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[personal profile] cryptaknight
Title: How To Get An Exclusive Without Really Trying
Author: [personal profile] cryptaknight
Prompt #: 8. Post-Hogwarts,EWE. At a Halloween charity Quidditch match between the Canons (Ron is playing for them, decked out in orange), Reporter!Pansy (decked out in all black) sneaks into the locker room after for an interview... and a little more.
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Pansy is determined to get the interview that will set her free from the Quidditch beat, whatever it takes.
Word Count: ~3000
Warnings/Content: Dub-con, if you squint at it sideways. All the good stuff is consensual, however.
Author's/Artist's notes: Big thanks to my betas, who urged and propelled me to finish on time and got me over the hump (pun not intended). Hope y'all enjoy!

This is ridiculous, she thinks, annoyed beyond reason by the crowd waiting outside the Cannons locker room, a throng of people wanting autographs or snapshots of their favorite players, and reporters like herself, hoping for a soundbite or a thirty second interview after the annual Halloween charity match.

Pansy Parkinson loathes covering the Quidditch beat, and this is a large reason why. There is also the fact that she couldn't care less about the sport, particularly in a year when Chudley is leading the league. But for some reason, there are witches that do, and this is Pansy's stepping stone to an editorial position, and that means she is going to be the best damn Quidditch reporter Witch Weekly has seen. She is going to get an interview, with a player, sans team publicity representatives. She is not settling for magnanimous cliches, handed out by players that don't really care because the match doesn't count. She is going to impress her editor in chief, and she is never going to write another article about the top thirteen bachelors in the Quidditch league again.

Somebody jostles her, and she looks upward to see sweaty, jowly Ralph Branson mopping his brow and scanning the crowd. At her offended noise, he gives her an apology that sounds more like a brush-off. A drop of perspiration falls and lands on her hand. Pansy wipes it on Branson's sleeve and angrily pushes her way back through the crowd.

Enough. There has to be another way.

Pansy smooths down her black pencil skirt, and edges her way back onto the pitch. The players' entrance to the locker room looms large- and unguarded. It's wrong, she knows this. It's unprofessional. But, she asks herself, will that matter once she has the interview? Ruthless ambition propels her forward; she slips through the open door, circumventing the crowd outside.

The changing room is appallingly orange, so bright it nearly hurts Pansy's eyes to look at it. She can hear the echo of men's voices, bouncing through the cinderblock walls. It is overwhelmingly male in this space, and far too orange, and Pansy feels conspicuous in her sharp black suit and pointy heels. She's certain every clack of her stiletto against the linoleum will bring an angry horde of Cannons players and coaches around the corner to oust her. Deciding to head away from the voices, she moves toward the sound of water spraying against tile. The showers. Pansy supposes some girls would be blushing at the idea forming in her head, but she has seen her share of naked men. Not much embarrasses her, and if there is a player straggling in the showers, well- a straggler will do.

Surely enough, Pansy has timed her uninvited foray into Chudley territory well. There is only one pair of feet visible below the hems of the shower curtains. Thankfully, one is all she needs. She slides her wand from her handbag, aims at the ankles, and whispers, "Petrificus totalus."

The man in the showers hits the tiles with a thump, and Pansy quickly darts behind the curtain, shutting off the water. She looks down, and rolls her eyes with a deeply aggrieved sigh.

It would be this one.

She finds a towel, quickly tossing it over the naked man's bits, her lip curling. No one should ever be exposed to that much freckled flesh.

Ron Weasley glares out at her from his petrified face. Pansy shrugs, and mouths the word sorry. Then she waits for the room to quiet, for the door to bang shut behind the last of the remaining Cannons.

Once she's sure the room is clear, she locks the door from her side, and returns to her victim. Sparing a moment to wish it was anyone else, she wrangles him into a sitting position, propping him against the wall. The towel shifts, falling to the wayside, and Pansy tries very hard not to look as she hastily replaces it. Weasley's eyes would be spitting venom, if they could.

