warnings/Content: Object insertion and fat appreciation
Word Count: 2070
Summary/Description: Luna needs to heal in the years after the war, to find a place to live again.
Author's Notes: Oh lovely Wisher, I jumped on this one as soon as I saw your request for fat appreciation. There's just not enough attention and love given the the beautiful bounty of a large woman. I hope I've done that justice, especially since the fic went its own way and refused your request for some Santa references. Instead, we have Sprout much as an earth goddess, which, let's be honest, is a hell of a lot sexier than old St. Nick. :P This is also, partially, as a result of recently teaching The Secret Garden.
Additional adoration and love to our beloved Rowan who had to deal with my extreme tardiness on submitting this. Life got massively in the way, but I was determined to finish this.



Luna drew in a deep breath of spikey green and rich purple, turned over earth and stretching sunlight. Her eyelids fluttered closed at the pleasure of it, so warm and alive, verdant and fertile. Even the faint, second note of the fertilizer spoke, not of decay or waste, but of enrichment and potential in the moist air.

In the few years since the war, she'd found no place more soothing or exhilarating than here in the greenhouses at Hogwarts. Oh, she loved her home, rebuilt at a perfect 81.43 degree angle from the ground nearest the north windows (ideal for encouraging nesting of auguries in the brambles, of course). But it wasn't here. Home smelled of brewing tea, aging papers, and ink but beyond that, the acrid smolder of erumpent horn lingered. Her father couldn't smell it, but she could. It carried notes of blood and mildew, captivity, invasion, and – too much.

But here there was nothing but earth and life, sunlight and promise. And her.

No one was more than she was.

Luna smiled at the thought of her, a thrill racing down her spine like nettle wine and settling with a similar burning heat beyond the striped cotton of her knickers. The steadiness of her, solid but not unyielding for the strength of her was enveloped in curving softness. The safeness of her even in the face of her strictest order, her sharpest punishment. The fullness, the wetness, the abundance.

She wound her way through the greenhouse, over the vines which sought brighter corners to root in purple and green, under the flowers which fanned overhead like layered phoenix feathers. She paused to allow one questing tendril the chance to make its way up her thigh, cool and slender, brushing forward, upward, until it hesitated along the dampness there.

With a light touch to urge to to the ground again when it was done with its investigation, she spoke encouragingly, “Go on then. You'll grow better along the ground than in me. I'm just not suitable for you. That's better.”

A voice called out from behind the tall shelves with unevenly stacked pots, “Is that you, Luna?”

“Yes, Professor,” she dutifully answered.

“Come back here, girl. And mind the flutterby. It's going to seed again.”

Luna complied, giving plenty of room to the large bush which quivered with increasing eagerness at her approach. She murmured as she passed it, “You're very lovely, but I'm not going to be any help. I just don't think my clothes will stay on long enough to carry on your seeds any place useful.”

“You're quite right about that.”

She turned the corner and stopped, breath caught. The glass room beyond the potting bench opened before her, plants only growing along the edges. At its center sat the Professor in a short, open robe: dark green velvet draped from her sloping shoulders, clinging scantly over the full globes of her breasts, ending just above her knees in uneven points. Her wide bare feet were planted firmly on the ground far enough apart that the supple creaminess of her thighs opened to expose the dark curls just barely visible beneath the ampleness of hip and belly. She sat before a low flowerbed, filled with dark earth, the wooden corners held in place with large iron spikes, two at each corner. Luna remembered seeing some like that, far shorter, whilst she wandered along the train-tracks outside Hogsmeade looking for burrowing flibbertygibbets. Those spikes were perhaps two of her handspans overall, whereas even what was visible above the ground of these was nearly double that.

“Will you be giving the mandrakes more room, Professor?” Luna queried.

“No. This is something else entirely. A rarer hybrid that takes special care. Take your clothes off.”

Luna smiled and began undressing, accustomed by now to the seamless movement between the Professor's care for her plants and care for her. She drew off the warm jumper in pale brown and orange and pink, its edges frayed now in the years since a hesitant Ginny offered it to her, and laid it over a roughly hewn bench before toeing off her boots. The denims were next, peeled down past the faint swell of her hips, nothing like those of the woman who watched with intent brown eyes, and easy from the narrowness of her legs. She straightened, now only in her favoured blue knickers with the pink tulips- her breasts rounded but not ever enough to need any support. Luna's gaze went to the fullness of the Professor's: heavy and pendulous, a weight she could lift in one hand but far better suited to two hands and an eager mouth, the pale nipples tipped slightly downward as though they sought the closeness of earth that her bare feet took for granted.

“Knickers too, girl. You don't get to keep anything from me.”

“Yes, Professor.” And she hooked her thumbs into the edge of them and pressed them down. They clung for a moment against her damp sex, the reason for the cotton's hesitation no doubt obvious, before getting stepped out of and dropped onto her pile of clothes.

“Good. Now lay down, face up, there,” she indicated the wide bed of earth.

Luna moved readily, grateful for the enhanced-glass around them which magnified the sunlight enough that moisture clung to the windowpanes and thickened the air. Stepping into the dirt, Luna found that too had heated into a soothing richness. Her feet sunk deeply into the dark brown of it, and she wriggled her toes, pressing the dirt between them and smiling.

“I said lay down, didn't I?”

