Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: kabal42
From: A Witty Watcher: zagury

Title: Knackered Out
Characters/Pairings: Ginny/Luna
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: Love/genuine attachment/mutual feelings of some kind, light bondage, creative use of holiday items
Other Warnings: n/a
Word Count: ~2000
Summary/Description: Christmas with Luna is like ice cream with sparklers.


Christmas with Luna is like ice cream with sparklers. It’s her favorite time of year—the end, for some reason, always is—and she rejoices with a glass of eggnog for you in the morning. The night before Christmas is something that’s important to her, and you intend to make your next one together, the fifth one with her, memorable. After all, it’s the season of giving and that’s exactly what you plan on doing.

She’s familiar, Luna, with her beautiful blonde hair and her bony knuckles that are somehow flawlessly smooth. She puts decorations on the tree as soon as the first of the month arrives—she wakes up especially early before work so that she can get started, and you help her finish up that evening before you treat yourselves to some wine.

She likes to sit in front of the fire with you and admire her work—she won’t even notice when you put an arm around her shoulders and pull her into you. She’ll just go with the motions like she always does and she’ll duck her head into your chest because that’s what she’s used to; that’s what feels right.

She does this every night until it’s that night, when she’s so excited for the next morning that she reminds you of Teddy (the boy could never sit still; Christmas Eve had been no exception a year ago). She fingers the stockings above the flames countless times and she adjusts her ornaments on the tree with a superficial gleam in her eye. Everything has to be perfect.

She just needs to relax, you decide, and when you’re done washing out the wine glasses from tonight, you wrap your arms around her and you kiss her like you haven’t done in a good long while. (Of course you’ve kissed her, but you can’t remember the last time you kissed her without a farewell or a greeting. You can’t remember the last time you kissed her just because you wanted to kiss her.) She puts a hand on the back of your neck and smiles into your lips, her fingers weaving into the crimson that belongs to you like it’s still an instinct, like she still does this on a regular basis.

It’s not a gradual memory that eases its way back to you when you touch her, kiss her; it actually hits you with a force that causes you to deepen your kiss, that makes your hands move themselves under her sweater and she puts a knee between your thighs. Of course she’s thinking the same thing. She was always thinking things before you did.

You forgot how indescribably soft Luna is, how she’s all skin that smells like peppermints and how her hands always find a way to dig themselves into you. You forgot how she tastes like something that could only be called Luna, because she is distinct, perfectly unique. You forgot that she knows you, knows what you like and what you don’t, and you forgot that what she likes always changes.

Except she always liked to be worshipped, so you figure that that’s just what you’ll have to do to; that’s just what you’ll have to give her.

You’ve always been strong, so when you put your hands around her middle and lift, she wraps her legs around your torso just like she used to when you would carry her to the bedroom. You follow those same memories now and stay on top of her when you’ve set her down on the sheets. She grins again while you kiss her and your nimble fingers work against the fabric of her holiday sweater (there are reindeer on it, and it’s so ridiculous that it’s adorable) and you could swear that she laughs a bit when you take it over her head and gasp because you forgot that she is absolutely breathtaking.

You look at her pale skin—if there’s anything that Luna is, it’s perfectly, perfectly pale (sometimes you think it’s more stunning than that white moon that sits outside your windows)—and there’s a bit of pink hiding under that old bra of hers, you know it. So you discard that as well and you don’t remember the last time you liked seeing Luna topless so much.

She releases a breath of tension when your hands cup her small breasts and you suck up that breath in another kiss. Her tongue clashes against yours and you lean into her that much more because Merlin, that was good. Her back arches when your thumbs skim over her nipples (if they weren’t little peaks from the cold, they were certainly from your attentions) and it’s your turn to smile. You always liked having the upper hand against her, and sometimes you think that she doesn’t mind that so much either.

“Ginny,” she breathes when your lips find the skin where your shoulder and neck become one, and you forgot how much you like hearing your name on those lips in that sort of way. (She’s desperate, needy, she wants you and you can’t think of anything that makes you happier.)

You take your time because worship can’t be rushed, you know, and when your tongue (if it wasn’t warm by nature, it would’ve been warm from her kisses) meets the hard point of her right nipple, she cries out and her hand fists in your hair. One of your hands is busy taking care of her unattended breast and the other is pulling her into you, into your mouth and your tongue and whatever you’re offering her (you’re just offering her yourself).

