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hp_rarefestTitle: The Weasley Reception
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rillalicious
Prompt: PROMPT 112
Pairing(s): Charlie/Pansy
Word Count/Art Medium: ~ 4700
Rating: R
Warning(s): None
Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thank you so much to B and S for the speedy and wonderful beta work!
Summary: Pansy’s job has been nothing but an annoyance as of late. And it’s about to get a whole lot more complicated.
"I suppose the buttercream icing will be fine, but without the fondant snitches. They're vile. I'll never understand why you insist on incorporating Muggle elements into your baked goods when a simple charm would give you a hovering snitch that vanishes at the first bite. Any fool could do that," Pansy said, looking down her nose at the tray of cupcakes. "And don't tell me that people these days are into things made by hand. We're witches. We use magic. It's what sets us apart from people. It's absurd to pretend otherwise."
The witch behind the counter, with whom Pansy had countless dealings in the past at her father's behest, opened her mouth to speak, then let her eyes flutter closed for a moment and shook her head. She pulled out her wand and with a flourish, every last fondant snitch had disappeared. With a lazy spell, a flash of light surrounded the cupcakes and soon each one was topped with a magical snitch instead.
"Better, Ms Parkinson?"
"It will do," Pansy said, as if just having to speak the words was a burden. "For a reception for an old man, anyway." She gazed at the cupcakes for a moment, then shook her head. "Fine. Send them along tomorrow afternoon. I'll send my assistant over with the payment once they arrive in perfect condition. I don't want a repeat of last time."
"Of course, Ms Parkinson."
"Thank you." Pansy cleared her throat, nodded stiffly, then left the shop.
She needed a drink after all this. Preferably something with far more vodka than mixer. Since her father had (finally) named her vice-chair of the Falmouth Falcons, her work had been mostly administrative, and almost exclusively involved telling other people what to do. Now, however, her father's determination to turn his floundering team around had her running the most ridiculous of errands and overseeing the tedious event planning details that she'd been saddled with as a lower level employee. It was embarrassing.
Sensing his own mortality closing in, Darius Parkinson had decided to invest what little of his fortune was left in the Falcons with the hope of leaving behind a "legacy" untainted by his former acquaintances. A pipe dream if ever there was one, Pansy knew, but she stood to gain a much more sizable inheritance if he succeeded, so she had chosen to help him all the same.
Which left her here, arranging an over-the-top reception for her father's latest experiment in stunt drafting: a man whose best Quidditch days were probably so far in his past that he couldn't remember them at all, who'd been scouted to play for England twenty-five years ago, and had then turned them down to work on a magical farm or some other nonsensical thing. Honestly, Pansy had mostly tuned her father out after the part where he told her the man was a Weasley.
Her shoulders gave a little shake as she stepped into the pub, as if she were trying to brush off the very thought that in 24 hours she'd be throwing a party for a Weasley. She slipped off her coat and folded it over one arm, then took a seat at the end of the bar.
It was only when the barkeep set the second martini in front of her that Pansy realized she wasn't drinking alone. She had been aware of the broad shouldered man sitting beside her from the moment he walked in, his muscular, tattooed arm catching her attention as soon as he reached for his beer, but she hadn't noticed until now that he was looking at her, unflinchingly, watching her drink. She raised the glass to her lips and let her gaze slide over to him beneath lowered lids.
"Does the quiet stalker method usually get the girl?" she asked, toying with the little plastic sword driven through her olive.
"This isn't stalking," he said, and his voice was low and rough. "Not when I'm out in plain sight."
Pansy smirked, finally tilting her head to the side enough to see him. He was certainly handsome enough in that rugged, everyman sort of way. His cheekbones were wide-set, making room for a smile that flashed a brilliant, straight row of white teeth, standing out acutely from his sun-drenched complexion. Even in the dim pub lighting she could see that he was a ginger, his hair shining coppery in the flickering torch light. While her type was generally the more pinched, aristocratic look, with a delicate complexion and soft hands that hadn't done a day's hard labor, she knew this man's type the moment she laid eyes on him.
He would be friendly, and kind, quick to conversation. He'd expect her to laugh at his jokes, and blush fiercely when she didn't. It wouldn't take long to have him completely at her mercy. He'd be easy to seduce. Easier still to leave breathing hard and calling after her for a name, pants around his ankles. He'd think about her for days, maybe even try to find her. Of course he never would. Their social circles couldn't be more different. And in between, he'd give her the kind of good, hard fuck up against the wall that would melt the stress from her shoulders like ice on a hot kettle. With any luck, her thighs would be deliciously sore tomorrow, and for a brief twenty minutes or so she'd be able to forget this clusterfuck of a reception she was managing.
"I've seen lions stalk their prey in broad daylight," she said, and she sipped her drink again.
"I've seen a dragon snatch up a full grown lion like an owl takes a mouse," he said, and he shot her a wink from behind his bottle.
Pansy let a slow, intentional smile cross her lips. "Which is why the lion should always watch his back," she said, watching him drain the bottle. "We dragons are fearless."
He set the empty down on the bar, and as he pushed it away, she saw the criss-cross of long, shiny burns on his forearm.
"Believe me, I know," he said. "So, tell me. How hard am I going to have to work to get you to walk out of here with me?"
"Not as hard as I'd make you work if I'd had a better day."
