Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: coffee_n_cocoa
From: thegildedmagpie

Title: Lust in the Time of Sprouting
Characters/Pairings: Neville/Ginny
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: Mild D/s, pussywhipping, bondage, mild teacher/student roleplay, nipples, object insertion, blowjobs, offscreen spanking
Other Warnings/Content: Excessive good cheer, dirty talk, hands-free masturbation, plant abuse.
Word Count: 2200
Summary/Description: A couple of years post-Hogwarts, Ginny visits Neville for a spot of fun. He and his plants have plans for her.
Author's Notes: This was a lovely hot challenge, because there's nothing in this pervy little romp that wasn't used in a canonical Herbology class. I has a proud. I hope you enjoy!



“Have I been naughty, Professor?”

“I wish you wouldn't.”

“No you don't,” Ginny says cheerfully, altogether too cheerfully for the position. “You wish you weren't embarrassed about it.”

Neville sighs, coloring a little.

In the slightly wavery glass of the greenhouse wall, their reflections are flat and have the oil-slick cast of the night outside. He loves his private greenhouse so much. Sometimes he marvels at how happy he is here. It's a leftover from childhood, really. He's at home with people now as he once was with plants. He's grown into absentmindedness and people now seem to find it endearing, because he can also be relied upon to keep his head in a crisis. He's still round and well-meaning but others no longer think him lightly to be dismissed. Of course, being a war hero helps.

But his inner child still smiles a little when he steps into this glass-walled green-and-black-and-moist-smelling world – knowing that this was always the place where he was competent and secure. Contented. Among friends.

So it's a perfect place for this. Good to be relaxed beforehand – best for both of them. As relaxed as one can be with Ginny positioned like – well, he's examining her in the dim mirror of the greenhouse windows as he puts away his tools. He started the evening by tying her up and making her wait for him to finish grooming the knotweed. Her blouse is already gone, breasts bare like her feet and legs under the little skirt that's scrunched around her stretched hips. Her wrists and ankles are almost alongside one another in the grip of the vines, her legs forming a wide V that shows off both the flexibility and muscle that Quidditch players develop in the thighs, and the pale pink, modestly cut knickers she's wearing. The cotton darkens a little down toward where her shapely bum rests on the tile.

He never could have actually done this before he learned to be blasé about pain, and even now, ever since Ginny persuaded him to actually try the fantasies she used to describe in his ear after long days of bleakness when they both desperately needed to get their minds off of everything and their bodies just … off … she cheerfully mocks him because he sometimes finds himself distractedly apologizing for hurting her. Ginny is so brazen, a freckled firebrand, and she was able in those teenage days to describe the filthiest situations imaginable in exquisitely graphic detail –

“You've got me over a desk. Knickers around my ankles, right? Let's make it McGonagall's desk, what do you say? My knickers are on the floor and I'm rising on my toes with my arse up. You come in and I've been waiting for you, yeah? Shivering and waiting. You tell me you were thinking about me earlier. Tell me, Neville.”

And he would breathe, as she climbed into his lap and offered him her hands, “I was thinking about you earlier.”

“Thinking about this.”

“This.”

“You tell me I'm in trouble. Tell me I've misbehaved. I squirm on the desk so my nipples rub on it. I'm not wearing a bra, right?”

“Right,” he'd agree, taking her wrists in one hand and lifting the other to slide into one of the soft, slightly-too-tight cups to find the warm little stiffness there. He would be surprised his hands were big enough to hold both of hers. He would try holding them tighter. She'd gasp at that, straddle his waist and rock against him.

“And then you give my arse a good slap, and it goes white then pink. You tell me to spread my legs ...”

He would come in his pants sometimes, from her slightly chapped lips moving against his ear and her breathless, excited voice describing these situations. He would wonder if she was proposing these dirty things only to harden his cock but her tone would tell him otherwise. They'd rock their pelvises together until they could barely keep quiet and they dampened one another through both their clothes.

– and it's the brassy boldness of her that makes it so good, even as it leads her to tease him about how long it took him to realize those were requests. How to make a girl like Ginny –

She's wriggling in the taut position now. Good timing to start. He turns back, hard from staring at her reflection, picking up his sharpest pair of medium-sized garden shears.

Ginny's brown eyes land on the tool and once again those broomstick muscles ripple under her skin (milk dusted with cinnamon … how could a girl ever not want to be freckled?). “Have I been … very naughty, Professor?”

It's humbling that she trusts him enough to keep on with her role when he's approaching her with sharp objects. “Yes,” he says, then with more confidence when he sees the faint flicker of a smile, he adds severely, “Very.”

“What did I do?”

“The Screechsnap's been whining ever since you were last here. I might have known you'd overfertilize it.” He crouches between her legs, drawing her knickers away from the dampness they're tucked slightly into, and slides the shears very carefully under the fabric. Ginny gasps but holds still as, with a long sliding snip, the crotch is shorn in two. “That's better,” says Neville.

“Sorry, Professor,” Ginny says contritely as he pulls the ruined knickers away, one more snip letting him remove them entirely to expose rosy lips and the clearly well-trimmed tassel of flaming hair above them.

“You will be,” he says matter-of-factly, and lays aside the shears to check his setup. First he touches both her hands, then her feet, to see that they aren't getting cold. The Devil's Snare is a juvenile and its grip is too weak to damage her, but it doesn't hurt to keep an eye on her circulation while he lets it practice.