"I'm going to partially release you," she says, assuming an authoritative air, as if this is something she does regularly and she knows exactly what's what. "You mustn't yell for help."

Weasley glares.

Pansy carefully releases the spell from his upper body, and his mouth begins moving immediately.

"Yeah, because that's what I want right now, all my teammates crashing in here to see what's happened," he says hotly. "You daft cow."

"Manners, Weasley," Pansy snaps. She tucks her hair behind her ears; it's humid in the room from all the showering. "I need to ask you some questions."

"Questions?" Weasley looks at her like she's gone mad, which perhaps she has. This situation is insane, and it doesn't promise to get any better any time soon.

"For an interview," she clarifies.

The prat starts laughing. "Oh, by all means, go right ahead. You've put me just in the mood for an interview."

Pansy eyes him carefully. "You're hardly in a position to argue."

"Oh, yeah? What're you gonna do, leave me like this? It'll wear off eventually." He snorts. "You can ask all you like, doesn't mean I'll answer."

She frowns. This is going awfully. "How," she said, her voice taut, "might I persuade you?"

Weasley glances down, perhaps recalling his immodest state. "How easily persuaded would you be, if you were in my shoes? Towel. Whatever." He shakes his head, infuriatingly. "Maybe if you were in a similar state, you'd clue in that this is completely not okay, Parkinson."

His eyes get a gleam then, one Pansy likes not at all.

"Maybe we should even things up." He smirks a smirk that would give Draco a run for his money.

Pansy narrows her eyes. "And what, precisely, do you mean by that?"

"You take off your clothes." Pansy gasps, outraged, but Weasley just talks louder. "One piece for every question you ask."

"Absolutely not. You're disgusting." She says it before she thinks it through.

"Funny that, coming from someone who snuck into my shower and petrified me."

"I petrified you first," she protests.

"True. Perhaps I'm reconsidering yelling for help. There's a crowd on the other side of the door, yeah?"

"No!" she says quickly. "No, don't do that."

His smirk deepens. It's outrageous. And yet she pauses, considering. He doesn't want to harm her. Just embarrass her. He's still petrified from the waist down. And she's not shy about her body. She's proud of her body, has shown it off to plenty of people. What's one more, when it means she'll get what she needs to get off the Quidditch beat and onto the career track?

"Fine. You have a deal." She sticks her hand out.

Weasley looks surprised, as he takes her hand. Pansy realises then that he intended only to shock her into letting him go, but the damage is done. He won't let her out of this devil's bargain now.

"I hope you're wearing layers, Parkinson," he says with a grin. "Otherwise this is going to be a short article."

Shoving aside her irritation and misgivings, Pansy smiles slyly. "Oh, I've got all sorts of bibs and bobs, Weasley. Shall we begin?"

At Weasley's nod, she wastes no time. First those deadly black stilettos, one after the other. He answers easily enough, and Pansy spares a moment to be thankful he's a Gryffindor, and true to his word. Her thigh-high stockings, one rolled down her leg, then the other. Her suit jacket next. Her skirt follows quickly, the questions flowing now. Weasley's answers are almost eager now, and it's somewhat gratifying after the way he used to turn his nose up in disgust at her when they were younger, the way he used to mock her 'pug' nose and short stature. Her questions are genuine, good for the article, but she can't help enjoying the feeling of toying with him as her fingers unfasten the buttons of her black silk blouse.


She's almost annoyed at being interrupted, and she shrugs the blouse from her shoulders as she answers.


Weasley looks almost sheepish. "I think your petrification has worn off."

He glances downward, and her gaze follows his.

"Oh, so it has." The tenting of the towel she'd tossed across his hips is unmistakable. It should also be disgusting, but to her surprise, Pansy feels pleased with herself. Standing there in her bra and knickers because of Weasley's little game, she actually feels powerful. "Has it worn off all the way? Wiggle your toes."