"Can't say I'm happy to hear it's been rough, but I can't say I'm too torn up about it, either."
"I wouldn't worry. I hardly need your pity. It's nothing another few drinks and a pile of brand new shoes wouldn't fix," she said, and she finished her martini and set it down. "But if you're willing to pay my tab, I'll take a pass on the drink and the shopping spree, and see if what you have to offer is any more… enticing."
The words had hardly cleared her lips and he was slapping coins on the bar, waving at the barkeep, and rising to his feet.
"I think you'll find it satisfying," he said.
"I'd better." Pansy slipped off her stool gracefully and strode out of the pub ahead of him.
She made sure he had to walk quickly to catch up, and when she finally stopped, standing just beside a streetlamp spilling its orange glow onto the pavement.
"Your place or mine?" she asked.
"Double apparition isn't really my thing," he said, and for the first time, he looked a little bit bashful.
"I'm sure you make up for it in other ways," she said, arching an eyebrow as she drew her wand. She reached out to take hold of his bicep, making no attempt to hide how firmly she was feeling his arm. "Or at least you'll learn to."
The tip of his tongue rolled over his lips and he put a hand over hers. "Spent my whole life learning to compensate for that little inadequacy."
"Oh? You'd have me believe it's your only one?"
He laughed, and it sounded as warm and deep as she'd imagined it. "Nah. I'm sure you'll point out the rest in no time."
She knew he was expecting a retort, so instead, she flicked her wand, apparating them to a small, untraceable flat she kept near the practice pitch.
He staggered when they reappeared, holding her arm with both of his hands, the sheer size of him nearly knocking her off balance. One of her heels buckled and she grabbed for the wing-backed chair beside her to keep from falling.
"Something tells me you don't do much single apparition, either," she said.
"Sorry. No, I, uh… I prefer to fly."
"Your world must be terribly small."
"Not at all," he said, letting go of her now that he had his balance. "It just takes me a little longer to get places. There's always portkeys. The floo network. None of it beats the broomstick, though."
"Says the man who doesn't appear to own a hairbrush. There's a reason some of us don't travel on brooms in the wind like barbarians."
He winked, then pulled his shirt up and over his head, tossing it on the chair. "Even barbarians have their virtues," he said. "And I get the feeling you like to branch out every now and then. Why else would you bring me back to this flat you clearly don't live in?"
Pansy found herself having to work hard to keep from staring at the tattoos, burns, and scars that decorated his chest and shoulders. She was aching to examine them closely, but she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of impressing her just yet. She looked up at his eyes instead, and slowly began unbuttoning her blouse.
"You should be grateful to find a witch with the good sense not to bring a man she's only known for five minutes back to her home," she said. "For all I know, you could have just escaped Azkaban, or murdered a dozen people."
A look crossed his face then, something she wouldn't recognize until much later, but it was quickly replaced by a smile and he took a step closer to her. His gaze fell to her fingers on her buttons, and she took her time, drawing it out until she could hear his breath quicken.
"This is the part," she said, as she opened the blouse and let it fall off her shoulders, "where you reassure me that you're not some crazed killer."
"Oh," he said softly, "right. Sorry." He crooked his finger and drew it up her shoulder, then beneath her bra strap, gently pulling it to the side. "Not a murderer. I'm not bright enough to cover my tracks."
Pansy swallowed hard. Once he was touching her, the dynamic seemed to shift. Her stomach felt full of tiny, dancing fireworks. He was good at this; she could already tell.
"Is that why you have so many scars?" she asked, reaching out with one fingertip to trace a long, thin one that curved over the back of a green and gold dragon on his right shoulder. When her touch reached the dragon, its wings flapped once and it reared back its head.
"Nah," he said. "The scars are courtesy of guys just like him." He nodded toward the ink. "Inherent risk of being a dragon keeper."
She smiled then, and looked up at him. "And this is why you aren't afraid of dragons?"
"It's more of a healthy respect," he said, and his finger was underneath her chin. "I understand they could eat me alive any time they want."
"As long as you understand that," she began, but then his lips were on hers and he moved in so swiftly it made her dizzy.
She'd always preferred men who were built like Draco: slight and wiry, deceptively strong maybe, but never overtly muscular. His strength was almost overwhelming. He lifted her up and Pansy wrapped her legs tightly around him. Her skirt, a leather wrap-around, was "easy access and efficient, and cute as hell," she'd said when she bought it. True to its form, it rode up to her waist as he carried her to the couch. She crossed her ankles behind his back. One of his hands found her bum, sliding over the fabric of her knickers, a silky, delicate pink edged in black lace.
She felt him smile into the kiss at the recognition that she'd been ready for this. He began to lower her over the couch.
"No," she hissed against his lips. "Door on the left. Bedroom."
He chuckled against her lips, a soft, low sound that vibrated through his chest and made her tremble in response. "Of course," he murmured.
Despite his strength, this was slower, more gentle, than she'd been expecting, and though Pansy had brought him back here with the intention of a hard, mind-clearing fuck, she wasn't sure she wanted to complain. She ran her hands over his shoulders and neck, up into his hair, and found herself wanting to explore him. He kissed her like he was making a promise, like this was only the beginning, and she wanted to see how he intended to follow through.
