Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/56785.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      Other
  Fandom:
      Supernatural, Harry_Potter_-_Rowling
  Relationship:
      Ginny_Weasley/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Ginny_Weasley
  Additional Tags:
      Masturbation, Rape_Recovery, Books, Reading, Erotica, Alternate_Universe
      -_Canon, Crossover, Cracked_Stars_Shining, Outtakes, Book:_Vox, 1000-3000
      words, 1000-5000_Words, New_York, Manhattan
  Series:
      Part 7 of Cracked_Stars_Shining
  Collections:
      Focus_on_Female_Characters
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-01-28 Words: 1653
****** The Blossoming Vines ******
by azephirin
Summary
     My own vineyard is mine to give....
Notes
     Warning: This could be considered underage: Ginevra is seventeen and
     Sam is twenty-four. Everything that happens is entirely legal,
     but...well, you'll understand if you read it.
     Author's note: This is another outtake from Cracked_Stars_Shining,
     and will make much more sense if you've read through at least chapter
     nine of that story. This takes place sometime after chapter nine but
     prior to chapter_eleven (and Somewhere_I_Have_Never_Travelled). Title
     from Song_of_Solomon_2:11–13 (NIV); summary from Song_of_Solomon_8:
     12. The rest of the Sam/Ginevra stories are here.
     Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books belong to J. K. Rowling.
     Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke. I'm doing this for love, not
     money.
See the end of the work for more notes
     His fingers cleared a path, combing through her curls and pushing her
     labia aside. His thumbs slid in her cream.

Cream? thinks Ginevra. Eew. She puts the book aside and picks up one of the
others.
     We were both stroking ourselves, and I could feel against the back of
     my hand the blanket pulling with her little movements as I made
     mine....She was flushed, her cheeks were shiny, she looked so
     transformed and sexual and elegant...and I said, "Can I touch your
     arm?" and she nodded, and I put my fingers very lightly on the inside
     of her forearm, just above the wrist, and I felt her tendon going and
     going as she stroked herself, and this indirect feeling of being able
     to take the pulse of her masturbating was too much, I said, "I think
     I'm going to come," and I started to come into the blanket.
Better. This is something people do. People do this. She used to do this,
thinking sometimes of Harry, other times of Dean Thomas, sometimes of other
boys, depending on whom she'd seen that day, who might have looked particularly
fit in his Quidditch robes. She remembers the sensation of her own fingers on
her secret parts, how much she'd wanted Harry to touch her there, but she was
never sure how to ask for it.
Transformed and sexual and elegant. That's not gross; it's not dirty. A man
wrote that about a woman, a woman he wanted, a woman whose permission he asked
to do nothing more than touch her arm. Ginevra stays underneath the sheet, but
kicks off her knickers, and diffidently, hesitantly, for the first time in
months, slides her fingers through wiry red curls and touches that small, soft
part of herself. The contact, her own, is light, familiar, and she looks at the
words on the page, imagines that fictional man sitting next to that fictional
woman, watching her touch herself; she remembers being close to Sam, how clean
he smelled, how good his arm felt around her. She loves his hands, the hard
muscles in his arms, the lean length of his body (she only wishes that he'd
occasionally wear less than five layers of clothing at any given time, so that
she could see more of it). She wants to run her hands underneath his layers of
shirts, touch the bare skin, brush her thumbs over his flat nipples, feel him
shiver.
I'd have to stand on tiptoe just to reach, she thinks, unbidden, and giggles.
So she'd make him lie down first. Take off his shirt(s), sprawl out on his
back, give himself up to her.
Yes.
She'd use her tongue, not just her fingers, on his nipples; tease them with the
soft point, listen to him gasp. Oh, that gasp would be satisfying. All of him,
spread out for her, given willingly.
She's not reading her book anymore. She sets it down, uses her free hand to
trace circles over her own nipples. There's a rush of wetness between her
thighs, and she pushes up against her fingers. The tiny nub of her clit is hard
now, and trailing her middle finger over it makes her gasp. She does it again,
stroking back and forth, the contact light and teasing and exquisite, and she
has to turn her head to the side as her hips arch up and she bites back a moan.
In her mind, her hands go to his belt, unbuckling it and then resting for a
moment at the top button of his jeans. He's up on his elbows, watching her, and
she leans down to swipe her tongue around his navel. (That's safe; his jeans
are still on. It's just his belly button.) His response is halfway between a
laugh and a gasp, and she laughs, too.
She undoes the top two buttons, kisses his belly, licks the line of one hip,
then the other. He says her name and she grins at him. He's hers.
Third button and fourth, and she can see the outline of his cock in his black
briefs. She remembers being stretched out against Harry, long sunlit kisses by
the lake; on one of the sofas in the Gryffindor common room, late at night, her
legs on either side of his hips, her hands in his hair, flicking her tongue
along his throat and around the shell of his ear; she remembers feeling that
shape pressed against her then, seeking the answering part of herself, and she
was sure that she'd give it, when they had some privacy and the time was right.
