Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: lunalovepotter
From: A Wanton Watcher

Title: In the Closet
Characters/Pairings: Neville/Luna, Harry/Neville, Ginny/Luna, Harry/Ginny, Harry/Ginny/Neville/Luna (offscreen)
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: voyeurism, light spanking and restraints, swingers, oral, cockwrapping
Other Warnings/Content: Uhm.
Word Count: 4, 500
Summary/Description: “Did you spy on me?” Neville isn’t sure if he thinks he’s humiliated or amused by the thought of Harry watching him with Luna. He wonders if Ginny knows about this. Probable--Neville is always the last one to know.


Hush the neighbours hear you moaning and groaning,
I just can’t help it ‘specially when we be boning.
I can take your fears away, he said,
It’s so much better you do it my way.
(Macy Gray, ‘Caligula’)


When Luna finds him in the closet, she wonders if there’s something about him that she doesn’t know. But he’s just crouched in there, using his wand to bore tiny holes in the wall facing their bedroom.

“This is a Muggle thing, isn’t it?” she murmurs.

Harry adds a second hole next to the first, and then peers through them. “Yes. I am using a Wizarding implement to accomplish something uniquely Muggle.” He blows dust from the wall and rubs his fingertips in and out of the holes. “I should have borrowed Mr. Weasley’s drill.”

Luna shrugs and joins him on the floor, squatting and pushing him out of the way to peer through the holes. They are spaced well for a set of eyes. And they lead right into—

“Oh, you,” she murmurs. Harry doesn’t meet her gaze.

BLINK

Luna runs the tip of her wand up and down the swell of Neville’s red arse. He presses up into the touch at the same time he groans, a low thing that matches the sound she imagines coming from the closet. Maybe she doesn’t imagine it. Harry is a screamer on his worst days, and she can only imagine what Ginny is doing to him in there. Or maybe she’s not in there. When Luna and Neville had retired to the bedroom, she had fully expected Harry and Ginny to join them, as usual, but they’d just kept drinking, as if they hadn’t seen the other two link arms and slide casually from the doorway.

There was no way Ginny didn’t notice. Ginny sees everything.

Neville has her undressed before they even hit the bedroom door, which is no mean feat as she’s been wearing knickers so tight they’d left marks on her hips. His trousers and shirt had taken considerably more time, but Luna has never been one to shy from a challenge. Buttons especially.

There’s a thump from the far wall, followed by a mumbled curse, and then what is probably a stifled giggle. Luna traces Neville’s lips with her fingers and then straddles him from behind, brushing her pubic hair against the welts on his skin. Neville sucks in a breath and wiggles—he’s a writher, and Luna enjoys it. Harry is a thruster, but something about his hesitant nature overall makes Neville more shy, despite the fact that less than ten years ago he’d beheaded a giant snake with a sword he pulled out of hat.

Swords from hats. And they say Luna is crazy.

“I can loosen the ties,” she says conversationally, “but I will confess, Mister Longbottom, that I don’t really care to.” She rises up on her knees and moves back and forth against his arse, reaching around with her free hand to wiggle her fingers between the coverlet and his belly, eventually finding his cock, hard and trapped between his weight and the bed. And the twine she’s wrapped around his length. And then covered with a condom. Luna isn’t afraid of getting pregnant. The Muggle condom keeps the twine on, and makes him unbelievably wide, adding about a whole inch to his girth.

Neville hisses and is torn between thrusting down and up, which according to maths should mean that he remains perfectly still, but that’s not precisely how the human body works. Luna slides back and forth on his ass to dry her cunt on his skin, and then one of her lips catches and sticks, pulling her wide as she rocks back and forth.

There’s more bonking from the closet.

“What’s that?” Neville whines, sucking in when she squeezes his balls. His head turns to look at the wall.

“Boggart,” Luna muses.

Neville mashes his face into the blanket and she can hear the smile in his voice. “If there was ever a time and a place for cross-dressing Snape, it would be now.”

Luna thinks about it. While she’s thinking about it, she lets go of his cock and slides off him, the dry flesh between her legs feeling deliciously bereft. Neville rolls over when she tugs on one of his shoulders. “My boggart turned into a sugar quill,” she says.