Her nails dig into your scalp and you understand that someone is getting impatient (but it’s not like your knickers aren’t a bit wet anyway) (maybe more than a bit) so you make a trail with your lips past her belly button. You let your tongue swirl circles on her hipbone as you pull off her trousers and she squirms when the heat of your palm meets the coolness of her thigh. You smile into her stomach before you kiss that place just above her knickers and when you remove them, you’re hit with the biggest wave of Luna that you’ve ever experienced.

It drives you practically insane so you get rid of those damned Christmas knickers and her legs jerk spastically when your cold fingers meet her simple heat. You pull her legs apart so that you can get some better access and you think you could come pretty hard just from smelling her (you think you’ll have to try that sometime).

But you can’t imagine the smell of Luna being very attractive to her, so you show her what it means to be worshipped and take what feels like your very first real taste of her.

She’s positively addicting, that’s what you decide and your tongue rolls itself over her clit in maddening loops. Her toes curl when you push two fingers inside and you hear her gasp when you stretch her a bit. Her hips buck wildly and you can’t remember the last time she was like this; she’s never lost control. You look up to catch a glance.

She’s breathing harder than you’ve ever seen her breathe, like she’s just flown around the world and tried to do it again, her face is flushed to the color of one of her damn ornaments on the tree. Her hands move between gripping the sheets until her knuckles are white and just splaying themselves on the cotton.

She’s completely lost herself and that makes you want her more than you ever have.

She screams when you push her past that final barrier and you can’t think of a sexier thing, seeing her fall limp onto your bed and reaching for you. You smile and kiss her tenderly, brush some of her sweaty fringe out of her eyes and she looks up at you sleepily (but you know she’s faking it because Luna’s never had more energy than after she’s had sex with you). She drapes herself around you, puts her head on your chest and closes her eyes. Maybe, you think, maybe she’s content.

Even though there’s a fire burning in your core, you fall asleep too because tomorrow’s Christmas, for Merlin’s sake, and if you’re tired on her favorite day of the year she’ll never forgive you.

But you don’t exactly have time to feel like she’s resenting you for being tired when you wake up because you realize that you’re completely naked—and bound to the bed by her Christmas lights. You tug experimentally at the ropes of green and red tied to the bedposts and you know they won’t budge (but she likes it when you fight a little bit, so you struggle all the same).

She enters the bedroom with a satisfied smile on her face, crawls over to you when she sets down her mug of hot tea. She doesn’t try to savor or praise like you did; Luna’s always about the now, about getting things done as fast as she can. But she does like to enjoy it, to enjoy you, and she kisses you with a tease on her lips just to prove it. She grins with her eyes closed when her lips press themselves against your neck and you simply moan because that was what you were looking for.

Her hands are everywhere before you realize that that’s where they are; they’re caressing your breasts, running along your sides, tangling your hair, skimming the inside of your thighs with those smooth palms of hers. You exhale a few swear words and she smiles again, testing you with two knowing fingers and when you arch up into her reflexively, she just nods approvingly and starts her way with you.

From the first time you were with her, she’s never focused on one thing alone. Her hands aren’t always just working on pulsing those motions or flicking your clit with the edge of her thumb; she likes to press hot, hot kisses to your thighs, likes to have her other hand roaming, touching, groping for anything that might make you breathe that much harder.

It always works.

This time she goes back to the beginning and puts her warm kisses on your stomach, making circles around your belly button with soft lips. It’s a contrast to the sharp, hard, quick movements of her fingers (she knows you like it a little rough) and it drives you completely mad. You don’t remember the last time she made your hips buck like this, with your arms and legs really tugging against the restraints now (you just want to touch her). Then again, she may have never made them move quite like this before.

She murmurs something against your skin and even though you can’t hear it, you know she’s saying something because you can feel her lips shape words against your skin. For some reason, it’s incredibly erotic to you and you can’t hold on much longer, not when her free hand is traveling freely around your body (she leaves goose bumps in her wake) and she’s lightly sweeping her tongue over your skin, and oh, fuck--

She leans up then, just because she can, and her hands are working harder than they ever had before. She sounds a little breathless when she says, “I love you,” but it’s still got to be the sexiest thing you’ve heard out of her mouth—or seen, with the way her hair is acting and her skin is flushed, she’s gorgeous—and her name flees your lips when she brings you over the edge.

She collapses on top of you as soon as you’re done with telling her that you love her over and over again. She smiles into your neck and you flatten her hair down, your chest rising and falling with the rapid breathing that she’s made you adapt to.

“You better get some sleep.” You say.

“S’pose I should. Wouldn’t want to be all knackered out for Christmas.”