A/N: So, I did have about 5,000 words of plot and then smut, but then my computer decided to break and my school's tech lab decided not to put my fanfics or my gifs on the loaner they gave me -_- They just don't understand! #firstworldprobs So anyways I'm restoring it and putting it up in chunks as best I can, please leave a review for me :D
Hours later aboard the plane, in first class, I could tell that Hermione was still sitting on the edge of orgasm. I snickered. It must have been the vibrations coming up through the seat, acting almost as a dildo, or it might have been the fact that I kept touching her in the worst places, like her ribs, and her knees. That shouldn't turn her on at all, but just because I had denied her earlier, any sort of contact from me felt exhilarating. Or at least, that was my guess.
Muggle airplanes were so strange. Hermione said that we were flying first class, and we have puffy white seats and a lot more room for our legs than the people sitting in the blue seats. The people walking around in skirts and neck scarves treated us like queens, Hermione said they were called flight attendants and were treating us so well because we paid more for the puffy white seats. Muggles.
Earlier there was turbulence; I know that one from playing Quidditch. It was scarier here, because apparently we're thousands of meters above the Atlantic Ocean in a giant metal machine. There was no getting out of the shaking, but in Quidditch I could have just found a better air stream. I think I prefer Apparating, honestly. Muggles go through so much so that they really don't have to, if only they knew magic, none of this would be necessary.
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Touchdown!" Hermione whispered as the plane jolted.
"What? Don't you only say that in American football?" I asked her, confused.
"We just landed, Gin! Take a look out my window!"
I looked, and we had indeed landed. I could see a glow on the horizon, which Hermione said was because NYC never truly shut off all the lights. The runway flashed by, the many-colored flares telling the pilot where to go. I checked my watch. 1:30 AM, EST. 5 hours behind England. I yawned. I hadn't been able to sleep at all on the plane; I was too interested in watching the Muggles fiddle with their technology or their books.
I got up and grabbed Mione's bag and then my own, and together we filed off the plane into the airport.
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2 hours and $44 in cab fare later, I flopped onto my bed with a groan. Why had it taken almost an hour and a half to get out of that bloody airport? There were so many people swarming towards the baggage claim, despite the late hour. It was true what Mione said, that New York City never slept. I could tell that out of the crowd, there were a surprising amount of witches and wizards. They were identifiable by their old, patchy clothes in some cases, and their confusion in others. Hermione fit in well because she'd flown to the US before with her parents, and she generally stopped me from making a fool of myself. I, however, supplied the fashion expertise.
We're staying in the Trump Hotel outside Central Park and apparently it's considered quite the classy place. It's on the corner of Central Park West, and there's a great view of the Park out our window. It beats me how Muggle maids manage to keep the room this….well, sparkly, without magic. The lamps are made of glass shaped into all sorts of figures, there are polished mahogany tables everywhere, and a giant television screen displaying the name of the hotel. I'm quite impressed actually. Hermione is in the bathroom, and five minutes ago she yelled at me that the tub was huge and made of marble. She also told me to join her, but I'm about to fall asleep so I didn't think it would be the smartest idea to drown on the first night of our vacation.
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