Neville raises his hands and cups her breasts. Luna likes when he holds them, because his hands are calloused in different ways from Harry’s, and it’s a good reminder that she’s in bed with someone who isn’t her husband when her eyes are closed. She does that now, blindly swinging her leg back over him so that she can sit on his front. He is standing at attention, not lying flat against his belly like some other men, and even with her eyes closed she nails the mount perfectly. The coil of rope around his cock and under the condom makes ridges that she can feel inside her, and when she squeezes a little on him, his hands flutter, like a little hitch in his nerves.

“Sugar…quill,” Neville hiccoughs, bravely trying to barrel on like the brave little plimpie that could. Luna rocks back and forth a bit, and opens her eyes to look at the wall again. A little finger is poking out of one of the holes, two joints out, reflexively curling in and out on itself. There’s another moan and thump.

Luna slides off Neville almost fully before seating herself as snugly as possible, and then grinding against his root, one of her hands reaching between her legs to add more pressure to her clit. She rolls in minute circles, in what Harry’s Muggle sex book calls “grinding the nutmeg”, whatever the hell that means. She thinks half of those names are made up, anyway.

Neville thrusts a little against her, though that can’t be easy. He’s got bunches of muscles from hauling bags of dirt around, actually, or wrestling with Venomous Tentacula or something, and Luna finds that she likes that. A lot more than she would have thought, but there is something to be said for mating rituals, even if she doesn’t plan on having Neville’s child. The body wants what it wants, and apparently Luna’s likes a little bit of brawn from time to time. Harry is wiry and whippy, like her, and their children will probably be big eyed and brilliant, and possibly part Kneazle.

She rises up again and pumps herself on Neville’s cock, because the faster they go, the funnier the noises get, squelching and panting and whining, and a strange gargling noise from behind the wall. The rope and condom around Neville’s cock makes him so much wider, and she will hurt more quickly than normal. A good kind of hurt, like being bitten by a gnome. Semen doesn’t have as many healing properties as spit, and he’s gloved, it will still be worth it, actually.

Luna pulls her hand from her clit when Neville takes over, and she hunches forward, bending his cock towards his chest, and slides up and down against his chest, arms crooked and resting on the coverlet. Her wand has disappeared, but then she realizes that sometime in the past she’s tucked it behind her ear without noticing.

The thrusting is making Neville inch slowly up the bed, and his whines aren’t all from what she feels like around him, but the welts she had given his arse when they’d started, so she pushes harder. Neville rolls his shoulders then his spine, stomach, those lovely muscles, his hips and legs, like a rippling flying carpet trying to get out from under something heavy. Maybe if she had the right spell she could get him to take off and fly them into the kitchen for a post-sex bottle of butterbeer.

That’s her last though, because she furrows her brows and reaches out with one hand, plasters it to the side of his face, closing her eyes and trying to sense Neville, where he is, what he’s feeling, when it’s coming. Harry calls it her Vulcan sex meld, her ability to tell when he’s ready to shoot, so that she can follow him right after. It’s a gift, and not a very useful one. Well, except for right now.

Like right now.

“I think,” she says when she finally falls on top of him and squeezes him inside her one more time, “That if cross-dressing Snape came out of the closet these days, you’d ask him to join in.”

Neville rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t argue with her.

BLINK

“So how long have you had this?” asks Neville as he and Harry scramble into the closet. He has a very loose grip on his scotch, and it isn’t until he spills about half of it on Harry’s holiday jumper that he thinks to finish it before he dumps the rest on Luna’s fancy dress clothes.

Harry pulls the panel from the wall and smiles when two weak beams of light shine through the holes he’s bored there. “About a month.” He grins wider. “It’s brilliant.”

“Did you spy on me?” Neville isn’t sure if he thinks he’s humiliated or amused by the thought of Harry watching him with Luna. He wonders if Ginny knows about this. Probable—Neville is always the last one to know.

“Of course,” Harry says. “Look at this.” He pulls away and moves aside so that Neville can peer dubiously through the holes in the wall, feeling strangely perverted.

The bed is in plain view. Harry must have done some measurements before he made these holes, because they are perfectly situated. And Luna must know that it’s there, because she’s moving, but slightly to the side, as if she knows precisely where to aim her best images. She’s behind Ginny, and she’s cradling his wife in her arms, up on her knees, legs spread, her breasts thrust out, reminding Neville, as she always does every time he sees her naked, that he loves her breasts. He’d say that they are her best feature if it wasn’t for her legs, and her back, and where he legs meet her back. That whole area, actually. And her eyes. And her lips. And that whole ‘killing people with her bare hands’ thing. And the Quidditch. And her ability to make pie.