A look of massive concentration crosses Weasley's face, but there's no corresponding action.

"How very interesting."

Without much thinking about how mad she is for doing what she's about to do, Pansy crouches down, straddling Weasley's thighs. "Can you feel that?"

"Parkinson, I don't reckon this is such a brilliant idea." Weasley swallows hard, and it makes Pansy smile knowingly.

"Why, are you scared? Brave Gryffindor like you. Manly Keeper like you." She leans in. "I still have questions."

She can only think that it is long buried hurts that are making her behave so appallingly. Years of his disdain and now, this reaction. She wants to make him sorry he ever said a cross word about her. Yes, that's what this is. A pleasant form of torture, nothing more.

Reaching behind her, she unfastens her bra with one hand. "Now for the heavy hitting questions, since now we're getting nice and intimate, hmmm?" She slides the straps down her arms, pulling the cups away, tossing the whole thing to the side. Her breasts are small and pert, a handful and no more. She can tell he likes them. "Why Quidditch? You were in training to be an Auror with your chum, Potter? Did you get tired of being under his thumb?"

Weasley surprises her. "That's like three questions, Parkinson. Your tits aren't that nice."

"You're lying," she hisses, leaning in and grabbing his hands, jerking them up and placing them on her breasts. She tries not to mind the fact that her nipples immediately stand at attention.

"I am," he admits. He sighs, and his thumbs brush almost lazily over the peaks. "I just wanted to do something on my own. That's all."

Pansy is caught without anything to say, for once. Her body is reacting to him, to Ron Weasley, in ways she had never considered possible. She simply stares at him, her awareness of his hands on her skin and his extreme proximity unbearably high. His hands stay where they are, and he whispers what he says next.

"Do you have any more questions?"

She's not sure if he wants her to stop, or if he wants her knickers off, or if he just wants her out of his lap so he can stand and run away. He still hasn't moved his legs, but his functional bits are still very much on display. And they are impressive, if she's honest with herself. The towel doesn't disguise much.

Pansy decides not to answer. Instead, she moves closer, forcing his hands away as she presses herself against him. She braces her hands on his chest, which is wider than she remembers it being in school. He's tall, long in the torso, but if she tips her chin up, her mouth is millimeters away from his.

"Yes," she breathes against his lips. "Do you want me, right now? Do you want to fuck me, pug-nosed Parkinson, the daft cow, the awful bitch?"

She expects Weasley to come to his senses, to recoil from her. But instead he says, "I think that's obvious, yeah?"

And then she feels his hands in her hair, tightening in the straight, chin-length stands, and he forces her the rest of the way to his mouth, his lips locking on hers with an aggressive hunger. It's not awful. It's quite nice, really good, actually, and she responds on instinct, her mouth parting under his, meeting his tongue with hers, her hips rolling against his barely concealed erection.

"Up," he says, his voice rough, and his fingers hooked in her knickers.

She understands what he wants, and she stands over him, that feeling of power rushing through her again as she slides her panties down her legs. She doesn't waste much time- gods, she is so wet already, she can feel the heat throbbing between her legs- she simply sinks back down, yanking that bloody towel aside and taking his length within her in one go. It feels so incredible, and she pushes to the back of her mind any qualms about who this cock is attached to. She does go still however, her hands on his muscled body, looking at him with a cunning expression curling her lip.

"I get a bonus question for this."

"Bloody hell, Parkinson." His breathless voice and his strained face are more than appeasing.

She laughs, fitting her mouth to his for another ravaging kiss, and begins to move. His groans tell her all she needs to know. Teasing Weasley, however, soon seems less important than her own pleasure, and she rocks her hips in a rhythm for herself, greedy, savoring the feel of him hitting all the right spots inside her. He's more clever than she gives him credit for; his hands enter the mix, one gripping her arse tightly, the other slipping between their bodies. His long fingers find her clit, and a sharp bolt of pleasure rockets through her. Her head falls back, and her hips pick up speed, her body coming down against him savagely.

