“I heard you were a good kisser, Weasley,” Pansy said over the rim of her pint glass. She tipped it into her mouth and let the cold, frothy liquid bathe her tongue and throat. Like soap water. It was such a blasphemous thing to say and she needed a good washing out. Good thing she had plenty of beer to make her drunk and sleepy and to forget all about Ron Weasley’s mouth.

He had such a good one, dripping with crude jokes and witty comebacks and good, honest Gryffindor brass. She was ashamed to admit that her cunt throbbed on that kind of thing, and Weasley, with his thick arms and broad shoulders and bullish charm, was the god damned poster boy.

Weasley licked a drop of beer from his bottom lip, and she wanted to chase his tongue back into his mouth. He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw as he smiled crookedly down at her. “Where d’you get your information from, Parkinson?”

He dragged the ‘r’ in her surname, like a good West country bloke. It made her skin shiver wore than the snow outside did. It was currently pelting the windows, threatening to bury them alive.

Part of her wished she were stuck here, in this greasy, spit-stained pub that reeked of stale ale, with only Weasley for company. Stranded until the Aurors came. Secluded from the world. For days—for weeks. They would be starving. Ron would be angry and restless, turning brutish after a while. He wouldn’t be able to go so long without coming. He would take her from behind against that wide-planked table over there.

Pansy’s entire body flushed, her lips parting in a hot sigh. Ron’s eyes didn’t miss it, his eyes roaming her body; how she leaned toward him, how her back arched imperceptibly against the back of the bar, where they were huddled together in the embrace of the crowd.

“I never reveal my sources,” she said. It was a lame reply but she couldn’t come up with anything better at the moment. Her mind was like melted butter. Weasley stood so close to her, she could feel his body heat in the two inches of space between them.

She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. He had a strong jaw and marvelous lips and—worst of all—painfully kind blue eyes. They crinkled in the corners when he smiled. He didn’t seem to think her response was lame, but that was because he was a nice boy—good and earnest, and just the type she’d love to fuck her into the mattress every morning before they had to lug off to work. Weasley was the kind of bloke who’d get her pregnant by accident and then be determined to love her or something; to raise her children; to get pissy if he didn’t come home to a hot meal; to both argue with and fuck her with his whole body and soul; to kiss his mother on the cheek well into his fifties; to let Pansy sleep in on Sundays while he got up to feed the bloody chickens.

Her chest lurched with a haunting sort of anguish from all the images of a life she had never wanted until she looked into Ron Weasley’s eyes, knowing full well that that life was not meant for her. It was meant for someone kinder, perhaps sweeter, and definitely more deserving of chickens. But Pansy was made out of spikes, like a sea urchin, all slimy and hard on the outside and malleable and weak within.

“What d’you taste like, then?” he asked gruffly, his breath huffing over her ear and making her whole, spiky body hot and feverish.

Regret and self-loathing. She chuckled darkly but he seemed to take it as flirting; and maybe in some twisted way it was.

“That depends—” She was self-destructing, giving him fodder to laugh about with his mates tomorrow, but some sick part of her wanted that. Besides, she was almost drunk, and another part of her just wanted his mouth on hers any way she could get it. She gripped him by the shirt and pulled him down so that she could say, in his ear this time: “Do you mean my mouth or my cunt?”

For a moment, she didn’t think he’d heard her, that maybe she had been too quiet among the buzzing chatter and the swelling music all around them. But then Ron set his beer down as he shepherded her backward, both his arms encircling her and resting on the bartop. Being trapped by his solid body almost stole all the strength in her legs. If she toppled over right now, would he catch her? What was she thinking—of course he would.

Her pussy seared with desire for him, and she wanted to own him completely. She wanted him to fall to his knees. Ron Weasley, big man, kneeling underneath her, holding her legs up with flexed biceps and looking up at her as his gorgeous, boyish face slid between her thighs...

As he gazed down at her, something dark passed behind his eyes; a shadow Pansy all too easily recognized as perverse hunger. His voice was low and rough:

“I’m talkin about your cunt.”

There was such a sharpness to the way he spit the word out, like he was stabbing her with it.

She had him now, soundly and firmly ensnared, she was sure of it. Like a rabbit in a trap. She licked her lips and smiled up at him from beneath her lashes. “I bet you’d like to know.”