The room was spinning a little as he lowered her to the bed, and she had to open her eyes to make it still. His were still closed, his concentration intently focused on her lips dancing with his. The smooth patches of skin that dragon fire had left all over his body felt like a map beneath her fingertips, and she sought them out one at a time, her body contracting when he shivered at her touch.
He pressed his hips into her, pushing her into the soft mattress, and she drew her nails across the back of his neck. Up close she could see that his tanned complexion was actually freckles, so close together that there were only the smallest spaces of pale skin visible here and there like a scarce smattering of stars, and the odd thought that she wanted to find every last one of them passed through her mind.
"I don't know what to do with you first," he said, and then his mouth was on her neck, hot kisses feathering their way to her collarbone.
"That's a good start," she said, the gasp that swallowed the last word betraying her cool. One of his hands pressed between her and the mattress, flicking open her bra and then discarding it.
She arched up into him, his palm sliding over her nipples before his tongue was there, and she reached down to wriggle out of her skirt and knickers beneath him. His belt buckle was stiff, and she fumbled with it for a moment before his hand was there too, ripping it from his belt loops and flinging it across the room. She had his trousers open and shoved down with his pants in a second's time.
Then he was pressed against the inside of her hip, his cock thick and impossibly hard, rubbing against her in the most achingly perfect way.
"Spells?" He raised his head to meet her gaze.
"On the potion," she said. As soon as the words were out, he was kissing his way down her stomach, and Pansy spread her legs on the bed, toying with his hair as he kissed her again and again.
He moved so slowly that she was trembling by the time he finally reached her sex. But then it was all expert tongue and lips and the reverberation of the deep sounds he made that shot straight through her and made her scream. She gripped the pillow above her head, fisting it in her hand with white knuckles until her orgasm finished shaking through her body.
There was barely time to breathe before he was climbing up her again, sliding into her with one swift thrust that made the breath catch in her throat. She scratched long paths down his back, thrilling at the way he arched into her, at how he responded every time she touched him without losing his focus in touching her at all. Over and over again he drove into her, his mouth on her temple, her cheek, then the corner of her own mouth, his tongue teasing her lips for entrance.
This was exactly what she'd been wanting, steady and hard and deliciously distracting. She grabbed his shoulders and pushed, feeling a rush of satisfaction as he obediently flipped onto his back, not missing a thrust.
Pansy rode him upright, pushing down on his chest, holding him beneath her, watching his unguarded face as his eyes devoured her. His hands were sure and strong when he reached up, roaming all over her body, and the sounds he was making built slowly at first, then with an intensity that rocked through her. The closer he drew to finishing, the more she wanted to come with him. It was contagious, his wanting her, and she couldn't help herself.
She looked down at his scars, at the scripted tattoo that curved down his collarbone and back up the other side, at the small, magical tattoo on his shoulder that suddenly flitted away, over the rise of muscle and down his back where it couldn't be seen, and something about it was so distracting that she lost her place for a moment.
But then he was bucking up into her hard, his hands squeezing her hips brutally, his head rolling back as he came inside her, and Pansy shuddered all over, whatever strange thing she'd just seen forgotten, nothing on her mind but the pleasure of his body taut and hard and trembling beneath her. Her nails left small, angry crescents on his chest, and when his hands finally started a path up her sides, she felt as though her whole body could melt into him.
She fell forward, curling into his arms, and he wrapped himself around her as if she'd always been meant to fit right there. After a few long, breathless moments, she felt him move, raise his neck, his lips tentatively pressing to the crown of her head, and he held himself there for just a moment, a gesture more tender and personal than anything else he'd offered tonight. Pansy closed her eyes, the rise and fall of his warm chest mesmerizing beneath her cheek.
She didn't know how long they stayed silent like that, holding on to one another in the way that only strangers who've just shared something wildly intimate can, but finally she let out a small sigh. He loosened his arms around her and she sat up, then climbed off him. He rolled onto his side, head resting in the palm of his hand.
"Is this the part where you kick me out? I'm not real good on picking up subtlety, so you'll have to tell me outright."
"I have an early morning," she said, more apology in her voice than she intended, and she grabbed her dressing gown from a hook on the wall.
"And there it is," he said, but his grin held no malice. He sat up and swung his legs over the bed, reaching for his wand and summoning his clothes. "My cue to leave."
"Usually that is a line, but I actually have to work in the morning. I'm managing an… affair." She paused for a moment to check herself. What the hell was she doing? She'd almost gone and told him what she did for a living, which was as good as giving him her name and address.
"An affair," he said, and he pulled his jeans up over his arse. "Interesting line of work. Managing affairs."
"Don't be daft, not that kind of affair," she said. "I work in… public relations. For a Quidditch team." She really hadn't meant to say the words, but as he tugged his shirt on, she felt such a strange sense of loss that they'd spilled out of her on their own accord.
"Ah. I see. You're having an affair with your Quidditch team tomorrow. No wonder you need your rest."
"You're hilarious," she said dryly. "I can see why you were drinking alone tonight. The affair is a rather large reception. And it's ridiculous."
"Big party? What's it for?"
"Some old man coming out of retirement to play on the team. To play Seeker, if you can believe it. He was a farmhand or… peasant or something. I don't remember."
He paused for a moment, as if he were waiting for a punchline, then snorted out a little laugh. "Peasant? I thought we didn't have those anymore."
"Oh, whatever. The whole thing is going to be a ridiculous failure. The team is going to lose a fortune on this gamble. We'll probably all be out of work in a month's time."
