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Pansy has decided. Italy is brilliant.
She’s precisely where she’s been the majority of the time since arriving at Ginny and Blaise’s villa two days ago. Lounging beach-side, eyes closed in bliss against the radiant summer sun; the heat prickles her skin as the coastal breeze gently soothes it.
It’s peaceful, or almost peaceful, since she can hear the riotous cheers and yelling from the game of beach volleyball not far away.
A small smile creeps across her face when she cracks an eye open and watches her friends flail about as they chase the white ball and hit it back and forth to one another over the flimsy net. They all look absolutely ridiculous.
Star athletes Ginny and Blaise are showing off their agility with spikes and miraculous saves, fearlessly diving into the sand like the points matter. Which Pansy knows they don’t, and even if they did, it’d be a lost cause with Hermione sitting courtside as the scorekeeper. Hermione has spent less time watching the ball and more time drooling over Greg, eyeing him like he’s a cup of melting gelato.
And then of course there’s Draco and Harry, idiots extraordinaire, bickering again.
“This is where I draw the line,” Draco says in a stare-off with his boyfriend through the net while pointing to the sidelines.
“What line?? It’s just sand, Draco! I don’t see a line.”
“It’s there. Or it was,” Draco huffs. “My point is, you stepped out of bounds.”
Pansy can see even from this distance the small smile on Harry’s face as he’s caught once again trying to reason with Draco when he’s in a mood. Pansy knows it’s a losing battle. She suspects Harry does too.
Then Pansy finally lets her gaze land on Ron-fucking-Weasley, looking unfairly fit.
He’s facing away talking to his sister while the game is paused and everyone else is otherwise distracted, so she takes the opportunity to tip her sunnies down the bridge of her nose for a better look.
A shirtless Ron isn’t a new sight to her by any means, but she wants to appreciate it all the same.
His tall frame is corded with lean muscle, hard-earned from his years as an auror, and his normally pale skin is flushed from the physical exertion of the game. Hundreds of freckles stretch the span of his broad shoulders, and Pansy swears they have multiplied tenfold since they’ve been here. The only thing he’s wearing is a pair of shorts that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. She’s watched the thin fabric continue to ride up and up throughout the game, hugging his tree-trunk thighs and driving her mad.
Then, as if he could read Pansy’s thoughts, he turns around and catches her red-handed, openly ogling him. Ron swipes his hand across his forehead, pushing back his sweat-slicked hair, and winks at her. He’s grinning roguishly and that damned dimple makes an appearance, taunting her.
And oh, it’s fucking working. She’s gone from relaxed to wound up so fast that she starts to question not only her sanity, but her sheer force of will to maintain their friendly facade. Being friendly with Ron Weasley isn’t the problem, truly. It’s pretending like she doesn’t want to jump his bones that is becoming the real issue.
It’s usually much easier to do at pub nights or parties when group interactions are limited to a few hours and sneaking off is more manageable. She had not predicted the effect the prolonged proximity of this vacation would have on her libido. Ron was right there all day and she could do nothing about it, save stare at him and wait until she could sneak into his room at the end of the night.
Why is Pansy torturing herself when everyone else gets to be paired up and happy? Well, she likes what she has with Ron. It’s fun and mutually beneficial, and she knows that if their friends found out, they’d hound them relentlessly. Pansy does not need or want their overprotective and misguided scrutiny, she’s watched it happen with everyone else: Blaise and Ginny, Draco and Harry, Greg and Hermione. Pansy’s not stupid enough to think she’d be an exception.
And so, they keep what they have to themselves, their friends none-the-wiser. Though when Ron looks at her like that, her resolve crumbles that much more and she flirts with the idea of “why not”.
“Alright! This is clearly not going to end anytime soon,” Blaise says pointedly while looking at Draco and Harry. “I’m calling for an official time out. It’s time to reapply your sun-blocking charms anyway.”
Pansy uses the opportunity to break her gaze away from Ron and watches everyone groan as they comply. She doesn’t reach for her wand like everyone else, rather flips to her stomach and lays her head over her crossed arms.
“That means you too, Pansy!” Blaise calls out.
“You’re not my dad,” she sing-songs back.
“Do I need to remind you of the holiday itinerary, section 10, article 3, line–”
“Oh, not this again.”
“You all agreed–”
“When did you become such a stickler?”
“About this? The first and only time Ginny got sunburnt. Never again.” Pansy looks up and sees Blaise’s hands planted on his hips, his brows drawn in a firm line. “You need to protect your weak skin.”
“It was awful, Pans, really,” Ginny adds. “If you’re not using charms, you should use something.”
“I have tanning oil,” she offers.
“Then use it,” Blaise says with finality.
Pansy lets out a huff of laughter, finding it difficult to hide her smile in the face of Blaise being so serious and stringent.
“Then be a doll and send someone over to help me. I can’t reach my back,” Pansy replies with a pout.
“You are such a brat,” Blaise says, turning away with a heavy, exasperated sigh.
“Love you too!”
Pansy lays back down and closes her eyes, trusting that Blaise is bossy enough to follow through on his threat and send his wife over. Not even a minute goes by when the lounger behind her creaks with the sound of her tiny victory.