That she, like him, loves fucking the Potters is also a bonus.

And you know, being Ginny.

But right now, he remembers that he loves her red hair, bright and brassy at the join of her legs, and the way her mouth opens and sucks on Luna’s fingers, and the slow rhythmic rocking of her hips as Luna fucks her from behind. Fucks her from behind, he thinks, is a phrase he usually doesn’t think of in the same sentence as his wife.

“What do you do back here?” Neville asks. He wishes that his scotch wasn’t gone. “Wank?”

Harry hands him a stiff rag. “Go for it.”

Neville presses it into Harry’s face. “Fuck off.”

Harry’s hand is in his trousers before he can say anything else, and three minutes later when Harry’s sucking him off and his head bonks hollowly against the wall to the bedroom, he remembers similar sounds from the other side a week ago.

Harry’s mouth and tongue work a lot more deftly than Neville ever remembers from school. But those had just been lads being silly lads, drunk off nicked Firewhisky and fooling about in the showers before they boot in the drain. Neville doesn’t remember when he and Harry had decided that they wanted to keep going, even after they’d got married. At the time he’d thought it had been Luna’s idea, and maybe it had been. Merlin knows Luna has been responsible for myriad strange adventures and excursions, even before she married Harry. Neville remembers one particularly wild night that involved her dancing naked in a grove, wearing her father’s horrid headdress and singing a song about lop-eared pitters before ‘anointing’ him with ergot oil and fucking him raw. Dating Luna had been fun. It is everything else that is hard, Neville thinks.

He comes in Harry’s mouth, and is almost touched to see him swallow and not spit it into the dried rag still clutched in his hand. He waves Neville off when he tries to return the favour.

“I don’t want to miss this,” he says, and Neville wonders if there’s more to the reason than that. Harry hasn’t screwed Ginny in a month…pretty much since he’s installed his free peep show, actually.

“So, this is a new hobby, yeah?” Neville says then, buttoning his flies and groping about for his scotch glass. Perhaps if he picks it up again, it will magically be full of scotch. That would be an endlessly useful spell—a self-filling liquor glass.

Harry brushes invisible cobwebs from the wall and shrugs. “You know how it is…” But he doesn’t’ finish, and Neville doesn’t know how it is. In the room, Ginny screeches, and Luna says something in a soft voice. It’s too quiet to hear

“How well can you hear talking in there?”

“Well enough that I considered Snape Polyjuice potion,” Harry returned, not really paying attention. Neville finally finds his scotch glass, but it’s empty, and also it’s filled with a bunch of desiccated gurdyroot bulbs.

“What is all this stuff, anyway?” Neville asks, sniffing a bag of what turns out to be raven feathers.

“I think Luna’s dad wanted her to build another Ravenclaw diadem or something,” Harry answers distractedly, his eyes plastered to the holes in the wood. “Something about boosting her brain power by eleven billionty.”

“In the closet,” Neville muses.

Harry glances at him. “How many unfinished projects do you have in that spare greenhouse again?”

”Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure,” Neville whispers as he stares at a plastic diadem.

“Whoever said that obviously hasn’t seen your wife doing that,” Harry mumbles, his face mashed into the exposed wood of the bedroom wall.

Neville doesn’t feel badly in the slightest when Harry lands in a bag full of butterbeer corks.

BLINK

Harry and Ginny relive old times in the bed. Never once do they ever think about being married. In his head, Harry relives the blow job she gave him after Remus Lupin’s funeral, and then the later one after his wedding to Luna. That had been one hell of a present. And not as easy to put on the gifts table, actually.

In her head, Ginny thinks about a Neville-Harry hybrid, and if she mightn’t get Hagrid to breed one for her, like the blast-ended skrewts, and then she thinks that Hermione would throw them in gaol for ethics violations, and she’d end up in a cell next to Malfoy forever, and wouldn’t that suck.

Still, in a perfect world, she’d have a Nevvy clone. Though Nevvy clone might be fun, he would only be one, and she liked when there were four hands on her. Nevvy wouldn’t go over well with the boys, so asking him to join them would be right out. And if you can’t enjoy a four way with your old paramour, husband and bastardized clone of the two, then what’s the point of it all, anyway?

Harry’s body is strangely familiar, she thinks when she lets him wrap the leather strap about her wrist and secure it to the hook on the bedframe.