"Wow. That sounds pretty bad." For a moment, she thought he was going to do that obnoxious thing men always did when they found out she worked in Quidditch, and not for Holyhead, and explain to her exactly how the game worked, and why she was wrong about everything she'd just said, but instead, he took a few steps closer. She pulled the tie of the dressing gown more tightly around her waist.
He ran his tongue over his lips, then leaned down to kiss her so delicately that it made her gasp. "Good luck with that."
"Thank you," she said, her voice refusing to rise above a whisper.
He stood there for a moment, just looking at her, examining her face, then he walked over to the fireplace and dipped his hand into the shallow bowl on the mantel.
"I hope your father's gamble pays off for you," he said. "If you think flying is bad for your hair, you should see what'll happen to it when you're sleeping under the Quidditch stands."
"How…" She sank back into the bed. "I never said anything about my father."
"You really don't know who I am," he said, and in his eyes she could see two things. One, he had only just now come to that realization, and two, he took some delight in her ignorance.
She didn't like that at all.
"No," she said, the mistrust building in her belly. "Should I?"
He shook his head. "Not till you need to," he said. "Thanks, Pansy. This was… real nice."
He winked again, that charming, boyish wink that almost infuriated her, and then he was tossing in the floo powder. In a flash of light, he was gone. Pansy reached for the duvet, pulling it around her as she chewed her lower lip. That wasn't how this sort of thing was supposed to end. She wasn't the one who was supposed to want more.
~*~*~
The reception was perfectly orchestrated, right down to the dreadful musical guest who reminded Pansy too much of her mother's old obsession with Celestina Warbeck. Her morning had been spent fixing all the little details, or rather, snapping at her father's various hired hands to fix them, until every last thing was exactly in place. And the entire time, the tiny, sinking feeling inside her stomach grew heavier and heavier.
She was glad she already had the champagne flute in hand when the doorman announced the guest of honor had arrived, because she raised it to her lips and drained half of it as soon as he came into view. All day long something had been telling her that this was how it would all end up, but each time the voice had cropped up, she'd shoved it back down again. Now, however, it wasn't the voice telling her the truth.
Charlie Weasley, the man she'd shagged last night, was standing in the doorway, waving off the rapid-fire questions from the press with a raised hand and a look that was equal parts bashful and cocky.
Pansy took another long swig of her champagne, then walked over to the bar, sliding up on a stool and giving the bartender a look so dark, he was at her side in a moment.
"Vodka," she said. "With a twist of… nothing. Just vodka."
"Muggle liquor straight," Charlie said, taking the seat beside her. "Somebody's having a rough night. Again." He nodded to the bartender. "Firewhisky, top shelf, thanks." Then he looked at Pansy. "I can get the good stuff," he said, lowering his voice to a stage whisper, "have you heard what they're paying me? Not too shabby for a washed up old peasant, right?"
The heat rising to Pansy's face had nothing to do with the alcohol.
"Animals," she said under her breath, swiping her drink from the bartender's hand before he had the chance to set it down.
"What's that?"
"Animals." She took a long sip, then looked at Charlie. "My father kept calling the dragons "animals". And he said something about a sanctuary. I wasn't really paying attention, so I thought farm. It was a perfectly honest mistake."
"Right," Charlie said. "Of course it was. And your not paying attention had nothing to do with me being a Weasley."
"Maybe a little bit," she admitted, sipping the vodka again. "But you've more than made up for that."
"There's a back-handed compliment if ever there was one," he said. "I probably have it coming. I should've told you who I was from the start."
"Yes," she said pointedly. "You should have."
"Would you have walked out of there with me if you knew?"
She held the glass to her lips thoughtfully for a moment, then set it down. "You would have had to work harder for it. A lot harder."
"Uh-huh."
She watched him drink the firewhisky, watched the way the brown liquid slid from the glass and past his lips smoothly, watched his throat work as he swallowed. She looked away.
"You look good for your age, Weasley. I'll give you that."
He laughed. "I'm forty-two, Pansy. Not a hundred-and-twelve. You're only, what? Six years behind me? Four?"
She arched an eyebrow. "Eight."
He shrugged. "Close enough. For what it's worth, I thought you knew."
She shook her head. "I know you did."
There was a long, awkward moment then, and he finished off his whisky in one long gulp.
"Let's start again, yeah?" He turned on the barstool to fully face her. "Hi, I'm Charlie. I'm new here, and I'm gonna be playing Seeker for the Falcons. And you are?"
She just looked at him, his hand outstretched. This was ridiculous and juvenile. But there was something so earnest about his expression, so sincere, that her shoulders sank with defeat.
"Pansy Parkinson," she said, and she took his hand. "For all intents and purposes, you can consider me your new boss."
"It's nice to meet you, Pansy," he said, and when he let go of her hand, he got to his feet. "I hope I get to see you around."
His smile was a little lopsided, that strange blend of confidence and uncertainty again, and it charmed her in spite of herself. Pansy found herself uneasily agreeing with him. She wanted to see more of Charlie Weasley.
"I'm certain you will, Mr Weasley," she said, and she turned back to the bar, casually raising her glass of vodka to her lips.
She could feel his eyes on her for a moment more, and she could picture the grin on his face, though she didn't look as he walked away. Maybe this job had some benefits after all.