Also on the long bench behind her is a quite excited Flutterby Bush. It's the same one he once set between her legs when it was just a tender seedling and let it work out its youthful high spirits by tickling her pink clit. He smiles ruefully to remember he got an accidental kick in the jaw for that idea. It's a big, fine mature specimen now, about ready to be made into cuttings of its own. He leans over Ginny's spread body to pull the pot forward between her prominent shoulderblades. Part of the reason for the quivering is that Flutterby Bush trellises itself quite quickly, occasionally along random gusts of wind. Now he gently trains two of the major stems down over Ginny's shoulders, artfully curling the stems around her tits. Her gasp as the soft leaves tremble and curve against her nipples is gratifying.

One more addition. He gingerly takes the cover off the tray in which the Bouncing Bulbs are trying to escape their peat pots, nearly falling over her as he leaps to catch the least-sprouted and thus most nimble of them. Once it's captured and the lid firmly replaced over the sulking bulbs, he squats in front of her again, pushing her brief skirt further back with the hand that's not white-knuckled around the struggling tuber.

“Eyes forward, Miss Weasley,” he says as Ginny tries to see what he has.

“I'm paying attention, Professor,” she says, giving him an endearing look under her lashes.

“Don't argue with me, Ginny,” he says with enough authority that her eyes widen, and reaches down to spread her wet lips with his left hand. Her arse shifts on the floor a little, apparently involuntary; he uses it to help shove the bulb into her dripping pussy in one movement.

She shrieks a little, apparently in sheer surprise to find something in her that's bumping about cheerfully of its own accord. She wriggles, looking at him pleadingly.

Neville stands up, pushing back the rolled sleeves of his work robe again, and unbuckles his belt. Ginny parts her lips and licks them. This too is apparently automatic, which causes his cock to twitch again.

“Is that going somewhere … Professor?” she asks with a passable imitation of innocent fear.

“Somewhere,” he agrees as he pulls it from the belt loops and shrugs off his leaf-littered robe. “Are you going to squirm like that while you take your punishment, Ginny?”

She looks down at her pussy as though expecting to see the bulb which is undoubtedly still lightly battering inside her. “I might?”

He carefully evaluates the length of the belt, the distance between them, his most comfortable reach. “It'll be longer, then.”

“Oh, no,” Ginny says brightly.

“That's what I thought.”

The end of the leather belt snaps down, landing unerringly on the strip of bright hair above her slit. Ginny cries out high and shrill, her leg muscles jerking visibly. Neville knows how it feels – he does nothing to he hasn't tested on himself. For a moment the burn is exquisite, then the pain fades to mere heat.

Of course, he only tried it on his shin.

“Count,” he orders, and doesn't need to elaborate; she knows.

“One, thank you,” she moans.

Each blow falls as soon as she counts the previous one – sometimes as she counts it, making her cry out more loudly. Seven sounds interesting, the pitch rising sharply at the word's end. So does nineteen. He is sure of his distance now so he watches her face. The strap moves like a tongue lapping in reverse, slapping down with a satisfying noise on her flushed lips, the creases of thighs, from the lower edge of her belly to the top of her vulva and – when he looks and plans a moment longer – squarely and firmly down on her hood. The look of her, the parted mouth, flushed cheeks, her pussy swelling, red and smarting under the blows – the sound of her, whimpering and first but falling into loud, throaty, open-mouthed cries as the whipping goes on, her limbs stretched so that she can't move to protect her pussy from the punishment, can only wiggle helplessly with her body spread as her nipples are shiveringly tickled and she's erratically fucked from the inside.

When the numbers become difficult to hear for her cries, he lifts his cock from his trousers, feeling it spring erect against his belly, and gives it a few quick strokes before going on. When the numbers are incomprehensible, he tosses the belt aside, hearing the buckle hit the tiles, and steps forward to press the proud head against her whimpering mouth. She takes him in with a needy whine, suckling hard to distract herself from how her clit throbs and pussy burns. When he's nearly there, he pushes the round toe of his boot underneath her and feels her hips start to thrust as hard as they can, the leather immediately slicking as she rubs her clit vigorously over it.

He comes in her mouth to the sound of a long-drawn-out, pitifully grateful moan, a sound he recognizes as Ginny with a mouthful of cock trying nevertheless to say “Thank you.”

He collapses over the bench, catching himself on the edge of a planter as he bends at the waist over her head, holding still so she can finish on him. “Don't hurt your back,” he thinks to gasp, but she's moving too desperately to stop until she finishes too, coming with an arch of her back and a little scream that reveals the traces of come still on her tongue.

Once he gets his breath back, hands still shaking a little, he strikes a match on the third try and moves it close to Ginny's wrist – the kindest way to get the little Devil's Snare to steal away from its grip on her limbs. He catches the leg under the knee to stop it cracking on the floor.

“Do I get another one?” she asks through her panting.

He nods as he untwines the other vine, then gives her nipples a firm pinch as he lifts the Flutterby away. “Of course you do. Got to give me a minute if you still want my cock, though. Not bruised, are you?”

Ginny pushes herself shakily to her knees. Her little pleated skirt falls back into place and, after a moment's obvious effort, the bulb pops from her pussy and bounces into a corner. “Maybe up the arse this time, yeah?” she suggests. “You can give me a spanking while we're at it if you want. Or to get hard again.” Then rather abruptly her arms go around his waist, her cheek lying against his belly. “Not your plants this time. They're fun, but I want you.”

He reaches down to pet her silky red hair. “I want you too.”

She sighs happily, kisses the skin next to his cock, and squeezes him tighter for a moment before clambering up to bend over the potting table.

“But the plants like you,” he adds, and she giggles as he lifts her skirt over her arse again.