But suddenly he has her by the waist, holding her still, preventing her from grinding herself against him the way she wants to. She whimpers, frustrated, and looks at him, demanding an explanation without words.

"I have my legs back."

She looks behind her, where the bastard is wiggling his toes. "So?"

"So budge up."

She's angry, but she complies. Then she gasps, as he manhandles her, spinning her around. Her palms come up flat against the tile in front of her; she is on her knees with him behind her, and she understands.

"Get on with it, Weasley," she commands, glaring over her shoulder at him.

His hands drag her hips back, and he slides smoothly inside her, provoking a cry from her. Then his hands are on her breasts again, palming them, pulling her body upward, her back to his chest.

"Yesss," she hisses, and his hips drive forward.

Weasley knows what he's about, she's happy to discover- all those ridiculous Quidditch groupies were good for something, she supposes- and the rhythm he sets is punishing, and delicious. She matches him, she doesn't know how long, but he manages to drive her over the edge, her orgasm rocking through her in wave after wave while she cries out around the fist she's shoved in her mouth.

It takes a moment for her head to clear, for her to see through the warm haze of satisfaction, that she's come and he hasn't. It crosses her mind to stand and leave him like that, to take the ultimate revenge, take her story and run and leave him wanting. But she makes the mistake of looking at him; there is something sweet and appreciative on his stupid, freckled face, that makes her want to see this through.

She slides from him, and he makes a protesting noise, but she only turns, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him deeply, letting him know she's not quite yet finished with him. Her hand trails down between his abs, then lower still, wrapping around his cock, stroking slowly along the length. She's rewarded with a groan into her mouth, and she repeats the motion, pumping him with her delicate fingers wrapped entirely around him. Still kissing him, she slides her other hand down, cupping his balls, testing their weight; they're drawn up tightly against the base of his cock, and she knows he's close. This will be easy.

She pulls her mouth from his, eliciting a gasp when she kisses her way down his body. His moans become unintelligible when her mouth replaces her hand. It is difficult to take all of him in, but she manages, knowing she will not be at this long, not in the state he's in. One hand stroking, her mouth suckling and licking, and soon he is warning her to move. She watches him come, thinking that she had done that to him, she'd made that happen, and she is fiercely pleased.

Without speaking, she stands, pushing her clothing under the curtain, and she turns the water back on, letting it sluice over her languid and satiated body. There is a pleasurable soreness between her thighs, and since she is in a good mood, she extends her hand to Weasley. He gets to his feet with a laugh. He's wobbly, but whether it's from their activities or from the receding petrification, she doesn't know.

"Parkinson?" he says, as his mouth grazes the side of her neck.

"What?" she asks, tipping her head up and letting the water hit her face.

"I hope you got your interview."

She laughs, loudly and unreservedly, as she soaps her body.

"I have my bonus question," she reminds him.

"Save it for next time," he suggests.

"Nope. This is my last Quidditch story."

She turns to face him as she rinses off. "But I got what I wanted."

Pansy reaches for a towel, wrapping it around herself as she slips from the stall. Weasley pokes his head out, watching, as she gets herself dressed again. Against her better judgment, she leans forward, fitting her mouth to his for a quick, hard kiss. "Thanks for the interview, Weasley."

And with that, she saunters from the locker room, out the way she snuck in.

Outside the crowd has dissipated. No matter. Pansy is certain she got a better scoop than any of them, and she had more fun getting it.


The next morning, she slaps the completed article down on her editor's desk, a wide grin planted firmly on her red-lipsticked mouth. The editor flips through the pages, commenting that it was a nice meaty interview.

Pansy manages not to smirk when she agrees.

She heads back to her desk, and starts composing an owl.

So, Weasley. About that bonus question…

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