Author/Artist:
rillalicious Prompt: PROMPT 112
Pairing(s): Charlie/Pansy
Word Count/Art Medium: ~ 4700
Rating: R
Warning(s): None
Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thank you so much to B and S for the speedy and wonderful beta work!
Summary: Pansy’s job has been nothing but an annoyance as of late. And it’s about to get a whole lot more complicated.
"I suppose the buttercream icing will be fine, but without the fondant snitches. They're vile. I'll never understand why you insist on incorporating Muggle elements into your baked goods when a simple charm would give you a hovering snitch that vanishes at the first bite. Any fool could do that," Pansy said, looking down her nose at the tray of cupcakes. "And don't tell me that people these days are into things made by hand. We're witches. We use magic. It's what sets us apart from people. It's absurd to pretend otherwise."
The witch behind the counter, with whom Pansy had countless dealings in the past at her father's behest, opened her mouth to speak, then let her eyes flutter closed for a moment and shook her head. She pulled out her wand and with a flourish, every last fondant snitch had disappeared. With a lazy spell, a flash of light surrounded the cupcakes and soon each one was topped with a magical snitch instead.
"Better, Ms Parkinson?"
"It will do," Pansy said, as if just having to speak the words was a burden. "For a reception for an old man, anyway." She gazed at the cupcakes for a moment, then shook her head. "Fine. Send them along tomorrow afternoon. I'll send my assistant over with the payment once they arrive in perfect condition. I don't want a repeat of last time."
"Of course, Ms Parkinson."
"Thank you." Pansy cleared her throat, nodded stiffly, then left the shop.
She needed a drink after all this. Preferably something with far more vodka than mixer. Since her father had (finally) named her vice-chair of the Falmouth Falcons, her work had been mostly administrative, and almost exclusively involved telling other people what to do. Now, however, her father's determination to turn his floundering team around had her running the most ridiculous of errands and overseeing the tedious event planning details that she'd been saddled with as a lower level employee. It was embarrassing.
Sensing his own mortality closing in, Darius Parkinson had decided to invest what little of his fortune was left in the Falcons with the hope of leaving behind a "legacy" untainted by his former acquaintances. A pipe dream if ever there was one, Pansy knew, but she stood to gain a much more sizable inheritance if he succeeded, so she had chosen to help him all the same.
Which left her here, arranging an over-the-top reception for her father's latest experiment in stunt drafting: a man whose best Quidditch days were probably so far in his past that he couldn't remember them at all, who'd been scouted to play for England twenty-five years ago, and had then turned them down to work on a magical farm or some other nonsensical thing. Honestly, Pansy had mostly tuned her father out after the part where he told her the man was a Weasley.
Her shoulders gave a little shake as she stepped into the pub, as if she were trying to brush off the very thought that in 24 hours she'd be throwing a party for a Weasley. She slipped off her coat and folded it over one arm, then took a seat at the end of the bar.
It was only when the barkeep set the second martini in front of her that Pansy realized she wasn't drinking alone. She had been aware of the broad shouldered man sitting beside her from the moment he walked in, his muscular, tattooed arm catching her attention as soon as he reached for his beer, but she hadn't noticed until now that he was looking at her, unflinchingly, watching her drink. She raised the glass to her lips and let her gaze slide over to him beneath lowered lids.
"Does the quiet stalker method usually get the girl?" she asked, toying with the little plastic sword driven through her olive.
"This isn't stalking," he said, and his voice was low and rough. "Not when I'm out in plain sight."
Pansy smirked, finally tilting her head to the side enough to see him. He was certainly handsome enough in that rugged, everyman sort of way. His cheekbones were wide-set, making room for a smile that flashed a brilliant, straight row of white teeth, standing out acutely from his sun-drenched complexion. Even in the dim pub lighting she could see that he was a ginger, his hair shining coppery in the flickering torch light. While her type was generally the more pinched, aristocratic look, with a delicate complexion and soft hands that hadn't done a day's hard labor, she knew this man's type the moment she laid eyes on him.
He would be friendly, and kind, quick to conversation. He'd expect her to laugh at his jokes, and blush fiercely when she didn't. It wouldn't take long to have him completely at her mercy. He'd be easy to seduce. Easier still to leave breathing hard and calling after her for a name, pants around his ankles. He'd think about her for days, maybe even try to find her. Of course he never would. Their social circles couldn't be more different. And in between, he'd give her the kind of good, hard fuck up against the wall that would melt the stress from her shoulders like ice on a hot kettle. With any luck, her thighs would be deliciously sore tomorrow, and for a brief twenty minutes or so she'd be able to forget this clusterfuck of a reception she was managing.
"I've seen lions stalk their prey in broad daylight," she said, and she sipped her drink again.
"I've seen a dragon snatch up a full grown lion like an owl takes a mouse," he said, and he shot her a wink from behind his bottle.
Pansy let a slow, intentional smile cross her lips. "Which is why the lion should always watch his back," she said, watching him drain the bottle. "We dragons are fearless."
He set the empty down on the bar, and as he pushed it away, she saw the criss-cross of long, shiny burns on his forearm.
"Believe me, I know," he said. "So, tell me. How hard am I going to have to work to get you to walk out of here with me?"
"Not as hard as I'd make you work if I'd had a better day."