“You know they’re in there,” he whispers into her ear softly so their visitors won’t hear.

“Your clones?”

“My what?”

“Oh hush up. You’re blocking my view.”

When he shifts over she can see the two holes in the wall. It had been hard to see them at first, as the wallpaper is such a busy pattern, but there they are, and when a finger pokes through one of the holes and wags up and down, she rolls her eyes. Oh yes, hello Luna.

Harry finishes tying the restraints and she tests them: snug, but not painful. She could probably push her thumb hard against the palm of her hand and slip out of it, but she’s not quite ready to admit that aloud. Plus she’d have to work for it, and really, if anything gets work tonight, it’s not going to be a leather cuff.

“So,” she says conversationally, watching him disrobe. It looks like he’s still using the same old ratty robe he’d nicked from Sirius’s bedroom in Grimmauld Place. “What’s on the menu for this fine evening?”

Harry finishes his drink, slamming the glass down on the bedside table after tossing the robe off into a corner. “I thought we’d explore some of the old but memorable moments of our short, interrupted and ultimately stunted courtship,” he answers.

“You’re going to kiss me, and then run off for eight months before killing a Dark Lord?”

Harry smiles. “It would serve you right if I did.” He reaches out with one hand and tweaks her left breast. Ginny resists the urge to wince. She should have pumped before he’d tied her up. Before she can move, he’s between her thighs on the bed, tugging her legs down towards his kneeling form.

“Oh, those memorable moments,” she murmurs when he bends her knees, raises up her bottom, and holds it on one hand, his eyes studying her cunt as if he’s looking for the best plan of attack. It’s the same face he uses when watching Quidditch games. “Kind of like the Wronski Feint—“

“Hold that thought.“ Harry’s tongue stabs into her, and Ginny bucks up higher, her legs almost bowing her whole frame. If she hadn’t been tied at the hands, she might have tried some sort of yoga pose, because Merlin’s balls, his tongue is long. His thumb works at the bottom of her cunt, and his index finger slips further into her ass, his palm holding her up in place. Harry’s other hand is on top, fingers curling in her pubic hair, thumb pressing circles over her clit. Bony elbows jutting out up and down, he looks like he’s trying to hold an impossibly full sandwich, actually, and every once in a while the noises sound not dissimilar as well.

Harry circles her labia, and then pulls one lip into his mouth, and she feels his teeth for a split second. Then his thumb moves from her perineum and hooks completely into her, and she wonders if he’s touching thumb and forefinger with only the thin flesh of her walls to separate them. The more he presses, and licks her, and blows softly on her when he pulls back, the harder it is for her to feel single sensations, as if every nerve down there is melding together into a bundle of ‘oh dear fuck yes.’

“Hhhh,” she starts, but that’s about the only thing she can get out. The wall is eerily silent, and she wonders if Neville and Luna are sharing the peephole, or if Neville is watching and narrating or vice versa. She could imagine that Luna’s pornographic recap sounds a great deal like her Quidditch commentary: “Harry is licking her perineum now, and I daresay the lady likes it. They say that Rowena Ravenclaw quite enjoyed a bit of extra genital licking, or so I was told one night in a dream I had after drinking an infusion of gurdyroot and wrackspurt mucus. It sounds a great deal worse than it actually tastes, really. And it’s very lucky if you have prophetic dreams, though I suppose dreaming about the past isn’t so much like dreaming of the future. Though Harry’s approach to her clitoris from that sideways angle means that he’s—yes, that’s a classic attack method used by the famous—“

Ginny can’t think well enough to keep the commentary going in her head, because Harry has lowered her to the bed and worked his hand into her, and his index finger, the one that isn’t in her arse, is tickling her cervix before pressing it hard, so hard that it hurts a bit too much, or maybe a bit too right. She isn’t sure. Ginny tosses her head away from the wall because she doesn’t want to be distracted by thoughts of Neville. Her heart is pounding so hard in her chest that she can feel it in her distended neck muscles, and her breathing is louder than she imagined it could be. Harry fists her gently and finally turns his other hand on himself, and while she can’t see him precisely, she can see the peripheral jerks of his shoulder.

He comes on her pubic hair, and then rubs it into until her curls are wet as if she’s come from the bath. Ginny clamps down on his trapped hand, and when he circles her clit and taps her cervix at the same time, she doesn’t take long to come. His hand, when he pulls it out, is wet and glistening, and he rubs his palm on his chest and neck, his lips twisted up in his quiet smile.