He raised an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth turning up—and oh god, there was another wave of that blasted weakness, this time starting in her chest and radiating through her, down to her toes. He would do her in… He already had.

“Oh, I would definitely like to know, Parkinson,” Ron said, his cheeks flushing even while that cocky grin remained firmly in place.

She shook her head disbelievingly.

“What?”

“You are just…” The words got stuck in her throat.

He leaned forward. “Unbelievably hot?”

Pansy grimaced. She hit him on the chest, her giggle turning breathy when she realized she had punched at hard fucking muscle.

“That’s what you were goin to say, innit?”

“You’re ridiculous.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “And funny.”

Little crinkles appeared at the corner of each of his bright blue eyes, and she was unprepared for how much she enjoyed being the one who made him smile like that.

“I am, a bit.”

“Funny looking, I meant.”

“Oh, is that right?”

He knew he was bloody gorgeous. He picked up his beer from beside her and lifted it to his mouth, never taking his eyes off her as he gulped, his throat moving. She wanted to kiss him where his neck met his shoulder and make him squirm.

“Well even so...” He ran his thumb against her side. “I have to say, you’re not funny lookin at all, Parkinson.”

She straightened up, arched her back, relished the little thrill up her spine when his eyes flickered to her breasts and then dutifully back up.

“Are you saying I’m pretty?” She knew how to do coy very well, and blokes like Weasley always liked that sort of thing. She could get him into bed right now if she wanted.

Keeping him was the problem. She knew she could never do that.

“Mmm.” He said it with a hum that was so throaty and sexy. “Might be.”

She felt a blush crawling up her neck because it sounded so fucking good coming from him.

“I’m still wonderin about how you taste, though,” Ron said, with that unnerving ability to come off as brazen and bashful at the same time.

Maybe it was a common Gryffindor quality. Draco had described Potter that way more than once. She sometimes resented— sometimes even loathed— Draco for being able to ensnare Potter so thoroughly. But Pansy had never wanted Potter.

“Why the hell don’t you kiss me, then, Weasley?”

He blinked, his eyes piercing as he set his jaw. The rough pads of his fingers wrapped tentatively around her elbow. He might as well have stroked her cunt, the way it sent a fire between her legs. The odd breathy sound she made seemed to rouse him, because he leaned in so quickly, pressing their lips together so forcefully, Pansy was pushed back against the bartop. Her back arched around it, like she might snap in half. She wrapped her arms around his neck to straighten up—shit, his shoulders were so fucking strong—and trailed her fingertips along the collar of his shirt, dipping beneath it to his warm skin.

Every time his lips moved against hers, she got even wetter between her legs. Her knickers would be soaked. She remembered one time she’d been so wet, pushing her knickers off left a sticky line trailing from her pussy to the fabric. She had smeared it all over her outer lips with her fingers, sliding it between them, feeling how slippery it was. Out of pure curiosity, she’d brought her finger to her mouth.

Now Weasley’s mouth was on hers, his lips pressing against hers and his tongue plying them apart. He tasted like a lit fireplace at Christmas. A circle of loved ones around a kitchen table. Freshly laundered sheets and freshly chopped wood for the hearth. His kiss felt like a bath of spring water, pouring over her head and soaking her hair, streaming from her eyelashes and dripping into her nostrils. She opened her mouth and drank more of him, gulping him down, wanting to drown in him. He was her salvation.

Her body swelled with the need to come—for him to make her come.

“I was right,” she said as soon as they pulled apart. “You are a brilliant kisser.”

He grinned, his lips flushed and swollen. She imagined them being put to even better use.

“Would you like to kiss me somewhere else?”

His hands found her waist and gripped it so hard, she fleetingly thought it might bruise. “Fuck yes,” he breathed. “Want to come back to mine?”

“Is anyone home?”

“Nah… Roommates are gone through Monday.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Falling backwards into Ron’s bed, tangled in his sheets, was a vicious experience of pleasure and despair. She was assaulted by the smell of him. She couldn’t stand it. Sinking into his mattress and his soft pillow sent an acute stab of longing through her stomach.

“What’re you doing?” he asked as she rolled him over, pinning his arms above his head.

“Getting on top.”

His muscles bulged. She leaned down and licked a stripe from his armpit—the hair tickling her tongue, the scent of him intoxicating her—to the swell of his bicep, and he let out a grunt.

