{ wolf & i } { hp fandom ;; m/f }

[La Lune]

Hi hey hello! I'm new 'round these parts, but I'm also a fairly impatient and fussy princess, so I'll get right to the point

I joined for a very specific reason! Because I crave a very specific pairing within the Harry Potter fandom:

Luna Lovegood x Remus Lupin​

Strange, yes, I know! But aren't we all in places like these? :3c

In any case, I don't have the patience to make this thread super fancy (yet), so I'll set y'all up with some bullet-point lists to make things super easy.


General Points of Note

• I am extensively literate and in love with the English language. I'm fairly well read and moderately poetic/prose-esque in writing style. I enjoy much the same in a roleplay partner! I like the mechanics of roleplaying as much as I like roleplaying itself -- I enjoy rich and textured paragraphs; words that make you feel with all your senses! Lifeless descriptions are a huge turn off for me.
• I know it may seem obvious given the placement of this thread, but to be clear, I'd like to state outright that I'm interested in playing the part of Luna.
• OOCly I tend to forgo capitalization/proper punctuation and I employ a lot of text-emoticons because I am both lazy and silly. I am not even the littlest bit sorry for this and if that bugs you at all, we probably won't get a long.
• I would probably prefer any roleplay to take place over PMs or possibly a messenger? Posting in public gives me performance anxiety!
• I don't care about your gender or your genitals! Neither do I give much of a damn about the characters' genitals, when it comes right down to it, save that I am of the firm opinion that they should be mashing together grossly at generally any given point in time. The point that I am trying and failing to make with this bullet point is that what's in your pants and your personal gender identification probably don't define your ability to write, so don't think you're disqualified just because I wrote m/f in the title.
• Both alternate universe and original universe plots are welcomed!
• I feel like there should probably be at least one more bullet point here but I haven't the foggiest what to add, so I'm going to dupe you into reading this completely useless sentence.

Kinks of Note

• General D/s (particularly of a Daddy/girl shade, but I'm so choosy about this that I'd hardly call it a Must Have) in which roles can be somewhat switchy, but I/Luna generally fills the submissive part of the relationship
• Breathplay
• Age gaps (that's sort of a given, but...)
• Biting/clawing/bruises/general sexualized violence
• Crying (in the context of sexual interaction)
• Light to mild gore, up to and including aspects of vore
• Basically if you can think of a gross kink, I probably have it, that's probably my kink, let's do it

-- As a note on a note! By no means are these REQUIRED kinks for roleplay! Merely food for thought, as it were. :3 Something to go off of if you haven't got an idea! Or perhaps a sexy lure with which to draw you into my terrible fangirl clutches! There are too many exclamation points in this paragraph.



And now for the finale! If you don't think you've got enough of a sense of how I write, or if you are looking for any kind of insight into how I view these characters and their relationships, then read on, my friend, for here are some little drabbles I've done on that subject precisely. These aren't roleplay posts as I have none of those pertaining to this pairing -- alas, the curse of a rare OTP! -- but they are quite indicative of my style and thought process. :3 If you don't care about things like that, feel free to skip to the part where you exit this thread or send me a message/reply!


(BRIEF DISCLAIMER: She is thirteen+ in both of these scenarios. :3)


In response to the prompt "Expecto Patronum":

He breathes in fear and exhales the night she was young and small and moonlit. He produces some silvery wisp of her breath on his neck and the cold, smooth give of youth’s skin, and the little bubble of fear on her little mouth and her tiny hand on his chest and her scent in him like copper. Blood on a full, fool moon. All limbs and ribs, and that little cup of a navel and shaky breathing and the marine taste of her.

She stands in his office and presses tiny fists into her thighs and knocks her knees together and tells him, lascivious and awkward (and that makes it real magic, he thinks), that she thought of him last night. It fills his chest and he sucks in the cold absence of hope and pours lit violation and cold castle stone and fresh, furtive cries on them. These wraiths, he thinks bitterly before he dies, these pathetic excuses for soul-snatchers, they know nothing of a firm grip on young ankles, of baby teeth in your shoulder, of dirty letters stashed at the back of a nightstand and finding love and virtue and the rank perversion of freedom in a young girl’s masturbatory exploration. Coming of age in orgasms and love notes.

He dies knowing he is a beast and thanking whatever god there is that he ever got the chance to be.

In response to the prompt "ties + treehouse":

His fingers were halfway to paradise by the time he felt the pressure of a thumb against that sloppy knot. And he looked at her like pleading, like deliverance. And she understood.

She kissed him as Forgiveness, and forced his windpipe in on itself, small of his tie wrapped up around a waif of a fist, fingers forcing the knot tighter and tighter. And the day broke from behind him, fazing into fuzzy pieces that drifted off in the stream of impending unconsciousness. The wintry smell of her garden, the quiet understanding on her father’s face before he set out to some elaborate tea preparation, the atmosphere of gentle apathy that had settled over all the pastel colors of her room — the war lived there now with Luna, sleeping next to her so steadfastly he could almost made out the indent in made in her bed. It all tore off from itself, bit by bit, until Luna was it, Luna’s sweet forgiving face, Luna’s grassy breath against his lips and her smokey smell filling his head with fog.

He bathed in the moonlight of her need and her presence, and he was surprised to find hot tears in the corners of his eyes not merely from lack of air, but from her — from the everythingness that suddenly seemed to be filling the cold and rickety room around them. He could see the green in her, beneath skin that torture and worry had tried to wither; he watcher her, as his vision faded, sprouting in the desolate ground of an apocalypse-ridden Eden. And he knew, with such clarity it struck him like ice through his bones, that she would rebirth the world in his name, long after these sweaty moments in her childhood playhouse were gone. The totality and forbidden nature of it swept him up, and suddenly his mouth was on hers in aggressive desperation, and he chased God with those fingers again, and let her breathe surprised and aching gasps back into his lungs. He was heady with the whole of her, and the carnal sounds she painted the innocent surroundings with.

Come to my treehouse, she had said, gently taking his hand without questioning how or why he had stolen away to visit her in the twilight of evening, I used to go there when I worried.

Remus understood, then, and his comprehension only drove him on, and he marked pale skin with a wolf’d ferocity, biting his regret and his desire in perfect little bruises over arms, breasts, thighs, neck. And she howled and scraped her name in lines down his back, and embedded him in the walls around her, and kept him there, he knew, forever — took him into the promise land of her youth and erected statues in his honor, decorated them in his dirty, husky panting, in his jerking, unpracticed lust. He was hers, entirely, inescapably, and when she came he heard sweet hymns of false and beautiful gods.

But she writhed and twisted still underneath him, and took him broken and needful into her arms, and soothed him without promises or declarations, and asked him, only once, to stay.

And long after, when he was facing the wand that would be his undoing, and hairs on the back of his neck stood supernaturally straight as they only ever had in her presence, he knew that she only ever needed to ask but once. So he closed his eyes, and breathed in smoke, and drifted back to sweet, simple corruption in a little girl’s aging treehouse.

 

[La Lune]

:B Obligatory bump?