Nodding, Luna laid down, and even as slight as her weight was, the earth wrapped up around her sides, found its way between her thighs and arsecheeks, cupped the back of her neck, and settled against the curves of her ears. She sighed into it, body sagging and eyes closing as muscles eased with a beautiful ache. No hard floors or scratching stone here, no sickly cold or fever damp. She could feel the remaining chill that she could rarely escape start to separate.

When her hand was grasped in thick fingers, she squeaked and opened her eyes again. But the callouses there were warm and forgiving, and lightly gloved the softness beyond them. The professor drew her arm up then with a flick of her wand bound it outstretched with thick ropes before doing the same with the other arm, lifting it slightly up from the warm touch of earth. Luna's mouth shifted just a bit; she wanted the grounding contact, but the tightness around her wrist kept her focused, slightly tensed.

“Spread your legs, girl. I want to see that cunt of yours.”

Her heels furrowed the thick earth, leaving it thick against her ankles, though it was short-lived as first one then the other ankle was bound and pulled taut. She arched in the ropes, hips rising then rolling, her shoulders digging deeper into the ground, spilling over her narrow collarbones as she moved. The earth brushed warmly against her throat, making her shiver from the delicate sweep.

“Good girl. You should see how you look, all pale limbed and ready, waiting for me to do as I will with you.”

“Yes, Professor.”

Luna's gaze followed her movements as she strode to the potting bench and collected a thick root, smooth and glistening, familiar enough that Luna gave a low moan.

“Oh yes, I know you want this. You always do but even if you didn't, you'd take it from me, wouldn't you?”

“Of course, Professor.”

The Professor grunted once in satisfaction before she climbed into the flowerbed with her and squatted between Luna's spread legs. The root was rubbed over her swollen clit then down between her rosy lips. In a instant, Luna clenched, stiff at the remembered threat, the agony that followed, the sharp cold sliding through her skin, wetness leaking from her that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with invasion. The firm grip of the ropes became cutting, scratching, crushing pressure.

“Look at me, girl.”

Luna whimpered, her eyelids fluttering but not quite opening.

“Do it now,” she barked, slapping one wide hand down onto a sensitive inner thigh. The sharp crack of voice and sting of slap forced her to snap her eyes open, bright blue set on brown. Luna's heated thigh was soothed again with a gentle stroke, burn eased into a pleasant tingle, the tension leeching into the ground. The woman above her was voluptuous and ample, flesh curving over itself in abundance, curve against curve that could not even hint at the desperation or desiccation she so reviled. No frozen Dementor's breath clung to her, only soil and green and even summer heat.

Luna sighed and lifted her hips up in request, delayed response to the stroke of the root, the insistent touch.

“Much better.” And with a reassuring, but quick, smile, the Professor pushed the slick thickness into her. Luna moaned as she was filled, stretched to perfection. She rocked against it, taking it deep as she could, as deep as she was allowed. The ground under her arse turned over, sliding against her as the base of the root set into the ground, spreading under her, and fixing her in place between dark earth and glassy sky.

The Professor's hands fanned widely over Luna's small frame, moving over the gentle sweep of her belly, never so generous- giving as the Professor's own, to her breasts and cupping them. Her breasts always felt so small under those hands, only low curve under them: enough to be caressed and held and squeezed, but not enough to be lifted, brought together, worshiped. Her nipples were pert even against her palms, tight buds waiting to be pinched. Luna was not left wanting, for the Professor's fingers closed on them with expert touch and plucked them again and again, catching and drawing them up, to the sides, in forced angles, then released only to be pinched again. Luna's eyelids were nearly closed, pale lashes feathering her sight, still trained on the set expression of concentration above her, one belied only by the occasional eager dart of a small, pink tongue. Luna arched to the seemingly endless touch, straining against the ropes around her and root with in her. Her skin grew warmer under the bonds, wetter around the insertion, and she wanted.

But nothing more came; just the pinch and pull and tug, until she whined and keened for it, breathlessly gasping like leaves quivering together. But there was no relief or release for her, for she was nothing, only a living object to be tended, touched, grounded.

And watered. Wetness streamed onto her cunt, heated and direct over the exposed flesh. It was the temperature that drew her attention to the small space between the Professor's round, squatting form and her own body, and it took another moment to register that it was no spell or pitcher, but the Professor herself who spilled over her. A small, crystalline stream of palest daffodil poured from between her legs, sliding over her strained flesh, over her clit which wanted nothing but touch regardless of what touch it was, for touch even this was.

Luna had used her wand to direct bathwater over herself before, to feel the liquid pressure of it against her clit, constant movement that hummed as it passed- what young witch hadn't tried that or a vibration charm before. But this was so much more, so much better than either, because she was not in control of this. No, that had be long since relinquished, months before she opened the greenhouse door today. More too because this was of another's body, brought forth in the cycle of things that are, to give to things that might be.

And Luna was at the center of it; here in the world where all lived and grew and bloomed, she too was wick, verdant, alive.

She opened into climax, the soil embracing her, the Professor's water washing her, nourishment offered to her like any other seedling that survived the harsh winter through initial luck and continued care. She was caught up in her body even as she was lifted through it and drawn down from it, free of any risk of being kissed away or lost into a lurid green that was putrefaction rather than possibility.

As she drifted dandelion light back to herself, she murmured an inquisitive sound that barely rose beyond her lips. But it was answered nonetheless from somewhere above and to her left, in that oak-steady voice.

“You'll be staying right there until I'm sure that those seeds below you set as they should. If not, we'll be doing this again just as soon as I finish my next pot of tea.”