She ground her pussy over his ab muscles, which flexed taut underneath the weight of her body. Her pussy lips slipped and slid over his skin, painting him with her wetness as she undulated her hips and rubbed her clit against him. The sharp, mounting pressure was building inside her behind the hood of her clit. Her entire body felt charged and manic.

“Let’s see how good a kisser you really are,” she said, an almost frantic pitch to her voice.

She scrambled up his torso, lining her pussy up with his mouth. She dragged her cunt lips over his chin just once, just to see if she could feel his stubble scratching her insides.

She lifted herself over him, and he opened his mouth, his tongue reaching past his bottom lip, eager for a taste of her. Pansy groaned and couldn’t resist the urge to tease him just a little bit longer. He looked so damn good like this.

“You want it?”

He looked up, catching her gaze, and his pupils were blown wide. He nodded, his chin sliding against her clit and making her shiver.

“You want it bad, huh?”

“Yeah,” he groaned. “Yes.”

Finally, she lowered her pussy onto his mouth, holding onto the headboard with both hands to steady herself. His hands found her thighs and he held onto them, steadying her as he ate her.

He kissed her inner lips like he was kissing her mouth, rolling his tongue over them and sucking on their length. His nose ground into her throbbing clit, making her want to grind furiously against his face. She felt it when his tongue dipped into her, his bottom row of teeth deliciously grazing her swollen labia as he sunk his tongue in as far inside of her as it could go, like he was desperate to taste her, hungry for her cunt.

He was more than good at it—he was the best. The fucking best she’d ever had. He worshipped it; made her shudder and exhale hard, sending furious pleasure through her entire body. Once again, as forever, Ron Weasley was king.

His hands slid up over the swell of her arse and settled on her hips, taking ahold of them and, before she knew what was happening, flipping her over. Pansy yelped in shock as she found their positions reversed, with her lying on her back and Ron on top. He slid down the bed until he was lying on his stomach between her legs, spreading them so that he could settled himself in between. He glanced up at her with a quick grin, and then leaned his head down.

His tongue found her clit and pulsed quickly over it, in a rhythmic motion that made pansy throw her head back against his pillow.

“You like that?” he said.

Pansy pressed her eyes shut. “Just shut up and keep going, Weasley.”

She ignored his infuriating chuckle because he did exactly as she asked, delivering a rapid assault on her clit that had her shaking. Too much—it was almost too damn much, but then it stopped and he swept his tongue between her inner lips. He used this thumbs to spread her open, pulling at her plush outer lips and making them slick with her wetness that he massaged into her skin. All the while, his tongue slid up and down between her clit and her opening, dipping softly inside of her with only the tip, making her think he would breach her but never fully doing it.

“Ronnn…” she groaned before she could stop herself, his name spilling from her lips like wine from tumbling over the rim of a glass.

He made a grunting noise in the back of his throat.

She wanted so badly for him to push his tongue inside her, but she couldn’t bring herself to beg, knowing that’s exactly how it would come out. At this moment, as far gone as she was, where he had brought her, she knew she would only be capable of singing his name.

His thumb moved over her opening, and she gasped, bucking her hips; she wasn’t certain she hadn’t almost hit him in the face. His thumb made its way into her, thick and blunt, squeezing itself through inner tightness.

Pansy couldn’t hold back her sounds of pleasure, knowing how much they satisfied him and both hating and loving that at the same time. She was glad he felt good forcing such sounds from her, as long as he kept doing what he was doing with his fingers, pressing into her while his tongue battered her clit. Laved along the hood, all the way up to its start, then all the way back down to the nub hidden underneath. Paying such close attention. Fucking her with his index finger now. Pushing two fingers in.

Why couldn’t she be his?

She could make him happy. She’d learn to bloody cook. She could be so good to him. It was the first time in her life she wanted to be good for anyone. It was only a bloke like Ron Weasley who could make her want that.

No one else would do. No one else’s fingers would be allowed to dive into her cunt ever again, she was sure of it. How could she possibly allow it?

Ron sucked on her clit, hard. Pressed his lips together over it and sucked it between them. Then he licked it softly, as if soothing it, a bit of teeth scraping accidentally from underneath.

Pansy was toppling over the edge a second later, veering headfirst as though down a waterfall. At the bottom was a pool of boiling water, and her orgasm was like a wave, her gasp like coming up from a lifetime of drowning. A wretched cry. A rebirth.