"Can't say I'm happy to hear it's been rough, but I can't say I'm too torn up about it, either."
"I wouldn't worry. I hardly need your pity. It's nothing another few drinks and a pile of brand new shoes wouldn't fix," she said, and she finished her martini and set it down. "But if you're willing to pay my tab, I'll take a pass on the drink and the shopping spree, and see if what you have to offer is any more… enticing."
The words had hardly cleared her lips and he was slapping coins on the bar, waving at the barkeep, and rising to his feet.
"I think you'll find it satisfying," he said.
"I'd better." Pansy slipped off her stool gracefully and strode out of the pub ahead of him.
She made sure he had to walk quickly to catch up, and when she finally stopped, standing just beside a streetlamp spilling its orange glow onto the pavement.
"Your place or mine?" she asked.
"Double apparition isn't really my thing," he said, and for the first time, he looked a little bit bashful.
"I'm sure you make up for it in other ways," she said, arching an eyebrow as she drew her wand. She reached out to take hold of his bicep, making no attempt to hide how firmly she was feeling his arm. "Or at least you'll learn to."
The tip of his tongue rolled over his lips and he put a hand over hers. "Spent my whole life learning to compensate for that little inadequacy."
"Oh? You'd have me believe it's your only one?"
He laughed, and it sounded as warm and deep as she'd imagined it. "Nah. I'm sure you'll point out the rest in no time."
She knew he was expecting a retort, so instead, she flicked her wand, apparating them to a small, untraceable flat she kept near the practice pitch.
He staggered when they reappeared, holding her arm with both of his hands, the sheer size of him nearly knocking her off balance. One of her heels buckled and she grabbed for the wing-backed chair beside her to keep from falling.
"Something tells me you don't do much single apparition, either," she said.
"Sorry. No, I, uh… I prefer to fly."
"Your world must be terribly small."
"Not at all," he said, letting go of her now that he had his balance. "It just takes me a little longer to get places. There's always portkeys. The floo network. None of it beats the broomstick, though."
"Says the man who doesn't appear to own a hairbrush. There's a reason some of us don't travel on brooms in the wind like barbarians."
He winked, then pulled his shirt up and over his head, tossing it on the chair. "Even barbarians have their virtues," he said. "And I get the feeling you like to branch out every now and then. Why else would you bring me back to this flat you clearly don't live in?"
Pansy found herself having to work hard to keep from staring at the tattoos, burns, and scars that decorated his chest and shoulders. She was aching to examine them closely, but she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of impressing her just yet. She looked up at his eyes instead, and slowly began unbuttoning her blouse.
"You should be grateful to find a witch with the good sense not to bring a man she's only known for five minutes back to her home," she said. "For all I know, you could have just escaped Azkaban, or murdered a dozen people."
A look crossed his face then, something she wouldn't recognize until much later, but it was quickly replaced by a smile and he took a step closer to her. His gaze fell to her fingers on her buttons, and she took her time, drawing it out until she could hear his breath quicken.
"This is the part," she said, as she opened the blouse and let it fall off her shoulders, "where you reassure me that you're not some crazed killer."
"Oh," he said softly, "right. Sorry." He crooked his finger and drew it up her shoulder, then beneath her bra strap, gently pulling it to the side. "Not a murderer. I'm not bright enough to cover my tracks."
Pansy swallowed hard. Once he was touching her, the dynamic seemed to shift. Her stomach felt full of tiny, dancing fireworks. He was good at this; she could already tell.
"Is that why you have so many scars?" she asked, reaching out with one fingertip to trace a long, thin one that curved over the back of a green and gold dragon on his right shoulder. When her touch reached the dragon, its wings flapped once and it reared back its head.
"Nah," he said. "The scars are courtesy of guys just like him." He nodded toward the ink. "Inherent risk of being a dragon keeper."
She smiled then, and looked up at him. "And this is why you aren't afraid of dragons?"
"It's more of a healthy respect," he said, and his finger was underneath her chin. "I understand they could eat me alive any time they want."
"As long as you understand that," she began, but then his lips were on hers and he moved in so swiftly it made her dizzy.
She'd always preferred men who were built like Draco: slight and wiry, deceptively strong maybe, but never overtly muscular. His strength was almost overwhelming. He lifted her up and Pansy wrapped her legs tightly around him. Her skirt, a leather wrap-around, was "easy access and efficient, and cute as hell," she'd said when she bought it. True to its form, it rode up to her waist as he carried her to the couch. She crossed her ankles behind his back. One of his hands found her bum, sliding over the fabric of her knickers, a silky, delicate pink edged in black lace.
She felt him smile into the kiss at the recognition that she'd been ready for this. He began to lower her over the couch.
"No," she hissed against his lips. "Door on the left. Bedroom."
He chuckled against her lips, a soft, low sound that vibrated through his chest and made her tremble in response. "Of course," he murmured.
Despite his strength, this was slower, more gentle, than she'd been expecting, and though Pansy had brought him back here with the intention of a hard, mind-clearing fuck, she wasn't sure she wanted to complain. She ran her hands over his shoulders and neck, up into his hair, and found herself wanting to explore him. He kissed her like he was making a promise, like this was only the beginning, and she wanted to see how he intended to follow through.