“Oil’s here,” Pansy says as she reaches for the bottle in her bag and hands it back without looking up.
The lid snaps open and a second later she feels the liquid drip across her back, pleasantly warm from sitting in the sun. The feeling is only amplified when a hand begins to rub it in. A hand that is much too large to belong to Ginny.
There’s no fucking way.
Her mind races to the only logical conclusion as she tries to keep her heartbeat steady. It’s not working. She does her level best to feign nonchalance even though she’s never felt more challant in her life. Ron is not supposed to be over here, not to mention touching her out in the open within everyone’s view. They had rules for a reason.
“You’ve gone quiet,” Ron says, continuing his methodical application of the oil.
“What are you doing?” she hisses.
“Now, you know what a ridiculous question that is, Pansy,” Ron tuts, the easy glide of his palm coasting across her shoulder blades.
“You know what I me–”
The words die on her tongue with a sigh when a second hand joins the first, effectively short-circuiting her brain. His hands swipe across her back, curl around her shoulders and give a brief but firm squeeze.
“I believe what I’m doing,” he says, his fingers travelling down her back and sliding beneath the tie of her bikini top, “is helping you put on your tanning lotion. Since you can’t reach and all.”
Pansy can’t see the smirk, but oh she can hear it in his voice. She knows if she were to turn around, she would find that infernal dimple in his cheek again.
“Then I guess I should be thanking you?” she teases.
“No need to thank me. I’m doing this for selfish reasons.”
“A Gryffindor denying chivalry? How novel.”
“And a Slytherin wearing red?” Ron asks, his voice rough and gravelly. “Did you wear this to torment me?”
“No…” she says, and his only response is a hum of acknowledgment.
Ron lets her blatant lie linger there as his hands continue to rub in the tanning oil, massaging it in with an unyielding precision and a satisfying pressure. Pansy’s focus is narrowed to the width of his palms and the light scrape of his callouses against her skin.
Despite the evidence that his hands are used to hard labour, his touch is gentle. She’s an effective puddle under his attention, feeling soft and pliant. She arches into him as his palms graze along her lower back, the tips of his fingers just barely dipping inside the waistband of her swimsuit bottoms.
Her breath hitches in her chest and she breathes out, “You’re a fucking tease.”
“Am I?” he asks innocently.
Before Pansy has a chance for a rebuttal, he removes his hands and for a moment she thinks herself a fool for mourning the loss. She’s proven herself a fool regardless when she hears the opening and closing of her tanning oil followed by more warm liquid dripping across the backs of her legs.
She’s relieved when he blessedly returns his hands to her body and continues rubbing the oil into her skin. His touch goes from methodical to teasing in equal measure, her breathing becoming more uneven.
If she let herself think too hard about what their situation looked like from an outsider’s perspective, it might appear to be a too-generous, but thorough application. After all, she could reach her own legs. Any inkling of that thought is pushed far, far back to the recesses of her mind as his hands travel back up and curl around the backs of her thighs.
“Yes,” she says tightly, answering his previous question. “An awful tease.”
“I rather think you’re the one that started it,” Ron says, teasing the seam of her bikini, lifting it and exposing new skin, his hands inching closer and closer to where she’s practically pulsing with need.
Her mouth falls open at his bold move, followed by a moan that surprises her. It’s a testament to how badly she wants him that she’s not embarrassed by it at all. What they’re doing, it’s scandalous, positively indecent. They could be caught by their friends, but Pansy can’t bring herself to care. She’s never been more turned on in her life.
“Pansy,” Ron groans.
His feather-light touch turns into a firm caress as he grabs a handful of her arse. A touch that’s more like a brand, for she feels on fire from this alone. Pansy’s suddenly aching and desperate for more. If she thought she was wound up before, it’s nothing compared to how she feels now, so on edge and on the verge of combusting.
This is when Pansy realises she’s reached her apparent breaking point, onlookers be damned.
“Fuck it,” she mutters.
Pansy pushes herself up from her lounger and swings a leg over Ron until she’s straddling him, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. His eyes flash with surprise, then go dark as she feels the familiar magic of a Notice-Me-Not charm wash over them.
“My clever boy,” she says with a smirk and lowers herself to his lap, right over his erection where she gives a little shift of her hips.
“You are an absolute fucking menace, Pansy Parkinson,” he grits out.
“Isn’t that what you like about me?” She trails the tip of one nail down his chest through the dusting of coarse ginger hair.
“Among other things,” he groans. His hands settle low on her waist, his fingers flexing over the generous curves of her arse. “This for one.”
“Say more things that are true,” she purrs.
“You didn’t deny it.”
“Oh?”
“That you started it.”
“I suppose I did, didn’t I?” she muses. Her hands are now at his waistband, fiddling with the button of his shorts. “I intend to finish it as well.”
“Thank fuck,” he sighs.
One gentle but awkward tug downward and Ron’s swollen cock is slapping hard against his stomach. It’s a gorgeous cock. Flushed and freckled, just like the rest of his body, thick, and glossy with precum at the tip.