“So, you were saying?” he asks.

Ginny smiles and slips her hand out of the restraint, a lot more easily than she had thought it would be. “Guh.”

BLINK

Harry and Neville join them on the bed, and Luna raises a questioning eyebrow at them. The peephole is still open—Harry can see the two dark circles against the floral wallpaper.

He doesn’t know why he felt like making the holes, and certainly doesn’t use them as often as people might think—mostly because aside from Neville and Ginny, he and Luna don’t tend to get frisky with other couples.

It hadn’t seemed like a big deal when Ginny had dumped him. He’d been busy being the Boy Who Kicked Voldemort’s Arse by Dying, and she’d been starting a career in Quidditch. Neville had snapped her up almost immediately, and that had been that. It hadn’t been until two years later when he’d begin dating Luna that people had started to make ‘swapping’ jokes. And about a year after that Neville had said, “Oh bloody hell, they think we do it anyway, we might as well have a go.” And then that night he’d gotten pissed and let Luna peg him while Ginny had ridden Harry in a move she called “Reverse Chaser”.

Five years later, here they are.

“I’m surprised that you managed to tear yourselves away from your new viewing location long enough to find the bedroom door,” Ginny says dryly. Luna just runs a finger down her shoulder and then reaches around to draw a lazy fingernail about her breast, paying special attention to the underside. Ginny is still breastfeeding, and Harry knows Luna is hoping she’ll let her have a go.

He’s been drinking water all night, and Neville’s pretty sober, too. They had decided long ago that they wouldn’t drink very much when they were together, something about it not being worth it if they didn’t remember it. Luna doesn’t drink very much on principle, and Harry finds that the happier he is, the less he wants to.

Lately he hasn’t touched a drop.

Ginny kicks the covers down off her waist and stabs at them with her heels until they’re bunched at the bottom of the bed in heaps and irregular piles. “It’s cold,” she says plaintively.

“You just took the cover off,” Luna tells her.

Ginny pulls his wife down on her and says something about human blankets. Neville reaches for the shirt at his shoulder blades and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. It’s an envious movement, Harry thinks, as he watched the play of muscles on Neville’s back. Who would have known? In his trousers, his cock tells him that it might not have ever guessed that Neville would grow into gorgeousness back when they were in school, but it definitely knows now. Luna is running her hair along Ginny’s breasts, and her large eyes blink owlishly at him at the foot of the bed.

For a split second she glances at the holes in the wall and then at him. He shakes his head. And then he lets Neville shove him down onto Ginny’s legs, and someone makes an “oof!” sound, and then someone else laughs, and then someone’s skin is against his, and it’s really not possible, he realizes, to quantify this kind of happiness.

BLINK

It is later in the night, when they are all asleep, tangled in the bed sheets and lightly snoring (it’s Luna, Luna snores, Harry knows), that Harry slips from the bed and Pads silently to the toilet. If he goes into the toilet and fiddles with the water, then no one will suspect that he’s really taking the hallway shortcut into the bedroom closet.

He’d installed the secret door into the closet from the hallway so that one could slip in without alerting the occupants of the bedroom that someone was there. It wasn’t so much that he wants to invade privacy as he understands what a mood killer it occasionally is to have a third party stumble into the bedroom in flagrante, as it were. And he’d seen it on some Upstairs Downstairs type show, these hidden passageways, and figured that there wasn’t any harm, seeing as he owns the house and all.

So he slips inside and shuts the door behind him, using his wand to cast a very weak Lumos. It wouldn’t do to let light shine through the open holes, but it also wouldn’t do to trip and fall on the camera. The display is a combination of night vision and some Fractal Wizarding LED thingy Hermione has come up with, and the end result is that he has a perfect vivid image of the bedroom, even in the black of night. Harry takes the time to look at the screen, instead of moving the camera to peer through the holes.

Luna’s hair trails off the bed, dusting the floor, and one of her arms is hanging over the side, too, palm flat on the hardwood. Her back disappears into the nest of blankets, and the line of the covers continues up towards the head of the bed to a rounded cap of brown hair peeking out from the comforter. Harry can’t see Ginny, but that’s because she’s made herself into a blanket burrito on the other side of the bed.

He reaches up and presses the ‘on’ button on the video camera. The sex he doesn’t need to remember, but this is something worth documenting.

Just in case.

END