The room was spinning a little as he lowered her to the bed, and she had to open her eyes to make it still. His were still closed, his concentration intently focused on her lips dancing with his. The smooth patches of skin that dragon fire had left all over his body felt like a map beneath her fingertips, and she sought them out one at a time, her body contracting when he shivered at her touch.
He pressed his hips into her, pushing her into the soft mattress, and she drew her nails across the back of his neck. Up close she could see that his tanned complexion was actually freckles, so close together that there were only the smallest spaces of pale skin visible here and there like a scarce smattering of stars, and the odd thought that she wanted to find every last one of them passed through her mind.
"I don't know what to do with you first," he said, and then his mouth was on her neck, hot kisses feathering their way to her collarbone.
"That's a good start," she said, the gasp that swallowed the last word betraying her cool. One of his hands pressed between her and the mattress, flicking open her bra and then discarding it.
She arched up into him, his palm sliding over her nipples before his tongue was there, and she reached down to wriggle out of her skirt and knickers beneath him. His belt buckle was stiff, and she fumbled with it for a moment before his hand was there too, ripping it from his belt loops and flinging it across the room. She had his trousers open and shoved down with his pants in a second's time.
Then he was pressed against the inside of her hip, his cock thick and impossibly hard, rubbing against her in the most achingly perfect way.
"Spells?" He raised his head to meet her gaze.
"On the potion," she said. As soon as the words were out, he was kissing his way down her stomach, and Pansy spread her legs on the bed, toying with his hair as he kissed her again and again.
He moved so slowly that she was trembling by the time he finally reached her sex. But then it was all expert tongue and lips and the reverberation of the deep sounds he made that shot straight through her and made her scream. She gripped the pillow above her head, fisting it in her hand with white knuckles until her orgasm finished shaking through her body.
There was barely time to breathe before he was climbing up her again, sliding into her with one swift thrust that made the breath catch in her throat. She scratched long paths down his back, thrilling at the way he arched into her, at how he responded every time she touched him without losing his focus in touching her at all. Over and over again he drove into her, his mouth on her temple, her cheek, then the corner of her own mouth, his tongue teasing her lips for entrance.
This was exactly what she'd been wanting, steady and hard and deliciously distracting. She grabbed his shoulders and pushed, feeling a rush of satisfaction as he obediently flipped onto his back, not missing a thrust.
Pansy rode him upright, pushing down on his chest, holding him beneath her, watching his unguarded face as his eyes devoured her. His hands were sure and strong when he reached up, roaming all over her body, and the sounds he was making built slowly at first, then with an intensity that rocked through her. The closer he drew to finishing, the more she wanted to come with him. It was contagious, his wanting her, and she couldn't help herself.
She looked down at his scars, at the scripted tattoo that curved down his collarbone and back up the other side, at the small, magical tattoo on his shoulder that suddenly flitted away, over the rise of muscle and down his back where it couldn't be seen, and something about it was so distracting that she lost her place for a moment.
But then he was bucking up into her hard, his hands squeezing her hips brutally, his head rolling back as he came inside her, and Pansy shuddered all over, whatever strange thing she'd just seen forgotten, nothing on her mind but the pleasure of his body taut and hard and trembling beneath her. Her nails left small, angry crescents on his chest, and when his hands finally started a path up her sides, she felt as though her whole body could melt into him.
She fell forward, curling into his arms, and he wrapped himself around her as if she'd always been meant to fit right there. After a few long, breathless moments, she felt him move, raise his neck, his lips tentatively pressing to the crown of her head, and he held himself there for just a moment, a gesture more tender and personal than anything else he'd offered tonight. Pansy closed her eyes, the rise and fall of his warm chest mesmerizing beneath her cheek.
She didn't know how long they stayed silent like that, holding on to one another in the way that only strangers who've just shared something wildly intimate can, but finally she let out a small sigh. He loosened his arms around her and she sat up, then climbed off him. He rolled onto his side, head resting in the palm of his hand.
"Is this the part where you kick me out? I'm not real good on picking up subtlety, so you'll have to tell me outright."
"I have an early morning," she said, more apology in her voice than she intended, and she grabbed her dressing gown from a hook on the wall.
"And there it is," he said, but his grin held no malice. He sat up and swung his legs over the bed, reaching for his wand and summoning his clothes. "My cue to leave."
"Usually that is a line, but I actually have to work in the morning. I'm managing an… affair." She paused for a moment to check herself. What the hell was she doing? She'd almost gone and told him what she did for a living, which was as good as giving him her name and address.
"An affair," he said, and he pulled his jeans up over his arse. "Interesting line of work. Managing affairs."
"Don't be daft, not that kind of affair," she said. "I work in… public relations. For a Quidditch team." She really hadn't meant to say the words, but as he tugged his shirt on, she felt such a strange sense of loss that they'd spilled out of her on their own accord.
"Ah. I see. You're having an affair with your Quidditch team tomorrow. No wonder you need your rest."
"You're hilarious," she said dryly. "I can see why you were drinking alone tonight. The affair is a rather large reception. And it's ridiculous."
"Big party? What's it for?"
"Some old man coming out of retirement to play on the team. To play Seeker, if you can believe it. He was a farmhand or… peasant or something. I don't remember."
He paused for a moment, as if he were waiting for a punchline, then snorted out a little laugh. "Peasant? I thought we didn't have those anymore."
"Oh, whatever. The whole thing is going to be a ridiculous failure. The team is going to lose a fortune on this gamble. We'll probably all be out of work in a month's time."