She'd imagined being naked with Harry, somewhere just the two of them, naked
and in that position, and, Merlin, she'd wanted so badly to feel him inside
her, to feel him shudder as he came—
—and now she knows what that feels like, but not because she wanted to—
—no, this isn't about that, this is about her, and about Sam because he's
invited even if he doesn't know it yet—
—back to Sam, back to Sam, back to Sam, whose hands are gentle in her hair, not
urging, just running his fingers through it, and it feels good, safe. She rubs
the heel of her hand against him, through the layers of cloth, and he makes a
sound of contented arousal.
She slides her hand inside the briefs, ready to touch him—
—but she remembers what that hair feels like, and she can't do it, not now,
back up. Rewind, like on that Muggle moving-picture tape she watched with Sam.
Sam, Sam, this is Sam. Her hand's still on the outside, pressing down but not
touching directly, and he arches up into it, biting his lip, and his eyes are
their usual murky green-brown and their gaze is only for her.
Back to herself, her fingers—she needs more. She remembers this, even though
it's been a long time; she adds her index and ring fingers, rubbing with all
three, and, oh, it's good. She scrapes the fingernails of her other hand over a
nipple—not hard, just enough that she can feel it—and that's good too, yes.
Maybe that could be Sam's teeth. Oh, there's an idea, Sam lying alongside her,
skin warm against hers as he sucks and licks at her breasts. They're incredibly
sensitive, always have been, and Harry still doesn't know that she came one of
those days out by the lake when he finally got up the nerve to do something
with them. She remembers that, how warm it had been, how she'd put her own hand
over Harry's and raised her shirt and pushed down her bra and shown him where
to touch her and how. His eyes had nearly crossed with shock (though not with
just shock), and she'd hummed happily as he'd caressed her with charming
shyness. Then he'd lowered his head, only to jerk it back up again and whisper,
Can I?
Yes, she'd told him, and moved her hand to the back of his neck, and she'd
nearly come right then, at that first touch of his inexpert mouth.
Sam would know more. He's older. He had a girlfriend. (He had a boyfriend
before the girlfriend, and isn't that thoroughly modern and scandalous?) He
knows things. He would know how to touch her, and she would let him. Oh,
Merlin, would she let him. She'd let him move one of his hands—he has a hand
free, it's only his lips that are occupied currently with her breasts—down her
ribcage, passing over her belly, and then he'd pause, because he'd want to know
that it's OK. And it's OK. It's more than OK.
Yes, Sam, she'd tell him, and his fingers would find their way into her
knickers. They're longer than any others that have touched her, and they
wouldn't remind her of anything bad. They would feel completely different from
anything she's ever known. They'd just be Sam. Her fingers are there now, and
so are Sam's in the fantasy, and she's rubbing hard, fast, making little
whimpering sounds. "Sam," she gasps, and realizes it was out loud, and she
doesn't care. It feels good, and she twists at her nipple just a little bit
with her other hand, imagines Sam doing that and then soothing it with his
tongue, all while his fingers are still insistent and coaxing on her clit. They
move quick and sure, and he moves to kiss her and she wants to moan into his
mouth.
Fast, so fast, so much sensation, she's melting into it. She's melting, hot and
inevitable, like heated gold, and her cry echoes around the room as she comes,
shudders out the orgasm in a bright, helpless wave of pleasure. Her fingers
keep moving until the aftershocks have faded, and she collapses back onto the
bed, limp, sweaty, and satiated.
Sam, she thinks as her heartbeat slows. Sam, Sam, Sam.
She reaches over to wipe her hand on the sheet, but something makes her pause,
and she sniffs it first. The smell is clean and sharp, nothing like the fishy
scent that boys joke about. It's actually not unpleasant. She does wipe her
hand, though, and then pushes the books onto the floor—most unused, but that's
just fine—and turns over onto her stomach. She's drowsy and replete, and ready
to sleep for nine or ten hours. She thinks her dreams will be good ones.
                               *****************
 
A mile and a half away, on East Thirtieth Street, Sam wakes up gasping. It's
not a nightmare. He tries to remember the dream but can't. He's so hard it
hurts, and he's not even awake all the way when he shoves down his boxers and
wraps a hand around his cock. He comes almost instantly, sinking his teeth into
the skin of his forearm to keep from moaning, God, Ginevra, yes.
End Notes
     The first book excerpt is from Personal_Assets, by Emma Holly. In
     fairness, I should note that she is usually an excellent erotic
     writer; I just happened to open the book to a rare infelicitous
     passage. The second excerpt is from Vox, by Nicholson Baker.
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