Pansy returns her hands to his shoulders as she lowers herself back to his lap and watches his expression falter when she begins to slowly rock against the solid feel of him. With a tightening grip on her hips, he guides her movements at a steady pace. The thin fabric of her bikini, the only thing separating them, provides a delicious, intoxicating friction.
Her nails bite crescents into Ron’s skin as her movements become frantic with pure need. And by the looks of it, he’s holding himself together by a thin, fraying thread. His breathing has picked up, his chest rising and falling with every inhale matching the tide of the sea, and for a few precious moments, that’s all she hears.
And all she feels is him, his sturdy frame under her and his hands anchored to her body. But something in Ron shifts, unmooring him. His palms coast up her sides and curl around her back, pulling her ever closer until their lips are nearly touching.
“How much time do you think we have until they notice?” she asks breathlessly.
“Not long enough,” he groans after flicking his gaze over her shoulder.
Pansy sighs impatiently, cursing their friends’ inconvenient existence, and resigns herself to make this quick and efficient.
Leaning back, she reaches down and pulls aside her bikini with one hand and wraps the other around Ron’s cock, giving it a lazy stroke before positioning it at her entrance. She tilts her hips and teases her clit with his leaking tip, luxuriating in the slick glide.
Ron lets out a sound that is part amused, yet wholly tortured. His drawn brow and heavy-lidded eyes, paired with his relaxed jaw and parted lips spell out her own ruin.
On her next exhale, Pansy slips the head of his cock inside then starts to slowly sink down his length until she’s holding herself a few inches above his lap. Her eyelashes flutter and her legs tremble with restraint. It feels like she’s being split in two from the glorious stretch as she takes more of him in. It’s divine.
“Fuck, Pansy,” Ron says against her lips, his voice a deep rumble.
“Yes,” she breathes. “Fuck me.”
And then he breaks.
With one sharp upward thrust, he seats himself to the hilt, punching out all the air from her lungs. Ron’s fingers thread into the short strands at her nape, the width of his entire palm curling around the back of her neck when he pulls her in and captures her mouth in a hungry kiss. It’s heated, frenetic, not some soft and slow thing.
It never is with Ron. With him, she comes alive. She feels him everywhere, her body a livewire sparking from his every movement. They find a quick and easy rhythm, Pansy’s hips rolling with his on instinct.
His lips leave hers, pressing hot open-mouthed kisses to her cheek and trailing them down her neck, anywhere he can seem to reach. The scratch of his stubble against her skin only adds another layer of overwhelming sensation.
Pansy may be in the position of power atop him, but Ron takes over control with his hands clamped around her waist and slams his hips into her from below with an unrelenting force. It’s a rough sort of pleasure-pain, the combination of him hitting her so deep and the consistent drag of her swimsuit against her clit, that she’s reached her peak faster than she’d thought possible.
“Right there,” she whimpers.
“Like this, baby?” With determined precision, he continues his brutal pace while sweat beads at his temples and tracks down his face.
“Fuck, yes–” she pants.
The heat simmering low in her belly reaches its boiling point, and on the next snap of Ron’s hips, it flares then ignites. Her orgasm crashes into her, stars bursting behind her eyelids, and all that’s left is Ron beneath her chasing his own.
“Good boy,” she mutters.
Pansy’s forehead falls heavily to his drenched hairline, still pulsing around him, when his movements become erratic and he spills into her on a deep rumbling groan torn from his throat.
Ron releases the vice-grip he has on her hips and his palms come up to either side of her face, pulling her in for a long, lingering kiss. She lets herself melt into it even though they both know they’re in severe risk of getting caught.
When they break apart, she relaxes against him and rests her head on his shoulder, his strong arms wrapping around her. She’s content to just lay there as they both catch their breath, and the comfortable silence is only broken by the sound of the lapping shore.
It unfortunately doesn’t last long because their friends’ voices start filtering back to them, a sign that the charms put up earlier are starting to wear off.
“Now where did those fuckers wander off to?”
A scoff and then, “You know where.”
“Ew, that’s my brother.”
“Like you didn’t know.”
With a defeated resignation, Pansy turns her head to look up at Ron and finds his expression completely unbothered by the news that their secret isn’t much of a secret at all.
“Oh my gods, you knew?!” she says as it dawns on her.
“I’d suspected…” Ron gives a small shrug.
“And to think you know someone,” she tuts in put upon disappointment.
Pansy gives a few vengeful pulses around Ron’s softening cock inside of her and he lets out a pained groan, his head falling back dramatically to her endless amusement. When she pauses her silent payback, he reopens his eyes and looks at her with a sort of wonder that always makes her feel a little invincible.
“Fuck, Pansy. Are you trying to kill me?”
“Kill? No,” she says, feigning innocence.
“Something pretty damned close to it then.”
“And what do you plan to do about it?”
To Pansy’s delight, Ron’s expression shifts to a sharp, wicked intent. With one hand planted on her waist, the other travels up her body, along her collarbone to her neck, and cradles it like he’s holding something precious. His thumb is at her chin, tipping her head lower.
“I have a few ideas for this mouth of yours.”
“Tease.”
“I’m not teasing. That’s a promise.”