"Wow. That sounds pretty bad." For a moment, she thought he was going to do that obnoxious thing men always did when they found out she worked in Quidditch, and not for Holyhead, and explain to her exactly how the game worked, and why she was wrong about everything she'd just said, but instead, he took a few steps closer. She pulled the tie of the dressing gown more tightly around her waist.
He ran his tongue over his lips, then leaned down to kiss her so delicately that it made her gasp. "Good luck with that."
"Thank you," she said, her voice refusing to rise above a whisper.
He stood there for a moment, just looking at her, examining her face, then he walked over to the fireplace and dipped his hand into the shallow bowl on the mantel.
"I hope your father's gamble pays off for you," he said. "If you think flying is bad for your hair, you should see what'll happen to it when you're sleeping under the Quidditch stands."
"How…" She sank back into the bed. "I never said anything about my father."
"You really don't know who I am," he said, and in his eyes she could see two things. One, he had only just now come to that realization, and two, he took some delight in her ignorance.
She didn't like that at all.
"No," she said, the mistrust building in her belly. "Should I?"
He shook his head. "Not till you need to," he said. "Thanks, Pansy. This was… real nice."
He winked again, that charming, boyish wink that almost infuriated her, and then he was tossing in the floo powder. In a flash of light, he was gone. Pansy reached for the duvet, pulling it around her as she chewed her lower lip. That wasn't how this sort of thing was supposed to end. She wasn't the one who was supposed to want more.
~*~*~
The reception was perfectly orchestrated, right down to the dreadful musical guest who reminded Pansy too much of her mother's old obsession with Celestina Warbeck. Her morning had been spent fixing all the little details, or rather, snapping at her father's various hired hands to fix them, until every last thing was exactly in place. And the entire time, the tiny, sinking feeling inside her stomach grew heavier and heavier.
She was glad she already had the champagne flute in hand when the doorman announced the guest of honor had arrived, because she raised it to her lips and drained half of it as soon as he came into view. All day long something had been telling her that this was how it would all end up, but each time the voice had cropped up, she'd shoved it back down again. Now, however, it wasn't the voice telling her the truth.
Charlie Weasley, the man she'd shagged last night, was standing in the doorway, waving off the rapid-fire questions from the press with a raised hand and a look that was equal parts bashful and cocky.
Pansy took another long swig of her champagne, then walked over to the bar, sliding up on a stool and giving the bartender a look so dark, he was at her side in a moment.
"Vodka," she said. "With a twist of… nothing. Just vodka."
"Muggle liquor straight," Charlie said, taking the seat beside her. "Somebody's having a rough night. Again." He nodded to the bartender. "Firewhisky, top shelf, thanks." Then he looked at Pansy. "I can get the good stuff," he said, lowering his voice to a stage whisper, "have you heard what they're paying me? Not too shabby for a washed up old peasant, right?"
The heat rising to Pansy's face had nothing to do with the alcohol.
"Animals," she said under her breath, swiping her drink from the bartender's hand before he had the chance to set it down.
"What's that?"
"Animals." She took a long sip, then looked at Charlie. "My father kept calling the dragons "animals". And he said something about a sanctuary. I wasn't really paying attention, so I thought farm. It was a perfectly honest mistake."
"Right," Charlie said. "Of course it was. And your not paying attention had nothing to do with me being a Weasley."
"Maybe a little bit," she admitted, sipping the vodka again. "But you've more than made up for that."
"There's a back-handed compliment if ever there was one," he said. "I probably have it coming. I should've told you who I was from the start."
"Yes," she said pointedly. "You should have."
"Would you have walked out of there with me if you knew?"
She held the glass to her lips thoughtfully for a moment, then set it down. "You would have had to work harder for it. A lot harder."
"Uh-huh."
She watched him drink the firewhisky, watched the way the brown liquid slid from the glass and past his lips smoothly, watched his throat work as he swallowed. She looked away.
"You look good for your age, Weasley. I'll give you that."
He laughed. "I'm forty-two, Pansy. Not a hundred-and-twelve. You're only, what? Six years behind me? Four?"
She arched an eyebrow. "Eight."
He shrugged. "Close enough. For what it's worth, I thought you knew."
She shook her head. "I know you did."
There was a long, awkward moment then, and he finished off his whisky in one long gulp.
"Let's start again, yeah?" He turned on the barstool to fully face her. "Hi, I'm Charlie. I'm new here, and I'm gonna be playing Seeker for the Falcons. And you are?"
She just looked at him, his hand outstretched. This was ridiculous and juvenile. But there was something so earnest about his expression, so sincere, that her shoulders sank with defeat.
"Pansy Parkinson," she said, and she took his hand. "For all intents and purposes, you can consider me your new boss."
"It's nice to meet you, Pansy," he said, and when he let go of her hand, he got to his feet. "I hope I get to see you around."
His smile was a little lopsided, that strange blend of confidence and uncertainty again, and it charmed her in spite of herself. Pansy found herself uneasily agreeing with him. She wanted to see more of Charlie Weasley.
"I'm certain you will, Mr Weasley," she said, and she turned back to the bar, casually raising her glass of vodka to her lips.
She could feel his eyes on her for a moment more, and she could picture the grin on his face, though she didn't look as he walked away. Maybe this job had some benefits after all.
